The dress-up box

With Mr5 out of the house for a few hours today, I decided that the last day of the holidays was the perfect time for an assault on his room. And I do mean assault.

It is impossible to remove any item from Mr5's room while he is on the premises. He shows a marked tendency toward the Family Hoarding gene, and clings like a barnacle to anything - and I do mean anything - that I might decide is surplus to needs. He LOVES those chocolate wrappers and is "collecting them to make Mr8 an Invisibility cloak". He NEEDS that wooden train set, despite not having looked at it for three years.

So I must sneak through under my own Invisibility cloak while he is otherwise engaged.

I really wanted to do it today. I wanted to clear his shelves, air the cobwebs, remove the old, and give him a clear, uncluttered space in which to begin his schooling life (on Tuesday). So I put aside the aforementioned train, the fake food and fake picnic set, several books, outgrown clothes, any variation of Wiggles puzzles (or, in fact, anything Wiggles, him being 'too big for them now Mum')... all ready to go to a young friend of ours who will love them too.

And then I got to the dress-up box.

Our dress-up box is like a perfect time capsule of the boys' interests over the years. The doctor's kit and cool little white coat. The fireman suit with reflective strips. The fireman helmet that makes a whiney, siren noise. The Spiderman suits, the Superman suit (with attached cape), the cracking Ninja Turtles suit (complete with shell). Harry Potter robes, wands, glasses (all bent).

But it's the additional stuff that I love. The baby wraps that can be capes, or togas, or ghost outfits. The five different gloves that serve as Super Whatevers, or Ninja whatevers, or medical protection. The lanyards from various conferences. The scarves that can be utility belts, or Ninja wraps, or Knightly garb. The swords of assorted length, colour and degradation. And the hats - so many hats! Hard hats, police hats, beanies, helmets.

My boys love dressing up and there is nothing they like better than ferreting about and creating the perfect outfit. An outfit that may make no sense to outside eyes, but to them, turns them into The Masked Avenger, or Sir Whosiwhatsit.

The dress-up box I left alone. There'll be time enough to sort through that. But for now, it's feeding their imaginations. It pays its way.

Do your kids have a dress-up box? What story does it tell about them? And what do you think are the essentials for a great dress-up box?

Conversations from the cafe

Today, Mr4 and I enjoyed what he likes to call a 'Mr4 Day', whereby he gets to choose the activities for the day and we generally steer clear of the supermarket. Supermarket shopping is not on Mr4's list of favourite things to do, which is fine by me because taking Mr4 supermarket shopping is definitely not on mine.

Interestingly, Mr4 Day generally involves doing all the things we would normally do on our days together - minus the supermarket bit. So we go to the DVD shop and pick him up another ABC Kids masterpiece. We have a milkshake. We 'poke about' in bookshops and pop in to say hello to our friends who run some of Fibrotown's best shops.

It's a good arrangement.

Our milkshake today took place, controversially, after a visit to a shop and, more specifically, after I had purchased not one, but two pairs of shoes (they were 30 per cent off - practically free!). Mr4 was not happy with the deviation from our Mr4 Day plans. I had some making up to do. This is a small excerpt of the conversation that followed...

The scene: A busy cafe in central Fibrotown. Mr4 is steered away from his favourite seat right in the doorway, allowing him the space to run in and out and climb on the ledge outside the large window so he can make funny faces at me through the glass. We settle on the 'comfy chairs' up the back and he sits happily with his DVD while I order not just a small chocolate milkshake but a Smartie cookie as well. When I return, we sit chatting about the wonders of Fireman Sam for a few minutes until his milkshake arrives, at which point I take the opportunity to bustle to the front of the cafe and swipe a newspaper from a recently vacated table. Upon my return, I find him sucking on his straw, deep in thought...

Mr4: "Mum, when you get big does your bottom get big too?"

Me (choking on latte): "Well, it grows to keep up with you. You'd look silly if you were as big as me with a bottom as little as yours."

He sucks his straw, considering, big blue eyes quizzical.

Mr4: "But does it have to be as big as yours?"

Me (trying hard not to laugh): "Are you worried that your bottom might be the same size as mine one day?"

Mr4 nods vigorously.

Me: "Right, then... More Smartie cookie for me."

[image: jim8ball/etsy]

Words on high rotation

A new crop of words has appeared in the Fibro. Kid words. On high rotation. Poo. Bum. Wee. Dumb dumb.

Conversations now go like this:

"You're a poo."

"No, you're a poo."

"Well, you're a weehead."

"Well, you're a poobumhead."

"Well, you're a-"

It's at this point that a shrieking harridan (that would be me) usually intervenes and threatens bodily harm should they so much as think the word poo in the next ten minutes. All is silent. Then I hear the whispers:

"You're still a poo.."

Please tell me this is one of those phases that won't last long.

[image: cjprints/etsy}

So long and thanks for all the Hot Potatoes

On Sunday I did something I'll probably never, ever do again in my lifetime. I attended a Wiggles concert. My fourth Wiggles concert to be precise. That's the thing with having your kids three years apart, you get to Rock A Bye Your Bear lots and lots and lots of times. 

I remember my first Wiggles gig. It was at a club local to where we lived in the Big Smoke. They did three shows there, back to back. We got the 10.30am show, the difficult show. Difficult because it's key mid-morning sleep time for about three quarters of the audience. Mr7, who I hasten to point out was two at the time, sat on my lap, unmoving for the entire show. I bought him a t-shirt - his first-ever Gig T - and we went home. I had more fun than he did. No really, I loved it. Bare stage, four guys in t-shirts, no back-up dancers, no dog, no dinosaur. They brought the house down. Oh, how the mums screamed and sang along.

