Monkeys

Now, if I could just get this pair to stop monkeying around long enough for me to get some useable pics, I might be able to finally open my shop. Hoping for early next week. Stay tuned!

Phuket

I'm a bit embarrassed to admit we caught a taxi from Phuket airport to our resort, and five days later caught another from the resort back to the airport. Once upon a time I was far more adventurous - I travelled around Europe alone for two years. And I know other couples can go off the beaten track with their children and backpacks. For this couple, getting our children and luggage through immigration and customs was enough of a challenge. With a pair of wild toddlers too old to sit compliantly in a stroller and too young to walk obediently at heel, a local Thai market or temple seemed an impossibility. And my attempt to go it alone on the final evening was washed away in a stormy downpour. So our five days were spent ensconced in resort-world. Thailand lite.

As far as getting in touch with my lazy side, I can't go past a resort holiday. Being only a few paces away from some type of water; choosing between a beer on the beach or a cocktail by the pool; room service and maid service; the gradual disrobing until it seems completely acceptable to be walking around in nothing but a swimming costume. For all your white flabby bits, there's always someone else whiter and flabbier. Well, probably not many whiter than me.

Throw in kids club and an endless smorgasbord of delicious Thai food, and I couldn't find much to complain about. I think I'd like to return sometime, with fewer children and a bit more of the adventurer's spirit on board.

Singapore

We are home, well-rested and tired. It was a wonderful two weeks packed with family and food, sightseeing and swimming, a complete break from our normal pace. With my sister at the wheel, we covered the length and breadth of the island, it seemed, from the zoo to water parks, cafes and shops, and incredible botanic gardens. My niece and nephews showered adoration on my girls, which left me with little to do but stretch out in their incredible home and enjoy the hospitality. I read. I knitted. I sweltered in the heat then retreated to airconditioning. I ate and ate and ate. And on the last day, finally, the monsoonal storm I'd been promised.

Tomorrow, pictures from our break within a break to Phuket.

Out of the Archives: 'Crafting' with Kids

Originally posted November 2011

When the Showgirl was tiny, I used to envision the fun things we'd do when she was a little older and had more control over her limbs and bodily functions. I imagined the glorious afternoons we'd spend painting and colouring in and fashioning interesting and useful things from twigs and leaves. I even poo-pooed one of the women in my mother's group who said she'd be leaving all that messy stuff to the day care and preschool teachers. What sort of mother didn't want to fingerpaint, I thought, with only a hint of superiority.

Of course, four years later and hardened by reality, I've come to accept our home crafting sessions as a necessity that, while occasionally fun, must by all means be minimised, both in scale and in mess, as much as possible. I apply a formula that goes something like this:

quality of craft = time killing capacity + creative stimulation

                    (mess x labour)2

Or...amount of waking minutes child is occupied plus stimulation provided divided by mess multiplied by mummy involvement squared. Clear as mud.

There are loads of great books out there filled with kids craft activities, but so many of them are so convoluted and involve things like salt dough and beads and, eugh, glitter. And all of those things equal, in my opinion, big-time hands-on for mum. Which isn't useful, you see, because our long afternoon 'craft' sessions have become a vehicle for my own little obsessions in the crafting arena -  the more an activity can engage them, the more time available to me to knit/sew/cook.

So with that in mind, I thought it'd be fun to blog about my five top kids 'craft' activities that fit the following all-important criteria: they are easy to set up and clean away, they are at least mildly creative and stimulating (ie they're not TV), they cause minimal mess and, most important of all, they require absolutely minimal mummy involvement, freeing her up for more important pursuits like casting on a new cardigan or trying out a new recipe.

1) The Sticker Poster

Take a large sheet of paper and a sticker book or four, and go! Lola came up with this one herself after receiving an incredible sticker book for her birthday. She has pulled it out dozens of times and quietly passes half an hour filling the blank spaces with sticker after sticker. Sometimes she chats about what she's doing, other times she's off on a reverie, no doubt imagining stories about the characters in front of her. It's the ultimate quiet pursuit. Baby sisters optional.

