Boy in name, boy in nature

When I knew that the boy's birthday was coming up, I decided to simply ask him what he wanted. Whatever I ended up buying him was coming out of his pay packet anyway, so it was better to get him something I knew he'd like.

And do you know what he said to get him?

An XBOX 360 and a game called Guitar Hero II. If you haven't already guessed, the latter comes with a shrunk-down version of those guitars you'll see played by Kiss-inspired bands, in garages all over the world.

And he was very pleased with it. Very pleased indeed.

**As a footnote, I did intend to surprise him with an additional birthday item - a pair of grandpa-style slippers to keep his feet toasty during the long winter nights with the game console. P'raps it's just as well I couldn't find any that were dowdy enough, because he may not have got the joke.

Now I know! You just have to believe in yourself!

This one’s from The Editter’s George jnr. I'll admit right now that this isn't my best effort, but that's what happens when your first line sounds more like a last line!

"Now I know! You just have to believe in yourself!" Alannah seemed to have overlooked the fact that Flashdance was just another Hollywood ra-ra movie, not a piece of historical evidence. Sure, self-belief is totally vital if you want to make it big in an artistic industry like dance. But all the self-belief in the world isn’t going to do you any good if you look like a WWF wrestler with a self-destructive penchant for fried foods.

Fortunately, her delusion was short-lived. Even a girl who’s dreamed of being one of those butterfly-like creatures since she was 6, has to bow down to reality eventually. And besides, believing in yourself isn’t something you can just whip up on demand.

Trouble was, if Alannah couldn’t spend the rest of her life fluttering about in a tutu, what was she going to do when she left school? She had no other interests and that was obvious from her exam results.

So an appointment was made with Mister Harris, the school’s vocational guidance counselor. He evidently hadn’t quite finished his tea break when the beefy teenager pushed open his office door and peered around it. She watched him quickly chomping down on the remaining half of his chocolate biscuit, as though he was worried she'd take it from him.

An hour later, Alannah knew that she wouldn’t like to be a bank teller (too much customer service), truck driver (too much time away from home), librarian (pays peanuts), television reporter (her skin would break out at the merest sniff of makeup) or travel agent (too much emphasis on selling). On the other hand, she still didn’t know what she wanted to do with herself if it couldn’t be dancing. On top of that, she was already well late for dinner at home.

She sat on the bus feeling horribly let down by nature. It just didn’t seem fair that, no matter how much she loved doing it or how good she might be technically, the door to her dream job was firmly closed because she didn’t fit the image.

Alannah didn’t know it yet, but one day she would be a founding member of the Big Ladies Movin' It Dance Troupe.

Moving on

I think this morning's visit to our local library's pre-school storytime will probably be our last for a while. When TLM was younger, she could sit through half an hour of storybooks, either intent on the story itself or interested in all the children around her.

But this morning TLM was clearly uninterested, because she kept trotting back to where I'd parked the buggy and rifling through the nappy bag looking for snacks to eat and zips to play with. Unfortunately, we weren't able to simply leave because the buggy was parked in (because we always seem to be the first to arrive).

So I took her over to one of the library computers, found a children's website and let her loose on the Teletubby game pages. She liked it so much she wouldn't let us leave, even when I wanted to go to the toilet.

And that's how I know that she has moved on from storybooks to computer games. My little girl is growing up, and she's going to be a lot like the boy.

Geometry for beginners (0-18 months) 1

After having abandoned my first attempt at an abstract painting, missed the second class and spending days thinking about what I wanted my painting say, I started and completed this one at yesterday's class.

It looks nothing like my classmates' work, one of which was a fabulous impressionistic flower garden scene and the another impressive one being a moody picture based around a collaged image of a ball gown hanging from a coathanger (reminicent of Seraphine Pick).

I got the impression that perhaps the classmates thought my effort was a bit simple. But then, that was what I was aiming for. It is, after all, based on TLM's shape-sorting toy, as well as images from her Baby Newton DVD.

Going potty

I may be wrong, but I'm getting the feeling that TLM will very soon be ready for potty training. For a while now, she's been telling me when she's got a poo. Sometimes, "I've got a poo" means that there's a little brown deposit in her nappy right now. Other times it seems to mean that there'll be one in a minute. Then there are the time when I have to assume that either she's trying to tell me she's got wees, or that she's having me on.

We've even got the equipment ready. I went out one weekend and spent part of my child-free time searching the perfect potty. What I settled on was a 4-in-1 affair, which combines a step (to reach the sink), a potty, a potty seat which can be transferred to the family toilet, and a lid for the whole lot, which can be used as a child's seat. It's all very high-tech and comes in a very attractive lime green and blue.

But even if TLM might be ready for potty training, I don't feel that I am. From what little I know, that period of toddler development largely consists of (for the parent, anyway): 1. never leaving the house, and 2. even more laundry than you had to do before.

I'm thinking of waiting until she's old enough to train herself.

It was my partner who spied it first...

At last, I have come up with a story worthy of ms macs first line. It's about sex, money and shopping. Just joking.

It was my partner who spied it first; the crumpled white and blue of the plastic bag, hidden on the embankment at the train station.
“Thank God” I whispered, the tight knots in my neck muscles suddenly unravelling for the first time all day.

When you’re a member of the police force, having a hens night is never just a Chinese meal followed by a pub crawl. Some idiot always decides to do something mean and nasty, like shave all the bride-to-be’s hair off or arrange for the words “Carpet Muncher” to be inexpertly tattooed on her biceps while she’s comatose in the ladies’ toilets.

In fact, if I really think about, fear of my anticipated hens night was probably one of the reasons it took me so long to agree to marry Frank. Frank would have you believe it’s because I’m a free spirit, hard to pin down and even harder to stop from flirting with every fireman from here to New York. Well, okay there’s a grain of truth in that. Who could resist a hot-blooded fireman? I’m only human, after all.

But really, I love the guy – Frank, that is – and ever since that evening he made me the most amazing lasagne I’ve ever tasted, I’ve known he was the one for me. He’s no muscle-bound silver-jacketed superhero, but he can cook like a god. And give a helluva good backrub. Like I said, the only reason I didn’t marry the guy two years ago was because I was shit-scared of walking down the aisle looking like early Sinead O’Connor.

And I suppose I did get off lightly, because when I march down the aisle tomorrow it’ll be as a brunette and not a baldy. But those cows stole my wedding dress somehow, and hid it in a shopping bag in a disused railway station.

And that’s not the worst of it.

When I opened up that plastic bag, I got an eyeful of orange silk. Orange silk.

Now I’m going to be indistinguishable from the bridesmaids.

Writer's block

You might well be wondering why I haven't posted any new attempts at story-writing for a few days.

I have in fact been labouring on ms. mac's first line, though very unsuccessfully. There's just no way I've been able to turn it into a tale of shopping, sex OR money. It's certainly shown me that I can't write police stories. But I'm not giving up on it, because that's would just be impolite. I'm going to keep with it until I produce something I can bear to be read by your lovely selves.

It might just take a while. Or...perhaps a slight change of wording.

The Little Pretender

Recently TLM has taken to playing "pretend" games - well, one in particular. She's constantly wanting to be lifted into her cot, where her nanna quilt now lives, and pretending it's bed time. Which sounds like every parent's dream, except she insists on me being in the room with her.

Here's a picture of TLM pretending to do the dishes.

Mac Attack

The boy and I had hoped that it had abated, this mysterious energy force in my body which causes our wireless Internet connections to fail.

He thought we couldn't go wrong with a MacBook, because Macs in general have a reputation for being just about fool-proof. But it lasted only a week or so because suddenly it wasn't able to get on the 'Net any more.

So I'm back to very old desktop computer, the one which takes about ten minutes to start up and sends out "overheating" warnings when the room temperature gets over 20 degrees Celsius.

I shouldn't complain, really. Some people have no choice but to blog at work or at the public library.

I woke with a gentle buzzing in my ear...

This first line is from onscreen .

I woke with a gentle buzzing in my ear, not the annoying get-out-of-bed radio alarm type of buzzing, but a euphoric soothing buzz that reminded me of last night. It was the sound of my husband cutting firewood with his new chainsaw, that I got him for his birthday yesterday. And boy, was he grateful.

Finally, after 7 years of being together, I had managed to get him a present he actually liked. Oh, I had tried really hard to please him, especially in the early years.

For his 30th birthday, I presented my love with a hand-knitted merino wool sweater. It was navy blue chunky-rib with a crew neck and a skull and crossbones protecting the chest. But I never saw him wear it, instead he seemed to prefer the reindeer sweater that his mother got him.

