Hairy, silly, slimy and a little naughty

Back in my days working in a public library, I'd always heard the children's librarian recommend Babette Cole's picture books to parents. At the time of course, I was childless and therefore I never expected such information to hibernate in the back of my mind, only to resurface when TLM was born.

We've just borrowed several of her books recently from the library and - good gods, but Babette Cole is funny. It's partly the irreverent subject matter, partly her hilarious drawings of snot, hairy man-fairies and strangely-shaped heads. TLM is currently getting lots of giggles from The Hairy Book, The Slime Book and The Silly Book (or perhaps she just enjoys imitating the peculiar laugh I affect for her amusement). I think she enjoyed Mummy Never Told Me too, but after the first time we read it together, I'm too scared to show it her again. It has, like, a picture of naked and spindly mummy and daddy in their bedroom, supposedly hoping for some childfree lurve, while the narrator wonder why his parents sometimes lock him out of their room. I can't be sure it's age-appropriate.

I don't know about TLM, but I reckon it's be worth getting all her books out just for my own reading pleasure.

Not-so-subtle signs of widening thighs

I was going to blog about the fact that I've pulled a muscle in my back, and that the last thing I needed was to sit at a day-long meeting trying to look both awake and interested. But, at the end of the day, the most memorable thing about today (apart from the crick in my neck), was noticing that I seem to put eye-popping runs in my pantihose after just one wear.

Actually, I thought I'd never those things again. But those 10-denier bits of dark nylon go so well with my knee-length pleated skirt, so I've pulled out all my old pairs of pantihose from storage (that is, a small plastic shopping bag in the bottom of my blanket box).

At first, I just assumed that the old hose were falling apart because they were old and already worn once or twice. Now I'm wondering whether I've literally outgrown them. Maybe my thighs are just too damned big for those things, and thats why I hear that quiet ripping sound whenever I crouch or bend my legs. Maybe I should stick to thick tights.

Maybe I should secretly buy the "Tall" size pantihose.

She messes with my head

I'm loving being in the paid workforce again - being all grown-up around grown-up things, having the time and space to drink my coffee and eat my lunch, having a lunch hour when I want one - in fact, maybe I'm enjoying it just a little too much.

TLM often gives me a hard time in the morning; she'll see me in my work clothes and say "Mummy not go to work" with a little sob in her voice. When the babysitter arrives TLM will throw herself at me and determinedly ignore her. She'll even plead to accompany me to work. Then at the end of my day I'll rush home so we can be reunited as soon as possible, only to be ignored by this very same child who is now far too busy playing with her babysitter.

I think that when they get to this age, they learn the art of manipulation.

My life in my diary

It wasn't until around 6pm last night that I realised I must've left my diary behind, when we left the fundraising meeting that morning. And for about 2 hours, my worry-cells jumped and plumped up to bursting.

You see, my diary is my short-term memory. Without it, I don't know when or where my next appointment is, what hours I've worked (and therefore, what hours I'll get paid for), the phone numbers of various useful people or any of the information I jotted down last time I visited my accountant. Without it, I am a frazzled thing.

I was absolutely itching to call the woman whose house it was at, but I didn't wish to break the unwritten rule about never calling a parent during the jungle hour, nor during the time they'd normally put their kids to bed. So I waited until 7.30pm.

And the diary wasn't there.

Then I thought to have another look in the car, because I'd brought along so much stuff to the meeting (bits of paper with fundraising info on it, my diary, the nappy bag, TLM, TLM's snack box, TLM's potty, our respective jackets, my glasses, my sunglasses...) and it was fairly likely that I'd left something around by the front seat.

And there it was, snuck away under the front seat where I couldn't see it but could feel it if I stuck my arm right underneath. Oh, the relief! Oh the embarrassment! Oh the restlessness resulting from getting overly stressed over losing my "memory"!

The McDonalds influence

I reckon there must be half a dozen cans of shoe polish and suede protector in this house, and they would all have been side-purchases , along with shoes or boots. It's like, every time you buy shoes from a non-discount shop (or maybe even those ones too), the sales assistant says something along the lines of "and would you like some shoe polish/leather conditioner/suede protector with that?". And I always fall for it, even if it's 10 bucks a can and ends up filling a forgotten corner of an out-of-reach shelf in the spare room.

I wonder how much of that stuff would get sold if it wasn't always pushed as the only thing to keep your precious shoes from looking less-than brand new.

Personally, it would be healthier on my wallet if they just offered a small bag of fries.

A blog date

Until today I was just about the only blogger in the world (it seems) who hadn't had a face-to-face meeting with a fellow blogger whom I didn't already know pre-blog.

It wasn't for lack of the desire to - well, perhaps it was...I mean, I'm not actually averse to meeting someone whom I know only through their regular on-line brain dumps. I know that some bloggers make quite an effort to meet such people; in my case, it would help if most of you didn't actually live in a whole other continent.

And that's why my blog date today with Make Tea Not War and Satsumasalad is, to me, a bloggable topic. It was my first blog date. To be exact, I already knew the former, but the latter was a total blind date.

Once upon a time (and a long, looong time ago), there was a workmate I knew only via the phone. We had lots of witty conversations and I looked forward to meeting him in person at the work Christmas do. In the flesh, he fell so far short of my expectations that I had to force myself to keep talking to him (sadly, we never got witty together again - gawd, I'm shallow!).

Well, it wasn't like that at lunch today. Satsumasalad was, in person, kinda like how she sounds in her blog, but with extra bits...that is, there's more to her than her blog tells. Which is, I suppose, true for all of us. We're more than the sum of our blog posts.

Early toilet humour

The Little Madam currently finds poos and wees incredibly funny. It's not the poos and wees in themselves that make her laugh, more the words. Like, she'll use either word to describe just about anything and everything, and then giggle uncontrollably.

I found it amusing the first dozen times, but now I just roll my eyes and wish I hadn't inadvertantly encouraged TLM to use "poo" as a universal adjective. We adults may think it pretty tiresome, but she sure hasn't gotten tired of it yet.

I'm quite certain that this is just one of those things that all young children go through. But I never realised it would start so damned young.

TLC

My cold has gone on for a week now, and the boy has been suffering from his for even longer. TLM has already had her cold - she seems to only get bugs for just long enough to infect the parents, and then she's right as rain again. Typical.

The boy has been really looking after me - cooking most nights and doing the dinner dishes, encouraging me to put my feet up once TLM's in bed, bringing me fresh boxes of tissues, and refraining from playing his Farscape DVD's while I'm about. And all of this while he's still nursing his sniffles and coughs.

I reckon that echinachea he's been taking, must be turning him into a Stepford husband. But don't tell him I told you.

So...I don't have to be young and beautiful to become famous...

Making it in the arts is hard, apparently. Whether it's writing, singing or slicing animals very thinly and putting them between glass panels - it's the kind of field in which looks and connections are at least as useful as talent.

So how the hell did Wing do it? Her singing is even worse than mine, she's certainly not as pretty as I am (which isn't saying much, I know), and as far as I know she isn't hooked up with a soccer superstar. Some say it's her passion that wins her fans. Others say her fans mistakenly believe she is intentionally satirising pop diva-dom.

Well, if all it takes is the willingness to be laughed at, would I be happy with all the fame and adulation?

Maybe, but only if there was money in it.

Slow cooking

I reckon I'll get myself a slow cooker/crockpot. The idea of chucking a few ingredients into the pot in the morning and having a cooked meal by the time I return home, really appeals to me. There is the danger though, of ending up with a nightly stew that tastes the same regardless of what goes in, like the stew we used to make in the billy back in my tramping (hiking) days. But I'll arm myself with some recipes from the Internet and the library, and perhaps a truckload of Maggi Cook-in-the-pot sachets as well.

Because we are having way too many ready meals at the moment.

Mothers Day weekend - against all odds

When I saw that we were rostered on for weekend cleaning of TLM's daycare, I thought it was just typical of my luck. Then when the boy came down with a cold and TLM followed with a strain of her own, I wasn't surprised that I spent most of Friday afternoon blowing my nose on work toilet paper.

But this weekend has turned out okay after all, so far. The colds seem to be abating, and my sniffles have gone too. I'm starting to wonder whether I was merely the victim of my workmate's cats' fur, which has probably been clinging to his clothes all this time.

I shopped for a gift for my hard-to-please mother, and found a jaunty winter cap for myself. I did find a more conservatively styled hat for my mum too, but won't be too put out if she rejects it. The weekend cleaning didn't take all that long, which was a relief. And though we didn't go out for Mothers Day brunch as I'd hoped, he and TLM bought in some yummy gourmet soup with crusty sourdough bread for lunch at home.

This afternoon we'll go visit my mum and she'll have the chance to tell me how much she hates my present. And then I'll just give her a twenty dollar bill instead.

...and that's why I feel ready to go to bed at 7pm tonight

I don't know why - it's something that's only started affecting me in the last couple of years - but when it's that time of the month I start feeling unwell. Most of the time I get these oppressive headaches that make me feel like a block of polystyrene in a woodworking vice, and most of the time I have terrible nights' sleep. This month, I've had sore, itchy eyes and hayfeverish sniffles (as well as the insomnia).

So I couldn't blame it on the boy, who has a cold and his nocturnal nose-blowing seems as high-decibel as a jet plane taking off behind the house.

