How to Dislike in These Politically Correct Times

Now, let it be said that I am almost without exception, a liker of people. I like that they are not all the same, that they opine - at times wildly and without actual thought - in a manner different to moi.  Or not that differently, if that example is anything to go by. I like that they wear different clothes, hair, make up, facial expressions. That they smell, feel and experience all things in their own way. I don't always agree with other people, sure, but it's all good.

So why is it, that every now and then, one comes across a person who immediately and without much provocation, one simply cannot abide? Let's just say, for example, you meet a person via your local school, as often happens. For all intents and purposes, another of the sisterhood doing the best she can by her offspring and those in her world. Except that she pisses you riiiiiight off. It's nothing that one of your friends hasn't said before, but somehow, it gets stuck in your craw. In fact, you may not have even known that you HAD a craw, prior to this interaction.

And don't misunderstand, I am friends, close friends, with many people who are, frankly, not very nice. Not you obviously. But a handful of my other pals. You know, they are persnickety, they do not like other humans and tell you all about it, they are alcoholics, they despise small children AND animals and are very rich. I put that last bit in so you would know for sure I wasn't referring to you, so get over yourself.

So clearly, pricks don't bother me. So why, WHY does this chick? I don't really care enough to put it to her and hash out the whys and wherefores. No, as well as having bits stuck in my craw thanks to this...person, I also have apathy. So, I kind of care that I don't care, but not enough to actually care, you know what I mean? Maybe she reminds me of myself? Actually, that may be true, so I'm going now, that just made me puke a little in my mouth and I still have to feed and bathe the cherubs. Need my energy for the people I love but at times do not like, especially when they are kicking me in the tummy while I attempt to put a poop catcher on them.



The Nothing That I Do

So the day prior to Mother's Day, our annual celebration of mothers an all that we do, The Groom and I had a "heated discussion" regarding what, if anything, I actually DO all day. The poor pet drives to work and back each day, suffering through countless meetings, luncheons and time spent on the computer. I don't know how he does it, but bless him, he just keeps on trucking so that we can continue living in the manner to which we have become accustomed. He has recently become interested, nay, suspicious, about how it is that I have come to know what goes on in television shows such as Young & The Restless, The Real Housewives of New York and various other distracting programs that provide blessed relief from the drudge as I dare to sit while shoveling food into my mouth.

At the conclusion of our "discussion", The Groom requested that I provide minute by minute accounts of my day, and suggested that I spend the day at his place of employ while he undertook domestic duties. After spending the most miserable mothers day EVER home in our second living area flicking through 900 television stations from dawn until dusk, Monday was finally upon us. He left the homestead to knuckle down to his work, leaving me to dither about doing, well, nothing, allegedly.

After burning my throat on scalding hot coffee and swallowing whole two pieces of toast, I made the 7 year old's lunch for his school day. Cracking the whip that gets him dressed in his uniform, fed, teeth brushed, bag packed, readers marked off, I load the three darlings into the car and hoon off to school, getting him there on time. I return home thereafter, surveying the post-mother's day "I am not doing one stitch of housework today" disaster that awaits. Where to begin? I decide to tackle the linen cupboard, so that I can fit the towels, doona covers, sheets, towels etc that belong in there, in there. I take out the napkins and put them on the kitchen table, awaiting my attention for the next task. Linen cupboard complete, I get to the hutch. As part of my Year of the De clutter, and have determined that we shall reduce ourselves to only one single junk draw in the house, rather than seven that we currently have. I am 3/4 of the way through this transition. The next phase, Operation Hutch Draw, is upon me.

I take out both draws, removing an unfathomable amount of what can only be described as crap. Old birthday cards, receipts, drawing pins, instruction manual for a chainsaw, badge making kit, batteries (flat?working?whothefuckknows), bits of stuff, and things. I reallocate a small amount of these items to their rightful homes, throw most of it in the bin and marvel at how much space I know have. One draw is not home to the aforementioned cloth napkins & place mats, the other houses envelopes, pens, batteries (in a snazzy battery storage container that really has to be viewed to be fully appreciated - thanks Howard's Storage World, how I love thee).

