Tuesday - Thinking we won't last the week

Things like sleeping, washing and providing safe activities for kids of different ages was so much easier in that other campsite we've been able to use previously.

This afternoon, Mr de Elba went off to his elective (Video Games at TimeZone!) while I stayed behind at the campsite for my elective (Trying to get three children asleep when one needs stories read, another needs me to keep finding new and different videos on Youtube and the third (who will be renamed Gaseous von Fahrrt) has wind, bad bad wind, and needs to scream a lot. No really, that's what my elective is actually called. This morning I did the 'Washing' elective. It was great.)

The saving grace is that we have internet connection here. This means that instead of our list of activities being (1) reading library books, it is (1) reading library books, and (2) watching clips of Pingu and Peppa Pig on Youtube.

In fact, Nat spent a strangely long amount of time watching Peppa Pig in Italian on Youtube. And when your kid is watching Pingu (no dialogue) and Peppa Pig in Italian (no understandable dialogue) you tend to get a little more frustrated than usual when they complain about the baby's crying because they can't hear their program.

Surfing around kids' shows on Youtube can give you a few laughs. I found this and it was so funny that I was rolling around paralytic with laughter. Call me rough round the edges, but I like that kind of humour. I had to stop it and listen to it later when the kids were asleep. You can't embed this particular clip from Youtube, so if you want to see what had me in stitches, you'll have to follow this link instead.

I had a funny moment earlier, playing on Anna-Lucia's irrational fear of small and harmless animals. This was based on her fear of tiny harmless black ants, which I discovered one day when she came racing out of the kitchen screaming, "An ANT is coming, and ANT is coming!!" and I scoured the floor to find a tiny tiny tiny black ant slowly meandering in the same general direction that Anna herself had been herded away from.

Me: Anna-Lucia, here's your toothbrush on the floor! Please put it back in the bathroom.
Anna, continuing the whiny voice she's been using for the last day and a half: I don't want tooo ...
Me, thinking quickly: ... or the ANTS will get it!
Anna, with a look of horror on her face: Okay... (hurriedly took the toothbrush back to the bathroom.)

Bad Mummy.

But what do I care? I had four non-consecutive hours of sleep last night, and the only reason why I didn't take my crazy crew home today is that I was worried I wasn't safe to drive.

I'm a Mummy On The Edge....

Monday - Bargain Shopping Success

And we're wired!

Masquerade night - we all had masks! Thankyou, Bargain Shop.

As to the rest of camp - the jury is out. Deliberating. Deliberating about whether this new campsite is Guilty or Not Guilty of Being Inappropriate Accommodation for Tired Families with Three Small Children with Persistently Disagreeable Behaviour.

One of them was so persistently disagreeable she was impossible to be snapped in the photo above.

Look, I'd just settle for showers that actually got warmer than "Miserably Tepid." That'd do me. If by this time tomorrow night the showers aren't much warmer and I'm stuck showering three small filthy children in showers so cool they scream and try to run away (well, only two of them can actually run, but the third can make up for it in screaming) without Mr de Elba to help as he is running the 'spiritual input' part of the program offsite because the campsite staff are unwilling to unlock their hall out of hours ... well I'll, I'll ...

And yes, the children will need to be showered every day, more's the pity. I dropped a fair amount of gravy on Joseph's tiny head while he was in the hug-a-bub pouch during dinner. (It wasn't very hot.)

Now. I need your opinion. Look at this:

Is that going to work, do you think? What about this:

Good clean fun, or disaster waiting to happen? And look at these eyes:

Do you think they will spend an acceptable amount of time shut?

Not sure, but at least we all have cool masks.

Bring on Camp!

This week, our family is going on a camp. Mr de Elba's work runs many holiday camping programs for youth, mainly staffed by volunteers. Ever since Nat was six months old we've tagged along with Mr de Elba, and this time I can't wait for it to start.

