If the shoes fit

Daylight savings has given the boys another lease on life. An extra, other lease on life. Like their little boy energy has stepped up yet another gear into over-overdrive. Every time I turn around, there is a new activity underway.

Ninja rolls and throws on the trampoline. Check.

Tennis on the back lawn (thanks to Totem tennis and half-sized racquets). Check.

Viking rescue boat/raid on small, imaginary village. Check.

Soccer game on modified backyard field. Check.

Rugby passing next to the compost bins. Check.

General rampaging around the house. Check.

And all before 6pm.

Most of these activities seem to require an outfit change. One can simply not kick a soccer ball, for instance, unless one is wearing the correct footwear. And one can simply not put said footwear away immediately after said kick because one is busy slipping into one's Ninja outfit.

The pile of shoes beside the back door is mounting. An untidy mess of laces and wellies, sandals and sneakers.

I should do something about it. But one is too busy being in awe of the energy levels of children.

Right up until the moment when they hit the wall, meltdown, are thrown into bed and crash out as soon as their heads hit the pillow. Only to begin again at the crack of dawn the next day.

Ah yes, daylight savings. Don't you just love it?

Are your kids throwing themselves into the opportunities offered by daylight savings?

Making the switch (or thinking with your eyes open)

Following Thursday's Inner Hoon post, Mr4 (who, by the way, did not read that particular post) decided that today was the day to Lose The Training Wheels. He was ready to be a Big Boy. Fo' Real. So, with great ceremony, the little wheels were removed and he and I and Mr7 duly removed ourselves to the wide, open spaces of the local showground to see if we could, as Mr7 put it, get him going.

Half an hour into proceedings, huffing and puffing and with very sore hamstrings from bending over to hold the back of his seat (which is not very far off the ground), I called a halt. He had made some progress. He could push off and pedal a few rounds, but then it all went pear shaped. Let's just say that any distraction is a good distraction as far as Mr4 is concerned. And every time he spotted a distraction, his handle bars went left and he went with them.

As I carried his bike back to the car, I told him that he needed to concentrate a little better. Looking at motorbikes roaring past, for instance, was causing him to crash.

"But I was looking at the lovely day," he responded.

I know the day is lovely, but even so. If he wanted to ride his bike, he needed to think a little harder.

"But when I think really hard, I have to close my eyes, Mum," he responded. Er, yes, I could see how this would make staying on the bike difficult. (See Thursday's post about raising the legal driving age to 30.)

I told him that he needed to find a way to think hard with his eyes open.

Later, as we were driving out to view an antique food safe (I take them to all the best places, it's true), he told me that he'd had a breakthrough. "I've worked out how to think with my eyes open," he told me, pride infusing every syllable.

Oh?

"There's a switch in my head," he confided. "If you push it one way, your eyes close. But if I push it back the other way, reeeeaaaallly hard, I can think with my eyes open."

Oh, that's all right then.

We are heading back to the showground tomorrow for round two. Let's hope that switch is in the right position.

Have you taught a child to ride a bike? Any tips for one who is distracted by 'the lovely day'?


[image: fieldnotes]

How much information is too much information?

Before you have kids, nobody ever warns you about the quicksand. Okay, they don't warn you about lots of other stuff either (conjunctivitis anyone?) but the quicksand is one area into which an innocent parent wanders easily and often. Big quicksand subjects are sign-posted - you can prepare for Death, Sex and Mortgages, you can see them coming (or not, see here) and deflect the child with a random 'oh, wow, was that a Ninja Turtle I just saw?' But the others...

Today I found myself floundering not once, but twice, and without warning. The conversations went from nowhere to Physics (eep!) and Chemistry (help!) in the blink of an eye and without a safety net. This time it was not Mr4, asker of the world's most difficult questions, but Mr7 who led me merrily down the path towards MumsNotASuperhero (could almost be a Welsh village, could it not?), via quicksand.

The scene: Front yard, Gran & Pops's house. The boys are riding bikes on the very cool driveway.