2) The Rainy Day Box

Our rainy day box is a tub purchased at Kmart, though I've seen variations all over the place. It's basically a box full of a gazillion bits and pieces for sticking and twisting and gluing and creating. Cheap, easy, opportunity-laden. Hint: If minimal mess is your aim, remove any glitter or glitter glue before handing it over to the kid. We like to pair this with the recycling craft tub filled with toilet rolls and tissue boxes and coffee trays. Just add good-quality kid scissors, sticky tape and glue. Hours of entertainment.

3) Playdough

That old favourite, the playdough. We make our own by following the back of the cream of tartar packet, but instead of adding cold water and 'cooking' it, we add boiling water and just mix and knead it in a bowl. It lasts for months. The bubs have just discovered playdough joy and will happily pass half an hour in their high chairs rolling and pressing and, yes, tasting. We have a basket full of plastic moulds and shapes, as well as knives and forks and rollers. Lola also loves to raid my baking cupboard for trays to put her 'cookies' on. I do believe there's a batch baking in the oven as we speak.

4) The Scrapbook

They say never say never, but I am not and never will be a scrapbooker. Lola, however, has been into it since William married Kate and we set to work with the Women's Weekly and an empty book to record the occasion. Now she attacks catalogues and magazines with fervour, cutting out anything that takes her fancy, then she'll turn her attention to gluing the pictures into her scrapbooks. Great for improving scissor skills, and if you run out of paste (easy when a four-year-old is in charge), just make some gloopy glue out of flour and water.

5) Large-Scale Drawing

Clear some floor space, take a roll of blank paper (ours are from IKEA) and spread out a few metres of it. Stick down on all sides to secure. Place pencils and crayons around the place then let them at it. They can come back to it again and again as the day progresses, friends and visitors can get involved, and when they're all tucked up in bed sound asleep, sneak that massive artwork into the recycling bin 'cause there won't be a wall big enough to handle it. The next morning, repeat.

And there you have it. Ironically, I still have the 'crafternoon' fantasies - but they've morphed into a kind of Austen-esque tableau in which I sit serenely with my three girls, perhaps in a parlour of some sort, all of us working busily away on our knitting or embroidery projects, chatting amiably about our days, Bach playing softly in the background...

I am, as always, the eternal optimist.

Out of the Archives: Mass Hysteria

Originally posted May 2011

Never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd ever be the mother of twins. There was no reason to expect it and, unlike a bunch of friends who have since confessed to always wanting them, I certainly never, ever wished for it. So much about having two babies at the same time is crazy. Sure, it's wonderful and amazing and a miracle and I'm the luckiest woman alive and, aww, aren't they just the cutest things etc etc. But it's hair-tear-outingly, mind-jellyingly hard work most of the time with moments that would break the most stoic of souls.

I know temperament has a lot to do with it. If I'd been given two placid, self-sufficient creatures, things may have been different. I'm sure there are twin families out there who have a dream run. I got one baby who was a brilliant sleeper but has grown into a needy little thing during the days, always wanting to be held and usually only by Mummy. And the other baby was - thank God WAS - a dreadful sleeper, yet will pass most of her day pottering around minding her own business, happily flicking through books, nursing her dollies, arranging things. But when she's sad, she's really sad. Heartbreakingly sad. Weeping real tears, burrowing into your chest, arms around your neck kind of sad.

And together, they're a mixed bag. I've caught moments of beautiful sisterhood, sharing and genuine concern. They bring each other toys, sit together on the step, exchange sultanas. They even (very) occasionally kiss and cuddle. It's beautiful. But for the larger part, they're like the teenagers I expect they'll become, fighting over clothes and chores and space. Pearl, my sweet, tiny, delicate Pearl, has recently begun to get great delight in marching over to Stella and whacking her on the head. Or pushing her over. Or, most recently, pinching her. And any reprimand by me is met by her gutteral giggle, followed by another whack/push/pinch and another giggle. Meanwhile, Stella melts into tears of honest-to-goodness devastation.

