Where do babies come from #4

{har har har …..}

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Back to school ….

Last year there was a Cape Town Blog Hook-Up, arranged by several bloggers, one of them being Natasha over at Raising Men.

Lovely evening – me in a room full of people, but I did know a few people who made me feel slightly better.

There were some great prizes given out on the night.  And being lucky, I won a course at Friends of Design – I must confess at the time I really wanted the year’s supply of Pringles.

But those would have been long gone and I would have had only a few Pringles tins to show for it.

I decided to use my one freebie course and also do two more, so that I do a Web Design Course consisting of three modules: Adobe Flash, HTML/CSS Essential Skills and WordPress Essential Skills.

I started last night and got to sit in my first Flash course – granted I spent 15 minutes getting myself lost as I could not find the school, but enough about me being an idiot.

Not flash like run across a field and expose yourself, though there are similarities.

So look at me going all unemployed student on you.

But yay for the folks at Friends of Design.

Monday morning and emergency rooms …

This morning was a pretty “classic” Monday morning.

You know the one where you wake up and then you plan on things going a certain way, and then next thing you realise almost nothing has gone to your plan.

Kids are doing the normal fighting and blubbering that has become standard fare for all mornings.

Jackson, my cat is available, so I get his cat box and try to herd him into the cat box so he can go to the Groom Room for a bath and a brush out.   Seemed easy enough, but the girls were fighting with Connor as he tried to keep the door closed {so the cat would not get out} and the girls were screaming they wanted it open, and there is Connor trying his best to get big cat into small box.

That done, it was get everyone in to the car, and the cat box.  Okay, all seems sorted.  I notice my flashing petrol gauge light and know I need to stop for petrol.

Went to drop Connor and Georgia off – I leave them at school.  Glance at my petrol gauge, and think, okay let me get to the Groom Room, drop Jackson, then I can stop for petrol.  I still have Isabelle with me so need to get her to school still.

I get a call from Teacher Lizette.

“Georgia has had an accident.   She is bleeding quite a lot and I think she might need stitches.  I am a bit afraid with the amount of blood there is….”

Me: “er …. right, I will be there in about 10 minutes…”

Drop Jackson off – which was more of a tuck and roll, than actually stopping the car and delivering him to the parlour.  I am sure he will be fine, and he has another 7 lives left, so it will be okay.

I speed off back to Georgia’s school – still with Isabelle, who by this point has started to get upset because we are not following the standard format of the morning and getting her dropped off at her school. Instead I seem to have driven all over the freaking peninsula and she is still trapped in the backseat, and she is starting to get really crinchy at this point.

Arrive at Georgia’s school – find her.  Crikey she looks like she has been on the wrong end of a domestic dispute.  Wow, she really looked grim – swollen lip, what appears to be broken teeth/tooth, bruised chin, cut on the inside of her now swollen lip and a cut on the outside of her lip.

So it is all blood, and gore and no way I could clearly gauge exactly where it was coming from.

What to do when unsure?  Pack up and head to the nearest Medi Clinic me thinks.

Georgia in car, high tail it to Isabelle’s school, could not think of dragging her along to the hospital.  Dropped Isabelle, back in the car, still ignoring the “good gawd your car needs petrol” light and think, okay I must deal with that, but let’s get Georgia sorted.

To the hospital, the usual wait in the uncomfortable lounge area, and this always leaves me wondering that if this is a long wait, how much longer must it be if I was at a government institution?

Finally got Georgia to see a doctor.  By now most of the blood seems to have stopped.  It was now obvious that the cut on the outside of her mouth would need stitches/pritt glue and would leave a scar.

Her one tooth looks like it is a blood tooth.  So the doctor patched her up, gave her some pain killers, glue-patched the cut and sent us on our way.

I thought I would stop at McDonalds as Georgia wanted an ice-cream and at that point I would have given her pretty much anything – she had been awfully brave at the emergency room.

Finished, then stopped at the chemist to fill the script.  I was nattering to Georgia about what she was going to do at home, and forgot about the petrol light.

