do fish fly?

My daughters' goldfish has gone missing.

Completely.

I've searched in and under and through every place in her room, and it just. isn't. there.

We are mystified.

My own theory, that the fish was a Secret Agent who had completed his mission and teleported back to his Masters to make a report, was greeted with derision by the children.

The Princess advanced the opinion that burglars broke in and stole him.

Mr 10 was too busy playing SmashWarKartCraft or something, and didn't have any alternative ideas to offer.


In news that may or may not be related, we seem to have a lot of cats.

That's not all of them, I know there are more. They hide when they hear the vacuum cleaner start up.
I think my daughter is a Junior Crazy Cat Lady.

sticks and stones and words and bones

He uses words like weapons.

To bludgeon, cudgel, batter, and bruise, and leave you dazed.

With the skill and delicacy of an assassin, the thinnest of blades that slides through the cage you've built around your heart and leaves almost no visible mark, so that no-one sees what he's done.

With poison, venomous, scalding, acidic, that leaves you sick and burnt.

He has been like this since he was tiny. And it's always been me who has borne the worst of it.

I don't know why. Is it because I'm the one who stays? The one who loves him no matter what, the one who swallows the hurt and tries to mend what he's so thoughtlessly smashed?

Because I have. And I do. And I will.

Once, when he was younger, I would retaliate. Mostly in anger, sometimes in self-defence. I've lashed out, physically, verbally, I'm no angel. Just a human, failing. Flailing.

Now, my only defense is retreat. I wait, I heal, I try again.

He's my son. What else can I do?

a prayer for our daughters

I saw this today on Pinterest and it rang so true in my heart. Even though I didn't know what Hollister was and had to Google it.

Tina Fey's Prayer for her daughter:

“First, Lord: No tattoos.
May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen.

Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, that she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. “My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes. Amen.” -Tina Fey

a toy story.

Oh, Buzz.

You joined our family way back when Mr 9 was Mr 3, and you've been his constant companion since then.
You slept with him every night, you comforted him when he was sad or sick, you came with us on every holiday and weekend trip.
Once we left you in the airport shop, remember that? hahaha... and we nearly missed our plane because we couldn't leave you behind!

Good times, Buzz, good times.

Remember the time the piece fell out of your chin? or when your - ahem - crotch split and I had to sew you up? Sorry about that. I was as gentle as I knew how.

I'm sorry about the times I chucked you in the washing machine too, I guess it probably felt a bit like Infinite and Beyond in there, but MY didn't you scrub up well? and you certainly smelled a lot fresher afterwards.
And remember, how Mr 3-9 would wait impatiently for you to come out and then he'd hug you even though you were still a bit wet?
He didn't mind.

Remember how we used to sing "You've Got A Friend In Me" to you in the car? and you never complained when we got the words a bit muddled up.

You've been slept on, sat on, spat on, and spewed on. You've been the best friend my boy ever had.

Today I found you in his wardrobe, jumbled in on top of the shoes, with only an old robot for company.

When I asked him why you were there, he said "Mum, I'm getting a bit old for him. I'm nearly 10, now."

And my heart broke a little, and I hoped you didn't hear that.

So I rescued you from the shoes, and dusted you off, and sat you up in the bookshelf, where you can keep watch over my boy ....

.... as you have for 6 long years now.

when is your mum not your mum?

It's sort of weird, having your adult children read your blog.

Over the last lately, I've written a vibrator review, discussed my menstrual problems, and talked about the Mirena, and put up a post about my husbands' testicles that featured a naked and hairy Burt Reynolds.

And YET, they keep reading.

Yesterday, my 18 year old talked to me about the dog post from a couple of days ago, saying "I had no idea you'd been bullied like that, Mum."
Well, no. Admittedly that was a story that I didn't think would ever see the light of day.

However, I started thinking about parents and their adult kids.
I think it comes as a bit of a surprise to most kids when they realise that Mum and Dad didn't spring miraculously into being at the moment of the childs' birth -- that they were, in fact, people with lives and thoughts and experiences that had nothing at all to do with the said child.

I've been wondering how my kids see me, as a person, rather than as Mum, who used to sing hideous opera-like songs to get them out of bed in the mornings and who gushed over glitter paint and paddle-pop stick art like it was the Mona Lisa.

Do they like me? Do they think my opinions are valid, or are they simply waiting, as my eldest son puts it, for the day a spot opens up in that dodgy Old Peoples' Home he saw on 60 Minutes?

Am I an actual person to them, or still just Mum?

bikie girl

The Princess has re-discovered the leather jacket her dad bought her last year, and has been busily imagining outfits to wear it with.
She's decided it would be awesome to have a black skirt and black boots and black sunglasses to go with her black jacket.....
and then realised she would be a BIT embarrassed to be a bikie girl when she still has training wheels on her bike....


Oh WAIT -- did you hear a thud? that was the sound of Fabio fainting and falling out of his chair as he read this and imagined his Princess as a bikie chick....

what's in your lunchbox today?

