We have a pecking order in our house. In general it looks something like this:
Whoever is screaming and crying
Whoever is crying
Whoever is screaming
Husband
Me
The cats
It is rather fluid though, and not set in concrete. Like tonight, for example, the cats collaborated - the white one sat on the pile of freshly folded black T-shirts, and the other made it her mission to walk half a step ahead of me all night and meow. So they made it up the list. They had their dinner, before I got mine.
On any given day in our house, you can expect to hear the phrase "sucks to be a little baby...". It's harsh, but true.
Oldest child has the most experience in manipulating, second child has the most experience in hitting, which means third child has a long way to go to get to the front of the pack. She's the last to have breakfast, last to get dressed and the first to get turfed out of her pram if the others need a seat.
Like today, when the toddler spectacularly capsized off his bike into a giant puddle, on an afternoon that was 5 degrees at best. Baby was thrown onto my hip, toddler thrown in pram, four year old screaming she wanted to be carried too, and we took 5 minutes to walk the 50 metres home. Toddler and 4 year old thrown in the warm bath, baby thrown on floor so the others could be dealt with.
She's a good wee girl and takes it in her stride and I've rewarded her by making her my favourite. Until she's 2. Then she has to fight for her place in the order and pull out all the crying/whinging/screaming stops, like the rest of them. I'm sure she'll be okay - she's learning from the best.
And I'd finish this post of with some sort of witty comment to summarize - but The Husband wants the laptop to stream the Tri-nations ABs vs Australia test. They're about to do the haka, so time is of the essence. I know my place...
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Mall Rats
I remember being a teenager. It's not like it feels that long ago. Yes, okay, it was a wee while ago, but it doesn't feel so long. It was a fast decade.
So when I see the gangs of teenage boys and gaggles of teenage girls all hanging out in 'around about' the same area, just standing far enough away to appear aloof, it brings back memories. I know what those giggling, blushing, girls are thinking. (To this day, I still have no idea what it was like from the teenage boy's point of view, quite frankly, I'm rather glad, and hope I never do..)I remember clearly the feelings of inadequecy, and the excitement of the romance (I read Twilight, I know what it's about). The rush of meeting someone new, your friends sussing out his, "going around" together. Not minding that you have no common interests and that he's more of the mumbly, grunty variety. Going home wondering if he really liked you, and if he'd ring.
The boys hanging back and laughing at each other, egging each other on. The girls talking high pitched and much, much, louder than normal. Tops lowered, skirts hiked up, lip gloss on, eyes batting. One person from one group, tentatively making themselves physically closer to the other. More shrieking laughter. Moving on to the next gang of boys if there's no success with the first.
And then there's me, having stayed at the mall too close to dinner time, pushing the double pram which takes up an excessive amount of the path, with a toddler screaming, a baby wanting milk and a reluctant 4 year old whinging and refusing to keep up. Trying to push past this teenage lovefest and just wishing they'd cluster and bat their eyelids somewhere that wasn't where I was trying to go. Biting my tongue and holding myself back from rushing up to one of them screaming like a crazed woman:
"Don't do it!! See what I'm having to deal with right now??? This is where your path leads.. does it look worth it to you???!!"
So when I see the gangs of teenage boys and gaggles of teenage girls all hanging out in 'around about' the same area, just standing far enough away to appear aloof, it brings back memories. I know what those giggling, blushing, girls are thinking. (To this day, I still have no idea what it was like from the teenage boy's point of view, quite frankly, I'm rather glad, and hope I never do..)I remember clearly the feelings of inadequecy, and the excitement of the romance (I read Twilight, I know what it's about). The rush of meeting someone new, your friends sussing out his, "going around" together. Not minding that you have no common interests and that he's more of the mumbly, grunty variety. Going home wondering if he really liked you, and if he'd ring.
