Chore Sticks and The Thankfulness Project

I have read with amusement the Facebook statuses of many of my friends as the September school holidays started, saying how relieved they were that they didn't "have to make school lunches for two whole weeks!"  I wonder when realisation will dawn that putting a sandwich, a banana, a muesli bar and a cookie in a bag is actually easier than scheduling enough interesting activities into each day for a diversity of ages or suffering the consequences, namely dealing with the bickering and complaining that will follow if too many minutes are left to idleness or rubbish TV.

It is good to have one's little chickens around for a few solid weeks after a long school term, but when the chickens can easily devolve into time-wasting, fighting and driving their mother mad, the responsibility not to write off the fortnight as a total Waste Of Days is a heavy one.  I was concerned when I noticed two attitudes in one of my little darlings the week before holidays:

• quite happy to do the chores he/she wanted to do, but when asked to do a specific chore retorted, "No." Yes, you heard right: the child said "No." Unbelievable.
• extremely unthankful for the blessings we have, e.g., food, family, education, pretty cushy existence, etc.

Terrifying.  I'm not really scared of many things, but raising kids who are 'lost' to common decency just terrifies the pants off me.  And public nakedness is one of those rare things that does really scare me, so it's a bit of a double whammy.

What if the little babies I once was so close to grow up to take everything for granted, scorn their education, complain about life in Australia, don't eat good food, don't keep in touch with their parents, and treat people less fortunate with contempt?  I'm sweating with horror just thinking about it - I love them to pieces, and it would rip me apart to see them go that way.  Maybe they are still too little for me to acknowledge they have free will, but I think I'll probably always want the best for them no matter how old they get.

So approaching this holiday turned into something of an existential terror regarding their spiritual futures.  No wonder packing a lunchbox started looking easier.

Hoping I was up to the task of guiding them to adulthood with something of a moral compass, and believing that small steps is what it will take, I decided to do two things in the first week of these holidays that might in some small way do some good.  Don't laugh at me - I'm doing my best.

1. Chore Sticks.  I've seen this idea on the net somewhere, and it's really just a colourful way to make children think that chores might be fun to do.  So far, it's worked.  I wrote some easy chores onto coloured paddle-pop sticks (popsicle sticks) and stuck a pom-pom on the end.  Children pick a stick and do the chore.  Make no mistake, this would NOT work if the sticks or pom poms were not brightly coloured, and if I wrote the chores onto white paper, my children's moral development would be all but lost.  It's the glitzy colourful crafty look of the chore sticks that holds ALL the appeal.  And I mean ALL.  We are that shallow.

2.  The Thankfulness Project.  Maybe Aussie kids become a bit unthankful for the blessings we have in Australia simply because they haven't heard the reality of the living conditions of people in the third world or the persecuted church?  I'm giving this a go: before a meal, I'm reading a short story of the hardships faced in the third world and thinking about what we're thankful for here in Australia.

Today it was "Sophie's story" that came on a flyer inside the Koorong catalogue.  We read about children who, like Sophie, don't have enough to eat and therefore go looking for bugs to eat.  We talked about how it would be yucky for us, but it would be a meal for them.  We talked about how we were thankful for the food we have readily available, and we thanked God for it.  Then they ate it!  I was going to leave the lesson there but Buzz read on the flyer that this organisation can provide 100 meals for just $6, so they each pledged $6 from their 'Pig Boxes' on the spot.

The whole Thankfulness Project sounds weirdly strict for school holidays, but I'm just trying to bring some global perspective into "This food tastes like nothing" and "School is so boring" and "I wish I didn't have to put up with [sibling]."  Because knowing what a lot of other people have to go without, those words hurt my heart.

And for balance, I'm planning to run myself ragged doing fun things too, with baby Rex strapped onto my front in his pouch.  This morning, Crazy Sister called and said that she and her family, and our Mum, Dad and Wee Bro were going bowling.  We dropped everything and joined them!  Jessie and Woody came first and second with their bumpers and bowling ramp, Buzz came third with just the bumpers and I came horribly last with no bowling aids and a baby who threatened to fall out of the pouch just as I hurled the ball, causing me to save the baby and lose the points every time.

It's fun, it's time-consuming and it's really hard.  One day soon I'll be embracing making school lunches, and I might not be the only one!

The Inspiration Train to Platform Three has been delayed

I've been thinking recently that I have quite possibly ceased to be A Blogger. I've comfortably slipped into being A Lot Of Other Things instead, e.g., I've become more of a Mum, Mum-who-works, Mum-who-does-the-house, swimmer, poet, Sunday School teacher, babysitter, etc, etc, and also the unthinkable: A Person Who Goes To Bed Early.

I don't know about you, but I can't be both A Person Who goes To Bed Early and a Blogger.

But not only that, I used to think, "Wow, I could blog that" all the time where now I think, "I'm pretty sure I won't be able to summon the Care Factor necessary to blog that ..." and I don't.

