http://jacksonville.com/news/crime/2010-10-27/story/jacksonville-mom-shakes-baby-interrupting-farmville-pleads-guilty-murder
Oh my God, Oh my God. This article just makes me want to cry. Nothing is more precious than my baby. Certainly not some stupid, stupid pretend farm.
All the experiences that this stupid mother missed out on: First tooth. Eating solids. Being called Mummy. Happy gurgles. Sleepless nights. Cleaning up all kinds of bodily fluids. Warm sleepy cuddles. Pretending to be mermaids. Hearing "I love you". Everything that makes up my everything. I hope her virtual corn that she virtually grew and virtually sold for some virtual money made her virtually fucking happy.
(actually, I hope that she never forgives herself and someone convinces her to get sterilised. I need to go to bed before I get any sadder)
Friday, October 29, 2010
Funny things they say...
Happily playing out the back, talking to her toys, Kate, Danny, Stephen and I were planning the days adventures in the kitchen. Ava was babbling away to her toys.
"Here doggy, have some dinner? You hungry? Num num num. Num nums. You sit there! Be good! (various other growls as Ava gets angry and 'tells off' her doggy....I wonder where she gets that from?) Babble, Babble, Talk, Babble....silence....Fuck you!"
Oh dear God.....why did it have to be when we had guests? Kate looked at me, I looked at her. I knew she would find it the funniest thing in the world (she did, cruel woman that she is) and even though it doesn't even matter, and it is just a word,
Lucky my darling friends have a very good sense of humour. Love you, Kate.
"Here doggy, have some dinner? You hungry? Num num num. Num nums. You sit there! Be good! (various other growls as Ava gets angry and 'tells off' her doggy....I wonder where she gets that from?) Babble, Babble, Talk, Babble....silence....Fuck you!"
Oh dear God.....why did it have to be when we had guests? Kate looked at me, I looked at her. I knew she would find it the funniest thing in the world (she did, cruel woman that she is) and even though it doesn't even matter, and it is just a word,
I was mortified.
Lucky my darling friends have a very good sense of humour. Love you, Kate.
* * * * *
Ava is intolerant to dairy, and so she can't have milo, but we can have hot chocolate. Cadbury drinking chocolate is dairy free, so in the morning we will have a hot chocolate. Unfortunately for Ava, she can't quite make the 'ch' sound yet, so most mornings I am woken up with this:
'Mummy, I want hot cocklet.'
Give me ten or so years, and I will begin to worry, but for now, funny, every single time I hear it.
* * * * *
The other morning Ava was playing animals, and I was lying in bed.
"I'm a tiger! Raaaa! Raaaa!...I'm a cat! Meow! Meow! Mummy, I'm a cat!"
Soon I was giving suggestions.
"Be a horse! Be a lion!"
His Majesty chimed in.
"Be a giraffe!"
Hmmm, he wanted quiet so he could go back to sleep. Fat chance! And who is still asleep at 5.30am....pfft! I mean really.
Just a last titbit, for your information. Turtles have very deep voices and scuttle around the bedroom floor bellowing "Tuuuuuuuuuur tttlllllllllllllllllllllllllle!" over and over. (That one kinda back fired!)
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Funnily enough, this embarrasses me far more than poo.
You know my daughter? The amazing, funny, independent 2 year old that is the colour and light of my life? The talented, precocious, stubborn, creative, loving little person that she is? Well, this is the blog where I reveal some of the not so nice habits she has picked up.
Ava is going through a little bit of a 'stage'. At least I hope it is a stage, because I will actually go mental if it doesn't abate....hmmmm....soonish. A slapping, kicking, name calling, pinching, shoving, hands on hips kinda stage.
Coming back from a trip up north the other day, after doing about 600 kilometres, and with about 200 to go:
'I don't like driving! I like.....not driving!" (Awww, cute! you say....just wait...) "I. DON'T. LIKE. YOU!'
Crack. Splinter. Shatter. Crumble, crumble, crumble. That is the sound my heart made.
Today, going to bed:
Ava: (crying) "I want my milkies!"
Me: You're a big girl now. You don't need it.