And sometimes, like today, they're overcome with a kind of mass hysteria, working together like a terrifying unit of destruction bent on torturing me. As I tried to cook dinner, they turned their joint attention to emptying every cupboard and drawer in the kitchen. I can keep up with one of them, but I've only got two arms. No sooner did I get them out of there and clean up the mess, they were taking turns climbing onto the couch and jumping on it, laughing hysterically until I raced to move them - over and over again.

And then the tears. Sometimes, for no apparent reason, one's despair will be matched by the other just because. Stella cried throughout her bath. Pearl joined in. Then at bedtime, Stella was having her once-in-30-nights meltdown at bedtime, crying her eyes out. Pearl appeared to be asleep, but as soon as she noticed me comforting her sister, she decided to join in, screaming like someone was pulling her fingernails off. The cry-off went on for over an hour.

And now they sleep like a pair of matching angels in mismatched cots.

This afternoon, amidst the chaos of the cupboard emptying and couch bouncing and whacking/pushing/pinching, I sat down on the step to pause. Instantly, two little girls turned as one and ran to me, leaping together into my arms for a cuddle. It was a fleeting moment in a madcap day, but ultimately what it's all about, I guess. I would never wish for anything but this pair, these individuals. It's just, in my fantasies, I get them one at a time instead of the bulk delivery. 

Out of the Archives: The Family That Spews Together

Originally posted July 2011

The critter that started it all.

**WARNING - The following may cause nausea amongst some readers **

It began with the discovery of one of the twins sound asleep in a large puddle of vomit. I was hit with an overwhelming sour odour upon entering the room, alerted by the cry of her sister. Lola, still awake in the next room, found the whole thing disgusting and delightful, running around in mock-horror as I attempted to clean up baby and cot.

Pearl was fine the next day, eating breakfast with gusto and showing no signs of her previous night’s ordeal, so I declared it a 24-hour bug and hoped it was over.

That night, around midnight, we were awoken by Stella’s distressed cry. The Garbageman found her covered in spew. It was like déjà vu. We cleaned her up, wiped little chunks from her hair, stripped the bed and dug out clean sheets from the back of the cupboard. This one wasn’t quite as straightforward, however. Every hour for the rest of the night we awoke to her retching and crying. But like her sister the day before, she was hungry at breakfast and seemed all but recovered.

So I was hopeful our trip to the Southern Highlands, scheduled for that day, would not be impeded. I had started to feel a bit queasy, and by lunchtime it was clear Lola was not herself. Was this going to be a whole family affair?

We made the journey south without event until, five minutes from the village where we were staying, Stella started to cry and promptly hurled all over herself and her seat. I pulled over and grabbed some towels I’d packed for just this type of emergency. There was nothing for it but to cover the worst of the mess and drive on till we could put her in the bath.

By dinnertime, everyone seemed OK again. Not long after, however, the Garbageman started to look a little green. He took himself off to bed early but soon reappeared in a frantic race for the bathroom. Luckily he made it in time. He collapsed back into bed and I decided to snuggle in with Lola for the night, judging it the safer bet. However, just as I was drifting off to sleep, I heard her whimpering and instantly knew what was happening. Like Superwoman, I launched myself out from under the covers, grabbed her in my arms and raced out of the bedroom and across the living room, imploring her to hang on. We made it to the bathroom door before it all came up, and she continued to vomit after I’d dumped her, fully clothed, into the bathtub. She screamed too. “Get it off me! Mummy, get it off me!” I stripped her down then ran the bath for the third time that evening.