I sense that it may now be a good time to shower, after catching a whiff of what can only be described as "something yucky" coming from my person. I get the baby a bottle of milk, feed it to her while watching 7 minutes of television, and put her into her cot. She screams, thrashes, throws her dummy and stands up, suggesting that perhaps she does not wish to comply. I really want that shower, however, so I force the dummy back into her resistant mouth. She then lays down and immediately closes her eyes, as though she had just been waiting for me to do this the whole time. I resist the urge to pull her hair.

I tell the 5 year old that I will be in the shower, and to keep up the non-baby end of the house as said baby is asleep. I get into the shower, wash all relevant bits, and then set about Enjoing the shower. I'd like to report that I get a certain thrill as I scrub down tile and grout, the micro fibre revealing whiteness where there had moments ago been orange grunge. But I don't. The 5 year old enters, expressing his utter boredom. He then sets up camp in the bathroom, watching me as I finish the cleaning phase, alight from the shower, and dry off. I dress while fielding questions pertaining to the difference between menstrual pads and nappies, and set about cleaning the basins and bench. It is then that the 5 year old leaves the room momentarily for god knows what. Upon his return, he thunders up the hallway, waking the baby and shattering any illusion that I had pertaining to doing anything else in peace and unencumbered.

In the meantime I have loaded the dryer and washing machine with loads and fielded countless questions from the 5 year old, and had my leg taken hostage by the 16 month old, who clings to it like a cute but unwelcome tumour. Having completed a task, I note that it is lunch time. The 5 year old asks me to do some craft with him, and in my attempt to avoid more motherguilt at neglecting his needs, I pull out the beedos from the craft cupboard. We sort colours, and off we go. We both forgot how annoying beedos are, the small balls REFUSING to stay in place and fucking up the design that we have worked tirelessly to emulate. Both of us make comment on our feelings of irritation, and plow on. I end up finishing the project for him, and he gets to spray the lot with water, which is all he really wanted to do in the first place.

I make the 5 year old a sandwich and defrost some minestrone soup brimming with vegetables for the baby. He eats his, she all but instructs me to go practice procreating. She shits me. I clean up the kitchen, including the beaters, bowls etc that made my Mother's Day gift, two self saucing puddings, one chocolate, one sticky date with butterscotch sauce. The irony is not lost.

Kitchen gleaming, I get myself some lunch and scoff it down while sitting on the couch watching  a 10 minute snippet of Young & The Restless. The offspring clamber all over me during this time, attempting to get my food, pat my head, fleece me of the remote and ask me to bake some biscuits. Having completed the eating lunch portion of my day, I place my bowl in sink, and decide to give myself a full hour lunch break so that I can blog about my happy day doing Nothing. I am now off to attempt to feed the baby her lunch again, as she is whining and chewing on a Mr Men book while crawling around with a photo of her 5 year old brother. A multi-tasker already, bless.

I feel SO RESTED, I may just go and skip through the yard in search of any outdoor chores that may require attention...if not for the beds that need making, lounge that needs a good tidy, clothes that need ironing...

Ahhh, the holidays...

Well, what a lovely holiday we're having here at the Homestead. First, we have a massive lice outbreak, featuring largely in the head of our 7 year old. I removed at least 40, yes FORTY live adults from his scone in one sitting after he wouldn't go to sleep the first night of our holidays and I noticed him scratch his head. Next morning, I checked the 5 year old. Thankfully, he only had 2. I had 1. The baby and the groom, 0. I have been raking our hair and scalp with a lice comb twice daily ever since, and while I can safely say that none of us have lice, nits or flakes of any kind, we are all but bald. Small price to pay, methinks.

Next stop, Hand, Foot & Mouth Disease. I think it's the "Disease" portion that makes me feel so blah. The 5 year old presented with what looked like some small bites or pimples on his wrist and hand not long after we had had a play date at, you guessed it, a play centre. We had avoided most icky childhood diseases at until now, due to my children throwing pink fits when I had attempted to introduce them to a few hours of childcare in the past. Most kids I know who have broken out in HFMD, lice, the delightfully named Slapface, had contracted these from creche and the like where many small mouths, hands and snot purveyors carouse.  Well, now it seems I am attempting to fit all of these in on the one two week break.  Any small semblance of smugness I had regarding my children avoiding such illness' has now been eradicated.

