Will you stay with me forever?

Mr5 is afraid of the dark. He's never been afraid before, so I can only assume that it is because the dark is now unfamiliar. New house, new spaces. The rambling rooms of The Old Girl, so quirky and beautiful during the day, become echoing maws of blackness after dark.

Despite the night lights left on and the careful explanation of just where Mum and Dad will be once he goes to bed, and when, and what time we will go to bed ourselves, he is worried. He curls up in his bed, making himself as small as possible, tiny voice quavering as he calls out "Mum. MUM! Where are you?" Why I'm right here in the kitchen washing up son, right where I said I'd be three minutes ago.

Last night we had a little chat about it. I asked him what he was worried about.

"People might break in," he said. "Like the bird did." Yesterday we came home after school to discover a large bird had taken up residence in the sunroom. I had no idea how it had got in or how long it had been there. In a panic, I rang my friend K who, I reasoned, had chickens so would know what to do.

"Er, open a window?" she suggested. All windows are screened.

"Er, um,... wait til The Builder gets home," she recommended.

I rang The Builder. Who did not seem to understand the emergency at hand. "I'll be home in half an hour," he said. "Open the front door."

To do so, I had to sneak past the bird. With the boys eyes upon me, and knowing that to show fear would simply freak them out, I dashed down the sunroom and flung the door open. Then Mr5 and I sat on the front verandah, doing some bird spying, talking in very quiet voices (that is, not very quiet at all in Mr5's case) until the bird strolled out the door.

All of this had clearly had an impact on him.

"The bird didn't break in," I said. "Mummy left the door open by mistake. And he's gone now, and all the doors are locked."

He nodded. He took a deep breath. "I'm worried you'll leave me," he admitted. Silence. Leave him? Me who stayed home and worked around him, who is with him nearly every minute of his waking life, beyond his time at school?

"I would never leave you," I said. "I love you. Do you think I would creep away in the middle of the night?"

He nodded, big blue eyes welling up.

"Never," I said. And meant it.

"Does that mean you'll stay with me forever?" he asked.

Visions of him lolling on the couch at 35, scratching his hairy stomach and shooting rubbish-bin two-pointers with beer cans flash through my mind.

"Forever," I say. Knowing that one day he will forget this conversation and leave to step into his own life, while I won't forget it and will stay, waiting for him to visit.

He sighed happily, gave me a kiss and rolled over and went to sleep.

I stayed awake a long time last night.

[image from here]

Avoiding the cracks

Mr5 and I enjoyed a leisurely walk home today, at the cigarette-end of the afternoon, as the sun dipped and the traffic stream swelled with workers desperate to get home. We strolled along, me on foot, him on his scooter, little legs pumping as he showed off his prowess.

"Look Mum! I can stop!"

Hallelujah.

Somewhere around the abandoned petrol station, where the concrete is smooth and expansive, I decided I'd have a go. He handed over the wheels reluctantly. I bent almost double to grip the handlebars, one foot taking up almost the entire deck of the scooter. You don't realise how low to the ground kids actually are until you attempt this kind of thing...

One push and I was off.

All went well. To begin with. He ran along beside me, cheering. A second push, and I hit the footpath. A third push and I... hit a crack and almost went over the handlebars on my head.

"Whoops*!" I said.

"Mum," he said, racing over the pat my arm. "You have to avoid the cracks. If they go up and down, they're okay but when they go side-to-side, you can't just ride into them like that."

I handed back the scooter, laughing. He proceeded to lecture me, in minute detail, about the various methods of tackling cracks in the footpath. (I think he's spent too much time with his Dad...) Apparently, one should slow down as one approaches, allowing one to dip in and out of the crack without actually colliding with the crack. Or some such.

As he settled back on the scooter and we went on our merry way, he looked up at me from under his straight blonde fringe and smiled. "It was a good try, Mum," he said. "A bit more practice and you'll be as good as me."

He zoomed off. A minute later, he zoomed back, riding rings around me.

"Actually," he said. "I think it would help if you were a bit smaller."

*May or may not be edited for G rating

In praise of the singlet

When I was a kid, I hated singlets. Hated. Singlets. Particularly the long-sleeved variety known as 'spencers'. Even the word makes my flesh crawl.

