Scratchy

Myrtle and Eunice described them as 'scratchy' days. The ones where from the minute you wake up, life is difficult. Everything is noisy. Nothing goes to plan. You bump and claw and drag yourself though the entire day.

The children don't help.

On scratchy days the children are diabolical. The whinging alone is like fingers down a blackboard and then you can add the squabbling. They're like cats in a barn fighting for territory. You spend most of the morning sorting out a rumble over a doll that is tossed to the side within minutes. Everyone is crying because so and so touched them on the leg or walked near their room or used the purple texta. No one can sit still for more than five minutes so the house wriggles like a bag of maggots.

The walls close in.

You throw them outside to play. They stand on the back deck smearing at the glass doors begging to be taken away from this sunshiney, fresh-air prison. "We just want to draaaaaaaaw," they whinge. You open a window and toss out a box of crayons.

A quick lie down on the couch does nothing. You can hear them bleating outside through the glass and, let's face it, it's been a car crash of a morning and you're all scratchy too. A small tear escapes.

You drag yourself off the couch. It's an effort to stand.

You know what you have to do.

You throw a bottle of water and some apples into a bag. "Get your shoes on," you screech. Everyone gets bundled into the car and off you go. They fight like Tysons the entire way there and your head almost explodes from the effort of concentrating on the road. Fuck, you think, fucking fuckety fuck.

Once there, you all spill out of the car like curdled milk. There is a silent pause as you survey the grumpiness of each other. It's the first time they've stopped talking since sunrise. "Well, go on," you urge. "Let's go and have some fun".

You explore the fire trails, ride the flying fox, push the swing 127 times, slide down a slippery dip and play noughts and crosses. They climb a tree and laugh and play and delight in each others' company once more. There is only one scuffle over whose turn it is on the slippery dip (the bruises will heal). A slight breeze carries the scent of Spring and the sound of your laughter. Life is suddenly do-able.

Scratchiness. Only fresh air can cure it.

What do you do with scratchy days?

[Image found here]

This Saturday I'm grateful for... wharfs

Here in Maxabellaland, Saturday is traditionally a sport, shop, sort the clothes, sweep the floors, strangle the Tsunamis (insert other 's' words here - no pun intended) kinda day. But it's nice to pause to appreciate the things in your life that are positive and affirming, whatever they may be. I thought it might be nice for us all to do a Saturday Grateful post and link up for lovely bloggy visits.


This Saturday I'm grateful for...

1. Easy, breezy days. Nothing to particularly do. No one to particularly answer to. Particularly lovely.
 
2. Sand. You have kept my children amused for hours and hours over the years. I know I complain a lot about the fact that sometimes my house feels like an extension of the beach thanks to your gritty little self, but I really, really appreciate your input to playtime everywhere.
 
3. A wharf. Sitting on the dock of the bay, watching the tide rolling away. Sitting on the dock of the bay, wasting time. (Thank you Otis Reading.)
 

What's making you smile today? Join the linky and the pop over to other grateful bloggers to share a little sunshine on a cloudy day.

 

 
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Things I learned this week including how much I love a wedding (budget)

1. Winter is the perfect time for a swim. Going with my kids don't melt theme, on the first day of August we allowed them to strip off to their undies and wade into the (it has to be said) rather icy waters at Greenwell Point on Sunday. Swinging from the mangroves, wading knee deep to catch tiny crabs, the Tsunamis and their cousin were embracing their kidhood with a relish that made my heart sing.

2. A simple car game makes the journey go-'round. We played '500 points if you spot a yellow car' and the Tsunamis were quiet and happy for at least 50kms. Hardly any fights (luckily none of them can count past about 25 so we pretty much had the floor).

3. And frankly, there just aren't enough yellow cars on the road these days. Whatever happened to colour*, folks?

4. The fabulous Dawn over at Beat Until Fluffy taught me how to make Sweet Potato Cookies. I'm yet to bake them, but any treat incorporating hidden vegetables is a treat indeed.

5. Modern Family is my new best show. It never fails to crack me up. Now, I'm a bit nervous at how much I can relate to these crazy characters, but they're entertaining just the same.

