I take a leak in my car

When it's raining hard, parking can always be a problem at our local supermarket because everyone wants to be under cover. I was thinking about this yesterday on my way to the shops when suddenly our car started acting out.

A long period of neglect has obviously upset our Pajero. She's been making all sorts of noises and throwing bits of herself on the ground. So last week we had her serviced and gave her a couple of new tyres, but it was too little, too late, I fear. Going by my drive to the shops, she's still chucking tantrums.

At first I didn't realize what was going on: I just all of a sudden felt moist in my crotch. I looked down to find I'd wet my pants. This really surprised me because I made sure I went before I left home.

It took me four more corners before I worked out what was happening, because the next three corners I took were right turns. But on the fourth corner, when I turned left, I saw a stream of water leave the top of the windscreen and dump itself into my lap.

Another right corner. Nothing.

Left. The wet patch between my legs expanded, like I'd thought, 'Oh well, I've started, I may as well finish off and then I'll change my pants.'

And the truth is I was contemplating going home and changing my pants, but then I realized I'd strike the same problem on my way back to the shops every time I turned left.

Which was when I realized this solved my parking problem.

Instead of battling for a position under the shops I had my pick of the parks out in the open in the pouring rain and by the time I got inside the rest of me matched my crotch perfectly.

Wondering where we've been? Wonder no more.

 We've moved. Here's BFLI's new home.

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HEY, WE'VE MOVED :D

Hi everyone! Bruce here. I'm so tech stupid I have no idea if this is how I'm supposed to do this. Thing is, we've moved over to our own site. Please click below on the link to follow us there :)

CLICK HERE !!!

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Getting over the hump

The dog across the road is like the ultimate canine criminal - it is a master of breaking and entering. We've had issues over the last few years with this dog somehow getting into our yard and having its way with our dog, Jazz.

It's always been a bit of a lark with the owners but a couple of months ago we had to ask them to at least attempt to keep their dog in their yard because ours was on heat.

"Not a problem," they said. "We'll make sure we shut the gate." And then, a few days later, "It was the in-laws, you know. They don't think to close it properly."

"Ooo, is she pregnant then?" the nice people who clip Jazz's coat every summer asked us a few weeks later. They were feeling her belly and seemed quite keen on the idea.

"We hope not," Tracey assured them. Jazz is a Samoyed whereas the dog from up the street is a Stafford or something. She's white and fluffy, he's black, short haired and has a head like Bob Hoskins. We figure their pups would be as odd as Donkey and Dragon's.

But it's been a couple of months since she was clipped and she's still fat and we've no puppies, so all is well.

But today, the youngest owners of black dog were over playing with our kids and I heard them talking about how their dog and, to be honest, I'm especially pleased for our Jazz that he won't be fathering her babies, because it turns out he's a bit of a cad.

"He had babies with dogs up the road," the young master was telling my kids. "He escaped across the road and humped them."

"I know what hump means," Master7 told him.

"It means making babies," said Miss9.

"It means pooing in our garden," said Miss5.

"No, it doesn't," Master7 assured her.

"Well, that's what it was doing," she assured him right back.
.
"It means sex," said Master7. "Their dog was having sex with our dog and now they have to have a baby."

Well, that's certainly how it's always worked for us.

Daddy's in charge

Tracey called me Friday to say there was a 2 day photographers workshop in Brisbane she desperately wanted to attend. Naturally, I said I had no problem with her going.

"How many kids you taking?" was the only question I asked.

"Funny," she said without a hint of a smile in her voice. I remember when she used to find me hilarious.

So at 5am this morning, having got up, given Miss0 a bottle, showered, made a coffee and snuck out onto the balcony, Tracey was waiting for my mother to pick her up to take her to the train station.

At 5.30am, the kids woke up.

"Dad! Where's Mum?" Master7 bellowed from the other side of the bed.

"She's gone to Brisbane," I reminded him.

"So can I play the DS then?" he asked. Tracey doesn't like the kids spending too much time on the electronics.

"Yes." With Mum out of the way, he knew this weekend was destined to be awesome. "Just whisper, will you? Now go away and don't wake your-"

I was interrupted by the sound of Miss0's bottle hitting the bedhead. She tossed it, grenade fashion.

"Never mind," I said, dragging my sorry ass out of bed. There was no use trying to get back to sleep. Miss0 wails like a banshee until she's taken out of the cot and set free. And because she's a climber I'm worried if we leave her too long in the cot she'll work out she can get out without our assistance.