Now that I am a parent, however, I am the Queen of Singlets. You might even call me the Mad Queen of Singlets, so obsessed am I with ensuring that my boys are wearing one at all times.

If it's cold, they give you that handy little extra layer. If it's warm, they will wick away sweat or provide a handy extra layer should you wish to remove your shirt and - voila! There you are - cool, comfortable and not walking around topless*.

My love of singlets began when I was pregnant. They were the only safely unisex thing I could buy, so I bought them by the container-load. Seriously, I had so many singlets that neither Maxabella nor Multiple Mum had to purchase a single one, sized 0000 to 2, for years. They were just so... cute. And white. And fresh. And innocent.

Seriously, is anything sweeter than a baby in a nappy and a clean white singlet? No. Thought not.

Anyway, I am ridiculed for my singlet obsession. My children are the only children in the extended family still wearing one every day. Now they come in multiple colours (even a classic navy Wife Beater or two) and patterns, but I still love the classic white the best. But never, ever long-sleeved.

The boys don't seem to mind. Yet. Every once in a while, when he's feeling rebellious, Mr8 throws the words 'well, I'm not even wearing a singlet' at me. And I laugh. 'You'll be so-o-orry,' I throw back at him, secretly pleased that I've managed to create such a benign point of revolution.

Mostly though, they're happy in their singlets. In fact, if you popped into the Fibro after school any day in summer, you'd probably find them in singlets and undies... and nothing else.

Hmmm. Perhaps it's time to take the focus off singlets and address the issue of pants. Before I run into real problems.

Is yours a singlet household?

This post was inspired by Maxabella, who took the time to throw slings and arrows at my singlets in her post yesterday.

*Note to male population, no-one really wants to see your pecs or your tatts or your beer gut, so please put it/them away.

[image: where else but Bonds?]

Raising boys: Kid in the kitchen

Mr7 and I did some cooking tonight. Usually 'cooking' involves both boys eating their bodyweight in chocolate chips whilst waiting to stir the cookie mixture. Or swiping at the cake mix with a wooden spoon before racing off to lick the batter off it.

Tonight, he decided he wanted to help me make dinner. Chilli con Carne (sans Chilli for him and Mr4). So I showed him how to cut an onion - which he then wanted to attempt with a butter knife, before I dissuaded him. And he helped me put the spices in with the meat - by standing halfway across the kitchen and flinging cumin in the general direction of the pot. "You can go closer," I said, watching bemused as the cumin snow hit the ground. But no, he didn't want to burn himself.

When he attempted to open a can of tomatoes with a bottle opener, not being able to recognise a can opener out of the drawer, I realised it's definitely time to overcome my anxiety about him chopping off a finger or setting fire to his hair and actually teach him to cook. I have always sworn that I would never raise boys who could not fend for themselves.

Time to start putting my money where my mouth is.

Do you cook with your kids? What kinds of things are you cooking (and how old are they?)? And are those coloured knives on Junior Masterchef more kid-friendly than other knives?

[image: decal by tweetheartwallart/etsy]

Motherhood is... Learning when to let go

Mr4 has found the sweet spot on his bike. He is off and racing. Little legs pumping, concentration fierce. He still wobbles. He still worries. But he's doing it. With his eyes open.

It has taken a little while for him to get going. I found him on the grass this afternoon, in tears. Mr7 told me that he'd forgotten to push off when he lifted his foot. Balancing on a stationary bike is best left to the professionals. "He went sideways, Mum," said Mr7, solemnly.

Mr4 looked up at me, face screwed up, red and angry. "I'm okay," he said, between sobs. "I don't need you. I don't need you."

I backed away.

We took them out, to a place with space and paths on which to spread his wings. He tried at first with me puffing along behind, holding the back of his seat, shouting instructions as he wibbled towards the road and wobbled towards the trees. "Let go, Mum, let go," he screamed back.

I couldn't. He was too wobbly, he wasn't steering straight. All I could foresee was disaster.

On the return journey, he refused my help, turning to his Dad. Mr7 and I made our way back to the car. "Coming through!" we heard, a few metres up the track. I turned and there was Mr4 riding towards me, The Builder running behind shrieking (in a manly way) "You're doing it! You're doing it" (I tell you, it's catching). He rode to the end of the path, turned and returned.