Mr7: "Mum, why do bikes stay up when you ride them and fall over when you stop?"

Me, not thinking: "Oh, it's to do with physics."

Mr7: "What's physics?"

Me, still unaware of the cold trickle of wet sand between my toes: "It's a type of science."

Mr7: "What's that got to do with bikes?"

Me, beginning to feel ground shifting beneath my feet: "Well, the bike stays up when you ride because the force of the momentum of the bike is stronger than the force of the pull of gravity on it."

Mr7: Pause. "Mum, what's force?"

Me, finally listening to internal voice shrieking 'you have no idea what you're talking about': "You'll learn about it in year 9 science. Just keep riding or you'll fall over."

The scene: The dinner table. Mr7, Mr4 and I are enjoying a little light dinner table conversation.

Actually, I cannot even relay this chat word for word. All I remember is using the words 'organic', 'chemicals', 'photosynthesis', 'carbon dioxide' and 'biology'. The feel of cold, wet sand closing over my head has blanked out the rest. Suffice to say, I was on shaky ground and ended up offering to buy him one of those kids' science encyclopaedias, just to take the pressure off.

My policy with the basic information questions (as opposed to the big Life questions) has always been to throw as much detail at the kids as they could take. If they ask me something, I explain the hell out of it (hence my 'fun' chats about collective nouns), pretty much until their eyes glaze over - a sure sign that they've stopped listening. But, as Mr7 gets older and, let's face it, smarter than me, the gaps in my own knowledge (particularly in the sciences) become more glaringly apparent. I get the feeling I'll be standing in that quicksand more and more often in the future.

How do you handle questions that have real, factual answers? Do you go for simple and efficient, or throw as much at your kids as they (and you) can handle?

[image: beatboxgoesthump.tumblr]

There are times in life when I wish I could sew...

As a non-sewing, non-crafty, non-gifted-in-most-areas mother, there are certain times of the year that I dread. Book Week is one of those times. Others include Easter (Bonnet Parade, anyone?), Christmas (I can make a mean Shepherd's head-dress out of a towel, but that's the extent of my talents) and, indeed, any time of the year that might conjure up the need for a, gulp, costume.

Tonight my focus is on Book Week. Because it's next week. It could be worse, I guess. It could be tomorrow.

Mr7's Book Week aspirations have suffered some downgrading since he first arrived home last week declaring that he would be Robin Hood. I thought fast. If I could find some facsimile of an elfy-green shirt and a bow and arrow, we might pull it off. Spirits were high as we hit the shops of Fibrotown last Friday. Spirits were low as we trudged home again. No bow, no arrows (though he fixed this problem by making them himself from straight sticks and feathers and flinging them at his brother), specifically, and tragically, no green pointy hat.

The next morning he awoke, full of inspiration. "I won't be Robin Hood, I'll be Sherlock Holmes," he said. Great, I thought, how hard can that be? Er, hard. Apparently only a long coat will do and we have, as yet, been unable to turn up a child-sized Sherlock coat. Or a pipe, for that matter. We have a tweed cap, a magnifying glass and a notebook, however, so I feel like I've put some points on the board there.

As the days have drifted on and I've not shown enough enthusiasm for spending every afternoon unearthing the perfect costume, he has downgraded once more.

"I suppose I could go as Harry Potter," he said, glumly. I leapt on that suggestion. We have a robe, a wand, some glasses... and there's been so much 'Accio this' and 'Leviosa that' going on over the past year that he's a shoe-in. "Why so glum about that idea?" I asked.

Turns out there are at least three other boys in his class alone going as the Great Potter. I tried to bring him out of his slump by entertaining him with ideas for the collective noun for a group of Potters (see, I really am the most Fun Mum ever...). "A flight of Potters?" I ventured. "A spell of Potters? A Hogwart of Potters? A Dumbledore of Potters?" It wasn't until I got to A Quidditch of Potters that he even managed to raise a grin.