On his 31st birthday, my other half got a computer game. I'd taken quite a while at the shop, trying to decide between the shooting games, the car-crashing games and the sword-and-sorcerer games. I even asked one of those geeky, sun-starved shop assistants for help. After an hour of staring at images of brass-brassiered women, and loin-clothed barbarians, I closed my eyes and plucked one from the shelves. But...I never saw him play it. He did, however, seem to enjoy the PSP his mother got him.

The love of my life's 32nd birthday gift was a voucher for a full-body massage. Surely no-one could resist the appeal of having one's aches and pains rubbed away by firm, experienced hands? It turned out that his masseur reminded him too much of a boy who'd bullied him horribly during his boarding school years. He'd returned even more tense than before he went in. But his mother gave him a voucher to have his hair done by a world-famous-in-New-Zealand stylist, and that man fair strutted home with his new look.

When my dear husband turned 33, I had his name tattooed on my bum. Nope.

One year later, I celebrated my man's birthday with a surprise party. Every single person in his address book was invited. Unfortunately, several of them were people he'd long since lost contact with - because he'd owed them lots of money. The next day, his mother showed up with several of his favourite home-cooked dishes. Guess who got the bigger smile.

For his 35th birthday, I asked my darling man what he wanted for his birthday. "Just get me something small", he'd replied. But when he undid the big golden bow and unwrapped the crinkly red paper to reveal a hacky sack with a smiley face on it, the long-hoped-for smile of delight did not eventuate. But he still wears the cufflinks that my mother-in-law gave him.

I bet you're wondering now how I finally did it. Well, let's just say I went to someone who always seemed to know what he'd really like, and...stole her shopping bags.

Fairies

TLM has a new obsession, and it's with fairies. She loves waiting for Tinkerbell to swoop up from the bottom of the television screen at the beginning of every Baby Einstein DVD. Under her influence, the boy's computer desktop is adorned with numerous nubile Disney fairies. And now she has her very own pair of fairy wings.

The wings were something she brought home from her cousin's birthday party last weekend. I, of course, was "poorly" and stayed at home. But when she and the boy returned from their afternoon announcing "I'n a fairy", I could easily picture TLM fluttering about in the park with similarly winged little girls, cupcake in one hand and a fistful of popcorn in the other.

Of course, getting TLM to take her wings off is something that has to be planned like a military operation - y'know, with manoeuvers and everything. Because if you spring it on her without any strategically timed distractions handy, you're asking for a hell of a tantrum.

Plus, it's so important to hide them properly. Yesterday, TLM spotted them hanging in the hall just as we'd got home in time for her nap. Naptime was delayed by half an hour while I waited for her to finish her tantrum and cool off in the hammock, before I could start her wind-down routine.

I thnk I can understand why little girls find fairies so appealing. They're represented as pretty, dainty, and magical creatures. I don't understand why boys aren't into fairies too.

As the blind vampire circled her...

Hoo! This was a hard first line to follow, possibly because it immediately made me think of Buffy - and nothing I produced would ever stand up to comparison with a Buffy episdoe. Plus, I piked out of writing a fighting scene even though I thought it was needed. Thanks to Make Tea Not War for thinking of it.


As the blind vampire circled her Mung Bean regretted that she had not thought to pack a semi automatic weapon and also that she had worn her Jimmy Choos. Most of her shoes were cleverly designed to hide anti-vamp weaponry - holy water, pencil-thin wooden stakes or garlic concentrate - but the Choos had been pure frivolity. Still, being a stylish dresser had never held her back from Slaying before. It wasn't going to stop her now.

The vampire sniffed and circled closer until Mung Bean could almost see the brand name stamped on the frame of his dark glasses. What was the point of all that blind-person paraphernalia? It's not like anyone's going to offer to help the guy across the road or anything. Just look at him - oversized canines, demony eyes and dead-white complexion - it'd be obvious to anyone he's not your ordinary, average blind guy.

She had her hand on the stake inside her coat pocket, waiting for him to make the first move. He seemed to know she wasn't just another scared girl, soon to be a hot drink. He was taking his time.

Then, just as Mung Bean was about to beat him about his ugly face with a roundhouse kick, the vamp seemed to see something behind her, and fled back the way he came. She whipped around to see who the newcomer was and found herself face to face with a full-grown slime demon, dripping and foul-smelling.

"Chuck! Good to see you!".
"Hey, Mung Bean, long time no see. Wassup?"
Mung Bean sighed. "Look, you didn't have to scare off that vamp, I woulda made short work of him. I know how to do my job".
"Not from where I was standing", replied Chuck, "Not in those heels." And he pointed to the heel of her left shoe, which looked like it was on the verge of breaking away from the rest of the shoe.
"Oh man...I only bought these last week!"
She was going to have to shop a lot more carefully from now on.

I'd take a village

If anyone were to see me now, lying on the couch with my feet up and a laptop balanced on my good knee, they would think I was having an unusually pleasant and relaxing day. In fact, when I'm in this position, that's exactly how it feels to me too.

Ubfortunately, every time I get off the couch to fetch myself a cup of tea, or go to the bathroom to dispose of one, it all comes back to me. My infected knee not only looks as big as the boy's head, it looks like the boy's head after many hours of drinking.
But at least I'm no longer getting the shakes and shivers, and my body temperature is back to normal.

I feel quite fortunate that the boy was willing and able to take a day off work to look after TLM and me - he'd already spent his entire weekend doing that and probably now has a seriously large relaxation deficit. But I wish I didn't have to rely on the boy to help out when I'm sick.

Ideally, I'd have a wide network of unemployed or stay-at-home parent friends who would come by and entertain TLM so I can get on with getting better. I, of course, would repay their kindness with homemade lasagne (well, perhaps something from the supermarket then) when they get sick themselves. We'd pop into each other's homes just to check on each other's well-being and maybe borrow a cup of sugar...

It's probably the antibiotices talking.

Immobile

I'm really annoyed, frustrated and disappointed. And it's not even because people are pulling me up on my grammer and punctuation.

I'm all of the above because I have a right knee about the size of the boy's head. Yep, the painful condition which has already afflicted me twice in the last month is paying a return visit. I never really appreciated my knees before, because they really make it not worth wearing a mini skirt, but now that one of them looks like it's suffering from a bad case of elephantiasis, well all I can say is, come back all is forgiven.

If I take painkillers I'll be too out-of-it to go to painting class. If I don't take painkillers, I'll be in too much agony to go to painting class. Either way, I'm going to miss my niece's 3rd birthday party.

Well, at least it's a lovely day outside...

Give a person a fish, they'll eat for a day.

The determinist offers the first line of this story...

Give a person a fish, they'll eat for a day. Give a person a wallet full of money, they'll have an AMAZING party. And that's exactly what I did when Bad Harry handed me a worn leather wallet containing five crinkled 100-dollar bills. I didn't ask questions - I don't have a job and my allowance is stuff all.

I can't remember the last time I had that much money in my hands. There was that time I stole Mrs Chang's jade earrings from the jewellery box she hides under her bed, and sold them to an English tourist for 250 bucks. She never did come after me about those earrings, although sometimes when she came to visit my mother for tea and black bean cakes, I'd catch her giving me a questioning look and pursing her lips.

"Aiya", she would exclaim in high-volume Cantonese, "What are you doing about getting your daughter a husband?"

And then I would roll my eyes and find an excuse to leave the room. If I was lucky, they wouldn't notice me leaving the house.

You can have a lot of fun with 500 bucks. A whole gang of us kids went down to McDonalds and bought tons of Happy Meals to eat and totally took over the playground there. We muscled the little kids out of the way and scared of their mums and dads. It was great. Then Elias said we should gatecrash this party he knew about in Wainui, so we went to the liquor shop and that's the last I saw of the money.

I wasn't expecting to see Bad Harry outside our front door. I usually see him down at Vic's, where he goes for pie and chips when his taxi shift finishes. I had to run to get the door before my mother, who was outside hanging out the washing, heard his knocking. He was here about the money. Apparently I was only supposed to be looking after it for him.

Shit, I didn't know. Someone gives you money, what the hell are you supposed to think but that it's yours?

So anyway, that's why I'm working at his mum's takeaway for the next few weeks.

a Mac distraction

There's no new story tonight, but I do have a very good reason. The boy, obviously wanting an end to my eternal computer problems, has bought me a MacBook and I've spent all evening familiarising myself with it.

It's a bit like a guy buying his wife a car with automatic transmission because he thinks she's not a good enough driver to handle a manual gearbox.

But I can't really blame him. Without going so far as to accept any responsibility for the various ailments my desktop computer and newish laptop have respectively suffered, I can freely admit that my frequent sighs of exasperation were something he could do without.