"You held on for too long," he told me, serene in his new ability. "You have to let go. I can't ride unless you let go."

I nodded, message finally understood.

Oh, but this motherhood gig is hard.


[image: I love these bird prints from barkingbirdart/etsy]

The Very Hungry Caterpillar (aka Why do you blog?)

If I've learned nothing else in my many months of blogging, I've learned the value of recording the little things. Snippets. Pictures. A thought here. A moment there. And it's for that reason that I'm writing today's post. It's been a bit of a Mr4 week this week, but that's okay. He's off to big school next year. So many of his thoughts and ideas and random utterances will be heard by other people.

Not me.

But this one, today's one, was mine.

The scene: Mr4, Mr7 and I are in the car, on our way to take Mr7 to his piano lesson. The boys are chatting about this and that. Mr4 tells Mr7 how hungry he is.

"You can't possibly be hungry," I say, interrupting. Mr4 is in the midst of a hollow-legs phase. "You ate a lot today."

"What did you have?" asks Mr7.

"Well," says Mr4, considering. "I had two pieces of buttery toasters for breakfast. And a milkshake. And half a caramel slice. And an apple. And a ham wrap. And a cheesestick. And some sultanas. And some crackers. And four strawberries..."

Pause.

"And then," he continued, in exactly the same tone of voice. "I ate one nice green leaf, and I felt much better."

Pause.

Mr7 and I cracked up, while Mr4 grinned from ear to ear. Did you see what he did there? It seems that Mr4 is learning the art of the punchline.

Why do you blog? Do you use your blog as a record of life? Do you aim for big picture or small moments?

[image: fabric from besewhappy.com]

This post is part of the Weekend Rewind blog hop. Join in! Link up an old post for new comment love.

To pet, or not to pet, that is the question

Mr4 is desperate for a pet. He has taken to crawling around the house, pretending to be a cat. Sometimes a Turtle Cat, but mostly just a cat. The Builder and I are hesitating. Our reasons are sound - we have plans to travel, plans to move, plans to plan. But none of them make sense to a four year old who wants something to pat.

He's always been a patter, Mr4. Maxabella would be laughing at the irony of this, she being a patter, me being someone who has always hated being patted. But, I'm here to tell you, being patted by the fruit of your own loins is somewhat different to being patted, absently or annoyingly, by your sister.

Mr4 likes to pat my hair. He has always done this. I generally wear it tied back in a messy, up-do thing, and he has always, from birth, liked to hold onto my messy, up-do thing. And pat it. I thought this was something he'd grow out of, but no... His first words may not have been 'Mummy, put her hair up', but they were three, four, five and six.

Recently, the patting has been out of control. It's a security thing, but he often forgets that it's attached to my head - kind of awkward at times and the words 'please don't pat my hair' may have been uttered on several occasions.

This morning we were discussing, in the car on the way to preschool, the RSPCA box set up in the classroom. The children are all very interested in the RSPCA, particularly given the cupcake fundraiser put on earlier this year. We had enough cupcakes to have them on sale every afternoon for a week! Very popular, the RSPCA.

This time, we are donating tins of food, toys and treats. Mr4 is adamant that we must have a toy as part of our donation. He knows that RSPCA dogs are not free to roam around and feels they must be very bored. We decided on a tin of food and a toy.

There was a little silence. Then...

"Mummy, when, oh when, can I have a pet?"

I began the usual soothing 'soon' conversation, but he was having none of it.

"If I have a pet, I'll have something to pat," he said. "And I won't have to pat your hair anymore!"

His smile was a mile wide. He'd played his trump card. He was willing to give up the hair, if he could have the pet.

It's almost tempting...

Do you have a pet? Was it a considered decision or a spur-of-the-moment thing?

PS: The hand of Mr4 (pictured above) has drawn the winners of the two Peter Carnavas book packs and they are... drum roll please... River and Saffron. Please send me your postal details via the email address on this blog and I'll get them out to you asap.

The things you do (as a Mum)

I spent some time this afternoon attempting to hit my four year old with a broom handle. Not exactly where I pictured myself when I fondly imagined my mothering years. Before you call DOCS, let me hasten to assure you that he asked me to undertake this exercise. Asked for it, I tell you.