Meanwhile, the Garbageman, hearing the commotion, had leapt out of bed to see what was happening. All I heard was some muttering then a huge thud. I found him on the floor, his complexion yellow and pasty, looking a shade warmer than death. “Did you faint?” I asked. “I think so,” said he. It had started to feel like something out of a horror movie, or a bad comedy. I wondered how I would call an ambulance out to this cottage on the edge of this village in which we had no phone reception. I considered packing everyone up for a midnight drive back to Sydney and the safety of home, but the thought of more car vomiting was too much.

In the end, I settled Lola back into bed with a towel beneath her and a bucket on the bedside table. I had checked on the babies several times, and even went in once to see if the Garbageman was still breathing. I felt like I had to keep watch over them all and was struggling to fall to sleep. There was a final call before I drifted off – Stella bringing up the few pieces of plain pasta she’d had for dinner. I was getting good at this now. I heard the cry, ran into her room, grabbed her out of her cot and held a tea towel to her mouth to catch the mess. One less set of sheets to wash.

The next day was uneventful, at least in the regurgitation stakes. My nausea had passed and by dinnertime I was ready to declare us cured. Everyone went to bed without a struggle and I collapsed into an easy sleep. But at 1:30 in the morning, my time was up. After three nights of holding my babes while they chucked, cleaning up endless mess, washing load after load of laundry, shushing and comforting and reassuring, I found myself alone in a bathroom while they all slept soundly, chucking up my guts. Bleurgh.

I would like that to be the end of my sorry tale. There was, however, a final hurrah, not ten minutes from home on the return car trip. Lola again, this time all over herself. I managed to catch a lot of it in some towels, and again it seemed sensible to just get home and clean her up there. Of course, being Sydney, we had to wait at a few sets of traffic lights. I looked at my girl in the rear-view mirror, hair plastered down by vomit, bits stuck to her chin, her cheeks, her shoulders. The requisite screaming. I glanced down and saw a smear of spew across my sleeve. Just get home, I thought. Just get home.

And home it was. Home to another daytime bath. Countless loads of washing. Three car seats removed, covers stripped and washed, reinstalled. Please let that be the end of it.

My, weren't yesterday's photos a nice foil for the reality of our minibreak!

Out of the Archives: Wide Load

Originally posted May 2011



If we don't want to take the car, this is how we travel, me and my three. Our Mountain Buggy Duo is a tough machine. Fully laden, there's 10 kilos of baby in each seat, plus another 18 on the footrest when the Showgirl tires of scootering, which is often. Not to mention the shopping, the scooter, the travelling snacks...

We get some funny looks. Bumpy roads are tricky, as are local footpaths on garbage bin day.

Out of the Archives: NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!

Originally posted September 2011

Many days - most days, in truth - it feels like a battle of wills. She who is four versus she who is 30...something, clashing all the day long. Please eat your breakfast. Please use your spoon. Please come and get dressed. Please help pack away your pencils. It occurred to me, sometime around two (years old) that one of the things I struggle with most is hearing 'no' all the time. Having endless requests turned down politely, refused defiantly, ignored totally. No, no, no, no, no. And though we have happy days where it feels like our goals align, there are so many stretches of day after day where her ears seem to stop working and I'm on the hamster wheel of shouting, then feeling bad for shouting, then shouting again, then feeling bad again...

She is so spirited, a little fire burning in her. And on the days when she behaves beautifully, trying so eagerly to please me, that spark is somehow diminished. Because her natural inclination is to do as she wants, follow her imagination, meander about in conversation and in thought. And that means, when you're four, that boring requests like "pick up your fork and eat your dinner" or "say goodbye to the little dog and come home now" have to be ignored. And a mummy who has asked for the same thing a dozen times and been ignored or refused several dozen more can sometimes lose her cool.