The poor baby,meanwhile, is not so lucky as to have come down with only a mild case. She is covered in blisters, around and most likely in her mouth, on both the tops and soles of her feet, palms and tops of her hands, all over her nappy region and would you believe, her knees. Poor moppet barely knows what to do with herself. She really just wants to be cuddled by yours truly for a good part of the day, however given the Groom has just unexpectedly and somewhat miraculously installed shelves into our wardrobes, I am obsessed with rearranging our bedroom. Not very conducive to lap time, that. I must be content with being one third of the way through my bedroom re-vamp revolution, and try not to resent the needs of the Blistered One. I'm sure if she could only grasp the excitement that I feel at the prospect of buying baskets for the new shelves - creating a system of neatness as yet unseen in this house - she would forgo her whining and neediness.

So, think of me fondly, wont you, as those of you with school & kinder aged offspring gallivant about the place, signing up for Bunnings workshops, taking your kids swimming to the local indoor pool, and many other such fun school holiday type activities. No really, we're fine here under lock down conditions, can't have us passing anything on to the rest of you, can we? Happy freaking Easter.



Angry Bird

If you'd wandered into my home a 1/2 an hour ago, you would have witnessed a five foot five mixed breed former country chick apoplectic with rage. Those of you who knew me in my younger years may not quite be quaking with shock at this revelation. These days, however, I have mostly overcome my natural bent at displaying mind-blowing anger over the little things that life doth present on a regular basis. Today, I regressed, and then some.

Having only last night received my loving spouse home from a 4 day interstate business trip, one could be forgiven for expecting something from the "nice" spectrum to be pumping through my veins. Alas, this is not to be. Said 4 days spent sans husbandly support with a teething 15 month old, belligerent 5 year old and worn out 7 year old left me a touch irritable.  Coupled with what one suspects is a savage case of PMS, the results are less than happy.

What, then, possessed me to climb up on top of a dining chair, replete with two foam mattress inserts for extra height, attempting to drill a battery powered flying Airbus A380 to the ceilings of my two male spawn? I put it down to Mother Guilt. After displaying Angry Mother characteristics for a couple of days, I was keen to provide a gesture of niceness to my sons. It began pleasantly enough. I got the cordless drill from the laundry, and told my youngest son that he could hook the plane on when the base was drilled in. Easy peasey, Japanesey. Ever tried drilling teeny tiny screws while standing on a dining chair upside down with a spastic left hand due to a childhood accident involving glass?!?! Yeah, well I have, and I am telling you, the rage was almost justified.

As my fairly useless left hand began cramping up under the strain of holding the smallest screws even produced straight so that drilling could commence, I felt the molten lava of rage ascend from the pit of my premenstrually rounded stomach. I attempted some Nancy-Boy "self talk" as prescribed by many and various so-called mental health professionals. Bastards. After my twelfth attempt, when the screw popped out of my gnarled digits and bounced onto the floor, I could contain myself no more. The sound I emitted was both loud and primal. My five year old was advised with as much calm as I could muster that leaving the room and popping on some cartoons may now be a good option. For a kid whose general response to my suggestions is to defy me, I must say I was impressed by the speed with which he staged his exit. That would be the survival instinct shining through, I suppose.

I came down from my rickety position atop the chair loaded with height-giving cushions, and located the all important miniature screw. I called it very bad words. Words starting with "C". And no, not crap. Determination to assuage my Mother Guilt was strong in me, however, and thus I would not rest until the goddamn Airbus A380, $25 from your local airport, was whizzing around in a wizzy circle from ceilings of both of my lads.

Dear Reader, I am pleased to report that I achieved this goal. I roared. I cried. I kicked inanimate objects. I stomped my feet like a pissy 3 year old not allowed to chew gum while my older sibling gleefully blew bubbles in my face. Frustration, lack of co-ordination and hands weakened by childhood tendon damage were no match for my need to follow through on my promise to my sons. The goddamn planes are attached firmly with all three screws, and spinning gleefully with no place to go, and no hope of landing. Excuse me now, wont you, while I go and stuff my face with chocolate, shortbread and the odd nip of gin, I need self medicating STAT!



Change is a GOOD THING!