Mr4 has taken up Little Ninjas. Following in the footsteps of, and standing alongside his big brother, in blue pyjamas. He was very keen on the whole thing, practising his sparring stance and his back-break falls with enthusiasm - until they brought out the stick.

We have reached the 'self-defence' module of this term's lessons, and part of this involves learning to dodge a large, red (admittedly well-padded) stick. Mr4 took one look at said stick and ran screaming for his mother - which strikes me as a sensible thing to do, but what would I know?

Apparently, he must learn to dodge the stick. To go one way when it goes the other. Or some such. I say he graduates with honours - he has learned to dodge the stick by running at breakneck speed in the opposite direction. However, it turns out that he will not get the 'stripe' on his belt for this particular module unless he faces the stick. Or 'The Stick' as it has become known in the Fibro. Like 'The Blob' or 'The Thing', only much thinner.

On the way home, after a serious discussion about how the correct response to the question 'what do you do when a stranger tries to drag you into a car?' is not, as Mr4 tried in class, 'get in the car' (accompanied by big smile), we talked about the importance of facing fears. About how fears only got bigger if you didn't turn around and look at them. How they grew in your mind while you had your eyes closed. Mr4 took that on board and then asked me to help him face down The Stick.

So, being the candidate for Mother of the Year that we know me to be, I spent some time practising with him this afternoon. I even thwacked the handle on the ground as it whistled past his ears (okay, came down somewhere in the vicinity of his body), so that he would not be frightened of any sound effects The Stick might emit. Even so, I'm not sure that I'm doing it right. When I come at him with a broom handle, he giggles. I clearly need to get a tougher expression as the wielder of The Stick.

We have until Monday to build up his courage enough to dodge The Stick on his own. Mr7 sits behind me, giving helpful big-brotherly advice like 'don't let it hit you'. Right. With a team like this on his side, how can Mr4 fail?

I also managed to slip some 'wrist escape' practice into the mix. This is the move you use when someone has you by the arm and is attempting to drag you into a car. It involves pulling up in the opposite direction from the person's grip. Or something. Mr4 was perturbed that I was trying to drag him into a pot plant, not a car, but I assured him the method was the same.

And I will sleep easier tonight knowing that if he learned nothing else today, he knows that the correct response if someone tries to drag you into a car is to run screaming to Mum.

Have you found yourself in an unusual situation as a Mum? And how did you have the 'stranger danger' talk without freaking out your child?

[image: WallDecalsAndQuotes/etsy]

The indelible marks of motherhood

Today I realised, once again, that motherhood has left an indelible mark on me. I was walking down a flight of stairs. Counting each step out loud. And I was alone. Alone in the sense of 'no child with me'. Not alone in the sense of 'no audience at all for my lunatic behaviour'. Indeed, the older woman coming up said flight of stairs looked intensely amused by the whole event. She smiled and nodded. She understood. She was probably counting the stairs herself as she went up. But she's had enough time to learn to do it in her head again.

Counting out loud - everything from stairs to mushrooms as you bag them at the supermarket - is one of the indelible marks of motherhood. As is pointing out diggers on the side of the road, even when you're in the company of adult friends who, really, could not care less. Going to the toilet with the door left slightly ajar 'just in case' is one that I'm hoping I'll grow out of very soon (as, no doubt, is the rest of the household).

Carrying a water bottle everywhere. Keeping an emergency muesli bar in my bag. Keeping an emergency fire engine in my bag (never know when you'll need one of those).

Never leaving a building without asking everyone in the vicinity (stranger or no) if they need to wee before we go.

An underlying sense of anxiety that never quite bubbles over and never quite disappears.

These are but some of the marks that motherhood has left on me. What have you got?

[image: merriweathercouncil/etsy]

Full heart, empty garage

No more babies for me. Not that I was planning any. But today I gave away the pram, the cot, the portacot... the essential hardware is out the door. Part of me is okay with it. The operating system required to have a third child fell apart soon after the birth of Mr4. Very soon after. Like 10 minutes after the birth.

"That's it," I said, gazing on the perfection of my second little boy, relief that he was here, in good shape, flooding my bruised, battered and re-zippered body. "We're done."

The Builder, dreams of little girls with red hair dancing in his head, wasn't so certain. Hoped I'd change my mind, to be honest. But I didn't. I haven't.