The boys hanging back and laughing at each other, egging each other on. The girls talking high pitched and much, much, louder than normal. Tops lowered, skirts hiked up, lip gloss on, eyes batting. One person from one group, tentatively making themselves physically closer to the other. More shrieking laughter. Moving on to the next gang of boys if there's no success with the first.
And then there's me, having stayed at the mall too close to dinner time, pushing the double pram which takes up an excessive amount of the path, with a toddler screaming, a baby wanting milk and a reluctant 4 year old whinging and refusing to keep up. Trying to push past this teenage lovefest and just wishing they'd cluster and bat their eyelids somewhere that wasn't where I was trying to go. Biting my tongue and holding myself back from rushing up to one of them screaming like a crazed woman:
"Don't do it!! See what I'm having to deal with right now??? This is where your path leads.. does it look worth it to you???!!"
Friday, July 30, 2010
The 4 year old vs The Big Needle
Nothing says "Great Parenting!" like dangling a large double sized chocolate bar in your 4 year old's face, then taking them to a nail salon for a bright pink manicure. But, today, that is what I did. Judge me, or don't judge me, but I figured for the 4 year old immunisations I was going to have to bring out the big guns.
Thinking through the logistics, I'd decided that if we went all positive and talked up the process and had a big indepth happy optimistic discussion about the Big Needle and how it would hurt a little bit and that there would be chocolate at the end, I could trick her into one injection. And then I figured the second injection would be a bit trickier.
So that's what we did, we talked about it during the day, went to the dairy to pick the special reward chocolate (Turkish Delight Bar because it came in a dark pink wrapper), left the littlies at home with Dad, because at times like these Mum's sympathy is what's needed.
I was right.
The first one went in to her leg, the plaster went on, and she lost it. Really. LOST. IT. I had the chocolate out, even had some of it stuffed in her mouth, had her arm held tight and the needle went in amidst a massively high pitched scream. Chocolate was spat across the room, the plaster was whacked on, we did our 20 minute wait in the waiting room, all while the screaming continued. It continued down the road. It continued into the parking lot of the mall. It continued all the way until I decided that nails could not be made pink through all that noise. So, in an instant, she cheered up.
We went to the special Manicure place, she picked a bright, almost flouro, pink and sat so still while the man gave her "Barbie Nails".
She's still very unimpressed by the whole process, and we've sinced discovered that injections hurt more than the baby pulling her hair, and less than walking into some shelves at Farmers.
I've learnt something too - this is for next time: I'm not doing it. Mummy can have all the sympathy in the world, but when it comes to that second needle, nothing is going to be as useful as Daddy's physical capability to hold still a thrashing 4 year old.
Thinking through the logistics, I'd decided that if we went all positive and talked up the process and had a big indepth happy optimistic discussion about the Big Needle and how it would hurt a little bit and that there would be chocolate at the end, I could trick her into one injection. And then I figured the second injection would be a bit trickier.
So that's what we did, we talked about it during the day, went to the dairy to pick the special reward chocolate (Turkish Delight Bar because it came in a dark pink wrapper), left the littlies at home with Dad, because at times like these Mum's sympathy is what's needed.
I was right.
The first one went in to her leg, the plaster went on, and she lost it. Really. LOST. IT. I had the chocolate out, even had some of it stuffed in her mouth, had her arm held tight and the needle went in amidst a massively high pitched scream. Chocolate was spat across the room, the plaster was whacked on, we did our 20 minute wait in the waiting room, all while the screaming continued. It continued down the road. It continued into the parking lot of the mall. It continued all the way until I decided that nails could not be made pink through all that noise. So, in an instant, she cheered up.
We went to the special Manicure place, she picked a bright, almost flouro, pink and sat so still while the man gave her "Barbie Nails".
She's still very unimpressed by the whole process, and we've sinced discovered that injections hurt more than the baby pulling her hair, and less than walking into some shelves at Farmers.
I've learnt something too - this is for next time: I'm not doing it. Mummy can have all the sympathy in the world, but when it comes to that second needle, nothing is going to be as useful as Daddy's physical capability to hold still a thrashing 4 year old.