It arrived today, as a late Mothers Day present. It's slim, it's lightweight and it's elegant. It's got a touchpad instead of a tiny, furry, red knob, and it promises a foolproof (in every sense of the word) computer experience. So far, so good - I've managed to install Office, set up my email account, take some highly unflattering photos of myself (I have crow's feet!) and adjust the clock to local time, all without calling for help. The next steps will be to migrate my entire cyber-life from the two older computers, to this one. Don't hold your breath.

She looked up to see the man staring at her.

Thanks Cathi, for supplying the first line to this story. It's kind of a first draft and might never be finished, but I had so much fun writing it that I may as well post it up and invite constructive comments. Be gentle. Here goes...

She looked up to see the man staring at her. That familiar warm flush crept up Amber’s neck and over her face. Arms curled around in front of her abdomen to hide the object of his unwelcome gaze. Would last month’s night of drunken debauchery never be allowed to die a natural death?

“Hey – never seen a tattooed woman before?” she snarled, hoping he was the kind of man who was intimidated by displays of aggressive body art.

The man backed away, both hands raised in the traditional gesture of surrender.

Pity, he looked almost handsome and might even be single. Well, perhaps she should have thought of that before she went and got an image of a large, snarling rat engraved onto her belly.

It had been a very long, dry year for Amber. Ever since that morning Kevin left the house for a Red Bull and a steak'n'cheese pie and never came back, she’d spent most evenings moping about the flat trying to figure out what she'd done to cause his permanent departure. Her flashiest heels and slinkiest slipdresses languished in the wardrobe. Her friends despaired.

Until, of course, that night last month. It had taken weeks of cajoling, but Amber had finally let herself be dragged out of the house, to attend Melissa’s biker-themed hens night. Whose idea it was, to spend a whole evening in leather and vinyl, lurching from one dive-y bar to the next, she didn't know. None of the other girls seemed to object though - in fact, they seemed positively titillated by the idea.

Clad in skintight black vinyl jeans, vest, biker cap and knee high, Amber looked more like a dominatrix than a woman in charge of a motorcycle. Still, if a get-up like this failed to extract Amber from her shell, then nothing would. Well, except perhaps a few well-mixed cocktails.
Might as well cover her bases.

Apparently they were kicked out of about twenty bars from one end of town to the next, soaring on a wind of sexy invincibility. Men in suits punched each other over them, excited Bogans tried to induce catfights amongst them and bikers - real bikers - thought they'd died and gone to heaven. Apparently the last venue on the itinerary had Costa's Tattoo Parlour. Amber had a very vague recollection of flicking through pages of ink drawings, but thought she'd settled on a monarch butterfly. In the morning she'd found torn bits of paper napkin in her pockets, covered in scrawled telephone numbers and names like "Bazzer", "Scrub" and "Chug". She'd sincerely hoped those scraps of hopeful communication hadn't been reciprocated.

This is fun! I've got months' worth of potential blog posts here!

Tell me a story

I'm starting to realise that, if I want my short-story writing class to get off to a good start, I'm going to have to try and write one some time before it starts.

Now, I'd be the first to admit that I'm not brimming full of story ideas. Otherwise my blog posts wouldn't be mostly about me and TLM. But I don't want to write some confessional piece as a first attempt, because:

1. I won't know any of those people well enough to share personal details with and
2. they might not like me any more, if I do.

So I'm asking you, dear reader, to send me a first line. Any line, as long as it isn't "It was a dark and stormy night", because I think that one's been used before.

Now, the class isn't until July, so don't expect to see a short story from me straight away. But I might decide to post the more interesting-sounding ones...

Nana Quilt

TLM's grandmother on the boy's side, sent her a beautiful handmade Noah's Ark-themed quilt. You can't really tell what it looks like from these photos, but you can tell how much TLM liked it.

Life changers

The Editter answers some pretty interesting questions over here, and I've been inspired by her post, to tell you something about those crossroads in my life (so far) which have led to the blogger you're reading today.

When I was in my final year at secondary school - the year in which you have to decide whether to go to university or technical college or get a nice job in a bank - I almost enrolled in Horticulture.

May I remind you that I have the horriblest hayfever in the world? It's not even a step up from my previous intention, which was to enrol in Veterinary Science, despite my severe allergy to cats and horses. The latter was understandable - I was mad keen on animals - but the former was a desperate attempt to leave home. I came to my senses just before I sent the accomodation cheque to my allocated hostel, and instead went on to obtain a useless degree in Zoology.

Post-post:
Damn! I must've accidentally published this far-from-finished post when I meant to save a draft. By the time I had completely re-written it, two people had already left comments on my accidental post, so it's kinda too late now to replace it with the intended one. Anyway, if you thought this seemed a little unfinished and go-nowhere, then that's why.

Painting class, session one

I keep forgetting that, when the community class schedule lists a class as being 4 hours long, it's really only going to last 3 - 3 1/2 hours. Unlike classes at other (more expensive) places, the tutor looks ready to pack up about three quarters of the way in. Even the students - the grownups who've voluntarily paid to come and learn - seem itching to get away early.

The people in my painting class ranged from absolute beginners to people who sounded like they knew what they were doing. The latter had an impressive array of obviously well-used tools and even started painting on their canvasses before the tutor had started tutoring. The former left after the first ten minutes, presumably because she felt a little intimidated by the latter.

And where did I fit in?

I was the one who came in lugging my gear in one of those large, pink plastic bags you find in your letterbox, which you're supposed to fill with unwanted used goods so that the collector can sell them for charity.

I was the one who knew what Expressionism was, but didn't have any paper to write on (because I'd absentmindedly left the sketchbook at home).

I was the one who had to bite my tongue when the tutor pronounced Joan Miro's name as "Jean My-ro" (it's Spanish, and should sound more like Juan Mee-roh", but forgot to bring a palate board and had to do all my colour-mixing on the lid of the 6"x4" crayon box.

Still, after the initial feelings of uncertainty and rustiness, I was able to cover my canvas with a few coats of colour and produce a thumbnail of what the finished product might be.

I didn't feel right at home, but perhaps it's just going to take time.

Ask Auntie Vi

Dear Auntie Vi


My toddler has recently start throwing food again and it's driving me crazy. I try to make her tasty, nutritious meals, and really hate seeing it all end up on the floor, especially when it's obvious that she's doing it on purpose.

I've tried telling her "No" in a stern voice, but she just laughs at me.

I've tried turning her high chair around to face the wall and ignoring her, but even though the lack of attention upsets her, it doesn't stop her from throwing food at the very next meal.

I've also tried taking her food away as soon as it starts hitting the floor, but this has no effect either (she's probably no longer hungry by then).

What can I do? I'm sick of picking up bits of rice and peas off the floor.


Frustrated of Nappy Valley


Dear Frustrated

In my experience, only one thing has worked so far in stopping one's child from throwing food.

And that is, to take it away from them while they are still eating.


Good Luck.


Aunti Vi

Preparing to paint

Before I received the email listing all the things I needed to take to my first abstract painting class, I'd assumed that I would already have pretty much everything I'd need for Saturday afternoon. 'Cos, y'know, I used to paint a bit.

Then I remembered that most of my student acrylic paints have ended up as TLM's finger paintings. And on her clothes, hair and skin.

I also recalled that my last two blank canvasses have since been transformed into portraits of Winnie the Pooh and Tigger, respectively, hanging up on TLM's bedroom walls.

And then the list arrived in my inbox and I realised that I'd have to do some concentrated shopping for art supplies.

Like, I'd have to find myself a colour wheel, a colour chart (whatever the heck that is), a new sketchbook (because mine are all full of naked people), new tubes of paint and 3-4 canvasses. It's just as well I still have my colour pencils, erasers, TLM's crayons and the artist's smock which the boy gave me.

Apparently the cost of obtaining all these items is only supposed to cost around thirty bucks. Like hell they are. The canvasses alone would cost more than that, and that's if I were to buy the the cheap-as-dirt made-in-China ones from The Warehouse.

But I've managed to put together most of the stuff I'll need (except for the colour wheel and colour chart) for this weekend. The sack is so big and heavy that there's no way I'll be able to get there without the car.

Oh yes...I'm supposed to arrive with some ideas for paintings as well. Shit.

Extra-curricular activities

I've done it. I've signed up to a short-story writing evening class, and a weekend class on abstract painting.

The latter was my first choice, but I only managed to get on it today because someone else on cancelled out. I've always had a problem with painting that wasn't representational, so I'm hoping this class will help me get in touch with my non-figurative side.

And as for the short story class, I've never actually had a yen to write stories. But I do like writing so it ought to help, right?

A big plus is that it'll get me out of the house and get me baby-free time on Saturday afternoons.

Nicely tenderised

TLM seems much better today, apart from needing an incredibly early nap (9.50am, instead of midday). But we still didn't get out and about because I've been in horrible pain since about Saturday afternoon.