For reasons that are too long, complicated and boring to go into in a blog post, I think another pregnancy would do my head in completely.

And, let's face it, I'm no spring chicken in the baby-making stakes. Any baby that I had today would be looking at a very grey-haired mum at the High School Graduation ceremony. Sixty may be the new 50, but try telling an 18 year old that.

So, that's it. The hardware is gone. The software has malfunctioned. The garage is empty.

I'm okay with it. I think. Part of me reminisces about tiny feet, the scent of freshly washed newborn skin, little starfish hands patting my arm while breastfeeding, those chubby layer-upon-layer baby thighs. Another part of me punches my fist in the air at the idea of never, ever spending another night walking the floor with a screaming scrap of misery. Or spoon-feeding mush to a hungry little mouth (oh, God, the monotony). Or sitting through another Wiggles video.

I'm glad I went there. But it's not necessarily a trip I need to take again.

End of an era.

What about you? Is your garage cluttered up with baby hardware? Are you done?

[image: via weheartit]

Making time for friends

After reading this post (by Nicole at Planning With Kids) at the CareerMums blog, I have decided to take a night off. I am going out for a 'noice bistro meal' and a movie with some mates from the school community. We have been talking about it for ages... and now we're finally doing it.

I think there's a misconception as a mum that you need an 'occasion' to go out. That it needs to be an 'event'. With frocks, and heels, and pearls and stuff. A la Sex and The City. I think that is one reason that perhaps we don't go out enough. You don't need an event. You just need to get out of the house.

The Builder laughed when I told him that I was going out... on a Monday. After all, who goes out on Monday night? Mums do, that's who. It's not the coolest night to go out, I agree. But I'm going out. With friends. And that's cool enough.

When was the last time you went out with friends? Do you do it often enough?


[I appreciate that this image has little to do with a night out in Fibrotown...]

First steps in two-tone shoes

The boys and I went bowling today. In honour of Mr7's soccer presentation, they donned two-toned shoes and slipped and slid their way across the over-polished floors to, well, dump their bowling balls down the lane. Mr4, who'd never bowled in his life, managed a spare with his first two dribbling offerings. And then could never quite match his own success. Once he realised that every bowl would not be greeted with shouts and cheers from the crowd, he lost interest. He did quite enjoy the enormous thump that ensued when he threw his ball, with two hands, from a great height.

In his defense, they were big balls.

Mr7 employed a cunning mix of unorthodox techniques during his games. From an attempt at an overarm throw (not repeated) to a shimmy-shake arrangement that resulted in the ball ricocheting wildly from one bumper to another to a rather spectacular effort where he appeared to forget to let go of the ball and followed it halfway down the lane on his side, his efforts were entertaining, to say the least.

I do have memories of my own first-ever attempt at bowling. We were visiting my grandparents in Far North Queensland during one of our Christmas odysseys. I'm not sure how old I was, but I had received, along with sisters B and C, a rather fetching jumpsuit arrangement for Christmas and we all insisted on wearing them bowling. That's it. I don't remember how the bowling went, but I do recall being dressed in a harem-pant jumpsuit with a little tie around the neck. Which did not match the two-tone shoes.

The boys will probably not remember what they were wearing today. But Mr7 will remember the two trophies that he received for his first (and probably last) soccer season. And Mr4 will remember that he did not receive two trophies. In fact, any trophies at all. I know this because he repeated this fact over and over all the way home.

Are you a ten-pin bowler? What do you remember of visits to the lanes when you were young?

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]

Watching

My favourite moment of today belongs to someone else. Two someone elses, in fact. Two males, one large, one small. Lying flat on their backs in the backyard, arms wide on the green, green grass. The Builder in work clothes. Mr4 in a dress-up wizard cloak, his 'Turtle Cat' costume. They are looking up at the spring-blue sky. Laughing. One deep belly laugh. One little belly giggle.

Just thinking about it makes me smile.

[image: youarelikeadrugforme/Tumblr]

Proud parents come in all shapes and sizes

The scene: the empty carpark at the local swimming pool. Dark clouds gather on the horizon, threatening. A mother gathers her babies about her, anxiously scanning for traffic.

