The joy of text

Mr4 endured enjoyed another excursion today. This time to the library. I asked him this morning if he was excited. He looked at me as though I'd lost my marbles. "It's the library, Mum," he said. "We go there all the time."

Oh yes.

Mr7 suggested that this time Mr4 and his friends might get to have a look beyond the bookshelves. "When we went in year one, we got to go downstairs," he confided.

"Oh, what was there?" asked Mr4, hope in his voice.

"That's where they keep the boxes of books," said Mr7.

"Oh," said Mr4. His excitement was still not palpable.

He didn't have much to say about his excursion on the way home from preschool. Just that he was tired. That someone had read them a story. They'd eaten fruit - apples and carrots. "Carrots aren't fruit," said Mr7. "They don't have seeds."

I could see Mr4 trying to come up with a rebuttal to this, but he could think of nothing.

Silence.

"I did learn one thing today at the library, Mum," he said.

Oh?

"Butterflies smell with their feet," he announced, triumphant.

And, do you know what? They do.

I tell you, these excursions are true learning experiences. For everyone.

What new thing did you learn today?

[image: Erin Nicole/Beauty In Everything]

Hilda The Line Dancing Hen meets 'The Mysterious Mr7'

Mr7 is rather chuffed with himself today. His illustration for page seven of the Variety Children's story 'Hilda The Line Dancing Hen' was unleashed upon the world, and the notion that his work was now on public display made him stand a little taller. He asked me if he was famous now. Sort of, I replied. Well, as famous as someone named 'The Mysterious Mr7' gets. He insisted on that credit, by the way. He thinks it brings him closer to Sherlock Holmes.

It has to be said that getting the actual drawing done was not without its, er, drag-em-down-and-knock-em-out fighting moments. He was keen when I asked him, particularly when I told him it was for a charity that helped kids. But then the actual time came to draw, with me over one shoulder saying 'I really need this for tomorrow', and suddenly it wasn't so much fun anymore.

I was stressed, knowing that the Variety Children's Charity was relying on me and I was relying on him. Not an easy relationship dynamic. But he got there, in the end. As my Dad would say, 'Just like his mother'.

You can view the story, with illustration contributions from Edenland, Random Ramblings of a Stay at Home Mum, and My Pigeon Pair, among others, at the Variety Australia Facebook page. She's quite the girl, our Hilda.

Do your kids leave things to the last minute, or get in and do it straight away?

Another step on the writing path

Mr7 and I have been talking about description lately. His English classes at school are beginning to move along from straight recount - we did this, and then we did this, and then we did this - and into writing. His teacher has been trying to encourage some description. He is not keen. He feels the descriptions distract from the story. I understand how he feels. I've read too many books in my time that required me to wade through pages and pages of adjectives before I could spot any semblance of plot.

But it's also difficult to build a writerly picture without it. The Cat Sat On The Mat. Straightforward plot. But what kind of cat was it? What colour? Long-haired? Short-haired? White socks on its paws? Was the mat a deep-pile oasis of luxury, or a rough, hairy, rubber-backed doormat?

You get the picture.

We went for a little bushwalk on Saturday, during a break in the weather, as raindrops dripped off leaves around us and we jumped over the puddles (or through them in Mr4's case). As we walked, I asked Mr7 what he could smell.

He took a long, hard, seven-year-old sniff.

"Air," he shrugged.

"Remember we were talking about description?" I asked. He nodded. "How would you describe the smell?"

He sniffed again. And again. "I don't know, mum," he said, desperation in his voice. He likes to get things right. "Is there lavender in there somewhere?"

I laughed. "Can you smell the rain on the leaves?"

Yes, he could.

"Can you smell the fresh, tangy eucalyptus oil from those gum trees?"

He nodded.

"Can you smell those soggy leaves, rotting on the ground?"

He nodded again. And thought.

"That's description, isn't it, mum?"

Yep. Lesson over. We'll save the other senses for another day.