Ava: I want my milkies!
(10 minutes later)
Ava: I (gulp) want (gulp) mmm..mmmy (gulp, shudder) milkies!
Me: Fine! Here! Have it! Go to bed!
Ava: (takes a sip) I don't want milkies! (I take it) Iwantmilkies!
All this has elicted some very interesting comments, the best of which was from my sister.
" Ummmm, she's really two now isn't she." Yes, 'two' is an adjective. Look it up.
But, this is not the thing I cannot get out of my mind tonight.
Here goes: Ava picks her nose. She eats her boogies. All the time. Shameful, shameful day; I am practically wailing, writing this.
It all began about 3 weeks ago, she discovered that she had nose holes, and little fingers that fitted up there. Before this, boogies were gotten out with a tissue and by Mummies and Daddies. But then Ava discovered that she too, could access this tiny orifice. She announced it one day as I was picking her up from daycare.
"Mummy! I am picking my nose!"
I tell you, I nearly ran off the road in shame. My perfect child with that sweet smile lighting her face and with her finger buried to her knuckle bone, digging around in a nostril.
Since then it has grown worse and worse, and each time I growl, announce that it is yucky, ask her if she needs a tissue, she very definately and defiantly sticks her finger in her mouth.
Today I worked up the courage to raise it with her care givers at daycare. I picked the nicer one (not the mean one! She scares me) to broach this topic. This is kinda an editted version of how the conversation went:
Me: Ahhh, ummmm I have something that is kinda concerning me. A little. About Ava.
Nice Caregiver: Yes?
Me: Well, not something, big, something kinda....yucky. Ava (look around, nobody within earshot) Ahhh, Ava picks her nose. And eats it. (blank look from Nice Caregiver) All the time.
Nice Caregiver: Yes?
Me: Well, if you could kinda keep on top of it......(awkward silence) I mean she hasn't really picked it up from me, has she?
Nice Caregiver: (begins to potter about) No, but about 90% of the children do it in here. It's the age.
Me: (trying to be assertive) But, um, but, I don't like it.
Nice Caregiver: (potter, potter) think about me! When I get home, I lift up the collar of my shirt and find so many boogies under there, and they could be anyones!
Me: (trying not to vomit in my mouth) Mmmmmm.
Nice Caregiver: Besides, at that age, it's really any orifice they can find.
Oh my god, is it? I decided to cut my losses and just deal with it myself.
So, for dinner, we went to Sizzlers. Of course, finger went in. I have had it with this eating boogies business. Picking, I can handle. But eating? Has to stop. So, out shot my hand, and grabbed her little wrist before finger made it to mouth, and began to fish for a napkin. She screamed, ear piercing screams that echoed around the restaurant.
"Noooooo! My boogie!!!"
She fought with all her strength to throw me off, and direct finger to mouth, like she was a man dying of thirst and the boogie, the last drop of water. I swiped at her finger with the napkin, and let go, and she put pu the damned finger in her gob anyway and sucked on it for good measure.
What do I do? It is really freaking me out! Do I threaten her, smack her, try to reason with her knowing full well that none of this will work? Or do I just ride this one out?
I hope she grows out of it.
Ava is going through a little bit of a 'stage'. At least I hope it is a stage, because I will actually go mental if it doesn't abate....hmmmm....soonish. A slapping, kicking, name calling, pinching, shoving, hands on hips kinda stage.
Coming back from a trip up north the other day, after doing about 600 kilometres, and with about 200 to go:
'I don't like driving! I like.....not driving!" (Awww, cute! you say....just wait...) "I. DON'T. LIKE. YOU!'
Crack. Splinter. Shatter. Crumble, crumble, crumble. That is the sound my heart made.
Today, going to bed:
Ava: (crying) "I want my milkies!"
Me: You're a big girl now. You don't need it.
Ava: I want my milkies!
(10 minutes later)
Ava: I (gulp) want (gulp) mmm..mmmy (gulp, shudder) milkies!
Me: Fine! Here! Have it! Go to bed!
Ava: (takes a sip) I don't want milkies! (I take it) Iwantmilkies!