The paracetomol was doing very little to relieve it, and really the only affect it seemed to be having was that I was really drowsy all the time. The Ibuprofen worked much better, but I refused to take if for ages because I'm asthmatic and there's a warning about it on the back of the box.

So anyway, half of my back was feeling really tender; every time I accidentally brushed it against, oh, a puff of air, it hurt like crazy. I've worn a grimace that's lasted for days.

Then the boy decided this "pimple" needed squeezing. I hope you guys aren't eating right now.

But I'm not going into the gory details of what came out of there, mainly because I didn't see anything. But I can tell you that those squeezes hurt like hell. In fact, by the time he'd finished with it, I was blubbering like a baby. I don't remember crying that hard when I gave birth.

And he's going to have to repeat his extractions every evening until it's all gone. So there'll be no cream buns on the snack menu for at least a week.

Like I said in a comment in the previous post, now I understand why Dr House is such a grumpy bastard.

It was just a pimple

It started out as a little whitehead on my shin. A week later practically the whole leg was bright pink like I'd left it under the grill and fallen asleep. It was quite painful to the touch too, and in the end I had to get the doctor to look at it because I didn't want to scare the toddlers at TLM's next swim class.

Fortunately, a course of antibiotics cleared it up nicely and those toddlers at the pool only had to contend with the sight of me in a swimsuit that was decomposing from the effects of pool-cleaning chemicals.

Just three weeks later, the same thing has happened to a spot on my back. The whole right side of my back is now so tender it's keeping me up at nights, so I that can't just blame my sleeplessness on the feverish child down the hall. Who knew a pimple on my back could turn me into a little old lady, hobbling around and wincing every time a breeze brushes over me?

Apparently I'm a little bit run down.

Kenny, the toilet guy

I keep forgetting to post about Kenny, a movie we watched on DVD recently. It's got to be one of the best movies I've seen this year.

It's an Australian mockumentary about a guy whose job is to look after those portable toilets which are so ubiquitous at just about every big outdoor event you've ever been to (you know, the kind that people lose their wedding rings in, the kind that petrolheads set fire to at the car races, the kind that well-dressed snobs throw up into....).

People he meets at parties suddenly spot a distant guest they just have to greet, once they find out what Kenny does for a living. His dad keeps trying to set him up for interviews at other jobs - any job other than the one he's got as an un-glorified toilet-cleaner. His ex-wife rings him at the most inconvenient times with their son's discipline problems.

But Kenny likes his life. And he's not a thicky either - his line "there's a smell in here that'll outlast religion" (while he's cleaning a loo from the inside) is good enough to...um, dine on...for years to come. And he's such a lovely guy too.

The movie is so well made, and the acting so convincing, that I didn't even realise that it's all fiction until the end when I saw the acting credits. Which makes the movie even better than when I thought it was for real.

If I had a rating system for films, I'd give this one a 10/10.

Okay

TLM woke up from her afternoon nap all grizzly, but that's quite normal for her. I just put her in her hammock, which is suspended from a hook in the living room ceiling, and bounce her in it until she's ready to continue with her day.

What wasn't so normal was that she hardly left the hammock all afternoon. She was having one of those moods where nothing will make her happy - not cookies, not watered-down juice, not drawing on her clothes with felt pens, nothing. So I asked whether she wanted to get back into her hammock.

"Okay".

After a while, the grizzling came back. Did she want some dried apricots? "Okay". Some juice? "Okay". Some nashi pear? "Okay". Some BoohBah? "Okay". (Yep, she can watch DVDs from her hammock - that's the beauty of having a plasma TV screen up on the wall.)

TLM was "Okay" with having dinner too, but it turned out to she was only "Okay" with playing with dinner i.e. spooning macaroni cheese into the fruit salad and vice versa.

When I realised how hot she was to the touch, I thought she might want to go to bed early (like, an hour early, 5.30pm early). "Okay".

It was certainly a refreshing change to "No", but I'd rather she didn't have to be sick to be compliant.

Pottery or photography?

Last night I was lying on the couch wondering whether all this television I'm watching, is even more responsible for my brain shrinkage than the stresses and strains of motherhood.

So, I've decided to do an evening class.

I'd actually thought about it in the past but the couch had always waylaid me. But last night, I talked about it with the boy and he thought it was a great idea. It would be less scary than committing to a full-on course of formal study, but better for my mind than watching The Biggest Loser week after week.

There's a slight problem in that it's too late to enrol in most evening classes, and many of them start too early in the evening for the parent-tag to take place. Still, I could always go to life drawing in the meantime.

I'd just have to hide my stick-figure drawings until my ability gets back to a reasonable standard...

Songs for TLM

My singing has gotten so much better since TLM came along. Sometimes I even sing in tune (though I'm never going to be asked to jam with The Eagles).

Ode to Cheeky Monkey (TLM's chimp soft toy, sung to the tune of the Bellybutton Song on our MagIQ DVD)

Cheeky Monkey, Cheeky Monkey,
When you wash him, he's not funky.
He's your favourite so-oft toy...
Oh Boy!

Swing Low, Sweet TLM-mobile
Swing low, sweet TLM-mobile
Comin' for to carry me home.
Swing low, sweet TLM-mobile
Comin' for to carry me home.

I looked over ***town, and what did I see
Comin' for to carry me home.
Lions and tigers and chimpanzees*
Comin' for to carry me home.

(*we live near the zoo. There are 3 more verses but they don't get any better)

It's a long way without a buggy (Sung to It's a long way to Tipperary)
It's a long way without a buggy.
It's a long way to home.
It's a long way without a buggy.
And we don't even live in Rome.
That's why we've got a buggy.
So we can get there.
It's a long long way without a buggy,
Especially from here.


Hey, I never said the songs were any good!

No bargain

It's bad enough that, when I made the effort to go all the way out to DressMart* to look for cheap-but-fasionable clothing, I couldn't find a single thing to buy. Either I didn't like it, or it wasn't discounted much, or it was available in ridiculously small sizes only.

What made it so much worse, was receiving a $170 speeding ticket a month later, because driving home on the 100km/hr motorway I was a bit late slowing down for that 80km/hr stretch of road in the middle of it.

Bah.


* If you don't know, it's a mall where every shop (except the cafe, which is hideously over-priced) sells for up to 70% discount. It's mostly factory seconds and left-overs from previous seasons.

Braininess runs in cycles

Every now and then after dinner, I take the Nintendo DS out of its case and play a few rounds with the brain gym. And I've learned that my intelligence fluctuates even worse than a serial dieter's weight.

Sometimes I'll take the test, and do astonishingly well in the Calculate section but not so well in the Memory section. Other times, my Calculate score is shameful, but my Memory seems to have made a comeback.

In part, this is to do with which sets of tests I get. But I think it's even more influenced by how tired I am, how loud the television is and whether I can hear TLM having a nightmare in the next room.

It makes sense, really, but I'd never realised how much difference it makes. So I suppose the idea of studying in the evenings might not be a very good one eh?

What I'm reading

These days, when I go to the library by myself I tend to look for books about writing professionally, books about finding one's perfect career and cookbooks for people who don't enjoy cooking.

The Lonely Planet Story
But the library book I've been reading lately is Once While Travelling - the Lonely Planet story, by Tony and Maureen Wheeler. Mostly told from Tony's perspective, it starts how he met and married Maureen and takes you through 20-odd years of building what's become a vast travel-publishing empire. It appealed to me because most of my travels were aided by Lonely Planet guidebooks, and I'd always wanted to become a travel writer. Despite the alleged hardships, I can't help feeling that theirs was the perfect life, because even having kids didn't stop them in their unbeaten tracks.

The story isn't all in chronological order, which can be confusing at times, but it's all interesting. Tony talks about the times when Lonely Planet was on the brink of financial collapse, as well as the time when his marriage was too. There is even a chapter on what it's like to be a guide book writer, which I found both enlightening and off-putting. Having read this chapter, I don't think I'd want to be one (I'd rather be like Bill Bryson - sort of a roving personality - than spend all my travelling time rushing around checking facts).

Still, reading about the Wheelers' adventures makes me quite wistful.

The Hero with a Thousand Faces
When a major new bookshop opens in town, I want to go and see whether they stock anything in particular that isn't already available in the exiting shops. So when I went to the new Borders shop, I was expecting to come out of there with some new American book.

What I did buy was a copy of Joseph Campbell's The Hero with a Thousand Faces, which is so old I probably could have found a cheap copy at one of the many second-hand bookshops. Still, I wanted to read it because I'm quite interested in the universality of myths (plus it was mentioned many times in articles about Buffy), so I bought it. I haven't gotten that far into it yet, but at the moment I'm enjoying the the stuff relating particular Greek myths with psychiatric conditions e.g. the infamous Oedipus Complex.