Yet, here's the clincher - everything's easier when I bend and flow with her rhythm rather than trying to force her to fall into step with mine. She is so alive, so sociable, so curious, I fear that 'fixing' the part of her that is defiant, disobedient, sometimes downright naughty, will damage those other qualities. Do I want the perfectly well-behaved, compliant child who's too afraid to speak lest she say the wrong thing, or do I want my kid, she who is four, who'll stop and chat to anyone, and whose enthusiasm for life can't help but bubble over, even when the more socially correct thing to do is to sit quietly? Obviously that question's a rhetorical one.

Today I listened to this podcast that has been waiting on my iPhone for months, and it was exactly what I needed to hear. Psychologist Hara Estroff Marano talks about the over-supervision of children and how little time and space we give them to play, make their own mistakes and solve their own problems. And she hit a chord with me when she talked about wanting her children to have a backbone - as in, she didn't mind if they answered back, if they were outspoken, if they expressed strong opinions. She said compliance wasn't high up on her list of values.

And I think, until listening to this, compliance has been up there for me. Who is this four-year-old who lives under my roof and still thinks she can defy me? Fall into line, kid! Perhaps it's because I always fell into line. I was so polite. I didn't want to do the wrong thing. I didn't want to step on any toes.

Well, I'm removing 'compliance' from my list. At least, I'm going to start trying. I still want her to understand respect and good manners and courtesy. I want her to be kind and compassionate and to have empathy. But I'm going to stop demanding obedience all the time.

 I want her to be strong and gutsy and funny and vulnerable, and to learn and appreciate my and her dad's values. I want her life to be a series of great bursts of happy, and for her to have resilience against any sad, angry, hurt, disappointed or scared that falls in between. But ultimately, I want to give her the resources to make her own decisions, recover from setbacks and follow her own path.

So when she tells me, as she did recently, that she wants to be three things when she grows up - a princess, a "doctor-nurse who drives an ambulance" and a farmer's wife - I'll say, "Go get 'em, sunshine."

:: I'm hoping lots of people listen to the podcast and take on the ideas, because if I ever work up the courage to open the door and send my girls out into the street for a morning of unsupervised play (like in the good old days when we were young), it'd be nice to think there'll be some other kids out there to play with...

Out of the Archives: Vintage Handcrafts

Originally posted August 2011

Having recently discovered the fun that can be had op-shopping, I've started to amass a small but charming collection of vintage craft books. This recent find from 1972 is a true delight, with a variety of "novelty articles to sew", some smocking and crochet, as well as an assortment of "decorative articles from tulle". I was drawn in by the author's rather  lofty claims in the introduction - "How many times have you bought a handcraft book and have only used one article from it? In this book there is a use for every article." Every article? Really?

At first I wasn't sure if I'd have much use for this tulle swan, but the author Mrs Harris suggests it would be lovely for a wedding, especially if made in a colour to match the bridesmaids' dresses. I'll keep it in mind for my friend's wedding in December. I'm thinking peach tulle, Amanda.

I don't own a great many pairs of stockings, but the few I have would fit beautifully into this useful stocking bag. Mrs Harris suggests hanging it on a hook in an inconspicuous part of the bedroom, but I say something as classy as this should be out on display, perhaps somewhere near the front door.

Who wants their Mixmaster uglying up the kitchen bench? Better to cover it in something that is far more aesthetically pleasing and not cluttering in the slightest. I wonder if it works for KitchenAids too...

And this one's pure genius! My kitchen string is always a shambles, getting knotted up and twisted around the clingwrap and alfoil in the drawer. Wouldn't this not-even-slightly-freaky-looking monkey string holder solve all that? There's a doll face version too, but I reckon the monkey wins hands down. Now if only I can find 1 plastic monkey face...

Dispatch From the Tropics: Singapore

Temperature: High 30s.

Humidity: About 700%.

Dumplings consumed: 64.

Times changed in and out of swimming cossies: 217.

Clearly too busy lying by/in pool to blog. Have scheduled some 'out of the archives' posts while we struggle our way through five days in Thailand. 

Our little village in the highlands feels a million miles away.