Pathetic, hey?

Honestly, I blame Scrabble.  The Scrabble App on the iPad lures me the way that my blog used to lure me.  The main difference is when I get so tired that my eyeballs feel like they are about to fall out and roll away, I now switch off my iPad and go to sleep.  Back when I was a Blogger, that feeling would hit while I was in the study.  I'd think, "I'm probably too tired to walk to bed now.  If I stay here for ten more minutes, maybe the tiredness will go away."

And lo, a blog was born.  (Because the world needed more directionless blogs.)

So if you wonder where I am - I'm still alive.  I'm probably just wondering if I can get a Q word to start on a Double Letter tile and extend onto the Triple Word tile.

Or if I can get ZA and ZO horizontally and vertically simultaneously, with the common Z on a Triple Word tile.

Sad.

But here are my kids, yay:

Don't Become a Victim

"Don't become a victim," I told Buzz as he came home from school complaining that yet again, "the kids" had been "blaming him" for doing "nothing wrong at all."  I can't seem to fight my way through the fog of who said what to whom in response to whatever, so my immediate response to the problem is to teach him some strategies for not allowing the kids to get the upper hand in this ridiculous battle for social supremacy.

"Don't talk to them - find someone else instead," I advised him.  "Understand that the teachers know if you're doing the right thing, and be happy that they know you're a good kid," I continued.  "Whatever you do, don't let this silliness make you sad or upset - that's a waste of your precious time!" I exclaimed cheerily.

That was my advice which was designed to break the power of bullying - insecure kids trying to put themselves up by tearing my son down.

Then I walked into it myself.

"I've strapped him into his stroller so that he can't run away and make me chase after him," I explained to the circle of school Mums as I stood with Woody in his stroller at school pickup time.  Then, feeling safe enough to be honest: "We were at the shops with my sister today and he had many tantrums.  Now that he is walking he is having trouble learning that I won't let him run off anywhere."

What happened next took me by surprise because quite honestly, the Mums in my circle are consistently mature and empathetic, and they are parenting children with spunk, personality and intelligence like mine.

"I didn't have those problems with my two," a school mum said, bless her heart.  "But I have always been very strict from the start - the older child had to hold the handle of the stroller while I was walking through the shops.  I never relaxed that.  I was always firm and consistent, and never allowed them to let go and walk away.  I have taken on many of the parenting strategies of my Mother, who raised more than ten children.  When you're raising that many children, you have to be firm and consistent!"

It went on a bit longer with variations on the same theme.  I knew that in her mind, she was giving me wonderful advice that would transfigure my life - telling a child to hold the handle of the stroller was all I needed to do.  I think she had no idea that she was basically saying:

"I managed it better than you obviously do, and that's why I didn't have problems like you."

The implication was "You obviously allow them to run riot, and that's why Woody had some tantrums.  You obviously have not been consistent like me.  You obviously have not been firm like me.  Because if you had, your 18 month old would behave like my firstborn girl did when she was four."

I wanted to get a word in to assert that I am consistent, I am firm, and I am a good mother!  I wanted to point out that her children are very different to mine!

I managed to ask her what she did when the child lay on his/her back on the floor of the shops and had a tantrum, like Woody did about 10 times today.  She said that it never happened to her.  I felt slightly smug at this, because not only do I believe this to be untrue, I also believe I handled Woody's 10 tantrums superbly, whereas she apparently has no experience in dealing with this.

Despite this minor intellectual victory, I came home feeling well and truly bullied.  An insecure Mum had tried to put her parenting up by tearing my parenting down.  I think that was quite unfair of her to lay out her memory of brilliant parenting successes for her own edification when it was so obviously providing a direct contrast to my current situation.

Now what was it I was telling Buzz earlier?  And how does it apply to my situation?

"Don't become a victim."  Okay, yeah, sounds good.  Only I get the distinct feeling that I have been publicly shamed by the well-meaning advances of someone who hardly let me get a word in to defend myself.

"Don't talk to them - find someone else instead."  Yes, good advice, I will try to talk to other mums for a few days and come back to talk to her later in the week.

"Understand that others know you're doing the right thing, and be happy that they know you're a good Mum." I get it, I get it!  I think.

"Whatever you do, don't let this silliness make you sad or upset - that's a waste of your precious time!" Okay, sure, I understand!  I will spend no more time being upset about this ... after I have blogged it, that is.

I picked Buzz up from his classroom and walked to the car.  As we walked towards the car, I noticed that Buzz had taken hold of the stroller, and was holding it as he walked ...

Twould be good to have my library back

My town library might be open, but I doubt it.  And in twenty times the time it would take to pick up the phone and find out if it is open or closed, I will tell you that it's probably closed and why that's keeping me from sleeping properly.

So: first thing's first - it's probably closed.  Its lower floor was flooded last week, and there's a sign hanging outside it saying that "This Building Has Been Evacuated."  So I figure the chances of it being open are slim.