In the kitchen I found a note from my wife, giving me my orders. I love she feels the need to include things like 'breakfast' and 'baths' on the list, and things like 'give baby food, not just bottle'. There was a bit on Agony Uncles last night which I think sums up my wife, and probably most wives, nicely - delegation, with micro-supervision.

Then mid-morning both grandmothers arrive, almost in formation, to take away Miss5 and Miss3 for the day, leaving me with only Miss9, Master7 (both attached to their iPods) and Miss0, who, like me, slept for a three hours this afternoon.  I see this as proof our parents read my blog because last time Tracey went away things didn't go very smoothly. (link - Daddy Poppins)

But things have gone much better today. When Tracey called to check up on things, Miss0 had just woken me up from my nap.

"How's it going?" Tracey asked me.

"Good."

"What's that screaming?"

"Nothing. It's the telly."

"It's the baby. What's going on?"

"She fell off the lounge."

"Why was she on the lounge?"

"We were sleeping."

"We?"

All things considered, I think the day went rather splendidly. Everyone fed, bathed, read to and a night of beer, pizza, Bladerunner and The Fifth Element ahead of me.

Then, after the blighters were in bed, I looked at the list and realized I hadn't ticked one final item off the list.

But that's okay, I figure they can brush their teeth in the morning. I'm calling today a success.

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Release the prisoners!

Our kids have been locked up in our house for two weeks and are at the point where they're driving their wardens up the wall.

As anyone who has watched Supernanny knows, time seems to take longer for little kids. It must bend or something. I guess that's why she suggests kids stay on the naughty spot a minute for every year of their age: Three minutes to a three year old is like seven minutes to a seven year old.

Which probably means, for our five year old daughter, she's been in lock up for about 18 weeks.

Sure, we could make the effort and carry Miss9 to the car and go out more, but this heat has us feeling super lazy and, as excuses go, a broken leg is a good one.

So when we took the family out yesterday on parole the conversation coming from the back seats gave us a big dose of the guilts.

"Look! It's a blue car!" Suddenly the world was full of colours and people and places. It must be what it's like to be released from prison. Everything was new and wonderful and much more interesting than before they were incarcerated. "A yellow car! Look! Traffic lights!"

"That's the soccer ovals! I remember them"

"Oooo McDonalds!"

In a mirror image of the Naughty Corner Time Conundrum, it was a long, long five minute drive for myself and Tracey. Especially me, because they soon made it personal and Tracey sided with the inmates.

"A pink car!" said Miss5. "Dad, you've got a pink car."

"No, I don't," I called back to her. "I have a red car. That's why we call it the Red Rocket."

"The Red Bucket," corrected Tracey. Okay, so it's a little old and crappy.

"Should be the Pink Rocket," said Master7. Okay, so it's a little faded.

"The Pink Bucket," corrected Tracey.

Obviously the whole lot of them are suffering from Cabin Fever.

But if they keep dissing my sad little car I'll cancel parole and throw them all back in the slammer for another couple of weeks.

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The Case of the Deadly Dora

"Bedtime," I called out to my munchkins earlier tonight, and got the usual chorus of responses.

"I'm thirsty!"

"I'm hungry!"

"I'm need to go to the toilet!"

This frustrates me. No one ever yells out, "I'm still picking up my toys!"

And it's not like we randomly change bedtime, so it shouldn't come as a surprise every single night. We don't, for example, tuck them in at 5pm one day and then, on a whim, 9pm the next.

I raced around mustering them towards their rooms and eventually managed five out of five in their beds. But we weren't done yet.

"Where's your pillow and doona?" I asked Miss3. She was lying on a bed made with nothing but a bottom sheet.

"I show you," she told me, and shot out of bed and past me before I could say anything else. Thirty seconds later she reappeared at her bedroom door with her pillow in one arm and dragging her doona with the other. She'd probably been using them to make a cubby house in one of the other rooms.

I settled her back into bed and decided to lie beside and chat for a second. It's one of my favourite parts of the day - lying, chatting with them or tickling them or pretending to sleep on them and having them chuckle and laugh, and then big kisses and hugs before moving onto the next kid.

I threw myself down onto her pillow, ready to snore loudly in her ear.

"JEEZ!" I yelled, abruptly sitting up as pain shot through my skull. "What the...???"

"I show you," said Miss3, ignoring my outburst and subsequent rubbing of my scalp. "I got presents."