Another thing that disturbed my sleep was this strange, deep buzzing noise that turned out to be my mobile phone mutedly telling me I had a call. By the time I realised it was my phone and not the boy's, it was nearly time to get out of bed anyway. It was our babysitter calling in sick.

To cut a longish story shortish, I stressed, worried and bit my nails. Then I called in my emergency person - my sister-out-law. She had to rearrange her day's plans, but was able to take TLM for the day. They even had to wonderful time together, from what I'd heard.

But I was a few fizzes short of effervescence by the time I got to work. And after almost two weeks of staring at computer moniters for hours on end, I've come to the conclusion that not only do I need to wear my spectacles all the time - I'm probably gonna need some thicker lenses.

Wondering about naughty canine costumes

Naughty Pagan vents about an advertised "Princess Leia slave costume" for dogs. He reckons it's a bit dodgy, and wonders whether the kind of people who'd buy such a thing are the dodgy types who'd turn a pet into some perverted sex object (ugh!). I've had a look at the picture, and can't imagine that getting anyone hot and sweaty. But then, I've had a fairly sheltered upbringing.

It did make me wonder whether a dodgy doggy person might be able to find other kinds of pervy dress-ups for dogs - naughty nurse and French maid costumes come to mind. So, I had a quick Google.

I didn't come across any Naughty Nurse dress-ups, but there is this Wonder Woman outfit, this harem dog outfit, a cheerleader outfit, and yes, a French maid outfit!
While I generally have a live-and-let-live philosophy, I really hope that anyone who dresses up their pet, only does it because they think it's cute. But not sexy (bad human! Bad!).

The Golden Compass - it ain't so bad

After hearing through the grapevine that The Golden Compass was a poor filmic rendering of Philip Pullman's wonderful fantasy trilogy, I'd assumed that we wouldn't bother watching it. But the boy has this habit of wanting to watch movie versions of certain novels even if they're supposed to be bad. So I wasn't terribly surprised when he brought home The Golden Compass on DVD. But I was surprised that I liked it as much as I did.

The books were criticised by many sensitive Christian folk for it's anti-Church theme. Fair enough, because it's true. But I don't see the point of taking away that emphasis in the film. Everyone who's read the books is likely to be disappointed that the film version is goes "lite". Anyone who hasn't read the books will probably still enjoy it, but probably most of the latter avoided the books because they'd heard it was anti-Christian - in which case, they wouldn't bother to see the movie either.

Apart from the removal of all references to the word "Church", the movie pretty much follows the first book (which in NZ is called "Northern Lights"), except for the end. The book ending would have been a real downer if they'd put it in the movie. But I do hope that the event in the book ending i.e. what happens to Lyra's friend Roger, is included in the next film. Because that bit is reveals so much about Lord Asriel's true nature.

The armoured bears are well realised, as are the land- and cityscapes of Lyra's world. The girl who plays Lyra, I found a believable and likeably rascally heroine. I triumphantly recognised the witch queen as played by Eva Green from Casino Royale, but the boy found it weird to hear Gandalf's voice coming out of the armoured bear's mouth. The role of Mrs Coulter though, seems tailor-made for the likes of ice-queen Nicole Kidman.

Without her mummy

It's been a whole week of spending hardly any time with TLM. While I'm at work, I don't miss her, exactly. But having said that, it's hard to have a casual conversation at work without some TLM-related topic coming up.

I think she's been missing me though. After the novelty of having someone new to play with wore off, TLM has voiced her disappointment at my absence. She has refused to spend time at the library with her babysitter, and clung to me a little when she shows up in the morning. But she's having to get used to it though, because I've been sick all weekend and she's had to hang out with her dad the whole time. And tomorrow I'm back at work again.

A wee ditty I wrote on Friday night

Grandma’s deaf
My grandma is so deaf, I can say naughty words and she won’t tell me off.
My grandma is so deaf that sometimes when we burn the toast and set off the smoke alarm, she asks what that buzzing noise is and whether the smelly toast is attracting flies.
My grandma is so deaf she doesn’t care if I play my favourite CD really, really loud.
My grandma is so deaf that if I fell off the trampoline and cried and cried, no-one would come to help me until mum got home from work.
My grandma is so deaf, I have to pretend I’m a lion and shout right into her ear in a deep voice, or she won’t know it’s time to turn on the telly and watch the news.
My grandma is so deaf that she thinks no-one will talk to her.
My grandma is so deaf that if I want to tell her I love her, it’s easier to just give her cuddles and smiles instead.

My grandson is so gullible that he doesn’t realize I’m only pretending to be deaf, so I’ll get lots of cuddles from him.

clueless newbie

The office administrator emailed me today, reminding me to send in my invoice. Argh! But I haven't registered for GST (goods and services tax) yet! I haven't got a tax agent/accountant yet! I don't know how to prepare an invoice yet! She took pity on me and explained what I needed to do in order to get for the 2 days I worked last month, and told me to get my arse into gear and get some financial advice.

I guess I'll do that this coming week, 'cos I don't want to be clueless for too long.

the lonesome contractor

The thing I missed about having a job, apart from the money, was the social aspect - the banter, the coffee breaks, the Friday late-afternoon drinks. And now that I'm back in paid employment, I still miss those things.

Because I'm a contractor who charges by the hour, I can't take breaks unless I'm prepared to omit the time from my invoice. During the quiet times, the permies are standing around making idle conversation while I'm intent on doing something billable. Because I've got a young child to go home to (and possibly also because I'm just over Friday drinkies), I'm unlikely to attend my employer's monthly (and paid for) drinks.

I've no doubt that there will eventually be work buddies. But until then I feel a bit like a Nigel No-Mates, eating my lunch in the lounge with a book on my lap and no one to joke with. Thanks goodness I have a life.

bad eggs

For a long time now, I've been avoiding serving TLM eggs, because the boy and I both have egg allergies. But she seems okay with cakes and other things that have small amounts of egg, so in the last month or so we've been baking together, with eggs. The idea was to allow TLM to receive the extra nutrients in egg, which she isn't getting from cheese and meat (which she hardly eats).

Unfortunately for me, it's impossible to bake goodies and not eat them.
It's just as well my allergy isn't life-threatening.

First day at work

Frankly, I was less worried about my work performance, than I was about how TLM would find spending a whole day without her mummy. But I needn't have worried, because when I returned home after a full day's induction (getting a scant 15 minute break to gobble down my lunch) she was having a terrific time with her new best friend (the babysitter). She even napped!

So far, so good. Tomorrow, I take her to daycare for the morning and she'll be picked up by the babysitter for the afternoon. There's a chance TLM will protest tomorrow, now that she's aware of how long I'll be away. Or maybe she won't.

Eureka - more amusing than brainy

We've been watching Eureka on DVD. Eureka is a small town which is populated by scientific geniuses, all of whom are employed by - or related to someone employed by - a secret government organisation. A norma-IQ US marshall, Jack Carter, stumbles upon the town and saves the populace, and the world, from the various mishaps that arise from dangerous scientific experiments.

So far I've only seen the pilot and a couple of other episodes, but here's my opinion anyway.

It's a fun show full of likeable characters, but I wouldn't say it was ground-breakingly intelligent or transgressive: I've only seen one woman scientist (and none of the women characters are less than stunning, which I can't say about the male characters) and I'm annoyed by how these supposedly highly specialised scientists seem able to turn their hand to anything. The latter doesn't remind me of Renaissance polymaths like Leonardo da Vinci, rather The Professor in that old tv show Gilligan's Island.

I wondered whether the writers are getting their ideas from another tv series, Heroes. In one early episode of Eureka there was a time-freeze effect which allowed the bad guy to get away - very reminiscent of Hiro whatisface who could bend space and time. Then, it turned out that Eureka's bad guy wasn't freezing time, but in fact destroying people's short term memory - which is what the Nigerian dude was doing in Heroes.

Another thing is that the hero of Eureka is a relatively dumb, but intuitive, cop, saving the hyper-intelligent locals from themselves. I may be taking this the wrong way, but isn't the show glorifying dumbness at the expense of intelligence and higher education?

25 hours, give or take

I was a bit annoyed yesterday, when I went into the office to meet the people I'll be directly reporting to. I'd been told I'd be working 25 hours per week, and had duly organised childcare for those hours. But now it seems that I'll be needed (and paid for) for only 20 hours per week, occassionally going up to 24 hours per week during the month-end panic.

If I'd been told this a couple of weeks ago, I'd have been estatic - I'm all for 5 hour days. But having promised my young and enthusiastic - and probably poor - nanny a set number of hours, I'm loathe to renege and take away several hours of pay from her each week. But if I don't, then I'll be paying for childcare that I don't need.

One option is to just cut the nanny's hours anyway, to the bare minimum. But then she might get pissed off and burgle our house.

Another option is to keep those extra hours of childcare and use them as child-free leisure time. But oh, the guilt!

A third option is to explain the situation to the nanny, shorten her hours but keep her fortnightly pay the same, and ask her to make up the unworked time by babysitting for the boy and I while we go out in the evening. This would mean that the boy and I would have to get off our arses and actually organise evenings out; plus, it'd mean a big increase in our entertainment outgoings.