About 50 metres from my house my car decided that it was no longer going to take my crap where I ignore his/her demands about petrol, and decided after splutter-splutter-choke it was just going to die and that was the end of it – it does not run out of petrol, as opposed to just decide to stop.

Fortunately it was walking distance from home.  Unfortunately there is no petrol in my car.  I might have to walk down to the local garage with 3 – 5 empty wine bottles and ask them to put petrol in it so I can fill my car and get to a petrol station and then put in a real amount of petrol.

On the upside at least it is near home, and well, that is really the only upside.

Extra brilliant Yummy Clothing Sale – Cape Town

What with being unemployed, and overdrawn on all my accounts, now probably is not the right time to go cloth shopping.

Probably the worst in fact.

I am not known for my brilliant ideas or plans, so with that in mind I brushed my teeth, put on clean underwear {always wear clean underwear, you never know what might happen, and you want to be prepared, your mom was right about that piece of advise} and headed out to Cape Union Mart at Access Park {Chichester Road, Kenilworth}.

I heard they were having a 50% sale off Women’s Poetry and Old Khaki Clothing.  50% off already marked down prices.  I was suspicious that this would still mean reams of stuff that was still expensive, but decided to take my pessimistic self down there anyway.

I thought I might do a cursory stop by, as I really did not need anything – my wardrobe was still groaning from the last sale.

I tend to opt for two approaches when I shop.  Approach 1 : I am going to purchase the item that I want, and the price is insignificant.  Approach 2 : I pick up an item, and the cost needs to be what I consider “far below what I would normally pay for it” for me to purchase it.

Approach 1 is for items that I am going to purchase regardless of cost, as it is what I want, and really that is the only motivation.

Approach 2 is for items that I don’t actually need, and if I stand and smell them for long enough (I smell items in stores, I am THAT person) then I purchase it if the prices is what I consider a really great price.

I arrived at the sale, resolve in hand, and unfortunately once I started browsing, I loading my arms with as much as I could carry.

I was not quite sure how I was going to pay for this lot, but it appears the g*ds at Standard Bank were good to me, and allowed me to withdraw even more cash against my already bleeding overdraft – but I will need to find another way to pay for petrol to put in my car if I plan to drive it anywhere for the balance of the month.

The flashing light on my petrol guage has decided to stop flashing at me – as it has realised I am just going to continue to ignore it anyway.

I walked out {to clarify, after paying} with 1 very woolly, very warm jersey, 5 shirts of varying type – mostly Poetry stuff – and  1 jersey you would wear over a light vest/shirt {which I am doing today, I do love wearing new clothes straight out of the bag}.

It’s a really good sale – you can purchase stuff for Mother’s Day coming up, which is a win, much rather have a Poetry jersey, or shirt than a crappy heart shaped soap set!!.

The one Poetry shirt was R299.00 retail, it had been reduced to R199, then R150.00 and as this was a 50% sale off sale stock, I paid R75.00.  That is much more in my price range – and makes me all sorts of happy.

Sale runs whilst stock lasts and the sale assistant said they get new stock in each day – so if you have a few rand to burn, pop along to Cape Union Mart Outlet Store, Unit B35, Access Park, Chichester Road, Kenilworth, 021 674 6398.

For sanity sake, leave the kids at home {and the husband actually} – wear a vest, or snug fitting shirt so that you can try stuff on in store rather than having to nip into the changing rooms as there are two and they get a bit manic.

Extra idea : take along an empty shoulder bag where you can drop merchandise in to free up your hands to find more stuff, and that way you have your phone/wallet in your pocket, and bag over shoulder to stuff with stuff to buy, so that you are organised when you get to the till.

Good sale, you can find some yummy stuff for Winter!!  Enjoy!

When the talking never stops ….

Georgia can talk the hindlegs of a donkey.

The donkey will willingly give up his hindlegs in the hope that she will stop.  I often hope I could be a donkey when she starts talking, just so I could walk off and go and eat grass or something.