All this has elicted some very interesting comments, the best of which was from my sister.
" Ummmm, she's really two now isn't she." Yes, 'two' is an adjective. Look it up.
But, this is not the thing I cannot get out of my mind tonight.
Here goes: Ava picks her nose. She eats her boogies. All the time. Shameful, shameful day; I am practically wailing, writing this.
It all began about 3 weeks ago, she discovered that she had nose holes, and little fingers that fitted up there. Before this, boogies were gotten out with a tissue and by Mummies and Daddies. But then Ava discovered that she too, could access this tiny orifice. She announced it one day as I was picking her up from daycare.
"Mummy! I am picking my nose!"
I tell you, I nearly ran off the road in shame. My perfect child with that sweet smile lighting her face and with her finger buried to her knuckle bone, digging around in a nostril.
Since then it has grown worse and worse, and each time I growl, announce that it is yucky, ask her if she needs a tissue, she very definately and defiantly sticks her finger in her mouth.
Today I worked up the courage to raise it with her care givers at daycare. I picked the nicer one (not the mean one! She scares me) to broach this topic. This is kinda an editted version of how the conversation went:
Me: Ahhh, ummmm I have something that is kinda concerning me. A little. About Ava.
Nice Caregiver: Yes?
Me: Well, not something, big, something kinda....yucky. Ava (look around, nobody within earshot) Ahhh, Ava picks her nose. And eats it. (blank look from Nice Caregiver) All the time.
Nice Caregiver: Yes?
Me: Well, if you could kinda keep on top of it......(awkward silence) I mean she hasn't really picked it up from me, has she?
Nice Caregiver: (begins to potter about) No, but about 90% of the children do it in here. It's the age.
Me: (trying to be assertive) But, um, but, I don't like it.
Nice Caregiver: (potter, potter) think about me! When I get home, I lift up the collar of my shirt and find so many boogies under there, and they could be anyones!
Me: (trying not to vomit in my mouth) Mmmmmm.
Nice Caregiver: Besides, at that age, it's really any orifice they can find.
Oh my god, is it? I decided to cut my losses and just deal with it myself.
So, for dinner, we went to Sizzlers. Of course, finger went in. I have had it with this eating boogies business. Picking, I can handle. But eating? Has to stop. So, out shot my hand, and grabbed her little wrist before finger made it to mouth, and began to fish for a napkin. She screamed, ear piercing screams that echoed around the restaurant.
"Noooooo! My boogie!!!"
She fought with all her strength to throw me off, and direct finger to mouth, like she was a man dying of thirst and the boogie, the last drop of water. I swiped at her finger with the napkin, and let go, and she put pu the damned finger in her gob anyway and sucked on it for good measure.
What do I do? It is really freaking me out! Do I threaten her, smack her, try to reason with her knowing full well that none of this will work? Or do I just ride this one out?
I hope she grows out of it.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
On the topic of Toddlers and food...
I refuse to eat sausages and mashed potatoes every single night, and it annoys me that people do this!
Firstly, because I am a vegetarian....actually, no. That is not a reason, because sometimes we do have meaty things for dinner. I am not the only person that eats (even though it feels like it today... I am not hopping on the scales until I have starved myself for at least 24 hours.) in my house and therefore it would be unfair not to serve meat occasionally. Just don't ask me to cook it, okay? Or prepare it. Or...Okay, I will stop now.
Mainly because it's not a balanced or varied diet, eating bangers and mash every single night. I know of people (none of my friends, you are all amazing) who have given up on vegetables because they wouldn't be eaten. YOU CAN'T GIVE UP ON VEGETABLES! YOU NEED THEM! I know of people who serve chips with every meal, because otherwise their kids wouldn't eat. Okay, if your child eats chips for every single dinner and maybe one wilted carrot stick, well it would probably do your kids the world of good to go hungry for a bit. AND GROWN UPS TOO! Some people really need to head back to primary school for nutrition.
A recent report suggested that Australian kids have THE WORST DIET out of any developed countries, with only 3% of children aged 2-4 and 2% of children aged 9-13 eating the recommended 2-4 servings of vegetables per day and 1 in 5 children are overweight or obese, which is terrifying. Surely parents want what is best for their children? Have we grown so soft that the concept of tough love means nothing?