On the plus side, once TLM turns 3 in August I'll get my 20 hours of free childcare and paying for a few unnecessary nanny hours won't seem quite so extravagant. There's also the chance that I'll be so wonderful and efficient in my new job that they'll give me more to do and increase my hours as appropriate.

Hey, thanks for listening. I think I know what I'll do now.

Rest time is the best time

As you know, TLM's daytime naps are on the way out. Unless she's poorly, most days she goes willingly to her bed with a couple of books, only to spend the next 30 minutes or so singing, talking and making experimental noises. Then I get her out of bed and she's fine right up until bedtime (a comfortingly early 6.30pm).

But on the few occasions that I've assumed no nap would be forthcoming, and simply kept her up past naptime, TLM is a big grumpy cranky-pants by late afternoon. It can only mean that a simple half hour of entertaining herself whilst cosily horizontal, makes all the difference to her refreshment levels.

It's just a bit off-putting when I'm trying to write an intelligent blog-post, with all that oinking and screeching wafting through the air.

I just never learn...

I should have learned by now, that allowing unrestricted access to kiwifruit, to a child who hasn't quite got her bowels under control, is not the wisest of choices.

But, by the gods, I'll make sure to keep those hairy little poo-looseners under strict ration from now on.

On being a kept woman

At the risk of getting into trouble with the boy, I'm going to post this mini-rant about why it'll be a good thing for me to start earning money again.

Even though he has never actually refused to hand over money to me, I can always perceive a reluctance to do so. It makes me feel as though I'm asking him to pay for designer shoes, cosmetic surgery and spouse-less trips to Paris. Well, I'm not; it's all for Bills (apart from the recent work-clothes splurge, which I think of as more of an investment in my career).

Even though most of my pay will go towards childcare, I can safely predict that most of what's left will go towards the dreaded Bills. And then I can cut back on the asking-for-money process, which always leaves me a bit tense.

It also means I can syphon a bit off into a separate savings account, in case I need to buy another pair of shoes in future.

Out of the mouth of TLM

"I know an old woman who swallowed a fly.
I don't know why she swallowed a fly.
Perhaps she'll die."

Her screams woke me up at 1.30am. I went in, hoping she hadn't had a nightmare (the last time that happened, we were up for hours trying to resettle her). TLM pointed to a dark patch, next to her head on the mattress, saying "I die, I die" in a shaky voice. So I told her she wasn't dying; she'd just vomited.

Now, we've not been discussing the concept of death with TLM - I don't know when I will, either. But we have been reading together a beautifully illustrated book of the rhyme above. I can only assume she'd been dreaming of the old lady who, by the last page, has kicked the bucket due to ridiculously inappropriate ingestion.

TLM went on to wake up in puddles of vomit until 4am (which is how our laundry hamper went from empty to chockful overnight). But at least she no longer thought she was going to die.

The appeal of a man in uniform

All over town today, men are standing on street corners collecting donations in the name of ANZAC Day. Many of them are senior citizens who've no doubt done their respective tours of duty in one war or another. You've got to admire them for being willing to stand around for hours, when having a few beers at the RSA club instead would be a lot kinder on their bodies.

But I noticed that some collectors were far from old; they were young men, fighting fit and easy on the eye. And better still, they were in uniform. Mmm...

I'm not saying that I'd give a coin to the handsome guy in the Navy suit, but not to the old codger down the street. What I am saying is that sex sells, even when it comes to charity. (And those Greenpeace membership marketers know it!)

I've done it

I sent a story in to the NZ School Journal - not the Rice story, but my second one. Apparently I won't hear from them for several months, but it's quite nice to have got past the point of no return on this one.

Bottom chef

Top Chef is one of only two reality tv shows that I love (the other being Project Runway). There's no way I would want to be a top chef. But it would be nice to be able to whip up a nice meal or munchable batch of cupcakes now and then.

Lately I've been doing the baking thing with TLM, and I know she just loves to stand on a chair and break eggs or stir muffin batter until it's all over the floor. Unfortunately, we haven't managed to produce many items that she will actually eat - the pikelets were a bland, shapeless mess; the bran and banana muffins turned out fine, but TLM won't eat them (not enough chocolate chips, I'm guessing); and the cheese muffins were a hit only until the third bite.

The only things we've made - with or without TLM's assistance - which I'd call a success, have been 1) gingerbread and 2) muesli bars. At the very least, this means she won't have to live off raisins and crackers at daycare.

There are only two reasons I persist in this wannabe-Nigella thing. One is the idea that homemade versions are more healthy than the factory-made ones. The other is that it's messy fun with potential for yumminess.

This head is occupied

Quite possibly, the only thing that could clear my head effectively would be a gym workout, or a 2-hour life drawing class. Because at the moment my head is full of the kind of stuff that I've already blogged about to the point of boring you to death, and yet it's still there, in my head, not allowing anything interesting to come to the fore.

Preoccupied, that's what I am.

I should be editing my children's stories, especially since I've had some useful feedback. Or I could be doing our household budget (though, to be honest, I would probably only do that if our lives depended on it). Or I could be taking up the hems on those work trousers I bought, which will otherwise languish on my hanger until they are no longer in fashion (or too tight).

Perhaps I should take a long walk, but I walked home from town this morning and ended up dwelling on the same old stuff again (will I be any good at my new job? will I look like an idiot in those cuban heel-ed shoes? will TLM be miserable with her new childcare arrangement? will I be too tired for sex (well, more so than now, anyway)?).

What do you do to clear your head to shake out those unproductive thoughts?

Togeddah!

TLM is currently very fond of the concept of doing things together. Perhaps it's a social developmental thing. She'd rather go on the trampoline with her two cousins ("togeddah!"), than by herself - even if it's safer when it's less crowded. She'd rather go shopping with both parents ("togeddah!"), than with just myself or the boy. And, it seems, she'd rather express emotions in a group situation too.

Take this morning, when TLM was watching Thomas and Friends on my lap while I discreetly read the Sunday paper. She turned her head, frowned in that way which is so cute on a 2 1/2 year old, and said "TLM cross". My first inclination was to ask her what she was cross about. But instead I said, "Are you cross? Would you like Mummy to be cross too? Then we can be cross together". Then I put on my Zoolander frown. She cracked up, and that was the end of the crossness.

A personal paradigm shift

Up until last Tuesday, I've been assuming that I wouldn't be able to afford a nanny to look after TLM while I work. I'd been ringing around childcare centres, visiting them, getting on waiting lists and, eventually, making regular visits to one in particular.

But now I'll be working and earning as a self-employed contractor, and therefore earning way bigger bucks than I would as a permie. And now it appears that I can afford a mid-range nanny to cover all of my working hours.

Oh, the luxury! No worrying that 7-hour days in a busy childcare centre will tire out my little madam; no rushing in the morning to get TLM out the door with a snackbox full of cheesy crackers; no needing to stay at home if she gets a snotty nose. There's always the chance, of course, of the nanny getting sick and needing a day off work.

My take home pay would be shrivelled, just enough to keep me in cafe-bought lunches and the occasional haircut. Whereas, if I continue with the childcare centre plan, I'd be able to match the boy's own spending habits and pay off our credit card. The third option is to split it two ways - 2 days home with the nanny and 2 days at the centre (or a combination of mornings and afternoons).

What'll be - the money or the nanny?

Jetlag without the travel

I'm still trying to get used to non-Daylight Saving time (nDSt) i.e. going to bed an hour later than I was whilst getting up around the same time in the morning as before. It's making me very tired. I'd intended to simply have earlier bedtimes e.g. at 9pm nDSt instead of 10pm. But then, I'd miss out on the second halves of Bones and House.

It's either that, or eye strain - a friend came over to visit this afternoon, and she stopped mid-anecdote to ask if there was anything wrong. Nothing was wrong - TLM was napping, I'd had time to peer at the Internet, the washing was on the line and the sun was still shining. It was my watery, blood-shot my eyes, you see. She thought it was something she'd said. Well, yes it was. It was the fact that I felt more-or-less fine, but evidently looked like shit. But I didn't tell her that, because she's actually a lovely person whose company I enjoy.

I don't blame her. I blame non-Daylight Saving time...or eyestrain.

I jumped with joy...

Today TLM managed to poo in her potty twice, and did not poo anywhere inappropriate all day. She was rewarded with a bowl of ice cream each time. Normally, if the desired poo-thang happens, then it seems to be just a coincidence. This afternoon was the first time that she announced her impending poo and willingly deposited it in the right place.

While there is every likelihood of her backtracking once her routine becomes disrupted (i.e. with the changes in childcare arrangements), this is a major toilet-training milestone for me.

A slight panic

Argh! I have only 20 days to find a nanny to look after TLM, until a space at her new daycare comes up.
A friend sent me the link to a babysitter/nanny website, but for some reason most of the women (because I've not seen even one "manny") are 19 years old. Though it might be nice for TLM to have someone young and energetic looking after her - a nice change from me.

I hope it's not bad luck...

...to tell the world I now have a job, when I don't get to see the contract until Friday.

Verbally, I've been made an offer - I know what my hourly rate will be, how many hours per week I'll be expected to work, and my start date. Verbally, I've expressed joy that I only have to work 25 hours per week, spread out over 4 days. I've also accepted their offer.

But what a bummer it would be if something happened between now and Friday morning, to make a lie of this blog post...