How do you feel about description in books? The more the better, or do you prefer just enough to keep the story rolling along?

It's Elementary, my dear Mr7

Mr7 has a new love. Gone are the days of wands and wizards and Accio Teddy Bear! Harry Potter has been put back on the shelf, ready to be resurrected when Mr7 is old enough to tackle the grumpy Harry of books 4-7. Instead, he has pulled on a Hawker hat and dragged the magnifying glass out of his old Explorer's kit.

Mr7 has discovered Mr Holmes - and it's love at first sight.

It all began with The Baker Street Boys. I have been desperately seeking out a new series of books to capture his attention and wean him off Harry, Ron, Hermione et al. It has required that I read a whole selection of children's books myself (which has been quite an education in itself) looking for titles that are challenging and yet age-appropriate.

After some consultation with J, the lovely children's librarian at the Fibrotown library, I came home with The Ranger's Apprentice (which I loved, but Mr7 did not), Emily Rodda's Key to Rondo (jury still out), something about The Magnificent 12 (nobody was too keen), the first book in The 39 Clues (looked good but Mr7 found scary) and The Case of The Ranjipur Ruby, one of Anthony Read's Baker Street Boys series. Once he got his head around the old-fashioned setting and some of the language, he was hooked. To the point where he immediately began searching out Sherlock Holmes stories.

Once again the Fibrotown library provided - abridged versions of Holmes classics. Is there nothing you cannot find at a public library?

It's not his first foray into the joys of mystery novels. The Famous Five and The Secret Seven are old friends, as is Encylopedia Brown. But, as any grown-up fan knows, Holmes is the original and the best. I asked Mr7 why he liked him so much. "I like the mysteries - and he's really, really smart, Mum." What's not to love?

And so we sat together tonight and began reading A Study in Scarlet, the first Holmes story ever published, brought home today in the illustrated version from the school library. Being an old Holmes hand by now, Mr7 was thrilled at the references in the introduction to the Baker Street Boys, The Red-headed League and other classic Holmes stories. He's putting the pieces of the puzzle together.

I confess that I was worried that the central tenet of the opening chapter is a dead body lying in a room. But he was unperturbed by this. "It's just a story, Mum," he said. Indeed, the setting, the old-fashioned politeness, the language and his own sheer lack of worldliness make such stories seem less real to him than Star Wars or Harry Potter. Despite this, The Builder and I have decided that A Study in Scarlet is not age-appropriate and have put it on the shelf marked 'later', alongside Harry Potter  - it seems that I'll be speed-reading my way through several Holmes stories in the near future looking for those that are not too dark and dire (all suggestions gratefully received).

I can understand why he likes them. A classic story is a classic story, no matter what your age or time zone. And, as any fan of mystery or crime novels will tell you, the joy is not just in solving the puzzle, but in the triumph of good over evil at the end.

Holmes always wins. It's elementary.

What are your kids enjoying reading at the moment?

I am officially a Soccer Mum

Mr7 has had a big week. In the past seven days he has quit guitar (yes, I'm devastated to be going solo, but there is good news - more about that later in the week) and taken up soccer. He has bright-yellow- and-black socks. Huge black shorts. A bright-yellow-and-black shirt of questionable polyester content. And, the piece de resistance (for him, anyway), bright-yellow-and-black boots. With what Mr4 would call Hunormous black shoelaces.

Team sports are a new world to me. I never did them as a kid. I was a five hours of ballet a week girl. No running. No bonding. No, God forbid, catching. I did join a basketball team once. My poor Dad was the coach. We were abysmal. No, correct that, I was abysmal. My idea of defence was to wait at the other end of the court in case of an interception. Heaven only knows what I thought I was going to do if the opposition actually came near me.

I suspect Mr7 is made of the same stuff. So far the most advanced part of his game is the Theatrics. In this area he could rival that French guy who took a dive and robbed us of our chance in the World Cup. (I think that's the story... could be wrong.) He has been to three training sessions and played two games. At half time in the first game he came off, smiling, and said to his Dad, "Well, that was fun." It was up to The Builder to break it to him, gently, that there was another half to go.