Bicycle Helmets
There was a guy on the news last night advocating for removing the law forcing cyclists to wear helmets. This, to me, sounds like a great idea. I stopped riding a bike the day they brought the law in. It felt dorky - and looked dorky too.
The thought of leaving the cafe and just jumping on a black bike with high handles, and a basket on the front for my handbag, whipping up the road to work, with the wind blowing through my hair as I make my way there, just sounds wonderfully European and romantic.
The reality - of a bike seat half the size of the seat of my pants, muffin top on display, frizzy hair, the smoke fumes from the traffic, and near life-and-death misses while sharing the road with buses - is perhaps a little less romantic.
I think it's a good concept, but I'm not so sure it's been thought through. I think there should be guidelines. So I've come up with a list to clarify what the law should say:
People who don't need helmets:
- Me, and anyone worried about their hair and/or outfit.
People who should wear helmets:
- Anyone on a road that I'm about to drive down in my oversize SUV, or anyone who drives in a similar way
- The school children who whip past on the footpath while I'm reversing out of my drive way.
The thought of leaving the cafe and just jumping on a black bike with high handles, and a basket on the front for my handbag, whipping up the road to work, with the wind blowing through my hair as I make my way there, just sounds wonderfully European and romantic.
The reality - of a bike seat half the size of the seat of my pants, muffin top on display, frizzy hair, the smoke fumes from the traffic, and near life-and-death misses while sharing the road with buses - is perhaps a little less romantic.
I think it's a good concept, but I'm not so sure it's been thought through. I think there should be guidelines. So I've come up with a list to clarify what the law should say:
People who don't need helmets:
- Me, and anyone worried about their hair and/or outfit.
People who should wear helmets:
- Anyone on a road that I'm about to drive down in my oversize SUV, or anyone who drives in a similar way
- The school children who whip past on the footpath while I'm reversing out of my drive way.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Tupperware
Daughter's preschool is fundraising, which is fair enough, they need to raise funds. I'm happy to support them, even if we don't particularly like them (Daughter does though, so she's not being neglected or anything) and would like to participate in fundraising activities.
Except - it's Tupperware.
Plastic containers that cost more than the same item made out of Sterling Silver. Stuff you get for under $10 from the supermarket or $2 Shop. Stuff that the kids magically manage to lose all of one particular half of that thing, like the lids - so you end up with 20 plastic boxes that are essentially useless because you can't cover them.
As much as I love the sight of neatly stacked and packed items, all colour co-ordinated, lined up in rows, shining from the shelf.. or prepping baking with ingredients in matching bowls.. or sending the kids off with their packed lunches in tidy compartment containers - I can't justify the cost. To get each child just one lunch box, there's only a few cents worth of change out of $100.
We budget, and $100 goes a long way... like, towards a month membership at the gym, or half way to a pair of boots, or a nice top, or a case of wine on special at Countdown. You know, important places..
Having said that, I'll be filling in my form as soon as I can find a pen around somewhere. It's for a good cause, not only does it go towards supporting the preschool - it also means I can send my daughter off in the morning with smug satisfaction that her lunchbox is as good as, if not better than, the child sitting next to her. And as much as I like to pretend it's not a competition, sometimes, it just is.
Except - it's Tupperware.
Plastic containers that cost more than the same item made out of Sterling Silver. Stuff you get for under $10 from the supermarket or $2 Shop. Stuff that the kids magically manage to lose all of one particular half of that thing, like the lids - so you end up with 20 plastic boxes that are essentially useless because you can't cover them.
As much as I love the sight of neatly stacked and packed items, all colour co-ordinated, lined up in rows, shining from the shelf.. or prepping baking with ingredients in matching bowls.. or sending the kids off with their packed lunches in tidy compartment containers - I can't justify the cost. To get each child just one lunch box, there's only a few cents worth of change out of $100.
We budget, and $100 goes a long way... like, towards a month membership at the gym, or half way to a pair of boots, or a nice top, or a case of wine on special at Countdown. You know, important places..