Those nutritional experts who go on about kids taking healthy lunches to school clearly don't have any actual kids.
Or they have one child, who willingly wears knee-high socks and enjoys playing croquet with Father after dinner of an evening.

My kids, on the other hand, would happily have a Nutella sammitch every day of every week for an entire school year. And sometimes it's really tempting to let them, because the reality of making healthy lunches for two children with varying tastes is a head-doer-innerer.

For example -- this morning, making a ham-and-salad sandwich, I must remember that:

Mr 9 does not eat butter. Under any circumstances.

The Princess loathes lettuce.

Mr 9 won't have one even tiny skerrick of cheese.

The Princess won't have dijonnaise. Mr 9 will, but it has to be next to the ham.

Happily, they both like grated carrot, and cucumber, so they get plenty of that.

Now -- fruit.

The Princess likes RED apples. Easy.

And Mr 9 likes GREEN apples, but they have to be really green, and tart, and the supermarkets just don't sell them like that. Grannies are now quite sweet, and often floury, and Mr 9 spits them out. But he also likes mandarines, and happily we have plenty.

A snack for recess? -- ahhh -- Bad Mummy gives them a slice of cake. Not even remotely healthy, but really, what's the point to life if you can't have a little slice of chocolate cake once in a while? At least they didn't get it for breakfast!

my kids are turning yellow

So, last night at karate, The Princess and Mr 9 got the results from their grading last week.

The Princess received her 10th kyu white belt which means she has a white belt with a yellow ribbons round each end. Here she is receiving her certificate from her instructor -- I can't show you his face because we have to protect his identity as Super Sensei.

Mr 9 received his 9th kyu yellow belt, so he gets a full yellow belt. And a certificate.

They were SO excited. They love karate, they love training, and the group is almost like family, with funny 'uncles' and some nice 'aunties' and a bunch of 'cousins' of all ages. I'm really glad I made the decision to take them, and seeing them do so well at something they love is worth all the effort. Even the ironing.

squeeze and hold, baby.

People are often shocked when they ask me how many kids I have, because I don't know how to answer.
And this is why (it's complicated):

1. I have been pregnant 8 times

2. One was a blighted ovum, hence no actual child.

3. I was still sick as a dog for the whole 13 weeks though, before I had a miscarriage.

4. I had 7 actual live births, but my boy, Levi, died at 48 days old, of SIDS.

5. Which leaves me with 6 living children.

6. Of which, only 3 live with us as the other 3 are now grown-ups.

7. There are 2 step-children in the equation as well but they don't live with us.

So how many kids do I have? I have no idea. You tell me.

I had every one of them (the ones who are mine, that is) by pushing them out.

This is the result.



Two of my boys were 10 lb babies. Whatever that is in kilos. I don't care. One had a head like a bowling ball. One was just fat.
Levi was 9lb 10 or so but came out with his arm stretched up beside his head as well.

Is it any wonder I have *ahem* problems when I cough or sneeze?

Thank God for Dr. Kegel.

kebabs

In keeping with my new mission to pimp my kids on Junior Masterchef teach my kids to cook, I had Mr Nearly9 make lamb kebabs the other night.
He soaked some kebab sticks in lemon juice and water, then ran off to watch Dex Hamilton.
When he got back, he threaded juicy lamb onto the sticks, then sprinkled them with a mix of cumin, ginger and garam masala.
I wasn't watching him for the whole of this, but he knew to turn the kebabs and sprinkle the other side as well.
Then he sloshed on some olive oil, and put them under the griller.
He and The Princess chopped cucumber, grape tomatoes, red capsicum, and celery into a salad, with some fresh basil and parsley from the garden.
And he chopped mint and mixed it with some plain yoghurt. Then he made some Mediterranean couscous (from a packet).
It was a delicious dinner, each step was easy and well within his capabilities.

I still have to talk the whole time, explaining everything. He listens well, though.

And we get to spend some quality time together, while teaching him a valuable skill! Win-win, I reckon.

my very own masterchef

So, in keeping with my new resolution to teach the kids to cook, last night, with absolutely no warning, I said to Mr Nearly9, "You're cooking dinner tonight, bud. Spaghetti and meatballs. Away you go."
His eyes lit up. "Right!" he said, and actually dusted off his hands with squared shoulders as he headed for the pantry.
No hesitation. (just like his dad)
Through my laughter, I told him he would have to listen while I explained what to do. (no freestylin' here till you have a few years cooking under your belt!)

I had bought meatballs from the butcher (not great, mine are much better. My thinking was to start simple but in retrospect, I should have made the meatballs at home.)
Anyway, I showed him how to make a simple pasta sauce with canned tomatoes, tomato paste, lemon rind, and herbs from the garden. He did all the work himself, though he needed a little help opening the can.
He dropped the meatballs in and kept turning them without splashing too much sauce around, then he cooked pasta with butter and chopped parsley.