Going away to a campsite (we're talkin' cabins, not tents!), being served meals and taking part in great activities can break the rut of Persistently Disagreeable Behaviour (we're talkin' Nat and Anna-Lucia, not Mr de Elba.) And boy, after one week of holidays/vacation, we're in that rut pretty bad right now.

Heading off to camp will be great. If I can survive the packing, that is.

When I pack for a week away with children, I start five or six days in advance, making sure that the laundry will be up-to-date and ready to be packed on Packing Day, and that each person has at least one clean dry outfit to wear on Coming Home and Doing All the Laundry Day.

Then I make a master list of 5 little lists which represent everything you need for a week away with kids.

1. Clothing (including hats, shoes, nappies/wipes/change-mat/bags, brushes and hairbands, swimming stuff and washing liquid, pegs and a clothes airer)
2. Sleeping (portacot, wraps, sheets and blankets)
3. Bathtime (bodywash and towels)
4. Mealtime (nothing much this time, but sometimes includes pre-made frozen baby food, travel highchair, bowls, spoons, bibs, etc.)
5. Playtime (paper, pens, cars, dolls, library books)

Oh dear.

This year, I would LOVE to get into the spirit for the themed dinners on camp, but I think it's a little late to be whacking together costumes for us. Monday night: Masquerade, Tuesday night: Nanna Night, Wednesday night: Flower Power/Hippie night.

Hoping I can find some bits and pieces I can use to help the kids get into the spirit of things. I'm sure that Mr de E hasn't sourced masks and Grampa Pants yet, so I'm guessing I could sort some costumes for him too. There's my challenge for today, alongside packing those 5 lists worth of things and managing the usual Persistently Disagreeable Behaviour, which has reached fever pitch after one week of holidays which included some stuck-inside-to-get-out-of-the-dust days.

I'm not sure if there will be internet access for me this week. If so, I'll post some photos of our wonderful week, and if not, I will see you back here at Killing a Fly next Friday.

Have a good week!

The Grand Final and Real Dust Storms

We're watching the AFL Grand Final. If you're from the USA, think the Superbowl, minus American Football, plus Australian Rules Football, divided by 100 in terms of size, hoopla and potential for wardrobe malfunctions.

I'm not sure why we're watching. Anna-Lucia, Joseph and I couldn't care less. Nat only pretends he's excited because he's been psyched up by his Daddy. And Mr de Elba, except for Grand Finals and State of Origin games, NEVER watches football of any code, is extremely disinterested in it, and in our 11 years of marriage hasn't been observed to watch a game without falling asleep on the couch by half-time.

On another note, all the windows are shut again because a follow-up dust storm is rolling over the city right now. Yesterday my aunty visited and said she'd just had lunch with an older couple who had lived most of their lives on cattle stations out in the outback. We're talking very very outback.

She asked how they liked Wednesday's dust storm, and they smiled and said, "That wasn't a dust storm." They then described the sort of house cleaning involved after a 'real' dust storm.

Apparently, you don't starty with a mop. You don't even start with a broom.

You go through the house first with a shovel.

Then a broom.

Then a broom again.

Then you're good to mop.

That is a 'real' dust storm.

Anyway, I'm checking the progress of the Grand Final and the scores are even, Mr de Elba's chosen favourites having led until now. He chose his favourites based on their underdog status and the fact that he preferred their mascot (Saints vs Cats, stinky blerky cats.)

It also appears that there are 4 minutes left in the second quarter, meaning that Mr de E has 240 seconds in which to fall asleep.

By the look of things outside the window, I'll have to poke him awake soon and hand him a shovel.

I can see clearly now ...

... the dust is gone! But of course, I didn't actually take a photo to show you the difference between yesterday's sky and today's. You'll just have to believe me.