And out of her pillow she pulled a Dora doll, a soft puppy and some Barbie furniture. I suspect my sore head was from Dora bashing me over the head with the dining table. The puppy looked too innocent to be involved in any rough play.

Anyway, I shouldn't complain. At least they were off the floor :)

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We help a Georgian woman buy moo-cows

Here it is! The post you've all been waiting for: my monthly KIVA plug.

If you've joined the ranks of KIVA supporters, now might be a good time to log on to the KIVA site to see if enough repayments have hit your account so you can lend the money out again.

If you're still a KIVA virgin, this is what our favourite organisation.

Here's what KIVA has to say about itself - "We are a non-profit organization with a mission to connect people through lending to alleviate poverty. Leveraging the internet and a worldwide network of microfinance institutions, Kiva lets individuals lend as little as $25 to help create opportunity around the world."

And for our 71st loan, our family has decided to help Madona from Georgia, mainly based on how much she looks like she could be a distant family member of ours - those eyes, those cheekbones, that mouth. Seriously, she might be an Auntie a few times removed.

Here's what Madona's KIVA application had to say about her and what she's hoping to do with the $25 we contributed to the $975 loan she requested:

"Madona is a 52-year-old farmer. She lives in the village of Laneti in the Samtredia district with her daughter and son, who is a soldier. The family earns its income by farming. In particular, they have a calf and three milk cows. They use the milk to produce traditional Georgian cheese and sell it at the local open market. In addition, they have a small pig-breeding farm with one pig and several piglets. They sell the piglets to a wholesaler. Along with these activities, the family has a plot of land where it grows green vegetables. Madona has requested a loan to expand her cattle shed so she can increase the size of her herd and have a place for her animals to stay. The cheese produced by Madona is high quality and in demand in the local market. According to her estimation, when she has more cows she won’t have any problems selling the increased amount of the cheese they produce. A larger heard will have a positive impact on her family’s income and allow them to improve their living conditions by buying more items for their household."

KIVA is a great way to help people not as fortunate to be born in countries with all the advantages ours have. They'll get there, I'm sure, but meanwhile there are people working hard to improve the wellbeing and health of their families. For $25 (which they repay) I'm happy to help.

If you'd like to check out what KIVA is all about, here's a link http://www.kiva.org/invitedby/family5775

And if you do join, look us up (Team Devereaux) in the Paying It Forward team :)

Yay!

"Mummy and I have something special organised for you kids this weekend," I teased Miss5 at bedtime tonight. Tracey and I had just finished reading her a couple of bedtime stories.

"EEEEeeeEEEEEeeeeEEEEE!!" she squealed, jumping out of the sheets and jumping up and down. Of all our kids, Miss5 is the one who has to let her excitement out for all the world to see. "What?! What?! What?!"

"I'll give you a hint," I told her while Tracey tucked her back into bed. "We have to leave the house."

Miss5 shot out of bed again. "We're going to Tin Can Bay!" she bellowed.

We go to Tin Can Bay every year for a week or two, to relax and ride bikes and drink beer. I do the bulk of the beer drinking, but the kids do get to fetch them from the fridge for me. Tin Can Bay is the laziest little town I've ever been to, and we love it.

"Yay!!" came a yell from the other room, and another from the bathroom.

"No, we're not!" I called back before they could all build up to fever pitch and there'd be tears when I told them the game was cancelled.

"I'll give you another clue," I said as Tracey tried to push Miss5's head towards the pillow. "It involves big balls."

My young daughter was up again. "We're going to Geoffrey's!" she bellowed. "Yes!"

Geoffrey is Master21 and he lives a couple of hours away in Brisvegas. I have no idea why he's the first thing which comes to mind when Miss5 hears big balls. She's obviously never heard him squeal at a spider.

"Yay!" yelled Master7, sticking his head in the bedroom. "Awesome."

"We're not," I told him. "We're not!" I yelled to the rest of the house.

"Final clue," I said. Tracey wasn't even bothering to put her in bed at this point. "You use bumpers."

Miss5 leapt up, spun around but then froze facing me. "Bumpers? What are they?" she asked me.

"This game is going well," said Tracey. "You should do a pilot."

"We're going Ten Pin Bowling," I said, ignoring my wife.

"We're going Ten Pin Bowling!" Miss5 bellowed, jumping and pivoting on the bed in a frenzy of glee.

The rest of the house was oddly silent.

"We are!" I called out.

"YAY!!" came yells from other rooms, and we were finally able to remake Miss5's bed and put her to sleep.