The Misters are back at swimming lessons. Which means that the race from school gate to pool is on again. Twenty minutes from bell to the first splash, via a quick snack, changing from uniform to what Mr4 calls 'swimming underpants' and a hurried 'how was school?' update. It's a finely timed operation.

The scene: deciding that the coast is clear, the mother lines her babies up. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. You can almost hear them sounding off like the Von Trapp children as she makes sure they're all there.

At 3.15pm, we pull up out the front of the heated pool. Across the road, the open-air pool is closed, awaiting the long weekend and the warm weather. As I unbuckle my seatbelt, I glance across the deserted carpark, surprised that there are so few cars here yet. And that's when I see them...

The scene: Dad appears from nowhere to bring up the rear of the line. There are so many of them and they have a long way to go. Between them, the parents frogmarch their little charges to the edge of the carpark. They stand near the kerb, watching, waiting. The road in front of them, a standard suburban street, appears vast.

"Quick!" I shout, racing around to let the boys out of the car. "Look!" I point to the little family, taking its first tentative steps onto the street.

"Ducklings!" shouts Mr7. Mr4 claps his hands. We all stand and watch, breaths held as we watch the line of fluffy ducklings, sandwiched at either end by their ever-vigilant parents, make a break across the street.

"There aren't any cars coming, are there Mum?" asks Mr4, worried.

"Those lookouts will let them know," says Mr7, pointing out the two ducks standing, as though on guard, nearby.

The scene: the ducklings flap and waddle and wiggle their way across to the other side, and the safety of the river bank. Mum and Dad Duck stand on the verge, watching as, one by one, they slip and slide and slither their way down the grassy hill towards the water below. Proud parents.

We watch them until they disappear over the rise. At which point I realise the time, line the boys up and we skiddle and skaddle and run helter skelter toward our first lesson of the season. Where Mr4 did the best 'big arms' ever, and Mr7 received a 'good' from the notoriously tough teacher. Proud parent.

[image: via dreams that glitter xo]

A note about school notes

On Monday they fall like confetti from the sky. Or from the reader bag. School notes. Blue, pink, yellow, green, orange... All full of instructions. "You need to do this/sign that/pay this/prepare that."

A deluge.

I read them. I immediately throw the ones of least apparent relevance. A sizeable pile remains. I sign what I can. Return it immediately to the reader bag. One down. Truckloads to go. How, for instance, to deal with the 'Buskers Afternoon' notification. Can I be a parent helper? Can I avoid it?

The Fair Trade Colouring Competition is due on Thursday. I have a bad feeling the colouring sheet remains in the Fibro, under the renovation dust - will Mr7 be devastated? School photo season is upon us. Choose a package - cheque or credit. Due back when? Eeek! Tomorrow. Wait a minute - wasn't there one about the preschool photos as well? Rummage. Due back when? Eeeek! Tomorrow.

There has to be an easier way.

How do you deal with the onslaught of school notes? Any tips?


[image: how much do you love this picture by beet09? You can buy it as a greeting card at RedBubble.]

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]

Big red cars

Mr4's inner hoon is well developed. At four. He will stand on a street corner and point out the 'coolest' cars. All of said cars have flashy paint jobs, shiny wheels and 'wings' aka spoilers. Mr7 has told him that spoilers are aeroplane wings turned upside down, so they hold the car down, rather than pushing the plane up. Mr7 learned about that on an episode of Peppa Pig, or Olivia, or one of those Piggy ABC shows. See, TV is educational.

Mr4 likes the music loud when he is in the car. He likes the window down and the breeze in his hair. He tells me that he will be a much better driver than me. Apparently he will be 'fast' and will not hit the gutter when he attempts to reverse park. Everyone's a critic.

Mr4 dons his bike helmet, puts on his gumboots, and climbs on his little bike (with training wheels) as though he is stepping over a Harley Davidson. He brmmms as he drives, makes screeching noises as he skids to a stop, and swaggers like a Bandido as he pushes his bike into the preschool playground. He walked around with his helmet under his arm for ages the other morning, waiting for someone to notice, then tossed his hair back with 'oh, this old thing' attitude as he confided that he'd ridden to school that day.

Mr4 has all the makings of a mother's worst nightmare.

I think I'll start lobbying now for the driving age to be raised to 30.

[image: Disney]

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...]