Driving home yesterday, Georgia started the story based on the fact that her plaster had come off her knee.  She wanted to keep the old plaster, get a cardboard box, paint the plaster and turn into into grass, and cut out a tree, and make a house …… and…blah blah … blah …. cow and ……and…blah blah … blah …. another house and…blah blah … blah …. princess….. and…blah blah … blah …. and it went on and on and on …….

I had no idea that an old tattered plaster had this much story in it.

Eventually, after the blood started seeping out my ears I said: Georgia, Georgia, Georgia ……GEORGIA! When do you stop talking …. for goodness sake, you have not stopped since I put you in this car …… when do you stop?

Georgia: When my story is finished ………. and then I will get a box and cut out a tree  and…blah blah … blah ….

Little Face ….

I have read two books from Sophie Hannah and they were brilliant.  She writes brilliantly, and the best thing about her books is that “I don’t see it coming.”

I have been wanting to read “Little Face by Sophie Hannah” for some how never seem to see the book at a bookstore.  I saw a copy yesterday at my local “cheap and cheerful” bookstore and grabbed it. Cost R59.50.

Started reading it yesterday, and to say it was briliant would be a key understatement.

The short of it {no spoil alert needed} is a first time mom, Alice, gives birth to her baby following a complicated labour, and an emergency caesarian section.

Within the first two weeks of Alice being home with her new daughter Florence, she walks in to the nursery and a nightmare presents itself.

The baby lying in the cot is not Florence.  It is not the daughter Alice delivered. Alice is trying to convince her husband, her mother in law, and the police that her baby is missing, this usurper is not her Florence.

Cheese and vegetables, this is a great book.  I am not going to give anything away, except that this is a chilling, fast paced book.

Before you know it you are swept up in this gripping story.  The characters are a bit two dimensional, and I did feel the “police backstory” took away from the main story – and the characters were a bit extreme to be realisic, but this withstanding, it is still a great read.

Short’ish book – 357 pages, so you can kick it in a day or two and once you throw yourself in to it, you will tend to stop eating. drinking, using the shower until you have finished this book.

I dropped the kids off this morning, and had the book in my bag.  I had the last 27 pages to read, and I parked outside of Isabelle’s school after I dropped her off, and sat in my car absolutely soaking up this book.

Yike a doodle, it is a good one.

Where do babies come from #3

I am not sure anyone could have put it better than Calvin and Hobbes ….

The Choking Game …

I am amazed at how an innocent drive to drop kids off at school, can add another item to my list of things to worry about regarding my kids.

This subject was totally out of the blue – I flicked a radio channel and heard it as I was going past, and thought “hey what the fk…” or I said “goodness me, what is that…” = you pick the one that sits better with you.

There is a “game” that is rampant enough to warrant a local website and an organisation.  Yes, I am scared!  Never heard of this one before.

This is a ‘game’ where one child makes themself ‘pass out’ – or ‘self asphyxiate’.  Kids choke themselves or have a friend choke them.  For fun.

It can kill them—  it appears to be more common than I realised.  According to the report if I think my kids are not playing this, or there are kids at my kids school who are not already playing this game, then I need to dig my head out of the hole and face reality.

What??? or What the Fk??

This game cuts off the oxygen/blood supply to the brain leaves those who participate in it feeling an ‘altered state’ when they start to become conscious.  Kids are doing this for shits and giggles.

And you thought that the only thing you needed to worry about was Pokemons or your kid listening to Kurt Darren!

As the child lays on the floor ‘twitching’ it is a sign that their brain is having a seizure – the body releases all sorts of chemicals (adrenaline, etc) so that the body hopefully survives.  The release of all the chemicals creates a “high” – this high is addictive, either as a must have, or that is a cool party trick to do with a great feeling side effect.

I’ll say it again “what the fk?”

It often begins with high-achieving teens choking each other as a way to get high without the risk of getting caught with drugs or alcohol. It ends with thousands of kids dying or suffering permanent brain damage each year.

My mouth is hanging open at the concept of “the choking game” existing – what the hell is happening.  I am disturbed that there is yet another thing to add to my list of things to shit in my pants and worry about.