This week, he did get more involved. He got the ball twice (yes, I was thrilled). He took a kick-off, cunningly kicking it straight to the other team, rather than the expected move of passing it across the field to someone on his own team. Tactics, I tell you.

Most of the time, he bobs along about three metres behind the play, huffing and puffing, sighing and humphing, blowing his air from his eyes (yes, he needs a haircut - Justin Bieber may be able to play soccer with that fringe but mere mortals cannot), and, apparently, praying a lot that the ball stays well away. It's all very entertaining, if not very effective.

I suspect it's going to be a long season but, for now, I'm just happy he's happy to go along. If only for the oranges.

[image: Schahryar Fekri via weheartit.com]

Staking a claim

There has been a territorial coup in the Fibro. Bloodless, but revolutionary nonetheless. Mr7 has staked a claim to the back half of the garage, planted a flag and declared it his Clubhouse. The Builder has rigged up fairylights. He has a rug, a sofa, a fridge (full of beer but we haven't told him that), a non-working television, a lamp and a chest of drawers.

All he needs to make his domain complete, he tells me, is a coffee table. On which to write books. Draw plans. And invent things. In the meantime, he makes do with the floor.

So far he is a Club of one. Mr4 has been deemed too destructive to join. Mr4 seems happy enough with this decision. He would rather follow his Dad around the backyard with a plastic lawnmower and a pair of earmuffs than be stuck in a shed. The Builder and I are associate members.

Much time and effort has been put into thinking of a name for the Club. At present, it is The Book Club. Though it has been, at varying times during the week, The Inventing Club and The Fun Club. There is a password you must know before you're allowed through the door. I'd tell you, but then I might have to hand in my non-existent club badge. Rest assured, it is not 'bokkens'.

Mr7 has been retreating to his Clubhouse every afternoon this week. To draw. To dream. To invent a robot with arms that go up and down and legs that go side to side. So far the robot hasn't made it off the pages of the Official Club Notebook, but it can only be a matter of time.

Come to think of it, a clubhouse would be cool. A Clubhouse of One's Own. Hmmm. I can feel an uprising coming on.

[image: via weheartit.com]

Be careful what you wish for

If you'd asked me four years ago what day I was looking forward to more than any other, I'd have had only one answer: the day my youngest child goes to school. I had two small children and too many deadlines to think about. I dreamed of the day when I would have enough time to write a novel and not be interrupted halfway through every sentence. Every. Sentence.

I worked late into the night, woke up all night and woke up early. From there, the chance to ship them off to school looked like a ticket to the Promised Land - for me, if not for them.

Today I received a note home from school. Enrollment packs for 2012 are available for collection at the office. It dawned on me, as it has been slowly dawning on me since the beginning of the year, that this is my last year with a small child at home.

My last year of 'I need a snack'. My last year of 'Can I watch this DVD?'. My last year of 'What shall we do today Mummy?'. My last year of 'No, I won't'. My last year of 'I know you're on the phone but I need you to wipe my bottom RIGHT NOW'.

My last year.

I never imagined I would feel this sad.

Last Thursday, Mr4 and I walked into town. We had plans. He was going to walk all the way in his new, bouncy, enormous, white sneakers. We were going to have a milkshake. We were going to pick up a new Fireman Sam DVD to rent. Life on the edge with a four year old in tow.

He turned to me as we walked out our front gate. "This is going to be the Best Day, Mum," he said, before bounding off to show me how well he could skip in his brand new, bouncy, enormous, white sneakers.

And it was. We had no chores and nowhere to be. We wandered around, got the DVD, had the milkshake, visited Gran and Pops, and went home. He was thrilled that I'd got all my work done and wouldn't need to spend any time on the phone or the computer. As was I.

That night, as I lay in bed with Mr7, enjoying the 20 minutes of one-on-one time that we get each day in the guise of Reading, I realised that I would soon be doing this with both boys. Squeezing an entire day's closeness into one tiny window.