Cynthia K and Stefanie told me that the dust storm made the news in Canada and the USA. I'm amazed! Many of you kindly hoped and prayed for rain with me, Hippomanic Jen reminded me that in this brown dry land, 'rain' is nearly a myth, Swift Jan and my Crazy Sister left their windows open with disastrous results and I nearly made Heather cough from the opposite side of the world.

I just want to let you know that I am reading all your kind, witty and insightful comments on my blog, even if I'm not responding to them much nowadays. Most of the time I'm within arm's reach of my little laptop nowadays, I am feeding Joseph. This means that I only have one hand to blog/comment with, and if that's my left hand, it's very difficult indeed. Mainly because my computer is on my right.

But, not wanting to end up with one large saggy breast and one small saggy breast in old age, I have decided to continue feeding on both sides, thereby limiting my possible blogging/commenting time to half of the original time available.

("Grandma, why is one of your breasts large and the other is small?" "Well little one, when I was nursing my third child, I had this blog ...")

Ahem.

This is why I'm not blogging much, not commenting much, and hardly responding to your kind comments at all. I am very sorry about this, but I am enjoying reading your own blogs and the comments you leave on mine immensely.

Now. To celebrate this, my 500th post, let me share and insane email that popped up in my Inbox this morning.

I have been receiving a ridiculous amount of spam email recently to my real account. I have no idea how my real address got 'out there', but it did. All of the spam gets promptly deleted, but this mysterious email came to my Inbox instead of my Spam box. So I read it.

Have you had this email? I bet I'm not alone. Read it and smirk:

Hello.

My name is Lilian i saw your proffle on email http://www.vixi.com.au/ and admire it i think we can make it together, therefore i would like you to contact me back throug my email address thus:( lilianfrank24@yahoo.co.uk) i will tell you more about myself and i will also send you my photo as soon as you contact me back. Hopping to hear from you soonest, UNDERSTAND THAT LOVE IS ONE, Lilian WITH LOVE AND TRUST Love & Kiss. ( lilianfrank24@yahoo.co.uk

I probably won't do anything about this email. But part of my just wants to string this sender along (a la Brad Christensen). Why am I too chicken to amorously reply, offering one of the following as a "photo of myself"?

Held Hostage by Dust

Dust storms. I hate them. Australia is usually quite dry, and when weather conditions are feeling capricious, dust from the desert is whipped up and blown over all of us who live on the east, from Queensland (where we are) down to the southern states.

It blew a gale last night, a warm but desperate-sounding gale. And remember, our house backs onto a nature reserve (we call it our 'forest') so when it's windy, the roar of the giant eucalypts is pretty intense.

I think I saw some sun this morning. Then it clouded over and soon after, I noticed the distance looked a little hazy. I read on the ABC news site that there was a huge dust storm over Sydney, and I hoped our haze was rain, not dust.

No such luck. In 60 to 90 minutes and before our eyes, the haze got thicker and thicker. Fewer houses and trees could be seen in the distance. A blanket of dust could be seen on the top of each car in the supermarket carpark. The air started to smell characteristically dusty and even inside the supermarket the air appeared hazy.

And now, we are living in an orange-brown cloud of cloying dust. You can usually see our local shops on the hill beyond that funky-lookin' house opposite us:

And yes, there actually ARE hills beyond there. Look at the palms, being blown to bits.

I have the first bloom on my lovely orange "Brilliant" rose to photograph, but the pics aren't turning out well in the light. All the pictures in this post were taken at 10am.

For the rest of the day, we have been held hostage inside the house by the dust. And although this is possibly the worst or second-worst dust storm I've experienced, they say it's worse down south.

The ABC news article says, "... ABC weather forecaster Graham Creed says particles in the air have reached dangerous levels. 'They're classed as dangerous at levels above 200,' he said. 'In Sydney's east they're recording about 256, in the north-west 919, and in the south-west 1,719. But Sydney is not the worst, Bathurst at the moment is 2,665.' Emergency departments are under pressure after at least 250 people across New South Wales called 000 with breathing problems." That must be terrible.