Do I raise this subject with my kids, or do I quietly burrow my head in the sand and ignore it and hope {and pray} that it never darkens my door …… this is a foreign concept in my neck of the woods, I think I might rather discuss o*sex with my kids as a subject than this one.

In all my things I knew to worry about, none of the baby books mentioned this as something I would need to cover.

Resources in the event that this is a new concept to you as well:-

http://chokinggame.co.za/

http://gaspinfo.com/en/home.html

Driving kids back from school ….

I have lamented this subject before — not too long ago, but cheese and rice seriously I cannot be the only parent who feels that this is really the short end of the stick.  This is the stimoral that gets stuck in the pubic hairs shit end of the deal.

I collect the kids from school most days.

Most days I get about 2 minutes into the drive home with them, and then I already start wondering if I drove headlong in to traffic, could I die, but they live?  I do not necessarily want to off them, but sure as shit I want to make it a sure thing that I do not want to spend an hour inside a car’s interior with three kids screaming.

Today’s things to fight about – included, but were not limited to:

1. Isabelle found easter eggs in her bag and ate them.

2.  Georgia started screaming because she wanted easter eggs and there were none in her bag.

3.  Isabelle threw the foil paper on the floor, I screamed at her, she screamed at me – she won.

4.  Georgia was upset that her flip-flop had ended up between Isabelle and Isabelle’s car door – and wanted me to get it back.  How the shoe got from Georgia’s foot to the other side of the car is a mystery.  I was attempting to navigate through peak hour traffic, so was somewhat distracted.  Georgia screamed she wanted her shoe back, Isabelle screamed as she did not want Georgia’s shoe on her side of the car.

5.  Connor sniffed incessantly.  I passed him a tissue.

6.  Georgia explained to me that she no longer wanted sandwiches for school, she wanted other snacks – I explained to her that she needed to take this issue up with her father as he was now stocking the “goody cupboard.”

7.  Connor explained he had a headached and continued to sniff.

8.  Georgia asked if we could stop dinner half way and then give her medicine, and then continue to eat supper.

9.  Isabelle was holding up her spare pair of khaki shorts, which I packed in her school bag, and screaming at me.  I have no idea why, but she was screaming, and I kept yelling back YES, YES, YES, and still am unclear what it is that she wanted to show me.

10. Connor asked me if I had anything to drink in the car, he was hot and thirsty.  I explained my bar fridge had not been fitted as yet, but I was making a plan as we spoke.

11.  Georgia was complaining she could not open the window and it was Connor’s fault.  Connor was feigning innocence – LOUDLY.

12.  I think that Isabelle was trying to show me the butterfly embroidery on her khaki shorts – I started to scream BUTTERFLIES YES, BUTTERFLIES YES ….. I am not sure exactly what it was that I was meant to be saying.

The thing is that the car drive with the kids finishes me off –  like totally fucking kills me.

I pick them up and always plan “this day will be different” but before I have safely navigated out the school gates it all starts, and then I totally lose the plot.

I know there is a law against using cell phones whilst driving, but clearly who ever made that law has not been a mother in a car full of children.  Trust me, talking on a cell phone would be the least of my problems, if only the kids would be quiet long enough so I could hear what the person was saying on the other end.

FML!

Life’s Little Magic 8 Ball ….

 

I found this site some time ago, and it reminded me of one of those “magic eight balls” that you shake and it always gives you the right answer.

There are so many pearls of wisdom on this site that it is hard to find one that really stands out above the other.  But truly this one could be my t-shirt/spoon/bad ornamental plate of the day “you can’t polish a fucking turd” — say it a few times, you suddenly realise it is actually quite deep and meaningful and you can use it in so many situations.

Cheers chicks and china-beans …..

Yes, today is not exactly the highpoint of my week, but any the who, such it is – I did lie in bed this morning wondering if I could just skip today — all together.  There  is not too much I can do {falls flaying to the ground….} other than get up, brush your teeth, look at your fine mane of hair, and put your big girl panties on, and suck it the fk up!

I do appreciate the words of wisdom, and general back patting that has gone on following my last post – it is much appreciated, and even though I wince at clichés sometimes it is quite nice to hear the much used, but well-regarded “closed doors mean new doors open” vibe.