Risk aversion

I'm just not cut out for taking risks. Well okay, I've hitchhiked around Africa on my own, eaten food from street stalls in India and been white-water rafting before I'd learned to swim. But those could probably be attributed to the foolishness of youth. These days, I find myself progressively less inclined to take a flying leap at any venture that doesn't carry at least some certainty of success.

Just a few minutes ago, I called up my fellow fundraising committee member to tell her I had cold feet about our proposed movie night. Not just cold feet, but frozen to Absolute Zero cold. There was a low-ish response rate to our initial call for feedback, and I suspected that the rest of 'em were too polite to just say "no". It was keeping me up at night with dreams about ill-fated raffles and garage sales, and giving me a tension headache that goes all the way down my neck, across my shoulders and down my spine. It doesn't help that there's an up-front booking fee which would be enough to replace my burnt-out computer very nicely. It also doesn't help that in a couple of weeks I might be the only active member of the committee. Extra work, I wasn't looking for.

I'd like to think I'm just being sensible in calling the whole thing off (or at least postponing it until we can get more people to show support). But there's a bug in my head that tells me this is just another example of how boringly risk-averse I've become as I've gotten older.

If I were the entrepeneurial type, the kind of person who founds The Body Shop or decides to film all three Lord of the Ring movies at the same time, would I have been so easily put off? Should I have decided to push on anyway, and let fear of failure be my prime motivator?

What I want for Mothers Day

One day TLM will be old enough to celebrate Mothers Day by bringing me burnt toast in bed and giving me a hand-sewn elephant that looks like a rat, but until then I guess the boy will be responsible for trying to make May 13th a memorable one.

There's a chance that he'll get me something geeky and unnecessary like a new Wii game or another brain gym for the Nintendo DS, but you never know. If I can't have the week off, then I'm going to have to think of a list he can pick from:

• a gym membership, because if I have somewhere to work out I won't be so inclined to use my "free" time shopping for clothes
• The Buffy Season 8 graphic novel, although he told me himself that it's completely sold out all over the planet
• a trip to the UK to visit his both family and a host of clothes shops recommended by Trinny and Susannah
• have framed, some of the better paintings which are hanging around the house
• a session at a day spa would be nice, but he'd have to organise it for me. It's also have to specialise in hypoallergenic treatments.
• his blessing that I can do whatever study I like, whether it be creative writing or how to be a papparazzi, regardless of it's usefulness in bringing home additional bacon

But if none of the above are do-able, then I suppose I could be content with a massive sleep-in.

How addiction altered my daughter's personality

All day today, TLM's mantra was "Boohbah".

This surreal preschooler's show fascinated me when it screened every morning at 6am, with it's blobby dancing creatures who apparently fly on the power of their own farts. The DVDs have been available at the library for ages, but until last week I'd been trying desperately (and unsuccessfully - the boy and I are both TV addicts, so it's genetic) to avoid increasing the amount of TV/DVD time TLM gets.

I think I may have made a serious mistake in renting the Boohbah DVD though, because TLM has become addicted to it. When it's on, she alternates between trying to copy their dance moves, and staring at it like a hedgehog caught in the sudden glare of headlights. And if TLM demands Boohbah and I don't provide it, she goes off her food, throws her sippy cup overboard and loses all interest in her Megablocks.

It's possible that The Wiggles are, temporarily at least, no longer the kings of TLM's Top Ten.

Long time no see

I can just imagine that the rellies in the UK are wondering when the next photos of TLM will be posted. So here's a photo of our Little Madam having oodles of fun at the playground outside the local library. It's her home away from home.








And here is a blurry shot of Madam demonstrating how one wears Mr Potatohead's spectacles.




TLM just got some new boots on the weekend. Good god, I never realised how expensive children's shoes could be. Granted, these are the most gorgeous designer lilac nubuck boots, all the way from Germany, but still.

Going for the lowest common denominator

If you were a member of your child's daycare centre's fundraising committee, and you had to choose a new or yet-to-be-released film to show at a fundraising movie night, which film would you choose?

I would have thought that Pirates of the Caribbean III would have been a good bet, because it's just about the most mainstream movie I can think of. Certainly not Becoming Jane, which sounds like something only Jane Austen addicts would bother with, nor Spiderman III, which sounds like something you'd show at a Geek's Night or something.

You wouldn't want to screen Pan's Labyrinth because it's too dark and weird (while I would go and see it because it's dark and weird), but on the other hand maybe we shouldn't assume that our potential ticketbuyers can't handle anything edgy.

What would you pick?

Grocery revelations

While I wondered around the supermarket with two packets of incontinence pads in my basket (they weren't for me, and anyone who implies otherwise will get one of my withering looks), I wondered what people would assume if they saw me with those items.

Do people still check each other out at supermarkets? 'Cos I bet they'd check out what's in other people's shopping baskets, for indications of desirability.

If I were a single woman looking for love in the aisles, would I be turned off if the handsome man in up ahead picked up a six-pack of pre-made meat pies to go with his ready-made pizzas? Would I have been more willing to smile flirtatiously at him if I'd seen him loading up with gourmet delicacies instead? Or would that mean he's probably gay?

I think I'd feel more confident reading someone's bookshelf.

"Welcome to heck"

The boy has been going on and on about the PG13 trailer to the based-on-a-graphic novel movie, 300. I have no intention of seeing the movie, but I wouldn't be surprised if it ends up in a batch of DVDs from our man in Jakarta.

But anyway, the PG13 trailer. It is in fact every bit as funny as the boy promised (and just as well because he's been telling eeeeverybody about it). And since he's let his blog die a natural death, I feel it's my wifely duty to post it on mine. Have a look, it's a bit of a laugh.

We would like to be what we read

You can tell a lot about a person by their record collection, and no doubt the same thing applies to a person's book collection or the contents of their library bag. I read somewhere that a sizeable proportion of the adult population in Britain admits to buying books they have no intention of reading, purely to enhance their coolness factor in the eyes of their visitors.

(Which is why I think library bags ought to be made of a see-through material - so I can ponce around at the bus stop with Betrand Russell's History of Western Philosophy inside. And hey, the only reason I didn't actually finish the book is because you're only allowed to check it out for 4 weeks)

I like to think of myself as reasonably eclectic, adventurous and intellectual, so I'd be quite happy about people knowing that the following books are on my shelves :

• A large number of "pop culture and philosophy" books, including the ones about Buffy and The Simpsons
• My collection of travel guides, including the Lonely Planet guide to South America
  
• Lionel Shriver's We have to talk about Kevin
• Jung Chang's Wild Swans
  

The books which I wouldn't necessarily want everyone to know about would be:

• The self-help guides for single women in their thirties
• All my Marion Keyes chicklit novels, because really, only the first three were any good
• Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code would've been included here, but I gave it to a charity shop because I couldn't bear to see it on my shelf. It was a present, by the way.
  

And, of course, I'd be super-quick to point out to visitors that the shelf full of graphic novels (along with the Star Wars DVD boxed set) belongs to the boy.

The forgotten underwear

My sock and underwear drawer is full to the brim, yet every morning I have the hardest time finding suitable items to clothe my various bits. Some of the fault lies in the fact that, these days, it's pretty damned dark at 6.30am. But I'm afraid that most of the responsibility lies with my reluctance to part with sock widows, bras with over-stretched straps, and un-homely knickers.

When I got home this afternoon from a sock-buying mission, I decided to clear the undies drawer once and for all.

Digging into the deeper recesses of that drawer was a bit of an eye-opener. I had completely forgotten just how many pairs of pantyhose had been tucked into the far corner - it's been an awfully long time since I bothered putting those on (it's just easier not to, not least because it means I can go longer without trimming my toenails). There were many, many pairs of g-string undies too. In the old days, when I was single and on the prowl, the g-string was an essential item for wearing under firm-fitting trousers and skirts if you didn't want to be subject to the dreaded VPL. These days, I've learned that jeans with back pockets in the right place hide VPL very, very well.

Removing unwanted stuff from their usual habitat is one thing, actually binning them for good is another. I've probably thrown half of it out, but the rest is still in really good condition so it's in my blanket chest until I get in the mood for minimal underwear again.

By the time I was done with my drawer, it was looking pitifully empty. I think it's telling me to stock up on underwear.

This windy day

20 months
TLM has turned 20 months and 1 day. For the record, I'll tell you that she has another cold - one which will probably keep her home from daycare tomorrow. But at least she had a great time on Tuesday, when the staff bundled up all 12 or so kids into buggies (the kind designed for twins and triplets) and walked them all around the zoo.

She's been enjoying playing with her cousins almost every day, but I hope she doesn't pick up their habit of throwing each other into furniture, for fun.

I dressed TLM in a fluffy orange jumper this morning because it was a freezing cold morning, but she's become so attached to it already, that even when she's not wearing it she's clutching it like some fashion-victim's version of a lovey.