Bye, Summer...

When you don't have young kids, you welcome the end of Daylight Saving Time because it means you get a sleep-in on the first morning after the clocks go back.

When you do have young kids, all it means is that they are suddenly needing to go to bed when it's only about 6pm.

I was intending to keep TLM up till 6.30 tonight (she has been going to bed at 7pm Daylight Saving Time), but she got so stroppily tired that it ended up being a little earlier than that. It'll take a week or more of gently pushing the envelope (so to speak), before she's back to a 6.30-7pm bedtime, I think.

Once I start working, I'll be facing the prospect of rustling her straight into dinner, bath and bed, right after I get her home from daycare - and with no time for parental playtime in between. Summer, I'm missing you already.

Yeah well, THAT was a surprise

You Are Chinese Food

Exotic yet ordinary. People think they've had enough of you, but they're back for more in an hour.

What Kind of Food Are You?

It's not really complimentary, is it?
Thanks, Cesca, for introducing me to another site full of useless yet amusing quizzes.

A wet sausage

I've been busy organising a fundraising sausage sizzle for TLM's childcare, and it's to be held tomorrow. We'd had the date booked for a month (because the site - outside a superstore - is so damned popular). Less than a week ago, the newpapers were predicting that our Indian summer would last at least until May.

Isn't it just my luck that we're suddently in the grip of a cold snap, and the forecast for tomorrow is...rain. Sob.

Next Tuesday

Next Tuesday, I get to see the offer that my would-be employer will be making me.
In the longest ever job-hunt courtship I have ever experienced, I worry that I will sign the contract just to get closure on the darn thing.

Maybe that was their dastardly plan all along.

It's all a bit tarty

TLM has become very enthusiastic about nudity lately.

We have a playdate on the beach, the other kid takes off his long trousers to avoid getting them wet, and - wham! - TLM is taking off her jeans, her underpants and her t-shirt.

It's a hot, sunny afternoon. I put the baby bath outside, fill it up with water and plastic toys and encourage TLM to do "the washing up" - wham! - off come her clothes, and she's not even thinking about getting into the tub.

TLM is bouncing on the trampoline at my mum's house, with her cousins. The up and down movement is helping gravity to pull her jeans down a bit. There's a fair bit of bum-crack. Oh no! TLM does a flip, the jeans and the underpants are suddenly on the other side of the trampoline and she's jumping about almost in the nudey-rudey.

My mum thinks it's a dangerous habit that could lead to a lifetime of looseness.

I just think that Autumn is really not the best time of year to start eschewing clothes.

Should I change my name to "Smith"?

Bleedin' telemarketers.

It's bad enough being asked to partake in a 5-minute survey that actually wastes half an hour of one's life. But I don't like being called up by Chinese-speaking telemarketers trying to flog off cheap international toll call packages between here and Asia.

And I know it's not just people who are listed in the phone book with Chinese surnames; it's also Europeans whose surnames are Young or Lowe or whatever. But at least they can more quickly convince the caller that they're a wrong number.

When I get a caller speaking in Cantonese, I can't automatically tell them to sod off and hang up, because it might be one of my many aunts, uncles and cousins in Hong Kong (not that they ever ring). So I have to wait for them to speak a while, and before I know it I'm hissing into my mouthpiece and wishing my mum had taught me Cantonese swear words.

Well, that's my petty rant. There's not much else to report in this neck of the woods.

Practical dreams

I used to frequently dream that all my teeth had crumbled away. Then I read somewhere that it symbolises a fear of my life getting out of my control. It seemed believable because I am an occasional control freak. Then I found at this site that it might mean I was anxious about my physical appearance (which means about 80% of adult woman probably have this dream), or worshipping the wrong deity.

The boy asserts, however, that all it means is that I was worried about being overdue for a dental check-up. And he's not joking either.

Another dream I've had in the past is one in which I am immobilised and there is a strange man in the room or in my bed. It was pretty damned freaky, almost as scary as the dream in which I was being suffocated (and I was - by my sleep apnoea). The same website says that dreaming of being paralysed means I feel my life is not in my control (snap!).

Or maybe I was simply a victim of alien abduction that night.

I do know for certain that, if I dream about having a wee, then it's pretty certain I need to get out of bed and go to the toilet.

Shouting

It's a situation I find very difficult; my mum is humungously deaf, but refuses to try a hearing aid. She would rather that the rest of us just talk to her more loudly, but gets really offended when she perceives that we're shouting at her. Well, I am anyway - partly because she can't hear me when I don't, partly because having to repeat myself in increasing volume, makes me grumpy.

Oh, if only she weren't so stubbornly negative about the whole idea. She knows people who have hearing aids, you see, and they tell her that they are a waste of money. The audiologist says that hearing aid effectiveness depends on several factors - how much you're willing to spend on one, how motivated you are to make a habit of wearing it, and the unique characteristics of your own hearing problem. Oh, if only my mum had friends who successfully wore their aids, people who weren't too stingy to go for the top models, and who were still on speaking terms with her (my mum seems to fall out with people on the merest of perceived grievances).

Oh, if only I don't become as deaf and as stubborn as that, when I get to 80. Thought I probably will - genetics is as good as fate.

How to spend a small salary

I'm fairly sure that, if and when I start working earning again, there won't actually be that much money in my pocket once childcare is paid for. But I can't help thinking about how I'd like to spend my earnings anyway. I suppose it's a small-scale variation on the If-I-Won-The-Lottery game.

So, assuming I will have net earnings, future spends will be on:

-buying a compost bin (they probably don't cost much, but the boy isn't interested so if we get one it'll be because I paid for it)

- having my will done (I mean, as in "my will and living testament" or however it reads - not some kind of Willow-magic)

- buying shoes that are both stylish and super-comfy. (It may not be possible, but apparently Kumfs come pretty close.)

- and some nice white shirts (I have a problem with white clothes, as they have to be washed separately - but I hate to underload the washing machine. So the only solution is to wear a lot more white)

- spend more time in cafes (probably in the form of half-hour lunch breaks, but time spent in a cafe is time pretending to be a Beautiful Person)

It's a short list, really. But I'm sure I'll be able to add to it once I see some money.

Is a change as good as a holiday? Really?

I've been thinking that going back to work will be good for me. As much as I enjoy hanging out with TLM, being able to sleep in if she does and learning to make muffins just so she'll have a kitchen experience, I reckon I'm probably overdue for something a little more meaty.

Granted, going back to work for 4 full days per week, is a lot more than I was after, but still. I can always negotiate for shorter hours once I'm a firmly established, beloved technical writer employee. And this would most definitely shake me out of my getting-stale daily routine.

As you may have guessed, I'm really just trying to psyche myself into the job (that is, when they actually get around to showing me a contract) - rationalising the situation, as it were.

DVD needs

I think the boy has become heartily sick of watching old X-Files, Buffy and Angel. We've worked our way through Supernatural, The Office (the US version, as he can't bear the UK original - it's too real) and Life on Mars.

So now we have Season Three of Outrageous Fortune (that's the NZ drama, not the Bette Midler comedy).

Our "couple" time has been saved.

Poo/pool

Ever since that awful incident, months and months ago, when TLM accidentally leaked a poo into the kiddies pool, I've been avoiding taking her swimming. At first, I thought I'd simply time our visits so that they always happened after her poo of the day. Then she started pooing at unpredictables times of the day, and sometimes not just once a day. That defeated me.

But our local public pool has just opened up it's new kiddy pool complex. It has fountains, squirt guns, waterfalls and even a squirty see-saw. So I decided to take a chance.

As it turned out, I needn't have worried. If TLM had a poo brewing, she kept it firmly clenched behind deceptively mature buttock muscles.

And she had an excellent time. So good, in fact, that for the first time ever she didn't want to leave the pool after ten minutes. She splashed around in there for so long my fingertips went all wrinkly and resembled miniature pieces of corrugated roofing. Only the promise of hot chips for lunch, could tempt her out of there and back into the changing room.

After a joint swim, I've always been in the habit of getting TLM dressed before getting myself dressed. After this morning, I might reverse that - once she was clothed, TLM was ready to go and explore, and it didn't matter to her that I was still buck-naked. Those door handles are placed far too low, eh?

A play in the park, a swim in a squirty kiddy pool, hot chips and a fluffy in the cafe - these are the ingredients for a delectably long afternoon nap. TLM even had one, too.

Eggless at Easter

We have no Easter eggs in the house - not a single one.

I don't know what schoolkids do nowadays, what with the drive to be both culturally sensitive and secular, but when I was school we made our own Easter eggs. They were, of course, made from hens eggs, not chocolate. We'd bring in a hardboiled egg from home, draw patterns on it and throw it into a bowl of dye. Then we'd retrieve the our egg, now cracked and internally covered in a web of coloured lines, and avoid eating it all day. By the time we got home to show if off to our respective parents, it'd be a sulfur bomb.

These days, of course, they're chocolate. Egg-shaped Easter confectionary is so ubiquitous that it's association with Easter is indelible. Yet, it's like the Baby Santa's Music Box DVD being full of images of penguins and polar bears rolicking in snow and ice.

Do staunch Christians avoid the egg theme, in protest at it's obvious origins as part of a fertility festival? Or do they buy the oval chocolates and think of it as reward for observing Lent?