All very kumba-ya-m’lord …. so thanks, really, thanks –  a girl sometimes needs a bit of upbeat to feel better about her shit.

I don’t really have a plan at the moment as to what I will be doing tomorrow or next week, but I thought I would take today, maybe tomorrow, maybe even the next day and take a deep breath and read my book a bit, then see what happens.

The “nervous and anxious” part of me wants to run around the room like a headless chicken screaming “the sky, the sky, it’s falling in!”

The lazy-lie-on-the-couch-wine-swilling-oaf wants to click her heels in glee that she gets to finish “World without End” by Ken Follett.  I am on page 553 of this 1237 page monster, and I am truly loving every moment, so that is about all that is on my IMMEDIATE horizon.

Tomorrow I can deal with tomorrow, or maybe the day after tomorrow.

Today I plan to eat a drive through McDonald’s meal with a coke light {you know it balances itself out} and read my book a bit – that is what I have planned, anything after that is a surprise.  For both you and me.

Side bar >> I really am having that dilemma about whether I stand up from my cubicle and say something like “Cheerio my beeatches – catch you on the flip side” and make a dramatic exit – or whether I quietly slip out while everyone is out on lunch – thus avoiding the really uncomfortable “bye, keep well” “I am sure it is for the best” “You will see you will find something better” “Hey, keep in touch” “I am going to miss you — all the best hey” or what ever variation there is on any of those key “get the fk out the office door” phrases.

Odds are, I will opt for the silent exit, and in about four weeks someone will look up and go – “Where is that slightly unstable person, with the wild eyes and intense frown who used to sit over in the orange cubicle?  If she is gone, can I get her parking bay?”

Yep, I think I will avoid all the hugging and kissing and awkward moments as I quietly slip out the door.

What rhymes with retrenchment?

I have already been through three retrenchments, and they were all pretty sucky.

There is something devastating about sitting on a couch/around a boardroom table and being told your services are no longer required.

Granted there are several ways of delivering this bit of news, but the reality is that no matter how it is done, it is just pretty shite being on the receiving end.

I got to hear it again last week.

I am retrenched/redundant/unemployed and I feel ill enough to want to throw up.  Once the penny dropped and I fully “understood” what was going on, I started to move through a few stages of “The Initial Shock of being Retrenched…”

Mine appear to loosely follow this progression.

Stage 1:  Sitting quietly and trying to take it all in {whilst the voices are screaming}.

Stage 2:  Starting to doubt you are hearing correctly.  An overwhelming urge to shake your head, put your head to the side, and smack your ears because you think that somehow there is a wax blockage in your ears that makes you hear “you are being retrenched” incorrectly.

Stage 3 : Trying to compose your face in a look of mild interest, and at the same time, nodding at the correct times.  When in actual fact you want to throw yourself on the floor, sob like a three-year old and grab the leg of the person who is busy going through there “you are retrenched” script and beg them for the love of gd to reconsider.

Stage 4 : Wondering if you can say something at this juncture that will change the outcome of this conversation. {So the person is speaking and you have stopped listening and you are desperately scrambling for something to say that will change where this conversation is going.}

Stage 5 : Wondering who else knows — are you the only one being retrenched —- who else knew and did not tell you?  The sense of suspicion towards everyone begins to creep through.

Stage 6 : You know the person delivering their script is winding to a close, and now you are going to be this awkward person sitting on the couch, when in reality you need to go and get your cup, and your wire giraffe and leave the premises {after the mandatory body cavity search of course}.

Stage 7 : You suddenly feel really bad for the person/people who are having to convey this rather kak news.  You realise that they are probably feeling pretty shite, so you shelve the fact that you want to burst in to tears, and beg forgiveness, and instead try to act in a way that makes them feel less bad.

Stage 8 : The moment you realise the inevitable.  You are being retrenched.  All the big decisions have been made, and at this point you are really just being brought up to speed.  Nothing you can say or do, at this juncture will change what is going to happen.