In my eye
It's been so windy lately that I've taken to wearing my sunglasses outdoors even when it's overcast outside. A couple of nights ago, after a particularly gusty day, I complained of having something in my eye. The boy couldn't get it out, so I went to the bathroom and flicked out this thing with black bits and mucous-y bits.

It was an insect.

I remembered being especially annoyed that morning when stuff seemed to be blowing into my eye. Good god, I'd had an insect in my eye for 9 hours, and didn't even know it. I really hoped it wasn't an egg-laden female I'd unknowingly hosted all day.

Infinished movies
We started to watch Apocolypto, but it turned out to be every bit as violent as I'd feared it would be. And that was only in the first half hour or so. So that DVD was ejected and replaced with a Gilmore girls episode.

We also started watching Ong Bak, the Thai boxing movie I'd heard lots about. The boy walked out half way through, in favour of returning to World of Warcraft. I was quite enjoying it, and only stopped watching because it was encroaching on my dishwashing-then-sleep time. Sure, the plot is a bit cheesy and the hero has an off-puttingly high voice, but it's all good fun and reminded me of some of Buffy's better vamp fights.

Vocational guidance

Ever since I realised that I didn't want to be a computer programmer for the rest of my life, I have had problems deciding on what the heck I did want to do for a living. I have some idea of what I don't want to do:

• anything which requires me to be nice to people I don't like e.g. customer service roles
• anything which requires me to wear full-on protective-wear (because I have so many allergies that exposure to anything suspect might cause me to stop breathing)
• anything that gets my hands dirty (because I get enough of that looking after TLM)
• computer programming
• wear a headset for hours on end

I once went to a careers counsellor for some free sessions at Kiwi Careers. After talking to me about my interests, education and past work experience, he told me that my problem was that I was interested in too many things.

In a way, this is true. I'm a bit of a Jill-of-all-trades. Well, more of a Jill-of-several-skills-and-interests, but that doesn't quite roll off the tongue so easily. The full description ought to be, a Jill of several skills and interests and mistress of none, but it's really very unfortunate that the word "mistress" has much sleazier connotations than "master".

It feels as though I've spent many years of my life trying to figure out what I'm good at, only to find that I'm so-so at lots of things and that's about it.

I recently went to Kiwi Career's website and found a little quiz there designed to help users choose a career. But I really don't see myself as an illustrator, wardrobe person, navy hydrographic survey officer (I get seasick) or air traffic controller. And I've already dropped the idea of being a librarian - too much customer service - or artist- too lacking in talent and determination.

So I'm thinking, what if I do some study in journalism? That could lead to journalism work, communications/PR, copywriting, technical writing or a fabulously popular fictionalised memoir.

If only I could do a quiz and be given a shortlist of two or three careers, to which I would say "Why yes, that's what it!".

It's all in the accent

Years ago, when I was in Edinburgh, I remember a potential landlord being quite taken aback when I asked whether his flat had a deck. Not until about a week later did I realise that he thought I'd said something rude.

I've been trying to encourage TLM to use cutlery to eat with (rather than to play with), and this morning I taught her to say "fork". After she'd repeated it several times, I began to worry that people hearing her would think we've been teaching her swear words.

The Prestige

What is it about magicians, that there are two films out about them? The Illusionist is out now, and we've just seen The Prestige on DVD. Has David Copperfield infiltrated Hollywood or something?

Anyway, The Prestige was quite good. The boy got it because Michael Caine, Christian Bale and an aged David Bowie all star in it.

It's set in what looks to me like Victorian times, about two fiercely competitive stage magicians and the extremes they go to in order to one-up each other. It's also a back-stage snoop at what how stage magicians think up their tricks, maybe.

The science-fiction-y twist at the end is a bit out of the blue, but I like wierd stuff so that was fine by me.

Long time no post. Also, a bad date.

I've been busy, see. Now that my mum is recuperating at my brother's place, we seem to be spending most of our time there, just to enable my sister-out-law to get out of the house occasionally. The good thing about it is that TLM has been spending lots more time with her cousins who, at 6 and nearly 3, are great playmates for her.

Anyway, this, and the fact that TLM's sleeps have been a bit disrupted and therefore I spend her naptimes catching up on my own sleep, mean that I've no time to blog.

I never told you what the boy and I got up to last Friday, did I? The ex-nanny arrived at 7pm. I didn't want to get ambitious with the night out, so I suggested we have a nice meal at a local eatery. We ended up at Planet Spice, an Indian restaurant which has had great reviews. I ordered the Goan fish curry, which was yumarama. But it went right through me, and our romantic stroll turned into a white-knuckle hobble-race back home to the toilet. It was just as well it wasn't our first date.

clock-watching

Once again, I'm at home enjoying my TLM-free leisure time.

I think one of the secrets to truly enjoying your child-free time is to somehow avoid counting down the minutes to when you'll have to go back to the daycare centre to pick her up again. And another is to stop pressuring yourself to make the most of the free time, and just exist in the blissful knowledge that you are alone for a change.

The first couple of hours were spent trying to decide whether to go for a swim or walk, then going for a walk and wishing I'd chosen the other option. The rest of the time, I've spent reading and writing emails whilst checking the clock at the bottom right corner of the desktop. Sixteen minutes until yoghurt time, thirty-one minutes until TLM-pickup time. Thirty-two minutes until big-toothy-TLM-grin time.

I've been called to perform my civic duty...

I've received a jury summons.

The last time this happened, I was quite excited really, and had half-hoped to be picked for a murder case or something. As it turned out, all I had to do was sit around for three mornings in a row and not get picked.

This time around, I just want to tell the Justice Department that I don't want to do it. I'm far too busy trying to keep up TLM's routine.

The pamphlet included with the summons, says that I'd get paid about $30 per half day, and can claim on childcare. But, tempting as the money might be, it wouldn't be easy getting temporary all-day childcare for such an uncertain period of time - anything from three days to several weeks. Not to mention the disruption to her daily routine...

Besides, I've also got to do time looking after my mum, who's finally out of hospital is now and recuperating at my brother's place.

The Lady in the Water

Isn't Bryce Dallas Howard's beauty so very spooky? She really does look like she's from a different world, like Tilda Swinton (who played the White Witch in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, among other roles). Perhaps it's a "ginger" thing.

Unlike M. Night Shyamalan's other films I've seen, there's no enormous twist at the end of this fairy tale. But that didn't make it any less enjoyable for me.

It's a neat little fairy tale about a water nymph who's been sent to save the world. All she has to do is be seen by the right person, who will then set in motion events which will change the world for the better. But there's a big green warg-like creature whose sole aim is to destroy her, whether she accomplishes her mission or not. Can the quirky inhabitants of the condominium, under whose swimming pool she's been living, save her?

And quirky is really the best word to describe the bunch of misfits who're her designated saviours. Like the young man who is intentionally working out only the right side of his body, the stuttering janitor with a tragic past, the Asian university student who looks like a Thai bar girl and the man whose every digestive embarrassment is fodder for his wife's chit-chat.

Parenting meme

Daddy L, over at The Jasper Chronicles has tagged me and I'm going to be very nice and oblige him with my answers...

1) What was your biggest surprise when you became a parent?
That some of those gooey, chocolate-box moments which made me want to gag when I heard about them as a childless singleton, now make me tear up. Like how utterly sweet it is to see your child give you a big smile at the end of a morning apart. (Or how heart-rippingly ugly it feels to leave her.)

2) Name some things you vowed you'd never do, but find yourself doing now?
Like Daddy L, I never thought I'd be eating TLM's leftovers. But unlike hyim, if it's already been in TLM's mouth then there's no way it's going anywhere but the rubbish bin.

Also, I'd really hoped I wouldn't become a baby bore. Unfortunately, a lifetime's worth of interesting pursuits has boiled down to a blog in which I mostly write about babies.

3) What's the one thing you thought you would do, but actually don't?
Am I the only one who saw herself as a future yummy mummy - made up, beautifully shoed, toned and stylish - only to succumb to the boring old baggy t-shirt + jeans + clumpy boat shoes and no makeup uniform?

A man about the house

The boy has taken the last three days off work, supposedly so he can spend more time with TLM and me.

It's quite possible that he'd envisioned spending some of that time with just me, in the bedroom, catching up on the sort of activity that couples tend to do a lot of, pre-children. So I hope he's not too disappointed that most of the time he's been left to look after TLM while I go galavanting around town looking for red-hot action.

Not really. Mostly I take TLM out to the park (or daycare) for the morning, and in the afternoon the boy gets do some father-daughter bonding while I go for a brisk walk before visiting my mum in hospital ( she's apparently been discharged today) . Yesterday they went to the zoo and shared some unhealthy fries. Perhaps today they will go to the liquor shop for a dozen beers, and share a meat pie.