While I am unable to go into specifics, I have recently witnessed, yet again, fear of change in our community.  It's not something I really understand, given that change is what makes a life. Why fear it? Why not embrace it, or at the very least, give it a go and see what happens? Nay sayers just give me the bloody shits, I want to go the old fashioned "smack their heads together"...which they would probably enjoy, given their love of all things old. Anywho, just had to get that off my chest so I don't cause any social disharmony when I next witness ignorance and fear. Thanks, much appreciated.



New clothes for zero cost - who knew?!

I organised a clothes swap at my home today, inviting along some friends who are not adverse to hand-me-downs and maybe had some things that they no longer wish to wear for whatever reasons.  Given I have recently had a baby and my body is all kinds of different to the way it was prior to that, I had oodles of garments to offload.  Some I had loved, others not so much, but I was over having them clogging up my bedroom. They were stuffed into draws, hanging in the wardrobe, and hidden in suitcases under the bed. I had too much of things that may not ever hold my proportions in the again. It was time to offload.

In they came from far and wide (well, within 5km anyway) with their bags brimming with stylish pieces no longer deemed suitable. There were labels, no name, shoes, pj's, a fairly saucy bra - you name it! A room full of gorgeous women of varying shapes and sizes were in 7th heaven, spying an item that was "them" and shimmying up the stairs to the full length mirror for a try on. I am pleased to say that nobody left empty handed. I am even more pleased to say that I got rid of more than I acquired. Mission accomplished!

And what a pleasant way to update ones wardrobe, for the cost of a couple of hours of our time, some biccies and dip. Ought to be way more of it, and in the spirit of my year of clearing clutter, dammit there will be!!



New Normal

So the boys are back to school & kinder, and as I return to my now deathly quiet house (save the bleating of our pet sheep on the back yard), I am embracing this new normal that I have been begging for, for many a year.  I look around and see that I have already folded the last 53 loads of washing, done the dishes and all that I need to do now is more washing, dry the dishes, put all of the above away, vac the floors etc...but still, a vast improvement upon the holiday period, and I get to do it interruption free until Molly wakes up.

Now I have had several conversations over the past few years with older women who have assured me that once my children are at school and I have all of this free time, I will miss them, cry, take up charity work to fill the void and so forth. Now that I am here, to them I say...are you fucking kidding?! This is the first time in around 7 years that I have been able to have a though without having it shattered by "Mum, I'm hungry", "Mum, when can I get a new [insert name of useless, non-educational toy here]", "Whey can't I have an icy pole RIGHT NOW (at 9:17 a.m.)". I am about to make a coffee, eat a Weight Watchers Brownie and catch up on some recorded programs that, frankly, I did not even hope to view before 2015.

I'll be back, just gotta get all this done before Molly wakes up and I have to get Jacob from kinder, Mackay from after school care, and take Jacob's friend home from their play date, and wait for the bloke to come and fix the oven...

For goodness sake, be a child properly

Ok so now I am going to have a wee rant about one of those topics that, well, makes me rant. One has a baby. One has it drummed in that breast milk is the best thing you can do for said baby, and one goes through untold nipple horror (grazed nipples ring a bell, folks?) in order to do just that. Good. The weekly email updates pour in letting you know where your infant "should" be, developmentally. Your Maternal & Child Health Nurse does same. As do your Mum, In-Laws, Aunts, Uncles, Grandparents, the Checkout Chick at Woollies, the other Check Out Chick at Coles, Buba Desi (local colourful identity rumoured to be a Wizard, if you don't mind umpire), friends, husbands, Other People's Kids...you get the idea.

We want our babies to hit the milestones early, on time really isn't ideal these days. My younger sister is known throughout the lands for crawling at 4 1/2 months and walking at 9 months. What a super freak. She's normal now, thank Christ.  This is the kind of factoid that we hold on to and hope that our offspring "achieve", but don't you think that maybe we have it arse about? We push and cajole, but to what end? Sure, we can get online and order a system that will have a little ones reading before they can actually speak. Hell, not doing so is tantamount to child abuse, isn't it? I have heard smacking, giving cows milk and dressing a male in watermelon pink all called child abuse, so I am now unsure what that actually means. In my day, it was when an adult beat the shite out of a child, but clearly I be out of touch on that one.