Unlike now. When I have two whole days of pure, unadulterated Mr4. All to myself.

So, school next year.

I miss him already.

[image: vintagepostcards.org]

About a boy: true love sticks

Mr7 has long been a man of passion. When he was two and discovered The Wiggles, it was Hot Potato city round these parts. He insisted on wearing yellow and would answer to nothing but "Sam".

The Wiggles were replaced by Ben 10. Ben 10 was sideswiped by Star Wars. Star Wars was blindsided by Zac Power and Captain Underpants. And now we have reached the zenith of his affections. If he was stuck on those other loves, he is glued to Harry Potter.

When he was into Ben 10, he wore a big watch. When he was into Star Wars, he tied a baby wrap around his neck and became Luke Skywalker. With Zac Power he made spy cards. As Harry, he draws a zigzag scar on his forehead. With texta. He walks the walk, does our Mr7.

He also talks the talk. Nothing but the talk. Today, the Fibro is full of shouts of "Expelliamus!" "Wingardium Leviosa!" "Accio Nimbus2000!" Etcetera. He ambushes me with questions about whether Harry's wand would be longer than his arm or shorter. He wants to know about the Tri-Wizards tournament and will tell me, in exquisite detail, about how he'd go about getting past a Hungarian Hornback (or whatever type of dragon it was that Harry defeated). He is stymied by the fact that I will not let him read past book three. The themes get too dark. Harry gets too damn grumpy.

Last night, as he was leaping about the back deck trying to levitate his brother with a coathanger, I turned to The Builder.

"Do you reckon he's like this at school? Talking about nothing but Harry Potter."

No pause. "Yep," he answered.

"He does tend to get stuck on one thing. Would you call him obsessive?"

He paused. "Nope. I'd call him male."

Do you have boys? Are they serial stickers as well? Are girls the same?

The magic of childhood

Mr7 has a new book. The Great Big Book of Magic Tricks. It arrived this afternoon. Cue: concert.

The joy.

To his credit, he pulled off three tricks. Including the Great Disappearing Coin trick. And the Let Me Guess Which Coin You Chose trick. The third, which he made up himself, involved inviting me to pick a card, putting that card back into the pack and then pulling out a completely different card.

"Where's the magic?" I asked. Naive, that's me.

"I turned your card into a different card," he said, with great Magician-like confidence.

Right.

Mr4, as the Magical Assistant Guy, capered about in a pirate hat, witch's robe and fireman's pants. He managed to make a coin disappear too, but was roundly told off (by Mr7) for ruining the trick by dropping said coin from his 'disappearing cloth' to the ground. He then disappeared the $2 coin, which was from Mr7's money box, into his own money box, right under Mr7's nose.

Magic.

{image: corelladesign/etsy}

I'm guest posting today over at Lisa Heidke's blog, asking the big question: Does a writer need a blog? Come and say hi!

Fibrotown Fable V: And the big men chop

Last weekend was Show weekend in Fibrotown. We went last year. And the year before. We ran into many friends in town that morning who weren't going. "We know we should, it being our local show and all," they said. "But..."

I was with them, I confess. I had a million 'Buts' as to why we didn't need to go. These included, but were not exclusive to, the fact that both boys were attending a two-hour putt-putt birthday party that same afternoon. Two hours of putt putt is enough to put them both into cranky pants territory - pulled up very high.

The Builder, however, was keen. "It's only once a year," he wheedled.

Why yes, it is. But when you've been to about 15, they blur into one. Particularly when you can pretty much map in your head the location of each and every exhibit and attraction. Right down to the 'House of Fun', which was on its last legs when I was a teenager.

Then he played his last card. "The woodchop finals will be on."

I love the woodchop. Love it. I remember my Dad taking us to some obscure field down the coast a bit when we were kids, specifically to see David Foster make chopsticks of a log in about 30 seconds flat. It was worth the journey.