6. Models should not speak. Ever. No good can come of it. Gisele Bundchen's ode to 'it's called labor not holiday' was so irritatingly smug I just want to throw her in her Prada nappy bag and run over her with a Bugaboo Pram. And be warned: she has a new blog.

7. People are so kind and forgiving. We took an extra day on Monday so we could stay with Gran and Pops a bit longer down the coast. I let the school know, I let the daycare know... I forgot to let the after-school care people know and I also forgot about The Slowest Boy in the World who Annabelle collects from after-school care on Mondays. A frantic call from TSBITW's mum at 5pm and the sudden realisation that TSBITW was still at after-school care as dark descended, had me worried that the support chain might be compromised. I needn't have worried, they saw the funny side. How I love them.

8. I love weddings. Now, hear me out. It's not about the big frocks, it's about the big budgets. I don't care what the bride wears, but I do care what stationery she chose and I'm more interested in how she did the tables than her hair (or the groom, for that matter). Check out Snippet and Ink for lashings of creativity.

9. "If you take too long in deciding what to do with your life, you'll find you've done it." -George Bernard Shaw

10. Charlie and Lola are quite possibly the best role models for brothers and sisters everywhere. We adore them in Maxabellaland.

Did you learn anything exciting this week? Was it a good one?

PS - Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, I look like a monkey and I'm mum to another three.

* Says she of the dark grey Ford Terror.


[Image from Snippet & Ink]

Things I learned this week including the existence of sigh macarons

1. There really is no business like show business. Especially at the circus.

2. The 1,2,3 method of disciplining Tsunamis really, really works. I only just acknowledged this. We've been using the method (1 = reminder 2 = warning 3 = consequences) for over a year and just this week I suddenly realised that these days most of the time I don't get past '1'. A reminder of what good behaviour is all about is all it takes.

3. When 1,2,3 fails, there is always 'putting on my cranky pants'. If you're at your wits end and the kids are mental, putting on the cranky pants ("I'm putting them on right now", "no, not the cranky pants", "yes, those cranky pants are coming out of the cupboard and my leg is going...", "nooooo don't put on the cranky pants, Mum!") is a great way to diffuse a mess into humour and it actually really works. Of course, when the cranky pants do go on, mum has to be really, really cranky to make the whole thing work. Those pants are the biz.

4. The number one reason why people are unhappy in their job and don't feel empowered* is because they don't feel heard. Listening and showing that you understand a grievance is all it takes to make people feel better about their jobs, even if you can't fix the actual grievance. I think this is something we can bring to the home front too... Talk to me, I'm here for you and I'm really interested in what you have to say...

5. Macarons are everywhere. Everyone is talking about them, eating them and making wedding cake towers out of them. I had never even heard of a macaron until this week (although, are they the same as the Italian macaroon of which I have eaten ample?) I fear for my 20 year diet...

6. There are some emailing lists out there that you join for life. No matter how many times you hit 'unsubscribe', their little email shows up right on time. Are you listening, BandT magazine???

7. Just-turned-two year olds can leap from the top of a bed onto the floor and land neatly like a gymnast. Thank god.

8. Many people out there really do want to just wallow in their misery. I'm not talking about depression, I'm talking about whinge, whinge, whinge and nothing done to change their situation. Makes me frustrated and heart-broken.

9. It's National Tree Day in Australia on 25 July.

10. Tumblelogging is superfast blogging, a cross between twitter and traditional blogs. Check it out at tumblr**.

Tell me, what did you learn this week??

* I actually hate this word with all my heart and soul and I'm sorry I used it.

** Although, should you choose to do so I will not be by your side. My life is far too slow for tumblr. I am already struggling with the pace of twitter. They are like trying to have a conversation at a party.

Oh and don't forget to join in The July Chronicles: What's on your fridge? Linky open until 31 July.

Free-range Tsunamis

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You've no doubt heard of Lenore Skenazy of Free-Range Kids. I love her.

You know how sometimes you're absolutely sure of the rightness of something. When I heard about Lenore's quest to give her kids some independent breathing space, I just knew she was right. She's right that children deserve independence. She's right that being responsible is a necessary part of growing up. She's right that the world isn't necessarily any more dangerous than it ever was. She's right that parents today are so convinced that something is going to happen to their child that kids are growing up feeling like they've done something wrong.