Having said that, I'll be filling in my form as soon as I can find a pen around somewhere. It's for a good cause, not only does it go towards supporting the preschool - it also means I can send my daughter off in the morning with smug satisfaction that her lunchbox is as good as, if not better than, the child sitting next to her. And as much as I like to pretend it's not a competition, sometimes, it just is.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Trampolining in the sunshine.
My husband is such a novice! It's a beautifully sunny afternoon outside and the kids are enjoying the last of the afternoon jumping on the trampoline with Dad. And it's just ended in tears. To be fair, most things end in tears but he makes such rookie mistakes!
The pre-schooler is screaming. The Toddler is looking bewildered. And The Husband is grumpy.
Lesson no 36: If you want to stop a game, saying "okay, it's over, let's go inside for dinner" is the quickest way to tears. Children need a countdown of warnings at a 5 min, 3 min, 2 min, 1 min and 3o seconds. They need motivation to go inside. They need a nice voice, and a cheerful disposition and a happy environment to move through from play to dinnertime.
Of course, it's still going to end in tears, perhaps just a few less.
The pre-schooler is screaming. The Toddler is looking bewildered. And The Husband is grumpy.
Lesson no 36: If you want to stop a game, saying "okay, it's over, let's go inside for dinner" is the quickest way to tears. Children need a countdown of warnings at a 5 min, 3 min, 2 min, 1 min and 3o seconds. They need motivation to go inside. They need a nice voice, and a cheerful disposition and a happy environment to move through from play to dinnertime.
Of course, it's still going to end in tears, perhaps just a few less.
Are the neighbours selling?? Update
Waved at neighbour out kitchen window as he came home from work last night, but his wave back showed no signs of someone hiding a secret.
Latest clues:
No listing in the local paper
Real Estate Agent looking car in the driveway at lunchtime today
Latest clues:
No listing in the local paper
Real Estate Agent looking car in the driveway at lunchtime today
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Ballet Moms
Yes, I live in NZ but there is something so encapsulating about the word "mom" especially when applied to categorizing different groups of Mothers.
At pre-school pick up yesterday I ran into a Ballet Mom. We'd trialled ballet for a term last year, but had decided it wasn't us. She proceeded to tell me about they were doing "such amazing things" now, how the little girls were dancing above their age level, and how the teacher is "so FAAAB u lous" (yes, fabulous is actually three separate words) which I replied to in the appropriate places with a bunch of "aww"s and "wow"s and "I bet"s. Just as my face started to ache from all the exuberant smiling and nodding the conversation came to a natural pause; Ballet Mom turns to me and says: "So, what does your daughter do, then?".
Ah. (Pause)
So here's the crucial point, I must answer with care. It's like the choice between the snakes and the volcanoes in the Pick a Path book "The Jungle of Peril", because we don't do any activies. So my options are:
a) lie "we've just signed her up for violin, Irish dance, tap and a hip hop class, they start next week"
b) extend the truth "we're just doing extension pre-school stuff at the moment, like maths and writing" (dividing up the last chip packet into thirds counts as maths, and drawing on the walls counts as writing, right?)
or
c) be creative "we're not doing traditional extension activities but we've signed her up for a weekly tour of the art gallery and she's SO into Picasso right now".
Of course, I could have just been honest: "Actually, we just go home and hang out. She's only 4..." But that's a move that could get us permanently removed from the birthday invite list, and I don't want my daughter to suffer from Mom Politics.
So I took option c and got creative "Well, I've just found about Zumba For Kids, and so I've got her name down for that, we're going together". I was quite satisfied with this, and so was Ballet Mom. At that point storytime finished and our kids were all released to go home.
Still, hopefully it won't last too long, by the time my daughter is 5 there won't be as many mothers like this to deal with... in our area there is a plethora of Decile 10 state primary schools with good reputations which none of the Real Ballet Mothers will be sending their children to... Not to the local school, with the local children, after all.