But that's not why we don't have any Easter eggs - we're just trying to limit TLM's exposure to chocolate. Umm...plus I'm allergic to eggs, and anyway we aren't believers.

Is this why they call it the arsenic hour?

It seems, these days, that every time the boy gets home from work he is greeted by a naughty child and her tense mother (i.e. TLM and me). I worry that he must think the two of us spend all day getting grumpy with each other. That usually isn't the case though - the mornings are usually great fun; then TLM refuses to nap, so that neither of us get time out; then TLM gets over-tired and naughty; I get pissed off and wish I could still hold my liquor.

Take today, for instance. We had a great morning over at a friend's house, playing with her two boys and eating gourmet hot cross buns. Then TLM spent an hour of naptime calling for me and banging on her cot wall, while I lay on the couch with my eyes shut. The rest of the afternoon I was busy scraping poo off her undies (twice) and replacing the couch cover that she weed on. (While she didn't manage to foretell a need for the potty, she was sly enough to cover the puddle with a cushion, and go sit on the other couch).

Then the boy came home full of cheer and affection; the li'l girl lapped it up, but I had a headache.

Happy Easter (if that's appropriate. Maybe I ought to be offering commiserations for Friday and Happy Resurrection on Sunday).

The next fascinating instalment in the story of my search for gainful employment

I had another interview with the family-friendly prospective employer this morning, this time with one of their relationship managers. It's not often I'm asked to be seen three times by the same people, so it was a struggle trying to cobble together an appropriate outfit that they haven't already seen me in. I'm already sick of the colour of my lipstick.

This time though, I remembered to use deodorant before I left the house. That's a plus.

We had a lovely old chat. What a pity she wasn't able to tell me anything really useful about the job.

But it wasn't all for nothing, because apparently the two of them got together afterwards and decided I was a real catch. I might even have an actual employment contract in my sweaty little palms, by Easter.

Though, to be cynically honest, I wouldn't be surprised if I don't hear from them till April, judging by recent experience. But I'm also a little relieved that today didn't turn out to be sign-on-the-dotted-line day. Just trying to imagine what it's going to be like, missing TLM all day, I can understand why the boy is always reluctant to leave for work in the morning.

2 angsts for the price of one

Are they going to ask me back for that third and (hopefully) final interview, or what? Will they offer me the job? And, now that my once-exciting idea of working 20 hrs/wk has morphed into a monstrous 4 x 8hr days/wk (supply and demand, folks. Supply and demand) will I still want it?

The medium-term childcare situation is looking good - TLM has a confirmed space at a place which is yet to be built (but it's only 2 part-days per week), and another at a place which can offer 4 full days from mid-June. But TLM would be in care for 10 hours a day, and that's a long day to be in the company of 20 or more other screaming kids (isn't it? Or do kids actually like it?)

And - assuming I do get the job - I still don't have an answer for short-term childcare (because TLM is at a mornings-only place).

And anyway, why am I losing sleep over childcare cover, when instead I can lose sleep over whether I'll get the job and whether I even want to be working those hours? Wait, I already am - over all of these things.

Really very quite contrary, How did your job interview go?

Well, it went fine.
There were a couple of last-minute pre-interview stressors though:

- first, my mum rang up 90 minutes before the appointment, to say that my brother had forgotten to get her day's medication sorted out before he left for work - could I please go over there and do it before she collapses from hunger? I did that and, fortunately, even managed to leave her house quickly - before TLM got too insistent with her need to jump on the trampoline in her back yard. And I was back in time to change, put on my interview face (i.e. with makeup) and catch a bus into town.

- then, I realised after I got into town, that my skin was flaking and my makeup was caking, and I had nothing with me to fix it. The last thing I wanted was to go into a job interview with flaky, cakey skin on my top lip. I was extremely grateful for the pharmacy attendant who gave me free samples of makeup remover, foundation, tissues and the use of a mirror, so I could fix my beauty emergency.

But the interview itself was fine, just...incomplete. I had to do a little exercise to show the manager how well I write instructions. After fifteen minutes, I had over a page of scrawly writing, telling an anonymous (and ignorant, yet literate) person how to brew a pot of tea.

The thing is, I still don't know whether they want to hire me. I have to go back a third time, to meet with one of her colleagues, who will ascertain whether I'm right for one of their documentation teams.

Selling points

I've been trying to sell a few things on TradeMe recently, and I'm fairly disappointed that the potential buyers aren't willing to pay much for them.

For instance, we've got a MacLaren baby rocker listed, and it's taken a week to get the bids up to just 1/4 of what we paid for it new (it's still in really good nick).

Same for the two breastfeeding tops I listed. Also, the red one is getting bids but the black one isn't. I can only assume it's because the former has never been worn, whereas the latter has. Perhaps I should have added in the description, that it's because the red one made me look fat but the black one hid all the fat rolls.

Or maybe I should have pretended that the tops were worn by some famous All Black at a cross-dressing away game, and that the baby rocker was almost bought for Suri Cruise. That sort of thing seems to bring in the money.

I'm on a roll

1. I have an interview with the tech writing folks on Monday - a real one, not just a meet'n'greet.
2. The boy is taking Monday off to get his car serviced, so I have no childcare worries for the day.
3. My 7-year-old nephew has read my Rice story and likes it.
   
4. My sister-out-law offered to pass the story on to a teacher friend, to have it previewed by a group of 8-year-old readers.
5. Just for once, I saw TLM scamper toward the toilet shouting "I need a wee" - completely on her own initiative - and she hadn't even had a warning mini-accident beforehand.
   

The beginning of the end of naps

The day before yesterday, TLM spent her whole naptime singing and otherwise making damned sure I could tell she wasn't sleeping.

Today, TLM stayed awake throughout naptime by complaining that she couldn't find one of the fluffy socks that she wore on her hands (her choice, not mine). I went in twice, found the missing sock each time, and hoped she'd go to sleep at last.

I wouldn't mind TLM skipping out on naps, if she wasn't a total grump without them. I'd just put her to bed an hour early (that'd be, oh...6pm) and enjoy extra couple time with the boy.

But the grumpy afternoons make me tear my hair out; no matter how much fun the morning was, I'd be worn down and tired out by 5pm. I'd be hanging out for the boy's return home from work.

I suppose you can't stop progress though, eh?

New look

Hey, look! I've changed my blog template! And there's a big, fat photo of TLM in the header! Wow!

Fairground attractions

It was a pretty busy day for TLM yesterday.

First of all, the boy took her to the zoo, where they were celebrating Children's Day. So in addition to hanging out with the lions, baboons and meerkats, TLM experienced her first (free) lollipop. The boy said that, once she put it in her mouth, she was so quiet he almost forgot she was sitting on his shoulders.

Apparently she also partook of the bouncy castle delights, but felt a bit claustrophobic at the huge number of children she had to share the place with.

In the afternoon, I took TLM down to the community fair. There was live music, stalls selling stuff that looks fun but breaks the minute you get it home, food stalls, and even a fire fighter demonstration of how not to put out a cooking fire.

But the real reason I wanted TLM to visit the fair, was to get her a ride on the merry-go-round. Only, she got bored with it after the first couple of revolutions - probably because the horses didn't go up and down, only round and round. She also had a go at one of those rip-off sideshow games, the ones that display oversized soft toy prizes, even though you can guarantee you'll only win a crappy 50c plastic toy.

I think she had fun.

External approval

I hate to admit it, but I rely on other people's approval more that your average mature-aged person. Without it, I don't know whether what I do is any good - whether it's writing a story, raising a child or working at a job.

Yesterday, the editter dropped by for a rare visit, and she was very encouraging about my plans to write a Chinese story for the School Journal. And because of that, I have enough confidence to go ahead with "Rice Goes With Everything".

Some things would be so much easier, if I had self-confidence.

Degrees of sickness

TLM is in the midst of her second cold in two weeks. She woke up an hour early this morning with her face covered in snot, and protested loudly when I tried to get her back into bed. So there were three cranky people in the house this morning.

Too sick to go to her daycare, but not too sick to have a jolly good time at the park. I can either be glad that she's only got a cold, and can at least be distracted by play; or I can be grumpy because I've missed out on my childfree morning and TLM doesn't even seem all that poorly.

But I have to admit that I didn't have too bad a time. She took great joy in rushing around the playground, and asked to do her poo in a nappy (instead of just letting it drop into her knickers - and for this I felt unreasonably grateful).

And she looked damned cute with her hair up in pony tails.

Quick food meme

Angela has tagged me for this one.

Rules:
1. Link to your tagger and post these rules.
2. Share 5 facts about yourself.
3. Tag 5 people at the end of your post and list their names (linking to them)
4. Let them know they've been tagged by leaving a comment at their blogs.

1. I am allergic to chicken, eggs, the moulds in blue cheeses, and carrots. I really miss roast chicken and toast dipped in poached egg yolk (not all at the same time).

2. I don't cook well, which surprises people who know my mum but don't know me well, because my mum is famous for her fabulous cooking, in the Chinese community.

3. Some things just smell better than they taste. This is why I stopped bothering with fruity teas and pizza (again, not at the same time).

4. Eating an apple actually makes me hungrier. So I tend to only eat them just before a meal.

5. I don't get why people feel that cooked rice grains should be separated. What's wrong with rice that sticks together a bit?