I hope it goes quickly, and then I hope it rains!

No Wonder!

What do I do all day?

I am not working at the moment. I stay "at home" all day, but it is not a life of leisure. When I wake up in the morning start cleaning bottoms, cleaning the dinner mess from last night, cleaning the floor, cleaning clothes, tidying the kitchen, tidying the bedroomos, tidying the floors ... On and on it goes.

Yet the place always looks pretty messy.

I've worked out that when you take the amount of cleaning I've done in the day, and subtract the amount of messing that my family goes about each day, we always finish up "in the red."

Scenario 1: Chasing my tail

Scenario 2: Close, but no choc-chip bikkie


Scenario 3: Using my freedom to run errands around town instead of cleaning the house


Even on a good day, I end up in the red.

Sigh.

Still.

I have a good mop and a good broom, and the children only have one childhood.

A Carnival!

Time for the annual Carnival Of Flowers! I haven't seen the parade since I was small. Now I have small ones of my own, so it was time to go again.

My Grandma, Aunty, and me with my three children. Can you see Joseph?

Nat and Anna were wowed by the things you can see in a parade. It's not every day you see things like these ambling down Herries Street.

The usual carnival stuff: pipe bands ...

Cheerleaders ...

and mounted police. Followed by minions with pooper scoopers. I wonder which bright spark put the horses at the FRONT of the procession? And how long will it take them to realise that it would be better to put them LAST?

Belly Dancers

Weird Balloon People

A lady in a giant pineapple

The McDonalds crew in their Cadillac

And two grown men dressed as penguins.
This float proclaimed "Happy Birthday Carnival" despite that fact that the carnival has been held annually, making every carnival occur on its own birthday. Heh.

Joseph slept in Grandma's arms...

...while Anna-Lucia and Nat scrambled all over the road picking up confetti as it blew in the breeze.

"And that, Officer, was the last I saw of my children."

Oh wait. They're coming back. Sorry to have bothered you.

A Memory From My Youth

I was just chatting with Heather and I remembered this gem from when I was younger and living back home.

There were many occasions when I was relaxing in my room and my younger sister would walk by. She'd mosey on in and start chatting to me while looking in my mirror and examining her teeth - yes, HER TEETH - in minute detail.

This gal could inspect her teeth for a full ten minutes. She loved those teeth, the reason being they were perfect, and still are today.

One day when she was in situ in front of my mirror and I wasn't paying any great attention, I heard this:

"Aaaaa-CHOO!!! Oh. Sorry about your mirror."

Worrying.

Just while I'm waiting for something to blog about ...

I'm having a tricky time finding something to blog about, REMEMBERING things I've decided to blog about, finding time to blog, finding time to blog when I'm not feeding Joseph and therefore and limited to one-handed typing (and in particular left-handed typing.)

So while we wait for some real blog posts (HAH! At Killing a Fly?!? Ha!) here are some things that have been said recently:

Nat: "This lolly tastes a bit ... grown-uppish."
Me: "Maybe they put a grown-up flavour in it."
Nat: "Yeah. Maybe soy sauce."

Nat was playing Mr de Elba's iPhone. I asked if he could pause the game, and he said that he didn't know how. At the same moment, he 'died' and the game went to a different screen. Nat said happily, "Oh. 'Die' is the pause."

Me: Joseph, I'll just put you down here while I get Anna some food. I'll feed you very soon.
[Joseph begins to cry.]
Me: You cry here for a minute.
[Joseph continues to cry.]
Anna-Lucia: He ky-ing! What a good boy!

A Photo Book

(Apologies: some of the lettering is harder to read on the screen than on the printed photos.)

Calandiva

A long time ago, a very long time ago, I was sad. I can't remember why I was sad, but I remember that I was.