And why wouldn't they? Many parents are so fearful of 'something happening' to their child they box them up inside their schools and homes like criminals. Leonore sites the example of a parent who won't even let her children collect mail from the mailbox in their own front yard.

It's not just the fear of abduction. Parents are fearful of their children getting run over, falling over, being maimed, trampled, bullied, getting lost, getting hit by a sniper bullet....  They watch their children every minute of every day and usually a few times during the night too. They schedule so many indoor 'extra curricular' activities that the poor child is surrounded by four walls from the minute they wake up until the minute they go to sleep.

Can you imagine living like that*?

I choose to believe that the world is a safe and loving place. Not everything in the world, but most of it. We've educated the Tsunamis from infancy about what is dangerous and what is not. We didn't 'babyproof' the house (although we're not unsafe: we used gates at the stairways before they got the hang of stairs and certain antics by The Badoo forced me to buy those plugs for the electricity outlet because, well, she's The Badoo). We practice crossing the road together safely every single time. We're quiet in the car when the traffic gets heavy. We would never go into a public toilet alone. We know that strangers are usually friends, but we don't talk to them unless a grown-up we know is also listening.

Now, marry Leonore's rightness with Richard Louv's Last Child in the Wood rightness and you've pretty much got our parenting style. The Tsunamis are lucky enough to live in a house surrounded on three sides by national park and reserve. They explore the reserve around our house and their own imaginations every day. They make mud pies and throw them at each other. They dig for worms and herd ants into houses made from sticks. Clambering over large sandstone boulders, climbing up swaying trees, reaching the top to call down to mum "you look like a barbie doll' (why, thank you my children). I let them roam. They're free-range, organic children with skinned knees and grubby faces - just the way nature intended.

Of course, every now and then I call out to them and they know they must call back immediately. If they don't Barbie will come tearing up that reserve so fast you'd swear she'd been shot from a cannon... Afterall, I'm free-range, not neglectful!



* Oh, wait a minute, I have a corporate job...

The nitmare

Maxi-Taxi brought a new ecosystem home with him from school yesterday. I don't know how we did it, but one Tsunami or another has been in daycare since 2005 and we've been completely nit-free. Term 2 of big school and it's combs at the ready.

I couldn't believe how quickly they'd set up camp. I noticed him scratching a little before bed on Tuesday night, toured the head with a torch and found absolutely nothing. By Wednesday afternoon, there were 7 actual specimens and about 132,000 eggs.I drowned him in Pantene dry/damaged conditioner and spent 2 hours with the comb, the nails and the wriggling child, bannishing the clingy little buggers one strand at a time.

This morning he insisted that we visit the principal's office to let him know about the nits. I asked him why we needed to tell Mr Smith and he said "Mr Sniff knows everything at school. He needs to know about this."

I humoured him because I really doubted that Mr Sniff would be in his office at 8am on a Thursday. But in there he was. Maxi-Taxi marched in, bold as brass and boomed "Mr Sniff, the nits are on the loose!" Mr Sniff cracked up. He's a terrific principal.

So, beware. The nits are on the loose. And frankly, I have PTSS from the whole encounter. Can't stop scratching. Scratch, scratch. Bet you're scratching too, right?

Foxglove Inspires

The drive today was true happiness. I stopped at many little towns - Milton, Mogo, Tilba Tilba, Narooma, Bermagui. There are so many special places to visit.

I spent a really lovely morning poking around all the shops and eating lunch at one of the sweet cafes at Central Tilba. It's one of the best preserved 'historical trust' villages that I've seen and it has all the requisite craft shops, lolly shops, wooden toy shops, candle shops that you'd expect. The town sits in a breath-taking valley and beautiful mature trees dripped golden leaves all over the streets and the smell of woodsmoke made time stand still.

Foxglove Spires is an open garden in Tilba Tilba. Clever owner Susan Southam wrote "Velvet Pears" about her time developing the garden. I found such beauty and peace there that I couldn't tear myself away. I spent twice as long as I expected wandering the winding paths and watching the chickens and doves scratch about.

