Pilates of the Caribbean

From So Much Pun

Watch Ur Bak

From Cheezburger

Mothers' School

One of my two best high school friends, who I still fondly remember as ET even though she got married and the T changed to an H, often lamented her inability to do things that her mother could.  Things like slicing sandwiches so the fillings don't fall out, and packing suitcases so that everything fits neatly.

She had a theory that once a woman comes of age, possibly after her wedding but before her first child, she attends a compulsory course at a place called "Mothers' School."

At Mothers' School, one learned how to cut sandwiches, pack suitcases, and all those other things that our Mums were so good at, but that we hadn't come close to mastering.

The other day, Buzz and Jessie asked me how I was able to organise Jessie and Woody into the double stroller, walk to a little convenience store close to Buzz's school for bread and milk, then to Buzz's school to pick him up and then back again.

Okay, so they didn't come up with that, I admit that I had been mightily talking myself up: "How awesome am I that I can get the little guys ready, walk to the shops, get bread and milk and pick Buzz up on the way home?  All without a car?  I am astounding!!!"

Hence the elicited admiration: "Wow Mum, how do you know how to do all of that?"

Inspired by ET, I drew on our childhood legend.  "Well, after I got married to Dad but before Buzz was born, I went to a place called Mothers' School.  It's where they teach you how to -er- to be awesome, like me.  I was in a class with my friend ET, and we learned how to, um, cut sandwiches so the filling doesn't fall out, and how to pack a suitcase so that everything fits neatly, and how to do a school pickup and get groceries even when the car is in the fixing shop!"

They were awed.

Now at this point, I was sorely tempted to come clean and say that Mothers' School was just make-believe and it was a funny thing my friend ET and I used to joke about, but I thought, "No, for once, I'm ploughing this furrow.  I'm going with it."

"Oh, but no, I've always put a clear distinction between Real Life and Imagination for the kids, I can't string them along now!" I countered.

"Why not?" I argued. "It might lend some respect for the position of motherhood."

It was a bit like this:

I stuck with the yarn, worrying slightly about what would happen once I was found out.  But in the end, I decided to set myself a challenge of keeping it up for as long as the children believed in it.  I can't wait for the day when their eyes get wide and a look of complete "A-HA!" creeps upon their faces and they say, "but I thought it was REAL!" and I have to sheepishly admit that I was just born awesome, or some such excuse.

For the moment though, I am enjoying the charade.

"I skipped class on the day they taught us how to do the ironing," I improvised.  I figured there's no use pretending anything about my ironing prowess, and the confession added to the realism.  "Other classes I skipped were on how to motivate myself to fold and put away the washing once it's dry, and being a nice Mummy when I haven't had enough sleep.  Let this be a lesson to you kids: don't skip classes, ever.  But on the up-side, I can't half cut a decent sandwich!"

What classes did you skip at Mothers' School?  What subjects do you wish for a make-up course in?

OUR ACT: not yet together

Today we turned up an hour and a half late for a child's birthday party, forgetting the present and not in costume.  The first thing Buzz did on arrival was to fill up a large water pistol from the drinks dispenser, which unfortunately contained cordial.  Man, we are awesome.

Clap for bubbles

From Monday Through Friday

Clown Hair

I have enjoyed hearing from you about any struggles you have that are similar to mine, and would love to talk more about all that stuff.  But today, I don't have my thoughts together on that.  Instead I'd like to talk about my hair.

Do you ever wake up in the morning with absolutely perfect hair?  Strangely, I did today.  I washed my hair last night and not quite dried it perfectly before I went to bed.  I slept on it, expecting it to be hideous when I woke up.

But when I did wake up, I found that the natural wave had sorted itself out into a perfect style.  Without any product or effort, it hung in wonderful twirls, looking splendid.  Even my kids noticed and complimented me on my "nice hair" (although they also use that term for when I have my hair up in rollers.)

I was elated and I stepped into the day with extra confidence, knowing I looked so stylish.  With this new poise, I got ready to walk the children to school because the weather was so lovely.  We all got our shoes, hats and everything else we needed.

Then I was brought back to earth.  As I walked along with the warm sun at my back, I noticed my shadow on the ground.  Unfortunately, what I saw was not a silhouette of awesome hair.  Instead, I saw a shape that was completely unexpected.  It was all because of my baseball cap.

Do you know how some CLOWNS have a huge bald dome-shaped head fringed by grizzled thatch?  That was the silhouette I saw.

Great.  I thought I looked awesome, but instead I was stuck in public with clown hair.

Embarrassment of plenty

I have been struggling with the kids' attitudes recently.  I don't want to wear those clothes, must get changed again, don't want to go to school, don't want to do this or that, this apple has a blemish so I will need another one ....  a disturbing sense of entitlement has settled over them despite my best efforts to raise them without a sense of entitlement.

Cath has posted a thought-provoking post about toys.  It echoes my frustration with a society that has provided my kids with too much of everything and left them sitting in a pile of plenty with nothing to console their little selves but a constant sense of dissatisfaction.  It is very hard work - VERY hard work - to work in their little souls against the power of having so many clothes and so much leisure and it leaves me defeated and deflated.

I had a little victory recently by removing all my daughter's clothes from her shelves except for a few little outfits. Now when I hear, "But I don't LIKE this one," I can quite honestly say, "Well there's nothing else in the shelves, and it's not going to be good if you go around naked ..."  I have noticed a higher level of satisfaction with the clothes she wears now, and the constant outfit changes are all but gone.

Do you struggle with this?  What are we as parents going to do to raise our kiddliwinks into responsible adults?

Note to self

If you've been using a grungy Rock Organ sound on your keyboard for the first two songs in the set in the worship band on Sunday morning ...

... and if your next song requires a soft piano sound for the big piano introduction ...

... make sure you hit the button and change the sound from Rock Organ to Piano before that third song.

If you don't, you're just setting yourself up for humiliation.

Spike

What a cool dude.

It's a hairstyle that makes his siblings call him "Spike."

But as you've probably guessed, that's not hair product.

It's cake mix. Of course.

The most outrageous thing I have ever done.

I have a little girl who LOVES dresses, makeup, jewellery and nail polish.  She is aghast when I tell her stories of how I spent my childhood.  For example, when I was about four, my childhood boyfriend Steven (with whom I didn't enjoy my first kiss, as explained in my About Me page) and I got muddy.

We got my little blue bike with the trainer wheels and placed it on my driveway, a trainer wheel each side of our ditch-like car track with the back wheel able to spin freely in the gravel like an exercise bike.

We filled up the ditch with water and got it all nice and muddy, took it in turns to sit on the little blue bike, and pedalled for our lives.  A huge fountain of mud was kicked up, and splattered all down our backs.  It was awesome.

Jessie was horrified at this story, correctly surmising that Steven and I got a bit dirty.  She isn't keen on getting dirty, the little princess.  I don't know where she gets it from, I really don't.

She isn't really happy unless she has nail polish on.  She won't let me do her nails though, and always insists on doing it herself.  Note to self: research nail polishes with low toxicity.

She has asked me why I don't wear dangly earrings often, why I don't use makeup, and why I don't paint my nails.  I had no real reason for these terrible lapses, and so I resolved to paint my nails.  I couldn't settle on a colour.  My skin tone sometimes looks a little brownish and dirty with delicate pinks or almonds, and I've never tried a bright red or anything dark.  So I decided to do the most outrageous thing I've ever done in my entire life (although my father would argue that my having a third baby should take that title,) and settled on my favourite colour in the whole world:

It doesn't match my new handbag in the background, but today I wore a bright blue top to match.  I felt splendid, and totally outrageous.  I loved it.