I tag:
1. the lovely Nigel Patel at Handmade Luck,
2. Daddy L, who makes fun of his wee son in The Jasper Chronicles,
3. the intellectually impressive Make Tea Not War,
4. Satsumasalad/cathi, who tells it like it is via The View From My Window,
5. and the ever-clever Elizaf , from whom I hope to one day get an IT job if we ever have to relocate to London.

Geekdom beckons

I've decided to look for work as a test analyst (as well as look for technical writing work, that is). For those of you unfamiliar with the IT industry, these are the people who test new software before it goes "live". It's always been thought of as extremely boring (which explains why it's so well-paid). But a lot of test analysts get to do technical writing work and the latter is what I'm after. So I'm going to give it a go.

At the very least, I'd be able to earn enough money to pay for the nanny that I'd have to hire, to entertain TLM until she gets into another daycare (one that is open all day).

But if I do this, I'll end up very close to where I started - miserably writing computer programs for a large,greedy corporation. I don't know how I'll feel working again with the kind of people whose idea of heaven is a room full of computer parts, peripherals, cables, modems and little flashing lights.

I am Samuel Taylor Coleridge

What British Romantic Poet are You? Your Result: You are Samuel Coleridge!   Lay off the happy juice! Coleridge championed the transforming power of the imagination and believed that literature was a magical blend of thought and emotion.
You are John Keats!
You are Percy Shelley!
You are William Blake!
You are George Gordon, Lord Byron!
You are William Wordsworth!
What British Romantic Poet are You? Create MySpace Quizzes

Umm...here's one I prepared earlier -

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree :
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery
...

(from Poetry Archives)

I found the link at What She Said, which I just happened upon at 1 in the morning.

Chinese kids' stories

My sister-out-law sent me a link about writing for the New Zealand School Journal. Apparently they are on the look-out for kid's stories set in New Zealand's Chinese community. So I've been thinking about whether I have any stories to tell and sell. Of course, they'd be based on my own experiences, but told from a child's point of view.

So far I've come up with these possible titles:

The day I nearly died of boredom at the supermarket with Poh-Poh

The cute girl gets the most lucky money at Chinese New Year (based on TLM)

Nudey-Rudey at Poh-Poh's place (or, how to horrify your grandmother by undressing in front of her)

Rice goes with everything

The boy who loved his mum so much he ate EVERYTHING! (this would be a warm-fuzzy story)

Mother knows best. Or else.

It's not what you do, it's how much money you make

My new puppy and how we cooked it

Do you think I should get me an agent?

Funny food names

One of my favourite sweet treats is a doughnut-shaped, cream-filled chocolate eclair. But I can't say the name of it without guffawing. It's called a dutch ring. (But I couldn't find a reference to this on Google, so maybe it's a local thing.) Is it just me, or does it sound like a sex aid or method of contraception?

Other food names that raise chuckles:

- You probably already know of the the steamed suet pudding, with currants in it, the infamous spotted dick.

- According to the boy, many Kiwis cannot say "kumquat" without snorting into their teacups.

- I also remember coming across Bimbo bread when I was in Italy. I guess you'd have to be a bit of a bimbo to buy the packaged stuff when you could get wonderful warm, crusty loaves at any panificio.

- A few years ago, my flatmate had a bottle of Fighting Cock whisky. I could not possibly drink any of it. I don't think even he did.

I bet you folks can think of several more funny or rude food words.

the job hunter's progress

Since I first posted about my possible job interview, I've:

1. been offered a 1-month assignment at the place I used to work;
2. had my tech writing job interview postponed;
3. had to turn down the 1-month assignment, because I really wanted the tech writing job; and
4. done the interview, which turned out to be a meet'n'greet interview only

I'll know in a couple of days whether they want me to do a second, full-on panel interview. Hopefully by then they'll have read my CV properly and won't ask any more questions that are already answered in it.

So anyway, it's just as well that I went out and bought a bunch of new interview clothes items, because I wouldn't want to be known as the interviewee who has only one nice outfit.

Us Asians all look the same to her

While TLM and I were visiting a daycare centre today, TLM went up to the young, Chinese teacher who had her back to us, and put her arm around her. The other teacher present thought TLM had simply taken a really liking to that teacher. But I knew that TLM had mistaken her for me. (It didn't last; as soon as the teacher turned to look at her, TLM beat a quick retreat.)

This is where I should joke that I was flattered to be confused with a pretty 25-year-old. But it's more about the fact that very young children can't necessarily distinguish their parents from other adults of the same gender and colouring.

This explains why TLM has always smiled more at Asian women than at other people. On the other hand, strange white men seem to be no more to her than that. Is she better at distinguishing white folks? Or is the boy significantly more different-looking than I am?

Watching the Shaolin monks

We nipped in to sample some of Te Papa's 10th anniversary celebration. Mainly, to see the famous Shaolin Monks in action. It's nothing like David Carradine in Kung Fu - but you probably already knew that.

The amphitheatre was crowded; so crowded that latecomers ended up sharing space with ducks who'd wandered up from the pond outside the main building. It was so crowded that, when it was time for the strapping young specimens of Chinese athleticism to start their demonstration, they first had to persuade dozens of spectators to back up. We had to squeeze up so much that The Boy, long limbed as he is, had to fold himself up like a glasshoppah (if you say if with a fake Chinese accent).

And still, there was only just enough space. I worried when the monks started their routine with the sword-thingummis, because the idiots who plonked themselve down right at the front, refused to get up and go somewhere safer. In fact, I'm pretty certain that there were at least a couple of unwanted fringe trims before the show was over.

They wore bright orange robes that coincidentally matched the hue of the flowers worn by the previous entertainers, a local kapa haka group. Some of their routines looked like dance moves - there was even a moment when I was sure he was break-dancing. A young kid (perhaps 10 years old) who threw his body around like a yelling, thumping gymnast, was an early favourite. The choreographed routines with staffs (i.e. big sticks) were familiar and impressive. Watching one guy break a staff on another's bicep was possibly my personal highlight.

And then it was time to get spicy noodles for lunch.

It was the worst of times, it was the more convenient of times

Valentines Day was pretty uneventful at our place. It really wasn't helped by the untimely arrival of my red-headed cousin from Virginia.

Untimely indeed. My job interview was scheduled for this morning. Who wants to be having a job interview for what could be their dream job, when the "crimson tide" is in full flow?

As it turned out, my interviewer rang up to postpone until next Tuesday. On the one hand, it makes them look a bit disorganised. On the other hand, I won't have to feel intimidated by tremendously high standards, if I get the job.

So, instead of spending my childfree morning trying to give off professional vibes, I shopped for an outfit that would make me look like I deserve to be paid a lot. I didn't find anything.

What's my daemon?

Romulus is a dingo, by the way. He looks elegant, and his name means that either he has a classical background (like, his bro's name is Remus), or that he's an animal from the Star Trek-verse (like, y'know, a Romulan's best friend). Way sexier than a ferret or a budgie, but oft-accused of baby-eating (but if you're not Antipodean, you'd have to know something of recent Australian history to get that reference)

I won't be going to see The Golden Compass, even though I loved the Phillip Pullman books that the film is based on. But that doesn't mean I can't go to the film website and find out what my daemon would be, if I lived in Lyra's world.

Those of you who feel you know me, are invited to click on the image and do the quiz yourself, to see whether I've got the right daemon for my personality.

Oh yeah, I found the link at Rullsenberg Rules.

Playroom envy

What I like about going on playdates is that TLM gets to check out other kids' toys, and I get to talk to grown-ups (even if we end up talking about our kids). What I don't like is that everyone else seems to have homes with much better playing spaces than ours.

We've got a teeny tiny lounge and TLM has a teeny tiny bedroom. Our backyard is not quite teeny tiny, but it's not very flat and not at all conducive to ride-ons and paddling pools. My friends all seem to have large family rooms, large decks for alfresco dining, and large outdoor play areas ideal for sandpits, pools and pretend bear-hunts.

They aren't doing it to show off, they're just fortunate to have the space and the equipment. But it often brings out the inferiority complex in me.

I shouldn't complain. If it's never at our place, then we never have to clean up the mess that multiple toddlers make. And most of the time, we have just enough space - and stuff - to be happy.

ants in my lunch

Just now, as I was making my Nutella sandwich, I noticed tiny little ants crawling around the inside of the jar top. Then I peered into the jar itself, and sure enough, there were tiny little ants crawling around on the Nutella. How the hell did they sneak in? I always, always keep the jar firmly lidded.

So anyway, I put the jar aside for disposal. But I couldn't see any ants in my sandwich, so I decided to eat it anyway. Is that really yucky?

30 months and counting

TLM turned 2 1/2 yesterday. In just 6 months time she'll officially be a pre-schooler, and she's already halfway to starting primary school! If I keep up this line of thinking, we can forget about moving into a house with more outdoor play space because in eight years she'll be spending most of her time at the mall with her tweenie girlfriends.

It's much less depressing to mark the passing of time with your children's development, than with your own growing decreptitude.

Wassup this weekend

On Friday, I traded in the (unworn) toilet-training pants that I'd bought a week before, for a copy of Baby Jazz. TLM loves it, and it makes a nice change from French Playground (which has been playing constantly for months). Can't imagine a ciggie-toting toddler in a black turtleneck? Give it time.