This is keeping me awake because I rely on intellectually consuming crime fiction in order to sleep.  Perhaps using the word "intellectually" is going too far - I just need a run-down of the hows and whos of the detection of a theft or a murder or some other dastardly act.  It's part of my Sleep Routine, just like Woody has his sleeping song and Buzz has his stories and Jessie has her "I can't sleeep because I'm not tiiired" tantrum.  All completely essential parts in the process that culminates in falling asleep.

The current books we have on loan were renewed a month ago, back when we had no idea that on 10 January 2011 our town including the library would be flooded to levels we've never seen before.  This means that our current library books have been here for two months.  One-sixth of a year.  Yawn.  The children's books are very well read and mine are all read once, which is pretty much all I can handle before I go scurrying back to the library for another large pile of trivial crime fiction for bedtime consumption.

Over the last few weeks, I have been looking forward to getting a new pile of books.  This is because recently, in my haste to get out of the library before one of my children disgraces me, I have taken to grabbing piles of books that look like My Type Of Book from the returns trolley before they are re-shelved.  I figure that if someone borrowed, for example, this pile, and if the top book looks like My Type Of Book, then I'd like them all.

In the most recent pile of books that I borrowed, I noticed a disturbing trend.  As I read through the pile, the genre subtly morphed from crime fiction, to crime fiction with a little romance, to "high-stakes romance" which was basically a romance with an outrageously unbelievable mystery to solve when they can take their hands off each other, to -er- romance.

And so now, I find I'm reading "heaving this" and "throbbing that."

All I wanted was "purloined this" and "dismembered that."

And having broken my Sleep Routine, I am having trouble sleeping.  'Twould be good to have my library back.

Floods

For weeks, many communities on our state have been suffering from the effects of flooding.  We have had more rain than I can ever remember, a true answer to prayer for our drought-stricken land, but as often happens, when it rains, it pours.  Literally.

Today it was our town's turn to see the floods.  Rain came heavily, quickly, onto ground that was too soaked from the last two months of rain and couldn't take any more.  But the worst was not the Venice-like canal at the side of our house ...

... which had come from the forest behind, tore through my gardens washing away soil and mulch and I-don't-know-which-plants ...

 ... causing a huge back-up of water to well up at our side gate (where is the rest of our retaining wall?) ...

... and come a scary few inches from flooding our house (that's the top step there) ...

... and continue through our side gate, racing through my front gardens dragging soil and mulch onto the front lawn ...

... creating white water rapids down my little garden path ...

...oh no, that wasn't the worst of it.

The worst was what happened downtown.  Mr de Elba took some breathtaking footage from his window at work of one of a few local creeks, growing from a river 100 times its usual trickle, to a torrent swollen beyond all recognition.  Here is his photo of the back of the bus station where I picked up Emily Sue when she came to visit.  We're supposed to be looking at two roads divided by parkland.

This is a carpark where I parked that day.  Of the line of cars parked there, half were swept away one by one (Mr de Elba videoed all this!) and the other half were smashed up against each other at one end of the carpark.

And after the waters began to recede, this is what confronted the people who were able to locate their cars (many couldn't).

If that blows you away, you should see the footage of half-sunken cars with white water splashing around inside the closed windows, only to slightly loosen their grip on the road, shift a little, and then break free to sail apparently peacefully downstream.  One car was seen on the footage to smash into a footbridge and then disappear as it became sucked underneath the bridge, only to reappear bobbing up and down on the other side before being washed away.

However in lower-lying communities around us, whole houses are under water.  In many towns, the floods haven't peaked yet, and there is a general feeling of more hardship to come.

The nasty side of blogging

There is a blog out there that I lurk about sometimes.  I like the author.  She doesn't always agree with my thoughts on various topics, and sometimes she posts and picture or a story that makes me think, "Well, I wouldn't have done it / seen it that way, but I think it's interesting that she does."  And then after a pause, I often think, "I hope there aren't any unkind people out there who would give her trouble about it."

The other night, she alluded to negative comments on her previous post.  That post had caused me to think, "Wow that was brave," but I moved on.  Perhaps other readers hadn't been so accommodating?  I decided to check her comments on that previous post.

They were ignorant, selfish, petty and unkind.  One commenter used pious, holier-than-thou wording and finished with the information that she had "cross-posted" at a different site.

Curiouser and curiouser.  I did a search for this other site, and what I found shocked and disgusted me.

It was an entire blog devoted to the mockery and humiliation of that poor blogger.  Everything she blogged about was treated as a dangerous catalogue of poor parenting, a greedy grab for more "clicks" on her pages, or a conspiracy full of lies waiting to be researched and blown apart.

It was mean, it was nasty, it was vitriolic.  It sided with Christian organisations who had a beef with the blogger, pretending to be close to them, while other blog posts were filled with foul language and excessively un-Christianlike behaviour.  It claimed to be worried about the welfare of her children despite having called them derogatory names.