All this ranting is not to say that Ava is some wonder child who eats and loves every vegetable known to man....Ha ha ha ha ha....I WISH! She is like every child when they hit that magical age between one and two, and has gone from eating everything and vast quantities of it, to eating nothing. Or only bread. Or things dipped in things. Or things that are white. And definately not things that are green... She is a normal child (in spite of me) and most of the time flat out refuses to eat anything that isn't garlic bread or rice.
When it comes to what is served, I have one rule: What I make, a vegemite sandwich or go hungry. The way I figure it is that it is my job to teach her what is a balanced meal. What goes on the table and on her plate is my job, what goes in her mouth and down into her tummy from that plate is mostly up to her.
Tonight we had a warm pasta salad with aparagus, zucchini, pumpkin, olives and cherry tomatoes (can you tell my man is out tonight? ha ha ha...) and garlic bread. Ava pretty much picked out all the noodles and ate them, and then munched on garlic bread. BUT she was served a proper balanced meal.
(Yes, but she still only ate pasta and bread) Yes, I know! Shut up, voice in my head!
(No.) You're mean.
(Yes... That's because I'm you.)
Touche', voice, touche'.
Firstly, because I am a vegetarian....actually, no. That is not a reason, because sometimes we do have meaty things for dinner. I am not the only person that eats (even though it feels like it today... I am not hopping on the scales until I have starved myself for at least 24 hours.) in my house and therefore it would be unfair not to serve meat occasionally. Just don't ask me to cook it, okay? Or prepare it. Or...Okay, I will stop now.
Mainly because it's not a balanced or varied diet, eating bangers and mash every single night. I know of people (none of my friends, you are all amazing) who have given up on vegetables because they wouldn't be eaten. YOU CAN'T GIVE UP ON VEGETABLES! YOU NEED THEM! I know of people who serve chips with every meal, because otherwise their kids wouldn't eat. Okay, if your child eats chips for every single dinner and maybe one wilted carrot stick, well it would probably do your kids the world of good to go hungry for a bit. AND GROWN UPS TOO! Some people really need to head back to primary school for nutrition.
A recent report suggested that Australian kids have THE WORST DIET out of any developed countries, with only 3% of children aged 2-4 and 2% of children aged 9-13 eating the recommended 2-4 servings of vegetables per day and 1 in 5 children are overweight or obese, which is terrifying. Surely parents want what is best for their children? Have we grown so soft that the concept of tough love means nothing?
All this ranting is not to say that Ava is some wonder child who eats and loves every vegetable known to man....Ha ha ha ha ha....I WISH! She is like every child when they hit that magical age between one and two, and has gone from eating everything and vast quantities of it, to eating nothing. Or only bread. Or things dipped in things. Or things that are white. And definately not things that are green... She is a normal child (in spite of me) and most of the time flat out refuses to eat anything that isn't garlic bread or rice.
When it comes to what is served, I have one rule: What I make, a vegemite sandwich or go hungry. The way I figure it is that it is my job to teach her what is a balanced meal. What goes on the table and on her plate is my job, what goes in her mouth and down into her tummy from that plate is mostly up to her.
Tonight we had a warm pasta salad with aparagus, zucchini, pumpkin, olives and cherry tomatoes (can you tell my man is out tonight? ha ha ha...) and garlic bread. Ava pretty much picked out all the noodles and ate them, and then munched on garlic bread. BUT she was served a proper balanced meal.
(Yes, but she still only ate pasta and bread) Yes, I know! Shut up, voice in my head!
(No.) You're mean.
(Yes... That's because I'm you.)
Touche', voice, touche'.