TLM is obssessed with the orange jellyfish she saw on our HD DVD of David Attenborough's Planet Earth. It's, like, the best thing since Fairy Trina.

I have a cold, and all weekend I've been feeling sluggish and unhealthy. Is it possible to feel both light-headed and leaden-headed at the same time? Because I do. Oh, and TLM has a cold too.

My mum, my brother and my brother's family are all back from Hong Kong. Apparently it's been quite cold over there, so I bet they're a little disappointed to return home just in time for a cold snap. TLM and I will probably head over to see them once we've stopped sneezing and spluttering.

The stalking has been postponed

The folks who'd promised to call me about a job interview, finally called. By then I'd left two voice mail messages and given up on them. In fact, when my cell phone rang, TLM was sitting on a rocking horse in an upmarket kiddy store, and I was standing nearby, mentally composing a gently complaining blog post about them.

But I'm glad I didn't get around to doing that. She seemed keen to chat with me and find out where I might fit in their organisation; I've got an appointment with her next Friday morning.

Tee hee...

You dirty Rat year...

Happy Chinese New Year!

I didn't celebrate it this year, mostly because my mum and bro have been in Hong Kong for it. I don't envy having to put up with trebled prices for new clothes or haircuts; nor do I miss getting sucked into an engulfing tide of shoppers every time I leave the apartment. But it would've been fun to enjoy yum char with the family. Still, many red packets of lucky money are headed our way - ostensibly for TLM, but which might get diverted to pay a household bill or two.

Despite the rat's bad reputation in Western culture, being a Rat in Chinese culture actually sounds okay. According to the Chinese Centre of San Francisco:

People born in the Year of the Rat are noted for their charm and attraction for the opposite sex. They work hard to achieve their goals, acquire possessions, and are likely to be perfectionists. They are basically thrifty with money. Rat people are easily angered and love to gossip. Their ambitions are big, and they are usually very successful. They are most compatible with people born in the years of the Dragon, Monkey, and Ox.

I'm a Dragon. If I'd hooked up with a Rat, I might be a heck of a lot richer. But he'd have been too stingy to buy us a plasma tv. He'd be annoying me mightily with his perfectionism and scaring me with his temper. And he'd probably be blogging about my own shortcomings.

Probably, I'm better off with the boy Rooster.

Thank goodness she doesn't say this stuff in public - yet

Most mornings, I get to dress in private; the boy is still asleep and TLM is in the lounge eating cereal and watching a DVD. But yesterday I let her follow me to the bedroom and hang out while I dressed - I should've known that would set a dangerous precedent.

Because she insisted on coming along this morning too. And while I got my underwear on whilst trying to look comfortable with nudity, she announced "Mummy has two bellies!", loudly enough to make the boy wake up and wonder if I'd indeed been overindulging in vanilla ice cream lately.

Well, it turned out that TLM was refering to my boobies. Although I'm not sure if that was an improvement.

The best thing about local tv drama

The best thing about local TV drama, is the possibility of seeing your home town - perhaps even your self - on the screen. When I started watching The Insiders Guide to Happiness on DVD, I didn't know (or had forgotten) that it was filmed in the suburbs and streets near my home.

It's a great little ensemble drama set in urban New Zealand, about a group of 20-something and 30-something Kiwis who find happiness in various ways. It's a little surreal, a little philosophical, and doesn't make me cringe to watch it (i.e. it's not Welcome to Paradise - go here for an idea of how bad Paradise was compared to say, Flight of the Conchords).

There's a lager-head who is, temporarily, the reincarnation of a time-travelling Buddhist monk; a needy young woman who wins 6 million bucks on the day her boyfriend leaves her for a skanky ho; a nice Samoan boy who meets the love of his life just before being hit by an ambulance, and spends several episodes as a ghost; and the woman whose unborn child sends her txt messages.

As riveting as the story of The Insiders Guide to Happiness was, I couldn't help being distracted by the urge to identify every cafe and street the characters appeared in. I suppose this kind of thing doesn't affect the residents of oft-filmed locations like New York, London or Paris.

Waiting by the phone

He said he'd call; he said I'd hear from him either end of last week or beginning of this week. Perhaps they've changed their minds and don't want to interview me after all.

It's almost as bad as dating.

Another one of those cute toddler things

Just before the boy took TLM off to the zoo yesterday afternoon, he and I had a tiff; I wanted him to take the toddler toilet seat with him so she'd have the chance to do her business in the zoo loos if she wanted, he didn't want to bother. I won, but it was a victory that had me feel bad about forcing him to succumb to my wishes.

So I txted him an apology, and he replied that he had a super-cute TLM story. And when they returned home, he told me all about it.

Apparently, when they were at the tiger enclosure, one of the inmates did a huge tiger wee just a few feet away from where they were standing. TLM pointed this out to him, and then proceeded to tell the tiger off for not using a potty. Then she turned to her daddy and said that the tiger must not be a grow-mope (i.e. grown-up).

It's all in the underpants

Yesterday afternoon, I tried out a pair of training pants on TLM. She didn't seem to object, and it was great not having to worry about finding unexpected puddles on the furniture. But once she took them off for a toilet break, she refused to put them back on again. She absolutely insisted on wearing her big-girl Dora underpants. Fortunately, this coincided with a pleasantly surprising leap in her toilet-training progress; she is now much less resistant to using the potty. She has even started actually using it.

At first, I thought "Geez, she must dislike those training pants so much, that she'd rather use the potty". But I remembered that a couple of her daycare friends have recently started wearing big-girl undies. So I guess it's peer pressure I have to thank.

Another thing that's keeping my wee-worries at bay, is that I've placed a super-thick, furry throw on one of the sofas; something nice and absorbant.

I'll be taking the other 3 pairs of training pants back to the shop. I hope they stock Thomas the Tank Engine undies...

I know it's way early in the experiment, but in hindsight I think I should have used training pants from the start, and only used pull-ups for outings.

Relax

When I asked TLM the other day whether she wanted to wear knickers or disposable pull-ups, she said "pull-ups". And I can't blame her, really. In the latter, she can pretty much do what she likes without me getting upset about getting wees on the sofa or poos on my foot (that's another story). The pull-ups are so efficient at holding everything in, that I can relax too. And if I'm relaxed, she's relaxed.

But I don't want to put her in pull-ups all the time - they're relatively expensive and are probably not helping TLM to toilet-train. On the other hand, if I put her in knickers, I end up following her around all afternoon with a towel, anxiously peering at the area around her bum (we have carpet and our sofas are upholstered in fabric).

So today I went and bought some Bright Bots training pants. They're washable (hence, eco-friendly), inexpensive, and should keep small amounts of wees in while at the same time allow her to feel what it's like to have wet pants. Hopefully, in these, she can learn without being confined to playing in the skin-cancerous outdoors, and I don't have to follow her around with a double layer of protective cloth.

I guess this might be one reason that camping is a good holiday option for small children.

No gaming gene

The boy has been very patiently attempting to turn me into a gamer-lite. But so far it hasn't been very successful. The brain gym was fun, but the latest game has been more than a little frustrating. I suppose that gamers (and teenagers) would find the Nintendo DS game, Mystery Detective (or Touch Detective) perfectly logical. But I don't. I can't solve even the first mystery, even with the help of a cheat sheet (though it is written in bad English, which doesn't help).

But then, I have trouble doing crosswords, even the non-cryptic ones. And on the rare occasion that I play something in a video game parlour, I usually either crash and burn (if it's a motor race), or shoot all the wrong characters.

I guess I'm just no good at games. But I wonder what significance it has for my IQ...

On the possibility of sudden employment

I sent them my CV, thinking that they'd either: 1. email me back and tell me to get some qualifications, or 2. put it in a filing cabinet with all the other CVs, in case a vacancy comes up.

The last thing I expected was that they'd call me and ask me to come in for an interview.

The thing is, in the back of my mind I wasn't expecting any action for a few months (like after TLM turns 3, when I'll be able to put her in daycare for 20 free hours per week). If I were to suddenly start working in the next few weeks - even part-time - I'd need to find extra childcare in a hurry. And then there's the settling-in period for TLM, who still much prefers to play with her mummy, not to mention a probably setback to her already-tortuous potty training progress.

So, I've been a bit preoccupied, really excited, pleased, and...terrified.

p.s. wish me luck with the interview :-)

Fear

Well, TLM's little bath-wee escapade has turned into a major bath phobia. While she is still enthusiastic about playing with water, she no longer wants anything to do with being in it. Last night's bath was ruined by hysteria and panic on TLM's part; this morning's outdoor water play was done with all the toys in the tub, and TLM's body outside the tub.

Truly, toilet-training is the new sleep-training.

Educating yourself into depression

One of the reasons I've never sought out Iris Chang's The Rape of Nanking: The Forgotten Holocaust of World War II, is because I knew she'd committed suicide soon after the book was published. I figured, if the book was depressing enough to make the author lose all hope, then I probably wasn't going to enjoy it either. I had enough of a downer when I was reading sections of A Thousand Splendid Suns, when the bully Rasheed was beating up his wives and almost killing his daughter - and that's a novel, not a body of well-researched history.