And so we went.

First stop, the tractors for a quick clamber and ride. Then to the Fire Engines where Mr4 was totally indulged by a benevolent rural firefighting volunteer who spent ages going through every nook and cranny of the truck. I intervened when he was at the point of showing the over-excited Mr4 where the firefighters kept their sunscreen. Then both boys got to, wait for it, actually hold the firehose and spray water, thanks to a lovely friend of my Mum's who also volunteers. I thought Mr4 was going to pass out from the thrill.

We went to the woodchop. Mr4 was fascinated. He wanted to sit there all afternoon. Another convert.

We wandered the muddy fields and tracks, dodging the swarms of teenagers strutting their stuff as the afternoon died and the evening came to life. Cut-off shorts - and I mean short - were the only trend to be seen and it was a rare girl under 20 who dared to try something else. Groups of girls, all Babylissed into clones of each other, each lash perfectly outlined in architectural mascara, met groups of boys with large Adam's apples who looked as though they'd been standing in wind tunnels since breakfast. Against a backdrop of flashing lights, throbbing music and the incessant whoosh, whoosh of the Octopus, they stood about awkwardly, preened, flirted a little and walked on.

So has it ever been, so it will always be.

I sat watching young men hurl themselves up ramps on motorbikes, wondering how their mums coped with sitting through such a show each night, but more interested in why hot chips that have been sitting in a Show food van for potentially hours always taste so good. Salty. Vinegary. Delicious.

We played the requisite game on the Clowns. Mr4 won a prize with his 16 and chose a fluorescent green shark with a wicked smile. He wanted to give it back when he saw the glitzy plastic Samurai sword that Mr7 was given for, essentially, losing.

At Mr4's insistence (okay, mine), we went back to the woodchop on the way out. Four father-and-son combos contested heat one of the RMB Lawyers Cross cut Sawing. The winners proved that size is not everything when it comes to sawing. Mr4 was in raptures. He would have stayed all night.

"Fancy taking up the cross-cut saw?" I asked The Builder. His return glance was thoughtful.

We left the Show with two glow-in-the-dark light sabres (Mr7, without prompting, bought himself and his brother one each with his pocket money, which was worth the price of admission). One was broken within hours.

At preschool on Monday, Mr4, with his friends The Kings, played woodchop.

{image: via WeHeartIt}

Growing up

At seven, Mr7 is a boy. No longer can I pretend he is little. Despite the fact that I can look into his face and still see the chubby-cheeked toddler who loved The Wiggles. Now he is all arms, legs and oversized front teeth; Harry Potter, Star Wars, bakugans and Ninjas.

Which is not to say that he does not continue to surprise and enchant me.

Today was not a good day in the Fibro. It was an end-of-school-holidays, irritable, itchy, scratchy kind of day. An icky, sticky, humid kind of day. The kind of day that had us all climbing the walls and shouting at each other.

In an effort to calm things down, we went for a walk. He didn't want to come. He stood on the front verandah, humphing, right up until the point where Mr4 and I turned out of the driveway and went out of sight behind next door's peach tree.

"Waaaaiiiittt!" came the shriek from behind me.

We waited at the corner. He ambled over, then refused to go further, standing on the corner, humphing, watching us walk away, right up until the point where we were about to cross the next street.

"Waaaaaiiiitttt!" came the shriek from behind me.

We waited at the corner. He ambled over... and so on.

Once we actually gathered some momentum, the walk went well and we were all in a much better frame of mind on the way home. We passed a crepe myrtle tree.

"How many kinds of blossoms are there, Mum?" he asked, always one for a difficult question.

Lots.

A gentle breeze blew, lifting the clothes that were stuck to us (along with our spirits), cooling the sweat on our skin, sending crepe myrtle blossoms billowing to the earth.

"Look Mum," said Mr7, dancing with joy as white petals landed on his arms. "A flower shower."

And that's why I will never really put him out with the recycling, despite my darkest, direst threats.


{image: via weheartit.com}