The hate blog is evidence of hours and hours of careful research, attempting to unearth dirt and inconsistencies while tearing down any opinions held by the original blogger herself.

For a day after reading it, I felt a little ill.  That I live in the same world as people like the hate blogger is nearly unbearable.

I've never felt the need to hide our complete identities on my blog (just enough so that we can't be tracked down easily) but I have felt the need to hide from hateful people who could dish out the same vitriol onto the happy chronicles of my life.

So what will I do about the potential for nasty people to tear me down?  Stop blogging about life?  Where would that finish - should I stop writing about life?  Stop telling people about life?  Stop living life?

No way, I won't stop.  But I don't feel the need to advertise my blog or grow my readership either.  The small, loyal, kind readership I currently have is just fine, thankyou!

One-Upmanship

I'm referring to this:

I became very suspicious of Crown Princess Mary of Denmark who, after giving birth to a baby boy just like I did in 2005, gave birth to a baby girl who looked startlingly like then-named Chubbity Bubbity [now "Jessie"] a mere week after Chubbity's birth. She seemed to be stalking me. I formulated a cunning plan to test my stalking theory by scheming to next give birth to a multiple or a monkey. Copy that, Princess!  (From www.killingafly.com - 18 June 2008)

and to this.

Princess Mary pregnant with twins
Denmark's Crown Princess Mary is pregnant with twins, the palace announced on Friday.

One-upmanship is what it is.

Lies, damned lies, and statistics

To my Electricity Company,

Mark Twain popularised the saying, 'There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies, and statistics.'  I suspect he had seen the final page of my electricity bill.

Over the last two billing periods, I have been puzzled to see the graph appearing on page three of my electricity bill, claiming that my household electricity usage over the last quarter (the enormous grey block on the graph) was approximately twice the average usage in my regional area (the markedly shorter block on the graph.)

Leaky hot water system notwithstanding, I hardly think that we are using twice the energy of average families in my local area.

You stated that you worked out the average by taking all residential customers in my local region who have been billed recently, and then found the median household usage in kilowatt hours.

I am not a statistician, but even I can see the problem with your calculations.  It's apples and oranges, isn't it?

You are comparing my household usage with everyone else's.  You are comparing me, with electricity as my sole power source, with my neighbours, some of whom are using 70% gas or 50% solar energy.  And when I ask my neighbours using gas to add the totals of their electricity and gas bills, their answers prove that we are paying a similar amount in total for power.  Those using solar energy still haven't broken even following the installation of their expensive solar panels.

Clever, and a little bit sneaky.  You're making an unfair comparison and making householders like me feel terrible about our electricity consumption.

Perhaps, in the interests of using statistics with integrity, you would consider removing from each consumer's electricity bill the section comparing their household electricity usage with your meaningless calculation of the regional "average".

It certainly appears that by doing so, you would be able to halve the paper used in each bill from two pages to one, thereby saving paper, and of course the water and -dare I say- electricity consumption involved in its manufacture.

Just a thought.

Statistically yours,
Etc.

Federal Government's Proposal

Thankyou for your comments.  I love blogging and will try to keep it up, even if I only have Semi-Blog-Worthy Material to post.  With that in mind, let me show you what's on the ABC News site right now, right in the middle of this screen grab:

Let me make that a little larger for you.

Great.  The Federal Government is proposing diabetes for us?  That I don't need.

On the theme of scraping the barrel of semi-blog-worthy thoughts, would you have a little think about "Love Languages?"  If you're not familiar with Gary Chapman's concept of the five love languages, maybe you'd like to check it out here.  In brief, this paragraph from that linked page summarises the basic concept:

Of the countless ways we can show love to one another, five key categories, or five love languages, proved to be universal and comprehensive—everyone has a love language, and we all identify primarily with one of the five love languages: Words of Affirmation, Quality Time, Receiving Gifts, Acts of Service, and Physical Touch.

I was thinking about this today, because I noticed how deflated I became as I was doing something with a group of talented people (not perfectly, but it was okay) but as I progressed, I just didn't receive much in the way of my primary love languages, which happens to be Words of Affirmation.  This was through no fault of the talented guys I was working with, it was just not the sort of situation where people stop and give each other a slap on the back, though I made a point of doing it for some of the other guys.  Not their fault.  I repeat - not their fault.

I was surprised at how quickly I came to suspect that everyone thought I was doing a terrible job, that I was really quite rubbish, and that I should probably stand down and let someone else do it instead.

This begs the question - irrespective of the fact that I thrive on hearing affirming words about me and what I'm doing, why on earth do I need it?  Surely I am mature enough to take it for granted that I'm doing a good-enough job, and just get on and do it?  It made me feel a little weak, realising that I was wallowing in a pathetic need for affirmation in order to feel strong enough to go on.