I confess that I spent tonight googling Sherlock Holmes accessories. I have been to op shops looking for coats. I even contemplated making a boat hat out of green paper and sticking a feather on it. This is what we non-sewing, non-crafting, non-gifted-in-most-areas mums are reduced to at times like these. I am wondering if I can put him in a black turtleneck, black trousers, black shoes and a woebegone expression and sending him as a starving writer? That would work for Book Week, right?

Do you love getting the kids dressed up, or dread it as much as I do? In the meantime, I open the floor to your suggestions for the collective noun for a group of Harry Potters. Give it your best shot people! The winner gets to make Mr7 a costume.


[image: if all else fails, he can wear a paper bag on his head, as per this gorgeous print by katep/etsy - or maybe I will...]

Getting ready for Big School is for the birds

Mr4 came home from preschool with one thing on his mind. "We need to be bird spies this afternoon, Mum," he said. "I'll get the binoculars."

Given that last weekend he was trying to 'shoot' all the birds in the neighbourhood with a stick, there'd obviously been an epiphany.

Binoculars in hand, we went to sit on the front steps to await our feathered visitors. And we waited. And waited. "Why aren't there any birds today, Mum?" he asked.

Let's see. In the 15 minutes that we were on the steps, he'd recounted a story about The Kings, his friends from preschool, in his (very loud) Outside voice. Sung me a new song that he'd made up about birds. Jumped down onto the paving to show me how 'jumpy' his new gumboots were. Waved the binoculars around to show our neighbour across the street.

You get the picture...

"The birds won't come unless we're very very quiet and don't move," I whispered.

"Oh," he said, dropping back down to sit next to me. A heartbeat of silence.

"Mum, how do birds fly? What do they eat?"

Hmmm. "Why don't you put those questions on the Wondering Wall at preschool? You can ask K, your teacher."

"Good idea." Pause. "Mum, I really like K. She teaches us really good things."

Like what?

"Like stuff we need to know to go to high school next year."

Oh, big school stuff. Like what?

"Like how to sit really quietly on the mat and listen and be patient."

Good to see those lessons are sinking in.

[image: I love this little bird print from barkingbirdart/etsy]

When the wind blows

The wind is howling around the Fibro tonight. So much so that we have moved Mr7 from his room beneath the large, overhanging branch of next door's Liquid Amber tree and he is camped out in Mr4's room. The only person who really benefits from this is me. It just means I won't be waking up with every gust of wind wondering if this is the one that finally brings that branch crashing down.

It's funny how much I worry about that branch. Forget the hunormous (Mr4's latest word) Camphor Laurel tree in the other neighbour's yard. The one that would take out the entire Fibro should it decide to give it up and keel over. Yep, forget that...

We didn't have this trouble in the Big Smoke. No large trees to speak of in the area, and the only one of any majesty was tucked up in the neighbour's yard against the sandstone cliff that ran the length of our block. That tree had support.

The Liquid Amber has no such back-up. It stands straight and very tall right next to the fence, which is right next to Mr7's room. Straight but for this one, large, overhanging branch. We didn't notice this branch so much last year. There was another even larger, even more overhanging branch that used to scrape the roof above Mr7's bed. That one kind of took our attention. But it was removed by a man with a chainsaw, a rope and devil-may-care attitude.

Drawing our attention to the current large, overhanging branch.

Sigh. I'd complain, but then all my troubles with the Liquid Amber would be over and my mind would have no alternative but to start thinking about that hunormous Camphor Laurel.

So let's forget that.

How are you faring with the winds? Is your house surrounded by trees? Does the mere hint of a spring breeze cause your garden to sway and quiver?


[image: hmmm, if that branch ever does go, perhaps I'll put one of these decals from ccnever/etsy in Mr7's room to take my mind away from the Camphor Laurel]

Life's a beach, even in winter

After weeks of rain, Fam Fibro escaped to the beach yesterday. I love winter at the beach. When the sky is blue and the air is crisp, there's no better place to be. No pressure to strip off and get wet. Just the opportunity to be.