By the time we went back the following year, Mr7 (then two) was a devoted groupie. He took his guitar to play along with Murray. He'd worked on the actions. He was ready. We sat on the floor with Maxabella and her crew, not far from the front. Murray and Jeff ran through the crowd and, I confess, I screamed. I am a Murray girl. Go figure. In my defense, I saw him on Spicks and Specks - he's musically very knowledgeable. It's kind of an intellectual crush... I'm not making this better am I?

Mr4 attended his first Wiggles event at the dreaded Christmas concert. Mr7 was, by this stage, at school and heavily into Star Wars. Gran, Mr4 (then two) and I took the limousine service (aka Pops) to the front door of the Wollongong Entertainment Centre, sat somewhere in the nosebleed seats and watched the Circus extravaganza. He was mildly interested. He liked The Big Red Car. I didn't scream. Too far away.

Which brings me to Sunday. Five rows back, up the road. Perfect. The four of us went - we dragged Mr7 along for old times sake and he was noted to be singing along despite his best efforts to appear above it all. He did confess to enjoying seeing Sam live for the first time - it had been Greg all the way in his day.

Mr4 had a little dance, played his ukelele, wiggled a bit. The Builder got his first eyeful of the fab-to-the-under-fours but enjoyed Mr4's performance more. And me? I loved it. I sang along, clapped in all the right spots, laughed at the dumb jokes and fully appreciated the spectacle of an Australian entertainment icon in full flight. They even played Shimmy Shake, my favourite Wiggles song. (Even as I write that I appreciate that not everyone will understand the fact that I even have a favourite Wiggles song.) One of the best things about the way the Wiggles work? They constantly watch the audience - you can see them doing it, gauging what's working, taking sheer enjoyment in the kids' enjoyment.

And so that's that. My last Wiggles concert. I'd like to take the opportunity to thank Murray, Jeff, Anthony, Sam, Greg, Captain Feathersword and crew for many, many sanity saving moments over the years. I would not have survived the first years of motherhood without your DVDs and I truly appreciate the broad range of musical styles and instruments to which you have introduced my children.

I admit that I never really understood the rose-eating dinosaur, nor why you would choose an octopus as one of your characters, but you write a fine song (some finer than others) and for that reason I will forgive you some of your dicier moments - including that nursery rhyme DVD, and even Cold Spaghetti Western. I will even forgive your onward, ever onward, merchandising steamroller - though possibly not the small voice that repeats 'Hot Potatoes' over and over again in the swirly light thing that Mr4 simply had to have on Sunday.

If nothing else, we'll always have the Shimmy Shake.

[image: courtesy of Mr7 (then 4)]

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]

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!

Does your Dad think he's funny?

Fam Fibro had big plans for this weekend. We were going to the Big Smoke. To the footy. To visit family. To see friends. But the weather conspired against us. A rugby league match loses its appeal when you know you'll be sitting on the grass, in the open, in the rain. It went against the grain, but we cancelled.

Which left us at a loose end. For a whole weekend. When was the last time you had an entire weekend with no plans? In the rain? What did you do?

Yesterday, we cleaned house. With me gritting my teeth against the tedium of it all while we were doing it - and smiling with joy once it was done. Half of my To Do list was To Done in one fell swoop. Good feeling.

Today it was literally blowing a gale. The front yard was awash with twigs and branches and leaves and general debris. Which was a better outcome than our neighbour on the corner, whose front yard was buried under an entire tree.

It was also Fathers' Day. Mr3 had picked out Katrina Germein's picture book 'My Dad Thinks He's Funny' to give to The Builder. He was drawn to the illustration (by Tom Jellett) on the front of the Dad holding the kid upside down. This form of acrobatics is often practised in the Fibro. I admit I smirked as I paid the shop assistant for it. I'd read the front page, you see.

"My Dad thinks he's funny. Whenever I put lots of sauce on my plate, Dad says, 'Would you like some dinner with that sauce?'"

It wasn't even so much that I could hear The Builder saying that, as the fact that I could hear my Dad saying that. The book is full of those universal Dad sayings. The ones that make you wonder if there's some kind of Dad study group out there that they're not telling you about. I'm pretty sure my Dad graduated top of that particular class.

Of course, each Dad also has his own particular brand of stand-up. Confronted by a group of children - actually, anyone under 40 - he will not be able to help himself saying, 'heads on 'em like mice'. It's just what he does. But he's funnier when he's not trying.

One afternoon, when I was about 15, I was standing out the front of our house, talking to a boy from around the corner. Dad wandered down the drive, carrying a pink double-bed mattress. He opened the gate, and walked past as we watched in silence.

"Where are you going with that?" I asked, teenage disdain dripping from every syllable.

"To the club," he responded.

"Like, why would anyone take a mattress to the club?" I asked (you can see the eye-roll, can't you?).

"To swap it for a suit, of course," he replied, sailing off down the street with his mattress, leaving us in fits of laughter at the gate.

He came home with a suit. It still makes me laugh. Did they do the deal in the carpark, or did he swing into the bar with his eye-catching load?

That one's not in the book. But you'll remember this one: "When I tell Dad I think there's something in my eye, he says 'Yeah, an eyeball.'"

The Builder says he doesn't use all these jokes.

I say, 'Not yet.'