Stage 9 : Your brain wonders whether claiming UIF is a possibility, your brain quickly works out what school fees are and whether you should home school to save monety.  You have already worked out what you will write on your cardboard sign which you can stand in the traffic and display “Help, three children to feed, no job, please help, gd bless!” or something of a similar ilk.

Stage 10 : The embarrassment washes over you that you have been retrenched, and you feel a bit (very) rejected, and think “Fuck again!  Again, really again – aah fuck!”  {I would love to be a retrenchment virgin, but it appears I am well on my way to being a retrenchment slut.}

I have moved through these 10 stages, and am in the stage of anger/denial/crazy worry …. and so much more ….. so this weeks sucks chunks.

Where do babies come from #2

The c-section explanation …

Quick to judge YOUR parenting skills …

I often sit in judgement when I watch parents cave in to their child’s tantrum.

I squint my eyes a little, purse my mouth, and I think “you really need to get control of that child, you are making your life really hard…” and then I tut-tut-tut and take another sip of my wine, as I feel rather self-righteous, because I clearly have this taped.

Snort. Snort.

This morning Isabelle asked for some watermelon for school.

Isabelle does not talk, so I had to work through several permutations until I got to what she wanted from me.  I could be the horse whisperer at my ability to put together sounds and movement to come out with Watermelon, I even impress myself some days.

I put the watermelon into a little addis lunch box, and sealed the lid.

I thought that this might tip open in her bag, so I wrapped the lunch box in a layer of cling film, to ensure the contents remained the contents of the box and not loose watermelon all over her bag.

G0od idea.

Isabelle disagreed.

She went mental.  Like apocalyptic mental.

Stamped her feet, screamed in a shrill ear-piercing voice, and gesticulated wildly.

I looked down at her, looked at my cling wrap handy work, looked back at her, thought “okay this child is seriously throwing a wobbly…”

Me:  Isabelle, stop, it is fine, let’s put it in your bag.

It was a bit like throwing paraffin onto a fire, she went more mental.  SCREAMING.

I could see the rather shocked expression on Priviledge (the maid’s) face.

I tried to reassure Isabelle, I used my strong mommy voice.  I used my mommy is in charge voice.  Then I used my threatening mommy in charge voice.  Then I used my mommy who has made a plan voice (sounds a little like McGyver from the 80’s).  Then I used my calm the hell down mommy voice. Then I used my please please please please let me do it this way voice.  I resorted to my mommy is very disappointed in you voice.

The only reaction from Isabelle was further feet stamping, higher pitch and louder voice, and still more gesticulation.

In the end I took the lunchbox out of her bag, took the clingwrap off, checked it was sealed correctly and put it back in her bag.

Isabelle immediately stopped her tantrum.  She pointed to her nose to indicate I needed to bring a tissue and wipe her nose as she had snot on her top lip, and did not like that.

I dutifully followed her prompt.

She put her little school bag on, looked at me knowingly just to ensure we were all clear on who wore the big girl panties in this relationship and then went on her way to school.

My two year old has me absolutely whipped!  I might try balancing a doggy treat on my nose next.

Suicide hour …..

I am probably one of the least patient mothers that have been put on this earth, but the two things that really make me doubt my sanity, and seriously wonder if I could throw myself under a train, is suicide hour and suicide hour.

The time between 5 and 7pm strikes the fear of gawd in to me.

I think if you are reading this and feel in any way like procreation, can I suggest you come and sit on the couch at mine for the 5 – 7pm shift.

The kids are tired, I am tired.

I want them to eat, get clean, pack bags, check homework, check homework list, realise I have not had the time to bake the dozen cupcakes the PTA has requested, remembered that I have totally forgotten about my 8am meeting, that all I want to do is drink 3 {large} glasses of wine, and get in to bed with an episode of Downton Abbey.

What awaits me instead is two excruciating hours of screaming, crying and hair pulling – and that is just my reaction the two-hour slot.

My kids at this point have come home from school. I have already been trapped inside a car interior with them, and the fighting, arguing, name calling and SCREAMING has been alive and well for a full hour.  I have already considered dropping them in Parow and making them walk home>

I get home – I do not climb out of the car as much as I throw myself to the safety of the floor in the garage.