At pre-school pick up yesterday I ran into a Ballet Mom. We'd trialled ballet for a term last year, but had decided it wasn't us. She proceeded to tell me about they were doing "such amazing things" now, how the little girls were dancing above their age level, and how the teacher is "so FAAAB u lous" (yes, fabulous is actually three separate words) which I replied to in the appropriate places with a bunch of "aww"s and "wow"s and "I bet"s. Just as my face started to ache from all the exuberant smiling and nodding the conversation came to a natural pause; Ballet Mom turns to me and says: "So, what does your daughter do, then?".
Ah. (Pause)
So here's the crucial point, I must answer with care. It's like the choice between the snakes and the volcanoes in the Pick a Path book "The Jungle of Peril", because we don't do any activies. So my options are:
a) lie "we've just signed her up for violin, Irish dance, tap and a hip hop class, they start next week"
b) extend the truth "we're just doing extension pre-school stuff at the moment, like maths and writing" (dividing up the last chip packet into thirds counts as maths, and drawing on the walls counts as writing, right?)
or
c) be creative "we're not doing traditional extension activities but we've signed her up for a weekly tour of the art gallery and she's SO into Picasso right now".
Of course, I could have just been honest: "Actually, we just go home and hang out. She's only 4..." But that's a move that could get us permanently removed from the birthday invite list, and I don't want my daughter to suffer from Mom Politics.
So I took option c and got creative "Well, I've just found about Zumba For Kids, and so I've got her name down for that, we're going together". I was quite satisfied with this, and so was Ballet Mom. At that point storytime finished and our kids were all released to go home.
Still, hopefully it won't last too long, by the time my daughter is 5 there won't be as many mothers like this to deal with... in our area there is a plethora of Decile 10 state primary schools with good reputations which none of the Real Ballet Mothers will be sending their children to... Not to the local school, with the local children, after all.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Brad Pitt is in the 'hood
Okay, perhaps not in the hood, but definitely in the area code. Last night he was seen eating curry at an Indian restaurant in a posh part of Wellington City. The eyes are out everywhere on a Brad Hunt. I'll be pounding the pavement later, kids in the double pram, scouting for sightings of him at Queensgate, the Hutt Mall.
I'm not sure what he's in little old NZ for, but I am officially extending the invite of afternoon tea. Brad, if you feel like swapping Ange for the afternoon for another Mother, similar age, but one who is, literally, twice the woman she is, then please pop over anytime. I can offer the familiar feeling of chaos that you'd get at home - from half the children. A warm, but messy home, hot coffee and a fresh muffin or two.
Call me.
I'm not sure what he's in little old NZ for, but I am officially extending the invite of afternoon tea. Brad, if you feel like swapping Ange for the afternoon for another Mother, similar age, but one who is, literally, twice the woman she is, then please pop over anytime. I can offer the familiar feeling of chaos that you'd get at home - from half the children. A warm, but messy home, hot coffee and a fresh muffin or two.
Call me.
Hutt Valley Housewives vs Desperate Housewives
I was thinking about Gabrielle in the first series of Desperate Housewives this morning, and her affair with the high school aged gardener.
We live near a high school and they park in our road. When I'm trying to leave with a car full of screaming kids in the morning, I often can't get out of the road without having to wait for them all (and then there's their mothers who insist on driving them all the way to the school gate, even though they're teenagers - no wonder we have an obesity epidemic) and while I'm glaring at them in my rear view mirror I can't help but think of Gabrielle.
It sounds good in theory, and the actor that played John was pretty gorgeous, but the reality is much different. I figure it only worked because she a) found one that spoke in words, not grunts b) found one that looked at least 25 and c) it was a storyline on a TV show. At the end of the day, high school boys are just that: surly, pimply boys, who drop their chip wrappers on the ground, park over the driveway and who coincidently all cluster in groups outside the houses with teenage daughters.