There could perhaps be a bit of couples excitement tonight though, because we've organised for TLM's ex-nanny to come and babysit for the evening while the two of us do something.

The pressure is on to make the most of this spare time (movie, dinner, dancing, nooky...) but really I just hope I can stay awake well enough to appreciate it.

Heart beats

But just in case you were disappointed not to get a TLM update, I've got one of those for you too...

This morning I was ready to ring in and tell the daycare folks to forget about it, we weren't coming back ever, because if TLM won't let her own beloved daddy bathe her and cries tragically whenever I go to the toilet then there's no chance that she'll allow me to drop her off at daycare with a bunch of relative strangers for the morning.

Then I re-read a section in Robin Barker's The Mighty Toddler about separation anxiety, in which she advises parents not to let this developmental phase stop them from leaving their kids with a trusted caregiver, and my resolved hardened. So before that same resolve melted again like an ice cream on a hot day, we set off to daycare. Along the way I repeated to TLM what we'd be doing. The first time, she said "No no no". The next few times, she quietly clung to Cheeky Monkey and - I imagine - tried not to breathe in the cigarette fumes drifting from the hospital workers having smoko on the footpath.

And you know what? It didn't go that badly after all. TLM screamed hard when I started to leave, so hard it reminded me of that time we accidentally snipped off the tip of her finger while attempting to clip her nails. She screamed while I waved goodbye, got my coat, left the building, closed the gate behind me and walked down the driveway.

The caregiver had promised to call me in ten minutes, but it felt like at least half an hour had passed since I'd left the daycare and walked around the block three times with mobile phone firmly in my grip. She called and told me that TLM had in fact quietened down and was now playing. But my heart rate probably didn't drop to normal for at least another hour. And my neck and shoulders are still as tight as the proverbial coiled spring.

I went back at midday, after TLM had woken up from a not-usual nap in her buggy (that's what happens when separation anxiety strikes at 4am and she refuses to go back to sleep). I was so proud of how well she'd done so I put a little butterfly sticker on her otherwise unadorned lunchbox, and gave her the rest of the packet to play with. She done good.

Flushed Away

At last, a post about something other than a particularly mind-bogglingly cute but terribly demanding toddler...

We recently received a batch of movies and TV shows on DVD recently, from one of the boy's workmates who has been working in one of Asia's hotbeds of movie-pirating. That would be why all of a sudden I've got something else to talk about.

Flushed Away was a film I'd really wanted to watch because I'm a huge Claymation fan - although this film is in fact your common or garden CGI animation. In short, it's about Roddy, a pet rat in a posh Kensington household whose home is invaded by a dodgy, dirty and bad rat from the sewers, while his (Roddy's) owners are away. The invader flushes Roddy down the loo, sending him down the sewers into a veritable rat-London (shades of Neverwhere and the second Matrix movie here). Roddy tries to get back home, meets a Lara Croft-like rat rebel and saves the (rat) world from a toad with a grudge.

It's really funny, and I think I probably only got about half of the jokes. The boy had to fill me in on some of them, because the humour is apparently very very English. Which makes me wonder whether this is the reason it didn't do particularly well in the American box office.

The limpet - with more suction than a super-sucky vacuum cleaner

I've been reading up on separation anxiety in toddlers, on the 'Net, and still can't decide whether we should persist with trying to get her settled into daycare, or whether to pull her out of there until it passes (apparently it usually disappears around age 3, which gives me another 17 months to wait through).

On one discussion board, someone suggested that those heartrending (not to mention earsplitting) screams are less likely to happen if the dad drops the little limpet at daycare, because supposedly they are better at hiding their own anxiety about the situation (or maybe they aren't anxious about it in the first place). So, if tomorrow morning goes as badly as last Friday morning did (the daycare rang me less than half an hour later and asked me to come back), the boy has agreed to try the next drop-off.

Tonight, TLM didn't even want to have bathtime with her daddy - she clung to my legs and wailed through most of his singing- and got upset when I put her down in her cot at bedtime and left the room. That can't be good.

Wheels for young and old

I suppose that when you have both an aging parent and a just-walking toddler, the idea of owning a double-buggy starts looking attractive even if you don't have a second child.

But even though her legs tire easily and she needs to rest every 100 metres or so, my mum is far too proud to try a walking frame - she has only accepted the advantages of using a walking stick in the last year or so.

However, her current spell in hospital has made it clear that, at least while she's rendered weak from a combination of an infection and it's affect on her various other ailments, a walking frame is a pretty handy mobility aid.

It also makes for a fab toy. TLM's daily visits to her Poh Poh had stopped being a novelty (especially when I wouldn't let her play with the power points and the monitoring equipment), but since yesterday this grown-ups version of a walking trolley has been her favourite plaything. One time she even grabbed it right off my mum, leaving her standing in the middle of the lift foyer, and pushed it around the waxed floors until it was needed for a trip to the loo.

Limpet, mine

Oh no. The dreaded separation anxiety has struck TLM.

I'd gotten used to telling people that TLM really only gets separation anxiety if she's sick, tired or hungry. But she's mostly over her cold now and lately, even if she's just woken from a 12 hour sleep and been fed and watered, she still gets upset when I leave the room.

We went down to daycare this morning, just as we'd done two times last week. Only this time when I left TLM burst into tears and was still crying after one of the carers tried to engage her in her favourite games. I'd just got home and changed out of my "messy" clothes when the phone rang - it was the other carer, telling me I needed to go back. TLM had been crying so hard and so long that there were little red bumps on her temples (presumably from the stress because they disappeared later on). Even when I was around, she kept looking for me and coming over for a comfort cuddle.

I might be wrong, and TLM is still just affected by her cold. Or I might be right and I can say goodbye to weekday child-free time for the next few months. Or years.

Ah well, it's nice to know she loves me.

That Bond movie

I've always disapproved of Bond movies. Even when I was a kid, the action scenes, for me, were always overshadowed by the womanising behaviour - the way women's clothes just seemed to slide right off them in his presence. It just made me...I don't know...indignant - such arrogance, such cockiness!

Last night I only managed to watch the first half of Casino Royale before heading off the bed, but I did actually enjoy it. Much of it is due to the fact that this Bond is a whole lot tastier than either Connery or Moore. What also helped was the fact that, in the first half at least (I'm sure the glamorous accountant ended up between the sheets with him), the groiny bits between Bond and the skinny-yet-busty married woman are pretty tame, and Bond even shows signs of having formed a emotional attachment to her.

I hope to see the rest of the film tonight, but so far it is to Bond movies what Batman Returns was to the other, camper Batman movies.

Gooey moments

These are the TLM moments that make me go a bit gooey:

• At 19 months old, The Little Madam can read the numbers 1-10.
• When I put together the giant Solar System jigsaw puzzle, TLM can name Earth, Jupiter, Saturn, Venus and Mars. I didn't point to Uranus because I'm totally certain which one it is, and also because the name still makes me chuckle.
• She is greatly amused by the act of hand-feeding me popcorn.
• As long as she doesn't end her bath prematurely by pooing in it (it must be the relaxing effect of the warm water, eh?), TLM loves identifying the colours of the blobs on the shower curtain.
• We can make each other laugh by making sneezing noises.

Between extremes

Maybe it's just another aspect of toddlerdom or maybe it's because she's still labouring under a super-cold, but The Little Madam has been alternating between angelic sweetness and 360-degree neck-swivels whilst speaking in tongues.

She'd happily play by herself at daycare (who were okay with her being there as long as she wasn't too sick to enjoy herself) for a minutes at a time, then burst into tears because she can't pick the last raisin out from the bottom of the box.

Each time we've gone to see my mum in hospital (who's recovering nicely but feeling understandably fragile), TLM would reward complete strangers in the lift with the most gorgeous smiles. Then we'd get to my mum's ward and she would turn into Monster Child, who must be kept harnessed in her buggy or wander about the ward donating her cold viruses to post-surgery patients. No snack, drink, book or toy could keep her amused for more than about 3 seconds, but as soon as we left she'd be flirting with strangers again.

Sigh.

I suppose it could also be a case of familiarity breeding contempt (on her part, that is).

How to have a terrible weekend

(I know that really, I should count my blessings because in general my life is good, but just bear with me while I grumpily recount the events of the weekend..)

1. Pick the weekend that Daylight Savings ends, because you've been trying to reset your toddler's eating and sleeping patterns since last Wednesday.

2. Ask the weather gods to ensure that most of the time it will be cold, wet and windy.

3. Then let your toddler catch the cold virus to end all cold viruses. She's not just snotting, cough-y and grumpy, she's got snot for Africa and the coughs sound like the entire population of France is trying to escape her breathing passages (y'know, frogs). It's so bad that the television is on during most of her waking hours, because Wiggles DVDs distract her from both illness and cabin fever.