One night back then, there was a ring at the doorbell. I went downstairs, opened the door and there was Swift Jan. She'd bought me a little plant (a calandiva in a pot) and written a sweet card to cheer me up. Swift Jan is good at that. She will bless her friends when they need it, and she will also bless them when everything is fine - just because.

The calandiva was flowering. It flowered and flowered and flowered ... and flowered.


I'm good at killing sweet little plants in pots. But the calandiva was having none of that.


It is determined to cheer me up. It keeps on surviving, despite being owned by me. It keeps flowering and it keeps cheering me up.


And it keeps reminding me of Swift Jan and all my friends in my previous town.

Thanks for this lovely calandiva, Swift Jan. I love you guys.

How many more people ...

... will use the term "good baby" to mean "a baby who doesn't cry" before I stab someone in the eye with a fork?


Today's blog post was brought to you by tiredness, over-busyness, badly-behaved children, and getting hit very hard on the head by a heavy serving plate falling from the top shelf of my cupboard.

A very quiet sigh

Your comments on my last post were so lovely and I would give every one of you a hug if I could. Except for Crazy Sister, because she is not into hugging.

I am sorry to hear that a few of you were separated from your newborn babies for the simple reason of being "in recovery." I feel fortunate to be cared for by a health system with such baby-friendly policies. Their plan is not to separate babies and mothers while in recovery.

If only the midwife hadn't been so geared towards treating real or imagined respiratory distress, Joseph wouldn't have left my side. He would have lain on my chest while I was being stitched up, and when we were in recovery the midwife would have followed us there with the sole job of attending to us as we tried the first breastfeed together.

But she heard a very very very quiet little sigh.

Hence my current quiet sigh over the whole thing.

He's going to struggle, he's going to struggle ... oh look he's struggling.

Caesarean schmaesarean. Having given birth both naturally and by caesarean section, I can attest to the fact that they are both as bad as each other, if not worse.

But I'd still birth naturally if given the choice. It made me feel so powerful.

Ahem. Now:

I've had something on my mind about the birth of Joseph. Something that's been nagging at me in such a small way that it hardly matters. In fact I wasn't going to blog it except that Swift Jan blogged about her caesarean and how she felt a little bit cheated. I wondered if I should even mention this little frustration or not. Maybe I will. If you think I'm being silly even wasting time thinking about this, feel free to flame me in the comments.

A pentecostal Christian would call it "speaking [something] into being." Someone else might call it "the power of positive/negative thinking." Personally, I would just say it's frustrating when it seems that outcomes have been influenced by someone else's personal opinion.

Nat was born at 37 weeks. Nobody expected him to have any prematurity problems at 37 weeks. They said that 37 weeks is 'full-term' and on he came. He was tiny: 5lb 1oz or 2290g. But there was never any question that he would have respiratory or any other difficulties, and he came, he grew and he thrived.

The doctors who attended me during the birth of Joseph were different. They were so concerned about the potential for respiratory distress that they wanted me to have the caesarean later - at what they thought was 38 weeks. I still wasn't convinced of their amended date, making 38 weeks a possible 40 weeks. And my babies usually come early and fast - a risk I couldn't possibly take with Joseph.

They were worried about his lung development but I was quite firm about my desire for him to be born at 37 weeks, the same as Happy Healthy Nat. Every maternal instinct I had told me not to leave it the extra week.

I'll never know what would have happened in that extra week if I'd given in. Possibly nothing. Probably nothing. But also the cord had a velamentous insertion, meaning that each day Joseph was inside me he could easily have bled to death. Nobody knew that at that stage. Joseph was in danger and all we knew was that this crazy mother was adamant that the baby needed to be born at 37, not 38 weeks.

So why were they so worried about Joseph's lung development at 37 weeks?

I'd had two steroid injections to mature Joe's lungs - something I was never offered with Nat, because nobody was worried. On the ultrasound, Nat was a small baby. Approximately the 21st percentile. On the ultrasound, Joseph was slightly larger than average. Approximately the 58th percentile. Everything pointed to Joseph being even bigger and stronger than Nat was.