So you do all of the "right" stuff, your child is reading at year 12 level by the time it is 4, has confidence due to its enrolment for several extra curricular classes (swimming, dance, karate, boxing, German, French & Mandarin) and has a best & fairest medal from Auskick, even thought you are not supposed to enrol a child until the year it turns 4, and has never watched television or played a console game. Brilliant. Wonderful. Then what? We then spend the child's teenage and early adulthood taking them to a shrink 3 times a week, so that they can connect with their inner child?

Can't we please leave our kids the hell alone, to a degree? I mean sure, by all means feed them, bathe them, read them books. And expect more from them, especially as they get older. But do not ask them to share when they are 2. Do not expect a 4 year old to be mindful that other children may have hurt feelings if they don't get a gift in pass the parcel. Let them go outside and run. Remember running? It feels ace. And I mean the "just because" running rather than the "I had a baby and now I need to get back to my best form within 2 and a half weeks" running. Take the training wheels off their bike when THEY are ready, not when a kid a year younger has so it means your child is an idiot. It doesn't, it never has, it's not important.

I have noticed, being that I have a child in preschool and a child in primary school, that there is a fair bit of worry about holding back/pressing forward when advancement through the education system is broached. I had our eldest at 3 year old kinder when he was two, at a Montessori school, for reasons I now see were nothing shy of crazy. He was there for seven hours, one day a week until he turned 3, and two seven hour days after that. He was two years old, people. TWO. And yes, I was shocked when the entire thing went pear shaped. Yup. I pulled the poor lamb out after three terms and found a local preschool that that did a more traditional program, for one day a week, three hours. He thrived. I thrived. We both made friends. No harm no foul, but for that nagging feeling that I put him in a position that left him feeling alone and lost in a strange world where nobody knew or loved him. No doubt that will come up during the therapy in years to come...

I don't understand why we insist on letting our obsession with competing and achieving the best outcome to take away what ought to be, in short,childhood.



Social

So I'm wondering, would the fact that rats have set up their family dwelling in your BBQ be a sign that you have been neglecting your social duties? It has been over a year since we last cracked open the heat beads and gas bottle...so I'm thinking yes.  I checked with the Groom that it was not a sign that we are filthy scum, and he assures me that this is not the case. He went on to tell me that it was the small, undisturbed space that did it. Part of me hesitates to believe him, given my dislike for cleaning, however the BBQ has always been his domain, so at the very least, I can allocate blame to him. Suits me fine. Except for the fact the RATS BUILT THEIR NEST IN OUR BBQ!!!!!!! I'm off to scrub myself down with Solvol and bleach, possibly a bit of caustic soda.

Home, James

What is it about home towns? When a young lass doing year 12, back in the day, I was so sure that I wanted to leave my small, friendly town that I enrolled in an Arts Degree in order that I could give my Mum a plausible explanation for getting out of Dodge. The real reason was that I had zero work experience or skills, so it was that or get some practice queuing for the dole. University it was!

Needless to say, with this barely acceptable "motivation", I didn't reach any great heights other than my inspiring work when sent Please Explain letters on two separate occasions by the Exclusions Committee. An Exclusions Committee, you ponder? Think a panel of teachers asking you why the hell they should let you remain part of the University community. But scarier. And in letter form. My written submissions explaining my poor performance was of such high quality that I was allowed to stay each time. Irony at its best.

Having spent the last two nights back in the town of my high school years, I arrived back to my current dwelling feeling quite weary, but a touch blissed out. I had visited my bestie, watching our offspring play/fight/bargain/almost die riding bikes down a paddock full tilt. I had watched her children while she attended a social event (OK, a funeral, but same thing), and afterward, made my way down the road to my Mother's house. I cooked her dinner. I rearranged her fridge. I looked through her jewellery box and found a couple of groovy broaches. In short, I did the sort of stuff I only ever do at my Mum's house, in my home town.

Purveying the rolling green fields and warm demeanour of the inhabitants, I began to wonder why I had ever left. Sure, I recalled the gossiping, the strange but very much present cast system and various other things that suck about small town life, but still...pretty hills and stuff.

It struck me as I parked my car in my driveway that I had similar feelings of niceness upon coming home. The place smelt like my husband, who had long since gone to work. It was tidy...well as tidy as our place gets in any case. Don't judge me. Anywho, as I began to note a swelling in my throat of the pusy tonsil rather than emotional variety, it occurred to me that I am the luckiest of ladies. There is no place like home, and I have two of them.