4.And just before the weather turns nice on the Sunday afternoon, get a call from a family member who needs to have an embarrassingly located boil lanced at the hospital.

5. When you get to the A & E, you're enraged to find that you'll have to pay for parking. Then you find out that you didn't after all, but not until you've already pushed $4 down the parking meter slot.

6. Because it's an especially busy day at the A & E, there will be long delays. By 8pm that evening, you haven't been home in 8 hours.*

7. You're been advised that the boil removal requires a surgical operation, so now you've got something else to worry about other than the fact that your child at home is too congested to sleep.

8. When you get home, the boy is exhausted from caring for, and worrying about, the sick toddler. He's in no condition to look after you.**


* An icing on the cake would be that the homeless person who used the reception's phone before you, left his characteristic homeless person-smell AND some dodgy beads of moisture on the handset. And you only find out after you've put it to your ear.

**On the plus side, the boy wasn't too exhausted to record Gilmore Girls for me.

It's so quiet

The Little Madam is at daycare this morning, no doubt dousing herself with water and painting her hands, and I'm at home checking out blogs.

Unaccustomed as I am to having "me" time during daylight hours except when TLM is having her nap, when I went to the bathroom I found myself tip-toeing around her bedroom.

Old habits...

Breathability

I ended up having to hem up my new jeans by hand* , but when summer suddenly ended at the beginning of the week (as suddenly as it had began, right after Christmas) I was able to slip into something toasty warm - my new straight-legged, high-waisted jeans.

After a couple of days wear, those jeans are finally feeling mostly comfortable. I say mostly because that high waist is still a bit constricting about my middle. In fact, if I wear those jeans with my new bra which still hasn't "worn in" (i.e. stretched out), I can actually give myself an asthma attack.

The other thing about this particular cut of jeans is that I have to put out of my mind just how similar they are to those jeans we all wore in the 80s. I remember now how some girls had to lie down in order to zip theirs up. I also remember how just being able to sit with my legs crossed, whilst be-denimed, was usually a challenge and often a lie.

Really, the only difference between these and those, is that the new ones are stretchy and shouldn't be teamed with anything shoulder-padded.

*Because my sewing machine is broken, my sister-out-law's is in parts because they're getting ready to move house, and the only other person with a sewing machine who's offered to lend it to me is on the far side of town.

Gore in the kitchen

TLM's first real day at daycare was apparently fun-filled and separation anxiety-free. As expected, she spent about two hours in standing in front of the outdoor water trough, scooping it up and pouring it down her front. In fact, she seemed to have had such a good time that she didn't eat a thing all morning except for a small pot of yoghurt and two gingernuts.

She made up for the lack of appetite at dinner time though. Just in case she's displaying a renewed food pickiness, she's getting cheesy pasta 'n' peas for lunch next time she goes to daycare.

This little domestic tale could have ended here, if I hadn't stepped on a bit of glass just as I was getting TLM out of her highchair.

This tiny bit of glass embedded in my heel was no doubt a missed remnant from a couple of nights ago when the boy broke his second-to-last wineglass. It was surprisingly easy to remove though, and I soon resumed to pottering around the kitchen putting away TLM's leftovers.

I didn't know it at the time, but I'd been spraying foot-blood all over the kitchen floor. TLM was fascinated by the little red puddles and my efforts to wipe it up with paper towels were too slow to stop her from dipping fingers in the stuff.

That's when I remembered a movie I'd seen as a child, in which someone was poisoned when he unknowingly sipped a drink containing a small amount of someone else's blood. Please let that be utter fiction.

And just as I mopped the smudges of blood off the floor, I heard the distinct "chink" sound of yet another glass fragment...

Luke, oh Luke!

Here in New Zealand we're about 4 episodes into the latest season of Gilmore Girls and, although I keep forgetting to set the DVD recorder for 5.30pm every Sunday, I think I've seen enough to know that there's something not quite right about this season.

I'm not absolutely sure whether it's because some of the pop culture references seem a bit forced (like that string of lame references to Gwyneth Paltrow in episode two), or if it's because Lorelei seems a little less witty than I'm used to, or simply because I'm disappointed that she broke up with Luke and has started dating her ex, Christopher.

Or maybe, subconsciously, I've been prejudiced by the unenthusiastic reviews I've read already.

Anyway, I hope that old tension between the two L's doesn't dissipate entirely because their possible romance, plus the baggage that was Lorelei and Christopher, was one of the main things keeping me interested.

Cheaply cheerful, and a bit of skirt

Hmm...it seems that these days all I post about is The Little Madam and shopping. Oh well. Anyway...

Today I went on the hunt for cheap, throwaway clothes that TLM can wear to daycare, stuff that she can get covered in purple paint and glue and it won't matter if it doesn't wash out.

You see, yesterday TLM went through 4 clothing changes, mainly because she couldn't seem to stay away from the big water-play basin just inside the entrance. In fact, her first clothing change of the morning was about ten minutes after our arrival.

"Just buy a load of stuff from the op shops.", the other parents told me, "It doesn't matter what they look like as long as it keeps 'em clothed and protected from colouring themselves pink and green."

So, due to TLM's aqua-philia, I bought some trousers and tops from the Opportunity for Animals thrift shop (only 50 cents per item, and it all goes to animal welfare charity). I have to admit though, that I couldn't bring myself to completely disregard how the items looked. I bypassed all the tapered trousers and the really ugly tops, in favour of the cargo pants and the hot pink shirts with the monogrammed flowers.

I also purchased a cheap vinyl raincoat and some cute but too-large gumboots (which I'll have to return for the smaller ones with the ladybirds on them). If I'd found one of those plastic aprons with sleeves - which I've seen used at the local playgroup - I would've bought one of those too.

After all that sifting through bargin bins, I felt almost when I found myself gorgeous skirt at Red and forked out a relatively large sum of money for it. But then, I really am quite excited about this skirt because it fits perfectly and actually looks good on me. Until this afternoon I thought I'd never wear a skirt in summer again (I am, after all, astoundingly difficult to fit and have always had an aversion to looking too girly). See, here it is. I'm going to wear it forever.

Stepping out

Friends with toddlers have warned me for months, that once TLM started walking I should expect to do a whole heap of chasing around. And now I believe them.

For some reason, TLM is irresistibly drawn to kerbsides. I don't know whether she's just curious to see what those floaty things are in the gutter, or whether she just wants to get a bit closer to those large, fast-moving beasts called cars, but if she's on the footpath that's where she'll head.

TLM also seems to love trying out the automatic doors at banks and other offices. At least when she was limited to bum-shuffling, it was pretty easy to catch up with her before she went out the door and into the path of an oncoming skateboarder. But she gets around much faster on two feet than she did on her bum cheeks, and no amount of hand-holding will deter her from her path of destruction.

My only solution so far has been to stock up on sweet buns or biscuits, so that when I scoopTLM up and forcibly harness her wriggly body back into the buggy I have something to distract her from pulling a tantrum to end all tantrums.

Proof

Just so's you can see for yourself, here is photographic evidence of TLM's recent conversion to bipedalism. Sorry about the lack of focus, but once she got up on her feet she wouldn't stop for the camera!

I noticed today that when she's heading to the washbasin (ostensibly to clean her hands, but we all know that she just wants to play with the tap), she reminds me of a pint-sized, cute zombie.

She's been very smiley and obviously happy about being able to get about on her own like her friends.

Wide legs, skinny legs and boot legs

Because I needed to designate at least one outfit the get-dirty playgroup outfit, and because the jeans I've been wearing all summer (with legs rolled up as a shorts substitute), I've been shopping for jeans.

In the old days - i.e. when I was fitter and flatter of tummy - it was simply a matter of trying on a few pairs of bootcut jeans (recommended for shorties by just about anyone who gets paid to dress women) and finding the pair with the best fit around the hips and the biggest back pockets (because they make your bum look smaller) .

See, all I really want is to look leggy, slim and hip. It's not that much to ask, really.

But now high-waisted, skinny-leg jeans have mostly taken over as the look of the season and I've not been successful at resisting it.

There's a bit of an art to finding the right jeans style, as most females know (which is why advice is always handy - here and here, for instance). And most of the advice I've come across tells me to stay well away from those jeans which cling to your legs like wet seaweed, zip up all the way to your bellybutton and apparently only look good on Kate Moss.

So when I went into Jeans West yesterday and tried on every single style in store, I was astounded to discover that the ones which fit me best were these Silver Star Slim rock-chick pants.

And the added bonus? They were size 10 (which I think might be a 6 or an 8 in American sizing), whereas I'd had to settle for a 12 in all the others styles.