So I'm going to ask you - do you know what your Love Language is?  Do you thrive on hearing Words of Affirmation, enjoying Quality Time, receiving thoughtful Gifts, accepting Acts of Service or receiving closeness or Physical Touch?

Tell me - how do you deal with times when you feel you really need to receive something in the way of your language, but it's not forthcoming and seems silly to ask for it (e.g., "Hey guys, tell me I'm doing okay, won'tcha?")

Thanks.

Remind me what you DO with a blog?

I'm having trouble knowing what to post.  As if you hadn't noticed that already.

What's wrong with me?  Blogging has been so much fun over the last few years and I love the enjoyment that writing my blog gives me.  But recently I've been classifying every single previously-bloggable anecdote as "semi-blog-worthy", instead holding out for the Major Interesting Event that I am sure is around the corner.

Well, it seems that around each corner is a series of fun times, frustrating times and slightly funny times, but there's nothing that would be classified as a "Major Interesting Event."  Hence the number of days since my last post. 

I have refused to blog about not being able to blog, but I think it's time to confess that I'm still in that blogging rut I fell into a few months ago.  Recently I tried to blog each day and I decided that 1 July was a great time to put that into practice.  I fell off that wagon on 2 July.

In the meantime, I've been reading all your blogs and I comment as often as I can.  Inspired by Emily Sue, I haven't exactly started watching TV again, but I have been watching shows on ABC iView which lets me watch whenever I want and pause shows if I need to.  I've been trying to keep my kitchen cleaner.  I've been trying to go to bed earlier.

But I haven't been blogging.

Sorry.

Enjoying Today

"I'll see you later Mum," Buzz shouted over his shoulder as he raced out the door.  "Woody!  I'm leaving!"  Woody raced down the hall lugging his AFL bag and collided with Jessie who was heading out to meet some friends.

"Hang on - do you need to take something to eat?" I asked.  "An apple?"

"Already got one, Mum," called Buzz, over his shoulder.  I looked at the fruit bowl.  "One?"

"Okay, a couple.  Maybe six-ish.  We'll be fine.  C'mon, Woods!  Where are my keys?"

I tossed his car keys over to him and followed my big boys out to their car and watched them throw their footy gear in the boot, jump in, start the engine and head off down the street.

Then I shook myself out of the daydream.

I went and changed Baby Woody's nappy and helped Buzz with his homework (find some words that start with 'm' in the newspaper, cut them out and stick them in, draw some mushrooms and marshmallows, find some things around the house that are metal, sing the Munching Mike song, draw some 'm's in the air with our fingers ...)

I made a mental note not to wish it all away.

An Artiste

"Hey," I said to Mr de Elba. "Who drew this picture? It's not Buzz's style, but Jessie isn't drawing real things yet.
She just writes her name: scribble-hyphen-scribble. 
She doesn't do actual people with eyes, mouth, hair, hands and feet.  So who drew it?"

Turns out, Jessie is older, cleverer and more grown-up than she'd let on.

Send 5c stamps! Urgent!

I read this article tonight and am still in shock.  Cost of postage stamps to rise.

Sixty cents.  Oh help me.  On 28 June, we will pay a crazy 5 more cents for postage on a standard letter.  It's no major assault on the purse, it's just that I will now need to add crazy little 5 cent stamps to all my current 55 cent stamps in order not to embarrass myself.

And I am still recovering from the last postage increase from 50 cents to 55 cents.  (When was that? A few weeks ago?  Seems like it.)  The first I knew of the previous postage increase was when my good friend Hippomanic Jen was bemoaning the fact that postage had gone up and she hadn't known about it!  I was even more behind the times than she was - her post was the only alert I received regarding the increase.

It bothered me at the time because I had just bought about a hundred 50 cent stamps.  I had to go and buy a LOT of crazy 5 cent stamps to make up the extra postage.

I have now finally used up all my 50c + 5c stamps, but in the intervening time I made the following surprise findings in a desk-drawer-cleanout:

   (1) Quite Ancient "Regular" stamps at the very outdated price of 45 cents.  These have until recently required two 5 cent stamps to make up postage on a standard letter, and from 28 June will require three 5 cent stamps.  (Forget higher denominations of stamp - who wants leftover 5c, 10c, and 20c stamps?  In this house, we go with the 5s.)

   (2) Not-quite-so-old "Christmas" stamps at the discount price of 45 cents.   These require similar 5-cent treatment: 

   (3)  Quite Ancient "Christmas" stamps at the extremely outdated and discounted price of 40 cents, currently requiring three 5 cent stamps, and from 28 June will require four crazy 5 cent stamps.

Now I hear of another postal increase.

It's not the increase that's bothering me, for what's 60 cents?  It's the fact that I seem to be perpetually swimming in a sea of under-priced stamps and a depressingly unequal number of crazy little 5 cent stamps floating around trying to make everything alright again.