I'm terrified that my lovely toddler will one day be one them; and I'm even more worried that one day my beautiful daughters will be wanting to hang out with them. I'm sure of one thing though, and that is that art will not imitate life with this Hutt Valley Housewife! I'll have my gardeners a little older and broader across the chest, thanks.
We live near a high school and they park in our road. When I'm trying to leave with a car full of screaming kids in the morning, I often can't get out of the road without having to wait for them all (and then there's their mothers who insist on driving them all the way to the school gate, even though they're teenagers - no wonder we have an obesity epidemic) and while I'm glaring at them in my rear view mirror I can't help but think of Gabrielle.
It sounds good in theory, and the actor that played John was pretty gorgeous, but the reality is much different. I figure it only worked because she a) found one that spoke in words, not grunts b) found one that looked at least 25 and c) it was a storyline on a TV show. At the end of the day, high school boys are just that: surly, pimply boys, who drop their chip wrappers on the ground, park over the driveway and who coincidently all cluster in groups outside the houses with teenage daughters.
I'm terrified that my lovely toddler will one day be one them; and I'm even more worried that one day my beautiful daughters will be wanting to hang out with them. I'm sure of one thing though, and that is that art will not imitate life with this Hutt Valley Housewife! I'll have my gardeners a little older and broader across the chest, thanks.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
The neighbours are moving on..
It wasn't hard to figure that something was changing next door. Firstly, their house that was once several different shades of lemon yellow and cream suddenly was repainted the same shade of coffee. Secondly, she'd started putting fresh flowers out.
If that wasn't enough of a giveaway, an Open2View photographer, and half a dozen real estate agents pouring out onto the street sealed the deal. So it didn't seem unreasonable to ask if they were moving.
Me: Did I see a caravan of real estate agents come through today? You're not selling are you?
Her: Oh NO.. we wouldn't do that... they were just doing a valuation, nice to know how much our house is worth, you know.
Strange, but we went about our weekend. Then tonight The Husband is googling the street (because cyber stalking is a perfectly normal part of life) and finds their house listed with a second rate agency. It's right there. On the big wide web.
It poses a real problem though, because at some point it's going to become more obvious. Like, when a big sign goes up out the front. Or when it gets a big "SOLD" sticker slapped all over it. Or when they start to pack up their things. Or when they leave a forwarding address. And so now, at what point is it appropriate to make mention of it? In a jokey way over the fence "oh, I guess you're selling up then... weird cause remember when you said you weren't" Cue awkward laughter and inspections of one's own shoes.
On the plus side, they're leaving, so it shouldn't be awkward for too long. We're hoping for a family to move in with similar aged kids. Next best thing would be a family with a daughter babysitting age.
And we hope they sell it for way more than asking price. Because it looks good for the street that way.
If that wasn't enough of a giveaway, an Open2View photographer, and half a dozen real estate agents pouring out onto the street sealed the deal. So it didn't seem unreasonable to ask if they were moving.
Me: Did I see a caravan of real estate agents come through today? You're not selling are you?
Her: Oh NO.. we wouldn't do that... they were just doing a valuation, nice to know how much our house is worth, you know.
Strange, but we went about our weekend. Then tonight The Husband is googling the street (because cyber stalking is a perfectly normal part of life) and finds their house listed with a second rate agency. It's right there. On the big wide web.
It poses a real problem though, because at some point it's going to become more obvious. Like, when a big sign goes up out the front. Or when it gets a big "SOLD" sticker slapped all over it. Or when they start to pack up their things. Or when they leave a forwarding address. And so now, at what point is it appropriate to make mention of it? In a jokey way over the fence "oh, I guess you're selling up then... weird cause remember when you said you weren't" Cue awkward laughter and inspections of one's own shoes.
On the plus side, they're leaving, so it shouldn't be awkward for too long. We're hoping for a family to move in with similar aged kids. Next best thing would be a family with a daughter babysitting age.
And we hope they sell it for way more than asking price. Because it looks good for the street that way.
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