We ate fish and chips with our feet dangling off the boardwalk. "I"m just going to go and run around a bit," said Mr7, licking the last of the salt from his fingers. And he did. Literally, run around in circles, over and over.

We walked along the beach, right out to where the waves have pounded the rocks flat, cascading over them as though running down stairs. From a distance, it looks like a still, shining rockpool. It's only when you get close that you can see the water is just centimetres deep, dressing the rocks like a sheet of salty icing.

Mr4 runs ahead, hovering closer and closer to the water, itching to get wet despite the brisk breeze. Mr7 stops at intervals to write 'help!' in the sand. Should I be worried?

Along the way, we talk about the whales we saw last time we came to this beach. Far out to sea, languidly migrating, breaching occasionally to let us know they were there. Mr4 and The Builder talk about a book they have been reading about whales.

"Do you remember what it's called when they come up out of the water?" asks The Builder.

The air is heavy with expectation. Mr4 feels it. He wants to get it right. His nose wrinkles and his brow crinkles as the wheels turn round in his mind.

"Um..." he says.

"Do you remember?" The Builder prompts.

"Er... Fish Hopping?" Mr4 responds, half triumphant, half questioning.

I am still dissolving into random giggles at that answer, even 24 hours later.

[image: The Builder]

There's a lot to do to be a Daddy

Mr4 and I had one of those conversations today. We were heading off to the picture framer to collect his first birthday presents and I explained that they were for his room. He was excited. Were there Ninja Turtles involved? Fireman Sam? Er, no, I had to tell him. These were special ones. Ones that he would be able to give to his children one day.

Silence.

"Will I be a Daddy?"

"Maybe. Hopefully."

Silence.

"There's a lot to do to be a Daddy."

Hmmm. This could be interesting. "Like what? What do you think you'll need to do to be a Daddy?"

"Well, I'd have to cook dinner for the Mummy so that she didn't have to do it every night."

Huzzah! "What else?"

"I'd need to be able to read, so I could read stories to the kids."

Tick. "And?"

"I'd have to practise sending them to bed when they were naughty."

Suppressed laughter. Silence.

"AND, I'd have to look after them... Mum?"

"Yes."

"I don't think I'm ready to be a Daddy. There's a lot to do."

Take your time, Mr4, take your time.

[image: keychain from patsdesign/etsy]

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]

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?

Days like these

I'm not happy today. I'm tired and grumpy and fussy and fidgety. My poor children who are good children and who behave admirably for children were on the receiving end of my grumps today. Nothing serious, just a general lack of, well, interest. They were fed and watered and bathed and kissed and cuddled, but no playing. Not today.

I don't mind telling you that I dislike myself on days like this. I hear myself telling Mr7 that I'm no good at Lego and he's better off building his emergency rescue boat without me. I hear myself telling Mr4 that I'm not interested in playing firemen. The boardgames remain in the cupboard. The book that Mr7 and I are writing stays in the drawer.

Not today.

I wonder if this will be their overwhelming memory of me as a mum. They won't remember that yesterday they dressed up in their firemen gear and we made a movie together: Fireman Sam and Station Officer Sam and The Great Tent Fire (it's an action thriller). Not today.

They'll just remember me saying no.

There's no real reason for my grumps. The usual weight of deadlines/lack of time conundrum. The waiting that seems to have taken over my life. The small matter of a book that needs finishing and just, well, isn't. None of it their fault.

The trouble with family is that we feel so loved and so comfortable with them that we can be ourselves. The rest of the world gets the best of us. Our family sees the worst. When it is they who deserve our very, very best.

Fortunately, the boys are forgiving types. And I am full of resolve to do better. Which I will.

Tomorrow.

[image: I love this Dreams For Your Child print from HarperGrace/etsy]

He'll be all right... won't he?

I've been thinking a lot about boys lately. In a motherly kind of way. As opposed to the way I used to think about them when I was, say, 16. Actually, perhaps not that different. I was born 40 after all (just ask my Mum).