Sigh.  I am tempted to save my 40 and 45 cent stamps for a little longer.  The way things are going here, postage will soon be 80 cents, then 90 cents.

The other option is to request emergency supplies of 5 cent stamps.  Lots of them.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Acknowledgments:

Artwork for 60c stamp from here.

Artwork for 55c stamp from here.

Artwork for 50c stamp from here.

Artwork for 45c stamp from here.

Artwork for 40c stamp from here.

Artwork for 5c stamp from some forgotten dark corner over there.

A brief thought after not-watching eight seasons of "24"

The effects of stress include:

• Memory problems
• Inability to concentrate
• Poor judgment
• Seeing only the negative
• Anxious or racing thoughts
• Constant worrying 
• Moodiness
• Irritability or short temper
• Agitation, inability to relax
• Feeling overwhelmed
• Sense of loneliness and isolation
• Depression or general unhappiness
• Aches and pains
• Diarrhoea or constipation
• Nausea, dizziness
• Chest pain, rapid heartbeat
• Loss of sex drive
• Frequent colds 
• Eating more or less
• Sleeping too much or too little
• Isolating yourself from others
• Procrastinating or neglecting responsibilities
• Using alcohol, cigarettes, or drugs to relax
• Nervous habits (e.g. nail biting, pacing).

So how is Jack Bauer still alive, functioning and still in that same job?

He should have resigned after Series 1 and got a job in retail.  He keeps going like this; he's going to get seriously messed up.

Then simply type in your password!

Infinitely preferable to telephoning a government agency, sitting on hold for 45 minutes, being put through to four different departments and finally being accidentally disconnected by the agency's equivalent of the work experience kid, is the option of logging onto the Online Services section of their website.

Except.

They demand that I frequently change my password, adhering to the basic guidelines of choosing a new password that has no fewer than 6 but no more than 8 characters, contains a mix of letters and numbers, has no reference to dates like birthdays/anniversaries, names of children/partners/parents, or favourite things like colours/football teams/songs, is not a word that appears in a dictionary, and is not used as a password on other internet sites.

Then they tell me not to write it down.

Or tell it to anyone who might be able to help me remember it.

And change it regularly.

Loonies.

A Bloke In Peril

Today at the supermarket I saw a bloke in peril.  I knew he was in peril because he was carrying some packs of newborn nappies, a box of breast pads and was standing in front of the maternity pads, talking on his mobile phone.

All those who know what this means for him and his wife, please sigh now.**

S-i-i-igh.

When he hung up I asked if he needed help, but he seemed to be okay.  He smiled and mumbled something about something having started a few days ago and him only "getting away" now, and then he mumbled something about three hours sleep.  But he also mumbled that he was okay and said something about it being Number Four.

I took that to mean that the peril he was in was of the been-there-managed-that kind, and left him to his vague wanderings.

The dear family.  I feel like I know them.  I know what they're doing tonight, at any rate.

----

** - you don't need to be married or have kids to join in with this.

Ethical Dilemma

I'm not that into Mothers Day. I guess I think that children should honour their parents every day and not require a special day for it. There's no point copying your brother by saying, "Mum, you're just like a seff (chef)" if you're going to say - and this is a direct quote - "Bleurgh!" whenever any food is placed in front of you.

Neither do I like the commercialism of it all. "Give Mum a Hammer Drill this Mothers Day!" Ridiculous. Anyway, I already have a hammer drill. I got it for Christmas. I don't quite know how to use it yet, but I have it. I asked for it, actually ... well, I asked for a little simple girly drill. But Mr de Elba found a good deal on this huge I-Am-A-Professional-Handyman Drill with a 120-piece bit set, and then decided I also needed some Elizabeth Arden perfume "to balance out the drill." All in all, I did quite well for Christmas.

But I digress, perhaps because it is one of my favourite pastimes. I actually have a Mothers Day Ethical Dilemma story.

A few weeks ago, I received 10 tickets for the school Mothers Day Raffle to sell on behalf of Buzz. I put $10 in the envelope and sat down to write my name (for it was the Mothers Day raffle after all) on all the tickets. I had done two tickets when I realised that it might be nice to put the names and numbers of other women I know. Some were mothers, some weren't, but they were all deserving women and I started imagining how excited I would be if they won!

I didn't give much thought to the possibility that I would win.

However, I did. First prize. Err, congratulations, Me.

On Mothers Day, after opening the cute little magnetic notebook that my thoughtful Buzz had bought at the Mothers Day stall (the only thing I would permit my family to buy for me,) Mr de Elba presented me with a huge cellophane-wrapped basket containing body wash and scrub, moisturiser, soaps, lip gloss, face washers, a gift certificate to a local newsagency, a voucher for a free massage, and a nifty red handbag that fits Mummy's stuff and Nappy stuff at the same time!

I was quite overwhelmed.