* * *
Toilet training is sending me potty. Ha ha ha...NO SERIOUSLY! I have had my tolerance of wees and poos for today (one in knickers, one laid freshly on the playroom floor this evening, poo that is) and so I am counting my lucky stars that she is tucked up in bed. Why cannot it be one miraculous toilet training weekend, kinda like a marathon? Sweat, blood and tears (and wee and poo) but with a clearly defined, nay signposted, glorified, definate end point. I feel like a recording, saying the same thing over and over each day, slowing getting less patient and my tone of voice becoming sharper? Seriously. Two weeks ago I would have crowed at the moon for a wee next to the potty, today I am tired, cranky and have already snapped at Ava and made her cry once. Why? WWwwwwwhhhhhhhyyyyy? Why couldn't I have showered her with praise and support and love and told her that the next one was going in? I feel like a shit. A shit that makes 2 year olds cry when they don't make the potty. Oh dear God, writing about this isn't helping this time. Do you know what she said to me through tears? "Mummy, I love you." Oh God, it felt so bad.
So, to take the pressure off, we stripped off to our singlet and ran around the back yard in the buff. Wee on the patio? Don't care. Wee on the lemon tree? Yes, if you can. No, oh well, we will get there some day! And so this cranky, crazy Mummy and her bare-bottomed, wet, happy, loving toddler ran about the backyard screaming and laughing until it got dark and cold. A perfect end to a less than perfect day.
I try Ava. I try so very, very hard to be good and kind and sweet-tempered and strong. It's hard for me because I am a wee bit nutty sometimes, and always a lot tired and a little cranky too, but you are my earth and stars, my beginning and end. You are everything that I need and everything that I want and all the things that test me the most. You are the soul mate that I never expected to find in my child.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Complete and Utter Meltdown, otherwise titled The Day That the Mummy Was Too Hard on Herself.
Two days ago we had a complete and utter meltdown. By 'we', I don't mean the toddler in our household. I mean me.
My significant other's daughter had been away overseas for what seemed like a long time. Any time away from your child is a long time, but this had felt like an age, and so on the night of her return I wanted everything to be perfect. His Majesty had mentioned earlier in the week that my veggies were looking wonderful. (Awwwww, blush. I am rather fond of my vegetable patch!)
His Majesty mentioned that he loved a good stir fry, especially with the Kantong jar sauces. Now, I am not normally a 'jar' person. I think that they are overpriced, under favoured, overly salty almost foods, that are really only a step away from popping into the car and driving to the noodle place, BUT, I thought I would give it a go, and appease my inner 1950s house wife. Did I also mention that I don't actually like Chinese food? I know, how very un-Australian of me!
So, I went to buy noodles. Vermicelli is Chinese, right? And jars. All different flavours. And vegetables. Expensive vegetables, to compliment the perfectly good, healthy, fresh and free ones in the garden. Make sense? Can you see how I am setting myself up for disaster?
So, I start cooking. Lots of veggies. Whole packet of noodles. Cook them to long? They will be fine. Make Peanut Butter biscuits for after dinner? Why not, I am Supermum! I CAN DO ANYTHING! Started cooking to early, don't stress, I will just simmer it longer. Noodles looking a little starchy, but they will be fine. Seems like a lot of veggies? Oh well, sauce will cover it. Right. (Looks a little odd) NEVER MIND, COOKIES IN OVEN, GO AWAY SMALL CHILD, MUMMY IS COOKING, OH MY GOD, THEY'RE HOME!
Kisses, Cuddles, Happy faces, I mix the noodles with the veggies and sauce. Hmmmm, not enough sauce. Okay, ummmmm, add another jar. Chinese BBQ and Honey Soy go together right? In it goes anyway. Noodles are giving off a lot of water....ummmm, serve anyway?
And I did.
His Majesty took a bite, and looked up at me sideways. I admitted it wasn't very good, and he tried to make a joke about how truly terrible it was. Maybe it would make good compost? We would make some Asian worms happy? Something like that. Of course, I did what any rational person would do and burst into tears.
Cuddles and love, don't stress, don't stress, okay, vegemite sandwiches all round, thank you kisses, semblance of sanity returns. Feeling useless and disempowered, I go to do pull the biscuits out of the oven. Now, biscuits I CAN DO, and I know these will be awesome. I will redeem myself as domestic goddess and be in control and master of my domain once again. Kitchen mitt, grab tray, turn and trip over.