However, the possibility of Joseph developing respiratory distress due to my decision to deliver at 37 weeks dogged my mind. Although I trusted my instinct, I still questioned it in the back of my mind.

Joseph was born, and he was larger than Nat. He was strong too. He was breathing well and looking great - even his APGAR scores were higher than Nat's and Anna's who were both found to be normal and healthy.

But no. Everyone was prepared for respiratory distress, and therefore, respiratory distress was declared.

"Can you hear that slight grunt as he breathes?" the midwife said. Joseph was sighing very very very quietly with each breath he took. "That's a sign of respiratory distress," she said. "We'll just take him to the Special Care Nursery just to be sure."

And such are the drugs they give you that you agree with anything. "I don't mind not being with him or feeding him," I replied. "You just take him and look after him."

Totally against what I would have said if I'd had my wits about me. But I was flat on my back with my guts open. I think she would have won in a fight.

I tell you though, my kid was fine.

Mr de Elba followed Joseph to Special Care and sat with him as Joe breathed some oxygen. After one hour, it was decided that the oxygen wasn't actually needed. Joseph and his Daddy returned to the ward much earlier than I who was stuck in recovery, itching to see my son. Itching all over my face actually, for that is what spinal morphine often does.

"You know," Mr de Elba confided to me later, "I don't think he really needed the oxygen. I don't even think he was in respiratory distress. I think they just thought 'better safe than sorry' and decided to cover themselves."

And again, I agreed with their decision. Better safe than sorry. Always.

I guess I'm just thinking of it now because I got a Patient Discharge Summary for Joseph in the mail today. Yeah, he's 7 weeks old, but better late than never. They've sent a copy to my old doctor in my previous town but none to my current doctor. And they've reported that Joseph spent a whole night in Special Care instead of one short hour because of this 'respiratory distress' of which he had no symptoms except a tiny tiny tiny little noise when he breathed.

There's still a part of me that thinks that they believed so strongly that he would have respiratory distress that they saw it where it didn't really exist. I get a little sad that dotting every 'i' and crossing every 't' made me miss out on the first three hours with my son.

I bet that midwife just wanted all the cuddles for herself.

Nevermind. I've got all the cuddles now!

(See? I said it was nothing. Silly me.)

Happy Birthday Mr de Elba: 09.09.09

Happy Birthday Mr de Elba! To the man who's got it all:

A handsome son to climb Mt Tabletop with

A gorgeous daughter to huddle and cuddle

A beautiful baby boy to watch grow up

Skillz with the sparklers

A chocolate mud cake so rich it may kill us all

Eager helpers waiting to assist with its consumption

Plenty of cuddles, because we love you so much ...

... and a wife who is always behind the camera, but who loves you very much!

Happy birthday, my love!

The Poo Police - Reposted

After locating our double stroller at Grandma & Grandpa's place yesterday, I decided to take Anna-Lucia and Joseph for a quick walk before the heavy storm clouds gave way to the thunderstorm we're enjoying right now.

I had just claimed to my sister that we can walk dog-free, as Jaz wouldn't notice us leave. My sister had 'sighed' over Google Talk and bemoaned that her dog was a "NOTICING dog" and would yelp and howl if she tried to go for a dog-free walk.

This time, Jaz NOTICED. I decided to take her with us lest she sever her own head trying to squash under the side fence to join us.

She was such a nuisance that she didn't last long. There was too much pulling and straining at the lead, pulling the heavy double stroller up onto the grassy footpath and attempting to perform eliminations best left at home.

So I decided to re-post this entry from 18 September 2008:
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There is one thing I never ever want to do.

They tell me I SHOULD do it. They tell me I will get in trouble if I DON'T do it.

But I never EVER want to do it.

Ever.

I just blanch at the thought of picking up my dog's poo in a plastic bag, and walking around with it.