Now I am left shaking my head and wondering how ethical it is to win first prize in a Mothers Day raffle when one "isn't that into" Mothers Day?

I have been pondering this for a few days now. I've wondered if I should have an issue with being such an undeserving winner (while using the body scrub) and I've wondered if there's anything I could possibly do about it if I finally decide that I should ask to school to give it to someone else (while applying the lip gloss.)

You know, upon reflection, there are some things here in the prize that might just persuade me to start "being into" Mothers Day.

Lest We Forget

Today is ANZAC Day.  I am beginning to celebrate it more each year as I grow older and become so acutely aware of the freedoms we enjoy in Australia, and I realise the price paid for this freedom was the enormous sacrifice of those who fought for my country.

Since ANZAC Day falls on a Sunday this year, our church had a special ANZAC Day service.  There was a video of the local gentleman who co-ordinates all the local ANZAC Day services speaking about the meaning of the day, and why we pause to remember those who fought for our freedom.

A friend of ours is the Army Chaplain at the local barracks and he spoke so movingly about the sacrifice of soldiers who fought for our freedom, and of Jesus' ultimate sacrifice buying our eternal freedom.  For reasons I didn't understand because I missed the first 10 minutes taking Buzz and Jessie to their children's program, the Chaplain also used a huge shepherd's crook to illustrate -er- something.  I will have to ask him.  But as he finished, he used the giant crook to thump on the platform - whump - and I decided that I need one at my house to maintain order.

- Whump! -

Yes.  Good.  That could work.

The worship pastor, Brendon Walmsley, sang the title song from his 2004 Album, "Bottle Tree Lane."  Check it out here.  If you did just listen to it, you'll understand why I always get teary when I hear it.  I nearly emailed him last night to say, "I have a feeling that you're going to do 'Bottle Tree Lane' tomorrow - please don't do it: I'll cry!"  And in the service, I sorta did a little.  I wasn't the only one. 

(We've recently been playing "Mister Walmsley's music" in the car, despite Jessie's protestations.  Mister Walmsley's album has replaced The Newsboys, and this is hard for a three year old hard-core Newsboys fan to take.  Redemption came this morning in our church service when Mr W. led worship and played "You are My King," which is of course, on the Newsboys album recently deposed by "Bottle Tree Lane.")

In all this, it was obvious that ANZAC Day is in no way a glorification of war (unwisely reading this article made me feel like I'd received a slap in the face), but a day to remember the fallen. 

And today, I remembered my grandfather who did come home from WWII.  He came home, but he was traumatized by his experiences and he rarely spoke of the war.  He never marched in an ANZAC Day parade.  He had nothing good to say about war.  He was haunted by the deaths of his comrades, he was haunted by the deaths of his enemies.


Today, I wish my brother was with me at church, wearing our grandfather's medals.  Not to glorify war, but to honour the men and women who were involved.

Don't tell me ...

Don't tell me that breastfeeding "shouldn't hurt."  Once they start growing little knives from their gums, sucking vulnerable parts of another person's body across the knives hurts.  Having dracula teeth adds a level of "sinister" to the whole thing.  If you don't believe me, I'll let you have a go.

Don't tell me spiders are busy creatures.  It seems to me they have too much time on their 'hands.'

This spider seemed to do pretty well, then spaced out a little every 9 or 10 rows.  Interesting.

Don't tell me I'm brilliant ...

I already know!  After YEARS of not sewing anything because I am absolutely hopeless, I have made an apron!  Everyone cheer now.  It's fully reversible, due to a small boy's inability to choose which fabric he preferred.  The neckstrap has a snap on it instead of being long enough to accommodate a head going through it.  This means the top part can go right up to the neck instead of flopping down.  Yes, I am clever.  Yay for me.

Don't tell me ...

...we had enough pink in our lives.  Somebody is now three.  Now we have pink curtains, clock, clothes, dolls' stroller, sunglasses, etc.  Because you can never have too much pink.

But don't tell me I've got it all together.  Sadly, the story my sister told is true.  Sometimes you just wangle your turds.  Oops I mean tangle your ...oh nevermind.

Achilles and my Laundry Basket

In my last post, I explained why Achilles will never catch up with a tortoise if the tortoise has any sort of head-start on the great warrior at all. It was very depressing.

Please enter the equally depressing never-ending world of my Laundry Basket.

From time to time, I find piles of dirty clothes on the floor.


But I can't put them into the clothes basket because ...


... it's full. and I can't make any room in there by putting some in the wash because ...


... the washing machine has a washed load in there that has been waiting for at least six hours to be hung out to dry. But I can't hang anything out to dry because ...


... the clothes airers are full. Usually they are full of clean dry clothes that have been waiting to be folded for anywhere up to a week. But I can't get them inside to start folding them on our bed because ...


... I already have an ever-so-slight folding project going on there as it is.

But when the folding is eventually done, you know what happens, don't you?  Oh yes.  The folded piles go back where they belong, we pull out clothes one by one, wear them, and then ...