But now that I've read an article about Iris Chang and her state of mind at that time, it seems that she was depressed for many other reasons too.

Although I'm still not too keen on reading about the details of the Chinese holocaust at Nanking.

Givin' the guilts

The boy often accuses me of trying to guilt our daughter - you know, like "well if you're not going to sit on the potty then I guess you'll just have to wear a nappy...like a baby". (I know it's probably wrong, but I guess it runs in the family). Anyway, up till now she seemed too young to be affected.

But I think she's now old enough to get the guilts.

Earlier today, I let her play in the bathtub, because it's burning-ly hot outside and we have no shade. And when she wee-ed in the bathtub just a few minutes in, I wasn't able to completely hide my irritation.

Well, tonight before bathtime the poor darling insisted on sitting on the potty, and wouldn't get off to have her bath. But when I suggested we skip the bath, she happily hopped off it to get her night-time nappy on. She must've been really worried about the possiblity of another bath-pee.

Ah, bless.

Stuff I wish I knew when I was a new parent

The boy sent me this link to some utterly hilarious Do's and Don'ts of parenting. I laughed so hard, I had tears running down my face and didn't stop wheezing for about ten minutes. Go have a look - I dare you.

Lawn guerrilla tactics

Once more, I am on the lookout for someone to mow my lawn. The last people I hired, well Frank and his team of Maori landscape gardeners did a great job of peeling the vine from TLM's bedroom window and our attic. They cut down the taupata tree that grows weedily between the house and the fence. They removed the prickly thistle that made a walk down the path sound like something out of We're Going On A Bear Hunt ("through the thistle; scratch-tear, scratch-ow!, scratch-tear, scratch-ow!"). Every 2 to 4 weeks, a truckload of cuzzy-bro's would screech into my driveway, fall into my back yard and spend about ten minutes shaving the place.

Then they didn't show up for about 3 months. Actually, it's been more like 4 months by now. The backyard is waist-high on me - and neck-high on TLM ("through the grass; swishy-swashy, swishy-swashy"), and spews its highly allergenic pollens onto me whenever the wind blows (which is a LOT). Are they doing this to make me desperate? So they can charge me more money while I'm too asthmatic to complain?

The quote I got yesterday, from the nice young man with the limp handshake, was more expensive than what the cuzzy-bro's used to charge me. I guess it's time to find out how much it costs to buy a lawnmower - a garden shed to keep it in.

On making friends with your kid's friends' parents

These days, the only adults I hang out with are fellow parents. And increasingly, I find myself choosing to hang out with people whose kids play well with TLM. This works out well when us parents enjoy each others' company as much as the kids do. But there are some friends whom I'd like to socialise with, but don't because our respective kids treat each other as unwelcome interlopers. I suppose those get-togethers have to happen when our respective offspring are at creche or whatever.

On the other hand, there are some parents I'd like to hang out with simply because TLM gets along with their kids. Some of these parents I don't know very well; some of them - I suspect - think I'm boring or stupid or full of bollocks, and daily pray that I don't invite them over for a playdate.

And then there are the playdates that don't happen because the other kid's primary caregiver parent is a man. I know a few of those, and - with one exception - I'd feel awkward about organising a playdate where it's just me and him and our respective toddlers. Although, when I think about it, there's really no logical reason to feel this way. It's not like I'm a single parent on the look-out, or an unfaithful one.

It's just one of those boy-girl things.

Hot air

It's fairly tropical in these parts right now. It's humid, it's hot, and there's a cyclone just around the corner. I'm not used to it; it makes me sweat, it turns the southern end of the house into a sauna (and I can only stand those things for about 10 minutes before I really need a cool shower), and my feet feel like a couple of large boiled potatoes.

My Swiss friend thinks it's way too windy here. What we call breeze, the Swiss apparently would refer to as gale force winds; what we call gale force winds, they call "time to batten down the hatches, bring in the goats and tie down the skis"; what they call wind, we regard as brownian motion.

It's what you're used to, isn't it? What I call tropical pre-cyclone weather, the Hawaiians would probably call Spring.

The million dollar question

I've been thinking about paid work again (like, when the hell am I going to start send ing my CV to potential employers!). Now, I know that I'm really very fortunate to be in the position of being able to to just think about paid work, rather than having to do it out of necessity. But just bear with me.

Most of the people I know who have a kid TLM's age, have jobs - at least part time, if not full time. Those who are still full time parents, have two or more young kids (i.e. a kid TLM's age plus a sibling up to one year old). So, I'm the only parent I know who only has a single toddler/nearly preschooler, and doesn't also have a job.

So I'm wondering, am I only looking for work because I feel guilty about still being a SAHM?
And the answer is - partly, yes (it's also because I miss hanging out with "grow-mopes", which means grown-ups in TLM-ese).

So, if we won a million bucks in Lotto this weekend (which we won't, because we don't buy Lotto tickets), would I still want a paid job? Perhaps not, though I'd hire a part-time nanny anyway, and go lunching a lot.

So, if my bout of navel-gazing has brought me to one conclusion, it's that I'm still a hedonist.

Hmm...

I just had this thought when I saw an ad on tv for Scratch 'n' Win. With Scratch 'n' Win you buy a game card, use the edge of a coin to remove a square of coating from it, and hope that underneath is a message congratulating you for winning megabucks.

But I'm an eczema-sufferer, right? So whenever I see that ad, I just think "If only! I'd be super-rich by now!".

You're soaking in it *

After yesterday morning, I became convinced that The Little Madam was actively "holding on" whenever I sat her on the potty, and saving her poos and wees for when she was off it. That thought happened right after she fought her way off the potty, only to deposit a poo as big as one of Obelix's menhirs, into her pull-up, about 5 seconds later.

So I decided that she had a lot more bowel and bladder control than I'd previously thought. The obvious answer was to put her in big girl underpants and see what happened.

What happened, was that she went through 5 pairs of undies in about 1 1/2 hours. And every single time, I accidentally stepping into her puddle. After that, I ran out of knickers and put her in a nappy, and washed my feet. And then I had a wee lie-down on the sofa (luckily the boy was home by then).

* a reference to an old, old television advertisement for Palmolive dish detergent, supposedly so mild it was good for your hands. Yeah, right.

You can't have one without the other

I've heard it said that smokers who make a habit of lighting up whilst drinking, find it really hard not to smoke if there's already a pint (or a shot glass or whatever) sitting on front of them. And vice versa.

Well, I seem to find it hard not to go clothes shopping every time I watch one of those fashion-rescue shows on tv.

(Beware: the following paragraphs are a bit of a link-a-palooza for women addicted to fashion self-help).

First there was What Not to Wear shows (that's the BBC series i.e. this one and this one). These shows made me realise I could possibly get away with never going to the gym again, if only I can find the right clothes.

When I started reading the Trinny and Susannah books (the latest being The Body Shape Bible), I couldn't decide whether I'm a shapelier-calved cello or a wider-waisted hourglass. But I was inspired to chuck out tonnes of stuff that I never wear any more - I just have a very crowded hallway, because all those bags of op-shop destined garments have to go somewhere, for the time being.

There was, briefly, even a Kiwi fashion-rescue show, called Does My Bum Look Big? (as you can tell, we Kiwis just get straight to the point with our tv show titles). They used letters of the alphabet to categorise body types. I smugly put myself in the "X" category and determined to find clothes that defined my waist. But, y'know, if I had a tiny waist like true X-er Marilyn Monroe did, then I wouldn't need to.

That's not to mention the botox-friendly Ten Years Younger, with its overtly posh-sounding host, (and its Kiwi version), and How To Look Good Naked, which spends most of its screen time advising each client how to look good un-naked (there is nudity, but host Gok is a bent as a Quasimodo lookalike so I guess that's pretty non-threatening). Funnily enough, Gok is always advocating the use of those industrial-strength, flab-controlling undergarments euphemistically known as body shapers.

And now that Tim Gunn's Guide to Style (hosted by that most helpful and judicious man from Project Runway) has started showing on Friday nights, I am more likely than ever, to spend my occasional free hours hunting and gathering through the cowpat-ridden fields of fashion.

At the gardens with Fairy Lily

According to the ad in the paper, Fairy Trina would tell stories at the Botanic Gardens this morning. And several mums and dads I knew, had arranged to meet up for an hour of girlie fairy wings and songs.

Being the total carparking wuss that I am, I decided that TLM and I would go by public transport. That meant a bus into town, then a cable car up to the Gardens, then a stroll down to the Dell. In all, it took us about 40 minutes.

Fairy Trina must've been having a mental health day, because apparently we got Fairy Lily and Fairy Gilly (a boy fairy) instead. Don't ask me if they were any good, we were too busy checking out the other kids' fairy gear. TLM had her circlet, skirt and wings on (it was hard coordinating both the fairy circlet and the sunhat), but they were poor imitations compared to some of the other outfits. Some of the parents must surely have gone to the kiddie boutique at Kirkaldies for their costumes.

At the end of the performance, the kids were invited up on stage to sing and dance. TLM nearly pulled my finger off trying to get me to accompany her to the stage, but I wasn't having any of it. Surprisingly, she ended up wandering up by herself, clambering up the steps to the stage, and dancing with all the other kids there. Shock, horror, The Little Madam has not inherited her mother's selfconsciousness!