They also have the best shop. I went a bit nuts getting little trinkets and things for the garden. I think I might take after my mum (who's a bit of a bower bird when it comes to ornaments). But what can you do when every single thing in the store makes you genuinely happy just looking at it?

As a result of my lingering day, I've changed my game plan and have stopped in Bega for the night. Instead of my always-driving ambition to head down the bottom of Victoria and across to the Daylesford, I'm going to do a loop along the Snowy Mountains Highway thorough Cooma, Canberra, Yass and the Southern Highlands. This way I'll have a lot more time for play.

Wet Autumn lives

I used to loooove wet autumn days. You'd get cosy by the fire, a good book resting in your lap as you doze to the rattle of rain on the roof. Outside everything looks sparkly and misty and nice.

Now, things are just wet. And muddy. And there you are, stuck in the house with three cabin-crazed children while the rain bleats loudly down on the roof such that the kids have to scream even more than usual and now they have an excuse.

I noticed last year that once the magnolia hit late autumn, it looked bare and forelorn. No light green leaves, no beautiful blooms.

I thought I'd make it some.

 

The tree seems happier. And, of course, it likes the rain.

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I rewound this post at the Fibro on 12.2.2011

Autumn Joy

Autumn barges in, full to the brim with red and orange and gold. The sudden tickle of cool is filled with impending change.  Long sleeves protecting suddenly tender arms. Fallen leaves crunchy underfoot. Crisp nights burrowing for warmth. Woodsmoke smelling like promise.

The Dream

As a country-town raised city dweller, I always imagined that I'd return to country living once I had children. I couldn't even imagine how I'd go about raising kids in the concrete jungle. What would we do all day?

 

Oh god, surely not that...

Then I mummed 2 under 2 in the inner-city of Sydney and loved it. Walking out the front door with Maxi Taxi and Cappers rugged up, the 'big rig' pram whizzing in front, off to the library, or one of 34 cafes in reach, or the supermarket, or countless mates' places, or the pool, or 5 parks... you get the idea. I was in babyland heaven. In fact, I was so attached to striding out with the big rig that even my sister's place 3 suburbs over wasn't out of reach.  But then the bairns started to grow up and got bored in the pram after approximately 45 seconds. And frequenting the 34 cafe's with 2 toddlers running riot became more chore than treat. And I really wanted my own park, not a shared park I had to leave the house to get to. So once number 3 (The Badoo) was expected, we knew it was time to move to a bigger place with a proper garden.

And then I remembered The Dream. I pictured myself on a cute little acreage in my cute little cottage with my cute little family - growing vegies, raising chickens, exploring creeks, swimming in spring-water fed dams, dreaming idly on my shaded verandah as the odd goat wanders by.  There's gingham involved on some level. .

You know, The Dream.

But there was a seemingly insurmountable obstacle.  The LOML works in investment banking. And there just isn't a lot of investment banking going on in your average country town. So, unless he wants to become a bank manager (he doesn't) or a financial planner (so doesn't) or a newsagent (a what?) or something... we're City People.

Now, don't weep for me yet, I've tried to recreate the life I crave. We searched and searched and finally bought a place that's surrounded on 3 sides by bush, overlooks a beautiful national park valley and we can't really see our only neighbour. So, I've got the verandah, the large garden, a (non-spring-fed) saltwater pool, and a (usually dry) creek across the road. And there's a (kind of) 'town' (as opposed to trendy 'village') feel to the suburb we're in. We have a showground. We have a pony club. We have 3 competing primary schools (with the essential 'don't go there unless you live right next door and even then reconsider' school to discuss at the 'better' schools' morning teas) (more on this in a later post!). It certainly feels very country-in-the-city. It's 25 mins by train to work. Happy with that.

But you know what, it's kinda hard fitting in The Dream around commuting 4 days a week to a large corporate in the city and growing 3 kids who are aged 5 and under at time of writing. Really hard. But I'm going to keep trying.

Next stop... the chickens.

[Top image by Dottie Angel; other images found via weheartit]

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I rewound this post at the Fibro on 5.2.2011