It's enough to make you cry. Or at least put you in a blue mood with the futility of it all.

Instead of seeing this laundry problem as a finite but vicious circle motivated by our disinclination towards nudism, I have started thinking of my laundry basket as an infinite well of items to be washed.

Let's say my laundry basket is full.  It's not that big a supposition.  Now, I usually can't fit all the items in my washing machine, so I'll wash HALF the items in my basket, and leave the other half for later.

Heh.  I like that.  "Later."

While the machine is washing my clothes, I have some time available.  I walk into the bathroom and find some clothes from bath-time last night, then I head into our room, Jessie's room, Buzz's room and Woody's room, collecting items that need to be washed as I go.  I move into the kitchen and decide to freshen up the tea towels, the hand towels and face washers.

I then take the little pile into the laundry, put it in the now-vacant top half of the laundry basket, and realise that the top half of the laundry basket is no longer vacant.

It's the paradox of Achilles and My Laundry Basket.  Forget the tortoise, I have bigger fish to fry.

I wash some of the items, but by the time they're finished, there are more to wash.  By the time they're finished, there are more to wash.  And by the time they're finished ... you get my point.

The way I see it, there are two ways to halt this insanity, both of them with less-than-satisfactory outcomes.


1.  I wash everything.  Since the infinite nature of my laundry dilemma is caused by my inability to wash more than half a laundry basket of clothes at any one time, I put in a massive effort and get it all done, perhaps with the help of a maid.  Every item clean, dry, folded and returned to its place.  That Utopian scenario will remain in place for three and a half minutes, at which point Buzz will wipe his food-encrusted mouth on his shirt, Jessie will spill a drink down her front and Woody will eat something.  Anything.  And lo, the Law of the Infinite Laundry Basket will again govern all things Laundry-Related.

2.  I wash nothing.  I stop bothering.  I just stop.  At some point, every item of clothing we own will be stuffed into the laundry room, and as a family, we will embrace nudism.


Both outcomes are, as I said, less than satisfactory, and while I'm on the topic of things that are less-than satisfactory, I will mention ...


... ironing.  The number of shirts hanging there waiting to be ironed is my sister's fault.  She was, for a while, coming over every Monday morning for an "Ironwoman Morning."  She'd bring her ironing board, her iron and a pile of clothes and hangers.  We'd iron in tandem, then she'd leave.  It was great - so great that she hasn't come over for weeks now.  And it would be completely beyond me to go to her house to iron, so there we are.

But I digress.

In closing, I wanted to share with you another of Zeno's paradoxes: "The Dichotomy."  According to Zeno, in order to complete any journey, you first have to complete half the journey. Then you have to complete half the remainder. Then you have to complete half the remainder of that. Then you have to complete half the remainder of that. He said that logically, no matter how close you get to finishing your journey, there should always be some ever-decreasing distance left. (He then proposed that it was impossible to complete any journey, it was not even possible to get started, and that motion itself was impossible.  Some of the recent philosophers who have studied this e.g., George Cantor, ended their days in mental hospitals.)

So, my next question is:

When does all the laundry stop?  

Does it ever stop?  One would logically assume that my constant treadmill of laundry would be put to rest once I pop my clogs.  Snuff it.  Kick the bucket.  Shuffle off the mortal coil.  Enter my Eternal Rest.

But when will that be?

Perhaps the nature of my recent musings on infinity are in the nature of a mid-life crisis, so let's say for argument's sake that now, at the age of 33, I am truly midway through my seemingly-infinite mortal laundry toil (neglecting those blissful pre-laundry days when my poor mother did it all, with scant regard for the influence of Zeno's paradoxes and the nature of infinity as applied to laundry.)

This argument shall assume my mortal account was credited with three score years and ten, minus four due to hardship faced in the laundry room.  That's 66, in case you're lost.  I'm nearly lost, myself.

So as of this year, I have completed half my earthly laundry.  In 16½ years when I am 49½, I will have completed half of what remained.  Then 8¼ years later when I am 57 years 9 months, I will have completed half of what remained.  I could continue this example a few more times, but I don't know the alt codes for eighths and sixteenths, so I will stop there.

Suffice to say that I will keep on completing half of each new remainder and on and on I will go, getting ever closer to being 66 years old, but never quite making it and never quite popping my clogs either.

Forever to be denied my Eternal Rest from laundry, forever to decay slowly, growing ever-closer to blowing out my 66 candles but never actually making it, all the while putting piles of clothes into and taking piles of clothes out of the washing machine, putting laden airers into and taking laden airers out of the sunshine, putting piles of folded clothes away into cupboards and putting piles of dirty clothes into the laundry basket.


It's a pity it will never be finished, really.  If it WAS, I'd be able to devote my time to cleaning my kitchen.  Organising the playroom.  Doing the floors.  Bathrooms.

Ad infinitum.