It is one of the reasons I exercise Puppity Doggity by playing "Fetch" in the back yard and never take her out for walks. I just can't bear the thought of picking up the... ergh.


I want to tell you about a great idea I have had, an idea that should preclude me from ever having to pick up Puppity Doggity's poo in a plastic bag, and carry it home. Here's my idea.

Tell me: How many plastic bags would a reasonable person expect a dog-owner to carry with them on a walk? How many bags of poo would it be reasonable to see tied to the dog's lead? A rough guess?

I am thinking three. Nobody should really expect a dog-owner to take more than three plastic baggies with them on a walk, right?

And once each of those three bags is filled and tied to the lead, dangling down as a visible badge of responsible dog ownership, nobody should expect that if the dog hunches a fourth time in order to become considerably lighter, that the hapless dog owner should fill a fourth bag, and tie it onto the lead alongside the other three.

Right?

So my plan is simple. Before I take Puppity Doggity for a walk, I will take three plastic baggies and into each I will place a wet, brown sock. I will tie each one onto the lead, and then head off.

If she should stop and hunch over, and if we should be observed (by the Poo Police, I assume,) all I have to do is visibly admonish Puppity, gesture towards the three already-filled baggies hanging from the lead, and throw my hands up in dismay. And off we'll go.

No reasonable observer could be unhappy with that, could they?

Where's Wally: Ball-Pit Version

Where's Wally?

This is what Wally looks like:

Now find him!

Where's Wally #1:

Where's Wally #2:

Where's Wally #3:

[I was thinking of letting Picasa do an automatic redeye fix, but thought better of it this time ...]

Flash Forward

Sometimes you get the feeling you've just seen through a window to 15 years into your future.

Like when your two-year-old boy (2 yrs ago) is standing on the driver's seat of the car, 'driving' somewhere. And you get a weird thought: Flash-Forward 15 years ... oh dear.

Or when your two-year-old girl races around with a doll's stroller saying, "I'm going now! I need some money!" Flash-Forward 15 years ... oh dear.

Raspberry Tiger

This is what I've been waiting for!

Raspberry Tiger!

A Message From God

BY WAY OF EXPLANATION:

FIRSTLY:
Nat recently asked about the concept of God 'speaking to' people, (e.g., through the angels appearing to the shepherds after the birth of Jesus (Luke 2:8-10), or when God audibly spoke to Samuel when he was with the priest Eli (1 Sam 3:6). I explained to him that sometimes God has audibly spoken to people and usually the people are afraid, but that God says, "Do not be afraid" and then gives his message.

SECONDLY:
Nat has been backing up his claims recently by saying that he "learned it at kindy." But in the dialogue below, he went one higher to back up his claim to prior learning.

THE DIALOGUE:
Me (at breakfast): Nat, cinnamon is a spice.
Nat: I knowed that. One day, God spoke to me loudly and I was afraid and I hided. God said, "Don't be afraid Nat. You know, cinnamon is a spice."
Me: Really.

THANKYOU PLAYSCHOOL:
Playschool is good at teaching the time to kids. "The big hand is pointing straight up, so it's something-o'clock. And the little hand is pointing to the three. So it's three o'clock on the Playschool Clock."
Anna-Lucia, looking at a clock: "The yong (long) hand is pointing to the straight up hand point." Or: "It's half-point to the seven hand clock."

Om Nom Nom

I like to check http://www.icanhascheezburger.com/ every few days. I always appreciate humour like:

and:
But Anna-Lucia loves watching the videos. She has watched this clip over and over and over again.


And I thought I'd share it with you.

Oh where is my hairbrush?

Finally! The video I have been wanting to capture and desperate to edit for your enjoyment:

Anna-Lucia singing "The Hairbrush Song" from Veggie Tales.




Many of you would know the original, but some may not. Here it is - this time sung by an animated cucumber.