A little while ago, a friend handed me Raising Boys by Steve Biddulph to read. I have read it before. In that 'I've got to interview the author in ten minutes, what will I ask him?' kind of frenzy. But I did not have two little boys at the time. This time, I'm having a long hard look at it. I can, for example, vouch for the testosterone boost at four. I have now experienced it twice. It's big.

Being a mother of boys brings its own challenges. I remember once thinking that I'd got off lightly. I knew what I was like as a little girl, and then as a teenager, and figured that if I never had to deal with another me I was doing all right.

What I hadn't factored in was the sheer boyishness of boys. And young men. This has been brought home to me not once, not twice, but three times in the last few days.

I was driving my two out to visit some friends in a nearby town on Thursday. I had pulled left, out of the overtaking lane, and was debating the origins of The Wand of Destiny with Mr7 with one eye on the right lane that I needed to get back into within 50 or so metres. In my side mirror, I watched a car pull out into that lane, and zoom past me at well over 120km an hour - just to get in front of me. Within a whisker of the back of the senior citizen doing 90km.

P plater. Four young men in the car. As we continued on up the highway, me behind them, the guy in the back right-hand seat proceeded to open the back door and pretend to get out. At 100km an hour.

Boys.

On Saturday night, The Builder and I attended a 50th birthday party. Old friends of The Builder. A tight, close-knit circle of people who'd all grown up in the same suburb. He was the little brother who was drawn into the circle as he got older.

The 21-year-old son of the birthday boy pulled his Bieber-esque fringe back to reveal the huge, right-angled scar that went from the middle of his forehead, right back up along his hairline. He had dived into the shallow end of a pool after a few drinks and smashed his head into the tiles. We both agreed that he wouldn't be doing that again. We both agreed that he was lucky.

Boys.

I had a long chat with another of the circle. His son was injured 18 months ago. Lighting the firework that he was holding in his own hand. He will never be the same again, but his father spoke with obvious pride of his progress. He is back at work. He is driving. He is closer to his parents than he has ever been. All of them wish that one moment, that one decision, had never happened.

Boys.

"Little kids, little problems. Big kids, big problems." That has been the sage advice that the Birthday Boy has given The Builder and I every time we get together and discuss our kids. He and his mates, all a bit wild in their youth, are also firm believers in allowing boys the freedom to learn their lessons. Some of those lessons are hard. Harder than I can bear to think about. Particularly given that 'No', 'Stop', 'Don't', and 'You'll hurt yourself' are among my favourite phrases.

This afternoon, my two boys wrapped themselves in cellophane strips and proceeded to 'Cowabunga, Dude' a path of destruction around the Fibro. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are the heroes du jour. Noisy, messy, physical.

Boys.

They'll be all right... Won't they?

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}

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!

Ever wish you were different?

Parenting is the last bastion of horror for the chronic overthinker. You not only have your own stuff to overthink, but now you have the lives for one, two, three [insert number of children] others.

The worst part about it is that your overthinking can take on a life of its own. Your child has a glitch. They tell you about it. You immediately start wondering how this might affect them next week/next year/next decade. I am an expert at this. One small 'nobody wants to play with me' becomes a giant leap into a bleak and friendless future.

Three weeks after the fact, I'll be the one still overthinking, reading up, looking for information, considering strategies. The child in question? He's moved on. Probably five minutes after he mentioned it. Too busy playing with his friends to discuss it further.

Worry wart? Moi?

Given the choice to delete any part of my personality, it would be this. Not the complete and total inability to 'get' trigonometry. Not the underwhelming sense of fashion and style. Not even the deluded desire to try stand-up comedy.

This.

What about you? Anything you'd change or delete?

And we danced

The scene: Pitt Street Mall, Sunday morning, restless shoppers swarm between the buildings, scaffolding looms overhead, a man in a tuxedo plays the electric violin, an ever-increasing crowd hums along as 'Memories' (think Barbra Streisand) weaves through the air.