I have wild fantasies of knocking myself out and being allowed to lie there and sleep for the next 2 – 3 hours.  Imagine waking up from a concussion to find your kids in bed, clean, fed, teeth brushed, and all the school things done.  Give me one of those concussions any day.

Instead, I do not get a concussion, just a graze on my chin, and then two hours of hell and a sore chin.

The hour in the car has already made me somewhat weary of my children.  I start thinking of those fucking happy mothers who are always updating their stupid Facebook Statuses on how happy Junior makes them – and they use phrases like “you complete me!”

At about this point, I have lost all patience and I have started to think awful graphic thoughts of those happy moms.

That being said the two hours does pass at some point – I have realised it does help to lubricate it with some Chenin Kak.

Lately I have realised that the two glasses of wine are a “must have” to be able to get through the “Classic Tales” bedtime story.

I am seriously starting to question the sense in all these stupid stories about the beautiful princess/pretty girl who has a prince fall in love with her at first sight.

Though for reasons of uncertainty cannot recognise her in the stark reality of daylight and needs to go around with a glass slipper to get every wench in the kingdom to try on a shoe.  She is meant to be the “most beautiful girl he has ever seen” but next day, zero recognition.

Am I the only person who finds the prince a bit of a problem?

Imagine spending all that time organising a pumpkin, six white rats and a fairy godmother to work make-up, hair and dress magic in less than 15 minutes, going to a party in glass shoes – which no matter how cute must be hellishly uncomfortable – meeting your prince, out smarting your step mother and your two ugly sisters.

Dancing all night and believing you have met your forever after.

Midnight strikes you need to dash, then as you wake the next morning to the idea of romance and ballrooms.

Your stupid Prince has not the sense to remember your name, where you live, your cell number, or what the hell you look like, so all he has to work with is finding someone to fit in your shoe – I mean seriously what the hell was he doing the entire time you were dancing with him and telling him about yourself?

Really – he remembers nothing!

After all that, the jerk’s only point of reference is the size of your foot?  I think this entire story smacks of a man with a foot fetish, and the inability to recognise people’s faces.

I think you must ask yourself, why is the prince not married before?  Why do his parents organise a dance for him to hook up?  Can this man not organise his own date – what is wrong with him that his parents need to step in for him?  Failure to launch, gay, needy, a mommy’s boy, the village idiot the result of inbreeding?  The options are pretty endless.

This entire story is fraught with problems.

I think the Prince has an undiagnosed case of Prosopagnosia – he clearly has a foot fetish and has the attention span of Dori.  If I was Cinderella I would call that Fairy Godmother back and chat to her about who else was on the market.

In the mean time, I will get back to organising my kids for a bath, and fighting with them to shovel spaghetti bolognaise in.

Small flirtation with co-sleeping ….

Isabelle has been a bit “off” lately.

Not a raging fever.  Not a rush to the ER.  But a runny nose, a slightly old-man-cough, and she tends to get a bit “throw a tantrum” more quickly than her normal turn around time – which even by my erratic parenting standards are a bit too often for sanity.

She really is a strong willed child, and I have realised I do things “because this will be eaiser for Isabelle” – loosely translated as “Isabelle is more likely not to throw a total shit fit if I do it this way, so I am going to, as I would like to avoid the shit fit if at all possible…”

This morning – I have no idea what time it was – I stumbled in to her bedroom as she was moaning {I think, in the bright light of day I have scant memories of the incident}.  I went to her, and she is old enough to get out of bed and follow me out the room.

Which places a parent at a distinct disadvantage when saying “Stay in your bed, or else!”

Somehow small blonde, cherub faces two year old pitter-pattering behind one does tend to blow one’s sails clean asunder.

I made an impromptu decision that it was easier to drag her in to my bed, than to stand and reason with her that staying in her bed for the remainder of the night was a possibility.

She snuggled in between Kennith and I, and we all fell asleep.  I fell into such a deep sleep I forgot that she was there.