The warm, peanutty, perfectly round and golden brown biscuits crumbled into a thousand pieces as they hit the stove top and my vision of creating a perfect evening shatters.
I snapped, turning the now-empty tray over in my hand and slamming it into the useless pieces. Bang. I screamed. An ear-piercing scream that scared my girls and sent my darlng other half sprinting into the kitchen in a panic. And then, embarrassed, shamefaced and very, very upset, I ran for my bed where I cried and cried and cried. Tiny voices echoed from the playroom; 'Your Mummy's crying' 'What's wrong with Mummy?' Not, I am not alright, but I cannot actually tell you what is wrong. It's not really to do with the food at all, but all about how I feel about myself, as a person, and as a mother.
It took me a very long while to calm down and it's not really something I am very proud of. I don't like feeling stupid and useless, because I am not. Why couldn't I just not care? It was only food. I had based my idea of perfection and my own self concept as a partner and a mother around 'things'. I was using unrealistic expectations as the goal posts and allowed myself to fall apart when I fell short. And when it all boils down to it, what I already had, was perfect. As soon as my family were all together again, we were already complete, and a round of vegemite sandwiches could not ruin that.
As soon as Ava asked me 'Mummy, What's wrong?' with big, sad eyes, and hugged me hard when I answered that I was sad, I knew that I had screwed up. It wasn't the dinner, but it was where all my energy had been for the entire evening. My precious, precious jewells are my loved ones, and I had forgotten that in my own minds race to be perfect...
....and who actually has a toddler who eats silverbeet anyway?
My significant other's daughter had been away overseas for what seemed like a long time. Any time away from your child is a long time, but this had felt like an age, and so on the night of her return I wanted everything to be perfect. His Majesty had mentioned earlier in the week that my veggies were looking wonderful. (Awwwww, blush. I am rather fond of my vegetable patch!)
So, I went to buy noodles. Vermicelli is Chinese, right? And jars. All different flavours. And vegetables. Expensive vegetables, to compliment the perfectly good, healthy, fresh and free ones in the garden. Make sense? Can you see how I am setting myself up for disaster?
So, I start cooking. Lots of veggies. Whole packet of noodles. Cook them to long? They will be fine. Make Peanut Butter biscuits for after dinner? Why not, I am Supermum! I CAN DO ANYTHING! Started cooking to early, don't stress, I will just simmer it longer. Noodles looking a little starchy, but they will be fine. Seems like a lot of veggies? Oh well, sauce will cover it. Right. (Looks a little odd) NEVER MIND, COOKIES IN OVEN, GO AWAY SMALL CHILD, MUMMY IS COOKING, OH MY GOD, THEY'RE HOME!
Kisses, Cuddles, Happy faces, I mix the noodles with the veggies and sauce. Hmmmm, not enough sauce. Okay, ummmmm, add another jar. Chinese BBQ and Honey Soy go together right? In it goes anyway. Noodles are giving off a lot of water....ummmm, serve anyway?
And I did.
His Majesty took a bite, and looked up at me sideways. I admitted it wasn't very good, and he tried to make a joke about how truly terrible it was. Maybe it would make good compost? We would make some Asian worms happy? Something like that. Of course, I did what any rational person would do and burst into tears.
Cuddles and love, don't stress, don't stress, okay, vegemite sandwiches all round, thank you kisses, semblance of sanity returns. Feeling useless and disempowered, I go to do pull the biscuits out of the oven. Now, biscuits I CAN DO, and I know these will be awesome. I will redeem myself as domestic goddess and be in control and master of my domain once again. Kitchen mitt, grab tray, turn and trip over.
The warm, peanutty, perfectly round and golden brown biscuits crumbled into a thousand pieces as they hit the stove top and my vision of creating a perfect evening shatters.
I snapped, turning the now-empty tray over in my hand and slamming it into the useless pieces. Bang. I screamed. An ear-piercing scream that scared my girls and sent my darlng other half sprinting into the kitchen in a panic. And then, embarrassed, shamefaced and very, very upset, I ran for my bed where I cried and cried and cried. Tiny voices echoed from the playroom; 'Your Mummy's crying' 'What's wrong with Mummy?' Not, I am not alright, but I cannot actually tell you what is wrong. It's not really to do with the food at all, but all about how I feel about myself, as a person, and as a mother.