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A Mountain of Information

Poppy's birthday today and the family gathered at our place to sing at him and cut cake.

While we were each chewing down on a slice of chocolate the topic of conversation somehow hit upon the mystery of what is Uncle Jason's middle name.

"Leslie," he informed us.

"Nice," I lied.

Uncle Jason went on to explain. "I was named after my-"

"Auntie?" suggested Poppy.

"Uncle," corrected Uncle Jason.

"Belinda was named after a beauty queen," said Nanny. "Tracey after a cyclone."

"You got those mixed up then," I said, and Belinda gave me a funny look. I gave my last statement a quick once over and realized my error. "I mean you're more cyclonic, not less beautiful." Save!

"I was named after someone in the Bible," said Nanny. "Don't know who."

"Um..." said Uncle Jason. "Would it be Carmel?"

Nanny looked sheepish. "Oh, yeah," she said. I Googled it. Carmel wasn't a who, it was a big, old mountain. I might need to mention this to her next time she pops over.

But as usual, Tracey got the last word. "Or maybe you were named after what one of the wise men rode in on."

That's my girl. I love this family.

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A Token Vote

Monopoly was an iconic part of my childhood. Many an afternoon was spent making broom broom sounds as my racing car token ripped around the board, 'accidentally' nudging the odd house belonging to one of the opposition onto one of my properties.

Monopoly teaches kids about money and the importance of tearing down homes and building motels, right?

I don't know about that. What Monopoly taught my brother and sister and I was to be underhanded and lie, cheat and steal from each other. All important life lessons. What you really wanted was to be the bank - you never ran out of money if you were the bank. Well maybe in gameland. I've noticed real life is somewhat different.

The moment my siblings backs were turned I'd be flipping over mortgaged properties or paying a $15 Poor Tax with a $100 note and taking six x $50, 4 x $20 and a $5 back in change. Plus the Advance To Go (Collect $200) Community Chest card seemed to come up suspiciously often considering there was only one in the deck.

Some cheating was more subtle, like forcing the dice into my sister's hand and rushing her to roll so she wouldn't have a chance to notice I'd landed on her May Fair property and force me to nick a few hundreds from my brother's stash to pay her off.

I don't think my brother, sister and I managed a single complete game sticking to the rules. Well, they might have, but I sure didn't.

And still the game would drag on.

In the end, to save time, my siblings and I would employ the Paris Hilton rules. We'd shuffle the properties and deal them out like deck of cards, then spend an hour negotiating the exchange of deeds. Similarly, instead of starting with a measly $1500 each, we'd dip our hands into the bank and help ourselves to about $10,000 apiece. Before the dice had even rolled there'd be houses and hotels all over the board. Start to finish, including squabbles, we'd be done in less than two hours.

I think they should get rid of the current game tokens and create a new, more appropriate set: handcuffs, shotgun, lawyer, that sort of thing. Well, it turns out, Hasbro has had similar thoughts. They are currently looking to cast off one token and introducing another.

At the moment the life expectancy of the wheelbarrow and iron aren't looking too promising. Good riddance to both of them, I say, especially the iron. I mean, the iron isn't even electric. As for replacements, well you can vote for one of the following - Guitar, Diamond Ring, Cat, Robot and Helicopter.

When I initially read about their suggested replacements I wasn't overly impressed. A helicopter? Really? Surely a yacht would be more suitable.

But then I saw the helicopter and suddenly I understood it would be the most desirable piece on the board. Not because it looked good (who chooses a token based on that?) but because they fly, meaning you could make helicopter sounds as it flies over the board, buzzing the little green houses, and, largely ignoring the dice, land the thing wherever the hell you want.

VOTE HERE to have your say.

Then we'll work on fixing Guess Who? and Game of Life  :)

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A Father-Daughter Moment

Today it was back to the hospital with Miss9. She ended up with a wheelchair, which has greatly improved her mobility, but not before we shared one of those father-daughter moments which will probably, if the dinner conversation tonight is anything to go by, be brought up at family events for years.

You see, one of the things they were checking for today required a bit of pee.

"We just need a sample," the doctor said, holding up a plastic jar, which Miss9 handed to me the moment the doc left the room.

"Not my pee, your pee," I told her.

"You need to hold it for me," said Miss9.

"I'm not holding it," I told her, my face aghast.

"Well I can't," Miss9 countered, pointing at her cast. She was right. With her leg she was flat out holding herself on the seat.