Mr4 takes my hand. He twirls under it, Ginger Rogers style. He turns back to face me, holds out his other hand. I take it. He begins to twirl.

"Dance with me Mummy," he says.

I laugh. Round and round we go, with a couple of pirouettes and an occasional heel-toe polka thrown in. The crowd makes room for us.

We dance.

Now we are four

When I told Mr4 this morning that he would be seeing a doctor today he asked why.

"I'm not sick Mummy," he said. "I'm on holidays." Any day that is not a preschool day is a holiday as far as he's concerned.

I went on to explain that he had to go and have his four-year-old needles. He wanted to know what a needle was. Given how much he screamed last time he had one, I was sure he'd remember. Clearly the two-year-old brain blanks out the pain of the immunisation process. Much as the maternal brain does with labour.

Mr7 was keen to elaborate. "They poke medicine in you," he said. "It hurts a bit."

Mr4 thought about that.

"I thought you went to the doctor to make you feel better," he said. "Not to get hurt."

Much discussion ensued about what kind of pain it was, how much pain there was, did we really need to do it?

Yes, I said, we did.

And so we did. Via a milkshake, and with the promise of a surprise if he was brave. And he sat up straight on my lap and didn't even blink as two nurses approached from either side and jabbed him simultaneously. "That was all right," he said, as he climbed down. "Now, where's the surprise you promised me?"

Four is really very big, isn't it?

{image: cheezelsmurf/flickr}

Can I ask you a question?

I read today, in O magazine (so it must be true), that asking a lot of questions can help "keep your mind nimble" (their words, not mine) as you age. I was kind of excited by this. Not only because it seems that Misters 4 and 7 will be incredibly sharp 109 year olds (I figure it will take them this long to run out of questions). But because I will be too. Well, maybe not 109 (my Bio Age score at the gym the other day was close to that now). But sharp.

To give you an idea of why, I thought I'd run you through some of the questions I asked today. This does not include the questions I had to answer (which included such gems as "why does that car look funny?" - answer: because it's a hearse - and "where is that story that was due today?" - answer: the dog ate my homework). Just a small sample of the ones that originated from me.

"What do you want for breakfast?"

"Where are your shoes?"

"Where are your shoes?"

"Where are your shoes?"

"Why did you change the time for Reading and not tell me?"

"What do you think of this story idea?"

"What is career resilience?"

"What foods should we eat for more energy?"

"How can I network when I have to pick the kids up after school?"

"How does Skype work?"

"What would life be like for a country solicitor?"

"Would any woman in her right mind drive 1000km to talk to a man who 'needed space'?"

"Do you really need that receipt to finish my tax?"

"What is the difference between a bully and a bitch?"

"When do you need this by?"

"What are the 10 essential things that everyone should know about insurance?"

"Where the hell did I put that receipt?"

"Where are your shoes?"


Of course, I have barely scraped the surface. But, as you can see, I am well on the way to a very nimble mind in old age. Also well on the way to making my children sleep in their shoes.

What about you? Are you asking a lot of questions? Are they meaningful questions?


{image: Jamie'sArt/etsy}

When your imaginary friend is an evil genius, eat popcorn

Alla Hoo Hoo, Mr4's imaginary friend, has been very quiet for a while. No parties. No forklift. Not even mention of the 98 children. Mr4 tells me that this is because she is working on a "very big, very super new invention".

Intrigued, I asked him what she is inventing.

"A popcorn maker," he replied. "And she's making it out of boxes. In a special workshop on the other side of the world."

"But we already have a perfectly functioning popcorn maker (named Cornelius)," I said. "How will Alla Hoo Hoo's be different?"

He thought. "It's broken," he replied.

She is clever that Ms Hoo Hoo. Instead of building an incredibly small window of functional operation into the device's planned obsolescence (as most electrical appliances appear to have), she has decided to skip that step all together and take us directly to the point where we must buy a new popcorn maker as soon as we leave the shop with the one we just bought. Sheer evil genius.

I can see why she's been so quiet.

{image: via weheartit.com}