This morning when I opened my eyes.  I felt this marshmallow-warmth and milky-breath next to me and there was Isabelle,  fast asleep.

I really can’t say I am overly pro co-sleeping, partly because it does not work for me.

I am too jealous of the peace, quiet and alone time  that bedtime/my bed conjures up after a mad chaotic day, and the idea of sharing it with a little person does very little for me.

That being said, it was such a nice warm fuzzy moment to wake up and have Isabelle neatly slotted in there next to me.

Cotton-candy marshmallow warm, sweet and squishy!

<isabelle will need botox injections early, she is always scowling and frowning …..>

Do fat kids make fat adults?

I saw a photograph recently on Facebook of a girl I knew from school.  I was a bit taken aback by how big she was.  I really should not have been so surprised as she was really big at school.

Let’s not use euphemisms, she was fat, and she is now a fat adult.  Fat is not a nice word.  I think “overweight” is the more politically correct term.

When I was at school I was supersized skinny.  If it was not for my hips, my head would have fallen through my arse.   I ate a fair amount, but I was really skinny – knobbly knees skinny in fact.

I inherited the height and build from my paternal side of the family, my maternal side are more squat in build.  Both my brothers and I are quite tall – not giraffe tall – but tall enough.

That being said, we did not exactly have access to huge amounts of food on demand when we were kids.  We entertained ourselves was by running around all day – so I guess it was a combination of factors.  The food coming in, the type and the amount versus the energy we were expending.

I hated being skinny and I got mercilessly taunted at school.    Kids are mean.  You put them in a peer group and they become a mob.  They look for the one they can pick on – for anything.  Body size – either side of “normal” is usually targetted.

When I was at school there was normally 1 kid in the class who was fat – maybe one in the grade.

You can always remember that kid.  It would often be the kid who was really funny, or the kid who really was a bully.  This kid would be the “butt” of nearly ever joke.

I cannot believe that these taunts do not affect a child’s sense of who they are and how the world sees them.  It must be devastating to be “the fat kid.”

When I drop my kids (especially Connor) at school I have noticed that the kids on average are big.  Not big-boned, but fat.  There are still a few skinny kids, and some “average” weighted kids, but there are a lot of kids who are just fat.

At a glance {and this is not a scientific study} I estimate it is about 20 % of the grade of the kids at my son/daughter’s school who are really big/fat/over weight kids.

The buttons on their shirts take a little strain, and the girls pinafore’s belt just just closes.  The have two little chins, and their legs are solid – one straight line, no real definition in terms of knees and ankles.  Usually their parents are big/fat/over weight ….. usually, but not always.

I am convinced that the size of a child has nothing to do with how many McDonald’s there are in your neighbourhood, or what thier highest score is on your Playstation, it comes down to what that child eats.  And if we are going to point fingers, what his parents are feeding him.

I often look at these kids and I think “what future is ahead of you?  Life is rough for everyone,  but for a fat kid, it must be excruciating!”

If you are fat when you are 6 or 10 years old, what will your weight and your health be at 20 or 25?  What is the stress on your joints and your body, and imagine all the running around and playing you are missing because you cannot keep up.

My guess is that unless your parents climb in now, with reckless abandon, that child is going to be a fat child, and then a fat teen and then a fat adult.

If one more person tells me their child is big-boned, I am going to smack them up the side of the head.

I think it is easy to blame society, the prevalence of fast foods, the more sedentary lifestyle we lead, global warming, or what ever.  But, as parents we really need to stop being “child blind” and see our kids for the weight they are – and our contribution to the problem.

As parents it is so easy to shrug your shoulder and sigh “what can I do, he really likes his food” but maybe that is not enough.

Possibly I am the only person who find “fat kids” really offensive – and a sign of questionable parenting – and feels sorry for how difficult their teenage years are going to be.

Being at school is brutal, and why as a parent would you knowingly add another factor which makes it difficult for a child to fit in.  It is a bit like painting a target on your child’s back and sending them out into the woods, with hunters about.

Where babies come from # 1

I do love Cyanide and Happiness …..