This morning he said, "Mum. Next I wanna tackle a stir-fry."

Cool. I have JUST the recipe.

Lamentations

OR : Household Principles for Children
from Beatrice Santorini

Laws of Forbidden Places

Of the beasts of the field, and of the fishes of the sea, and of all foods that are acceptable in my sight you may eat, but not in the living room.
Of the hoofed animals, grilled or ground into burgers, you may eat, but not in the living room.

Of the cereal grains, of the corn and of the wheat and of the oats, and of all the cereals that are of bright color and unknown provenance you may eat, but not in the living room.

Of quiescently frozen dessert and of all frozen after-meal treats you may eat, but absolutely not in the living room.

Of the juices and other beverages, yes, even of those in sippy-cups, you may drink, but not in the living room, neither may you carry such therein.

Indeed, when you reach the place where the living room carpet begins, of any food or beverage there you may not eat, neither may you drink.

But if you are sick, and are lying down and watching something, then may you eat in the living room.

Laws When At Table

And if you are seated in your high chair, or in a chair such as a greater person might use, keep your legs and feet below you as they were.
Neither raise up your knees, nor place your feet upon the table, for that is an abomination to me. Yes, even when you have an interesting bandage to show, your feet upon the table are an abomination, and worthy of rebuke.

Drink your milk as it is given you, neither use on it any utensils, nor fork, nor knife, nor spoon, for that is not what they are for; if you will dip your blocks in the milk, and lick it off, you will be sent away from my presence.

When you have drunk, let the empty cup then remain upon the table, and do not bite it upon its edge and by your teeth hold it to your face in order to make noises in it sounding like a duck: for you will be sent away from my presence.

When you chew your food, keep your mouth closed until you have swallowed, and do not open it to show your brother or your sister what is within; I say to you, do not so, even if your brother or your sister has done the same to you.

Eat your food only; do not eat that which is not food; neither seize the table between your jaws, nor use the raiment of the table to wipe your lips. I say again to you, do not touch it, but leave it as it is.

And though your stick of carrot does indeed resemble a marker, draw not with it upon the table, even in pretend, for we do not do that, that is why.

And though the pieces of broccoli are very like small trees, do not stand them upright to make a forest, because we do not do that, that is why.

Sit just as I have told you, and do not lean to one side or the other, nor slide down until you are nearly slid away. Heed me; for if you sit like that, your hair will go into the syrup. And now behold, even as I have said, it has come to pass.

Laws Pertaining To Dessert

For we judge between the plate that is unclean and the plate that is clean, saying first, if the plate is clean, then you shall have dessert.
But of the unclean plate, the laws are these: If you have eaten most of your meat, and two bites of your peas with each bite consisting of not less than three peas each, or in total six peas, eaten where I can see, and you have also eaten enough of your potatoes to fill two forks, both forkfuls eaten where I can see, then you shall have dessert.

But if you eat a lesser number of peas, and yet you eat the potatoes, still you shall not have dessert; and if you eat the peas, yet leave the potatoes uneaten, you shall not have dessert, no, not even a small portion thereof.

And if you try to deceive by moving the potatoes or peas around with a fork, that it may appear you have eaten what you have not, you will fall into iniquity. And I will know, and you shall have no dessert.

On Screaming

Do not scream; for it is as if you scream all the time. If you are given a plate on which two foods you do not wish to touch each other are touching each other, your voice rises up even to the ceiling, while you point to the offense with the finger of your right hand; but I say to you, scream not, only remonstrate gently with the server, that the server may correct the fault.

Likewise if you receive a portion of fish from which every piece of herbal seasoning has not been scraped off, and the herbal seasoning is loathsome to you and steeped in vileness, again I say, refrain from screaming. Though the vileness overwhelm you, and cause you a faint unto death, make not that sound from within your throat, neither cover your face, nor press your fingers to your nose. For even I have made the fish as it should be; behold, I eat it myself, yet do not die.

Concerning Face and Hands

Cast your countenance upward to the light, and lift your eyes to the hills, that I may more easily wash you off. For the stains are upon you; even to the very back of your head, there is rice thereon.
And in the breast pocket of your garment, and upon the tie of your shoe, rice and other fragments are distributed in a manner beyond comprehension.

Only hold yourself still; hold still, I say. Give each finger in its turn for my examination thereof, and also each thumb. Lo, how iniquitous they appear. What I do is as it must be; and you shall not go hence until I have done.

Various other laws, statutes, and ordinances

Bite not, lest you be cast into quiet time. Neither drink of your own bath water, nor of the bath water of any kind; nor rub your feet on bread, even if it be in the package; nor rub your feet against cars, not against any building; nor eat sand.
Leave the cat alone, for what has the cat done, that you should so afflict it with tape? And hum not the humming in your nose as I read, nor stand between the light and the book. Indeed, you will drive me to madness. Nor forget what I said about the tape.