It took me a very long while to calm down and it's not really something I am very proud of. I don't like feeling stupid and useless, because I am not. Why couldn't I just not care? It was only food. I had based my idea of perfection and my own self concept as a partner and a mother around 'things'. I was using unrealistic expectations as the goal posts and allowed myself to fall apart when I fell short. And when it all boils down to it, what I already had, was perfect. As soon as my family were all together again, we were already complete, and a round of vegemite sandwiches could not ruin that.
As soon as Ava asked me 'Mummy, What's wrong?' with big, sad eyes, and hugged me hard when I answered that I was sad, I knew that I had screwed up. It wasn't the dinner, but it was where all my energy had been for the entire evening. My precious, precious jewells are my loved ones, and I had forgotten that in my own minds race to be perfect...
....and who actually has a toddler who eats silverbeet anyway?
Monday, October 4, 2010
I finally admit defeat....
House, you and the mess you produce every single day, you have defeated me. You are victorious....I have lost. In a single day, you get too messy for me to return you to your resting state, and over the last year, your resting state has become slightly organised choas.
Today, I admit defeat. I cannot keep my house perfect, although I would very much like to. So, I paid a husband and wife team to come and spring clean my house.
They arrived today and very quickly made themselves at home. Introductions, tour of home, list of what I wanted done. Then they scrubbed and polished and dusted and reorganised and all with frightening efficiency. Now it is sparkly and clean, every surface is wiped, every floor swept and mopped. I have no more guilt about my house being messy, because IT'S NOT!
Yet, I feel a but guilty and ashamed that I cannot 'keep' my own house. What is wrong with me? Why can I not keep a house clean? Am I lazy? Do I have messy habits? I also feel funny telling people about it. Some people have already given me the cats bum look and I know there must be people who think I am lazy.
BUT....I don't want to spend my holidays cleaning! I want to play with my little girl, and go on adventures and catch up with my friends! I spend my terms away from those I love, I want to absorb as much as I can during my time away from work.
Today, I admit defeat. I cannot keep my house perfect, although I would very much like to. So, I paid a husband and wife team to come and spring clean my house.
They arrived today and very quickly made themselves at home. Introductions, tour of home, list of what I wanted done. Then they scrubbed and polished and dusted and reorganised and all with frightening efficiency. Now it is sparkly and clean, every surface is wiped, every floor swept and mopped. I have no more guilt about my house being messy, because IT'S NOT!
Yet, I feel a but guilty and ashamed that I cannot 'keep' my own house. What is wrong with me? Why can I not keep a house clean? Am I lazy? Do I have messy habits? I also feel funny telling people about it. Some people have already given me the cats bum look and I know there must be people who think I am lazy.
BUT....I don't want to spend my holidays cleaning! I want to play with my little girl, and go on adventures and catch up with my friends! I spend my terms away from those I love, I want to absorb as much as I can during my time away from work.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Friday, October 1, 2010
Out of the Mouths of Babes...
Ava is mostly in knickers these days. At 2 and 3 months, I am quite impressed with myself, although my mother swears that when my sister and I were babies, we were in knickers full time at one. My mother forgets that she stayed home full time and that I spend most of my days dealing with other peoples children whilst well-meaning, educated strangers play with, toilet, put to bed and feed my child. Oopsy. Maternal guilt? I think so.
So days revolve around questions that should embarrass me.
"Do you need to do wee? No? Poo? No? Are you wet? Did you use the toilet? Are knickers for wees?" and so on and so forth.
Today we were walking though the shopping centre, on my way to my weekly weigh in at the chemist. (another story altogether!) I ask
"Do you need to do wees?"
"Ahhhhhhh, ummmmmmmm.... Yeah."
Okay, luckily there is a small public toilet just off to our left. Ava has a pink sparkly handbag at the shops today with fairies on it, so she walks down the small hallway, singing away about fairies and sparkles and other fancies of hers. She starts to run, side to side, zig zagging and singing, and I realise that a woman is trying to get past.
Awkward, understanding smile. I say sorry, she smiles again, and direct Ava in a straight line towards the door. The woman holds the door open for us. I hold the next one open for her. We smile at each other again, shaking our heads at small children in general with mock exasperation.
The toilet comprises of two tiny cubicles, one of which we go into, the lady the other. Righty-ho, off pants, off knickers, position tiny 2 year old on seat, make sure she doesn't fall in. Time for wee.
Me: " Do your wee, Ava"
Ava: " Come on wee, come one!" (she crooks her finger and keeps calling, like in the old cartoons. Who taught her that?!)
Me: You doing wees?
Ava: No. (uncomfortable silence whilst we wait.)
It's not a common thing to talk about what you hear inside public toilets, when people you don't know are using the same facilities as you. Women are mortified of it, men accept it as normal.
Ava: Mummy, she's doing poos!
Me: (Oh my God! Damage control...) You need to do poos, sweetheart?
Ava: NooOOOOoooooo! LISTEN!
At this point Ava leaned over and banged, hard, on the cubicle divider. It echoed around the tiny toilet like a gun shot in the very awkward silence.
Ava: The lady Mummy, she's doing poos. Over there.
Me: (using my "dangerous whisper") Okay. Fine. Have you done wees yet?
Ava: Can't.
OF COURSE the lady opened her door at EXACTLY THE SAME TIME as we did, washed her hands and left when we did. My face glowed red, like a beacon, the entire time, pointing me out. HERE SHE IS! HER DAUGHTER TALKED ABOUT YOUR POO! SHAMEFUL WOMAN! HOW DARE SHE UPSET THE DELICATE SOCIETAL BALANCE!
There you go, Mike. Another blog about poo.
So days revolve around questions that should embarrass me.
"Do you need to do wee? No? Poo? No? Are you wet? Did you use the toilet? Are knickers for wees?" and so on and so forth.
Today we were walking though the shopping centre, on my way to my weekly weigh in at the chemist. (another story altogether!) I ask
"Do you need to do wees?"
"Ahhhhhhh, ummmmmmmm.... Yeah."
Okay, luckily there is a small public toilet just off to our left. Ava has a pink sparkly handbag at the shops today with fairies on it, so she walks down the small hallway, singing away about fairies and sparkles and other fancies of hers. She starts to run, side to side, zig zagging and singing, and I realise that a woman is trying to get past.
Awkward, understanding smile. I say sorry, she smiles again, and direct Ava in a straight line towards the door. The woman holds the door open for us. I hold the next one open for her. We smile at each other again, shaking our heads at small children in general with mock exasperation.
The toilet comprises of two tiny cubicles, one of which we go into, the lady the other. Righty-ho, off pants, off knickers, position tiny 2 year old on seat, make sure she doesn't fall in. Time for wee.
Me: " Do your wee, Ava"
Ava: " Come on wee, come one!" (she crooks her finger and keeps calling, like in the old cartoons. Who taught her that?!)
Me: You doing wees?
Ava: No. (uncomfortable silence whilst we wait.)
It's not a common thing to talk about what you hear inside public toilets, when people you don't know are using the same facilities as you. Women are mortified of it, men accept it as normal.
Ava: Mummy, she's doing poos!
Me: (Oh my God! Damage control...) You need to do poos, sweetheart?
Ava: NooOOOOoooooo! LISTEN!
At this point Ava leaned over and banged, hard, on the cubicle divider. It echoed around the tiny toilet like a gun shot in the very awkward silence.
Ava: The lady Mummy, she's doing poos. Over there.
Me: (using my "dangerous whisper") Okay. Fine. Have you done wees yet?
Ava: Can't.
OF COURSE the lady opened her door at EXACTLY THE SAME TIME as we did, washed her hands and left when we did. My face glowed red, like a beacon, the entire time, pointing me out. HERE SHE IS! HER DAUGHTER TALKED ABOUT YOUR POO! SHAMEFUL WOMAN! HOW DARE SHE UPSET THE DELICATE SOCIETAL BALANCE!
There you go, Mike. Another blog about poo.
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