I took this news well. "Bugger," I mumbled. I looked around for a nurse, but they were suddenly scarce. "Bugger." My absolute favourite milestone moment is when the little buggers are toilet trained. It suddenly seemed to me we were going backwards.

And it also occurred to me while I'm at the hospital, Tracey is at home with our other grommets. Coincidence? I did wonder.

Miss9, of course, thought this whole thing was hilarious. She was giggling all the way down the hall as I carried her to the bathroom.

"Now stay still," she advised me as she started.

"If I do that you'll pee all over my hand." She was laughing so much she was shaking. "Would you please stop giggling and sit still!"

Eventually we had our sample and, I'm pleased to say, I didn't spill a drop.

Still, it could have been worse. They could have requested a stool sample. No doubt, she'd have laughed so much at that I'd have ended up with the jar looking like a Mr Whippy cone.

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Blood Fret & Tears

With all the fun we've been having this week with Miss9's broken leg, we thought what better time to have Master7 take a blood test. You know, spread the love around.

Our little man did well, although he did start to cry just a little bit at one point. Naturally, Tracey blamed me, but then I'm used to that. I am, according to my wife, to blame for all our kids' needle phobias, and to be honest she may have a point (pun intended).

I hate needles. I fear them. I loathe them. I avoid them. So naturally I'm the guy you want calming your child down before a nurse stabs a hole in their arm.

"It only hurts a lot for a little while," is the sort of thing I inadvertently say.

I don't even like attending when my kids get needles, but I know my duty as a parent so I drag my sorry butt along with them and do my best.

When the doctor told Master7 he needed a blood test our boy got pretty upset. All my kids have a greater-than-average fear of the jab. When Master21 was about five and needed a blood test it took five adults to hold him still enough for them to perform the procedure. They still mention this when I go to the clinic. But the doctor telling Master7 he needed a needle wasn't when he cried.

When he was waiting at the clinic for his name to be called, Master7 was very nervous. We'd given him all sorts of pep talks last night and this morning. I even wrote a song for him to sing while they drained him of his life's blood - "I don't wanna be here, I don't wanna be here, I don't wanna be here, I wanna go home." I kept it simple since there won't be much blood left to operate his brain. But sitting in the waiting room wasn't when he cried.

When his name was called we all marched down the hallway, got lost, retraced our steps and eventually found the right room. There was only one hallway and it was only seven meters long, but it seemed like a lifetime. I entered the room last so I was surprised when I noticed Master7 wasn't in front of me. The nurse found him hiding behind 'The Chair'. Still he hadn't shed a tear.

When the nurse put a tourniquet his arm and showed him the garden hose sized tube she would be shoving into his vein fear had definitely widened his eyes and even helped him develop of a nervous tick whereby his legs were involuntarily jerking about, but still he didn't cry. Neither did he, as I was considering, pass out.

When the nurse started filling the five vials, the other nurse, Tracey and I were respectively holding him down, holding his hand and holding my breakfast down.  I led him in a few verses of my song, "I don't wanna be here, I wanna go home", but it was more for me than him. Finally, it was all over - the vials were full and the nurse pulled the needle out and applied some cotton wool. And all without a single tear.

"And now it's time to do the other arm," I quipped.

And he bawled.

Seriously, I don't know why Tracey makes me go to these things.

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Why you should never ask for a nickname

We were chatting about nicknames at work today.

When a group of guys give you a nickname, you know you belong - you've been accepted into their tribe. Which is why when I was at college I asked the other blokes in G Block to give me one. Most people either waited to have one bestowed upon them or (mostly) hope to make it through without one. But not me.

"Nah, I want a nickname. They're so cool. Give me one," I begged. "I've been here three months already. Come on."

"Sure," they said. And they put up a blank sheet on the notice board calling for suggestions.

I love nicknames. I've always wanted a really cool one, but I haven't quite managed to pull it off yet.

I haven't managed to convince anyone to call me Jazz or Champion or Captain. These are, in fact, my dogs' names. You see, I'm really good at giving cool names to others.

For example, we have a girl at work who is named Tahleea or something. I can never remember how to say or spell it and I'm way too lazy to take the time to learn it so I started calling her Miss T - hence Misty. A great nickname! And if she ever decides to take up hanging out at street corners I'm sure she'll use it. When another friend named her daughter Amity, I cooed and ahhed at her little Calamity, immediately wishing I'd called one of my own kids by this great name because I loved this nickname so much.

My oldest was christened Geoffrey, but he's Gooffrey to me. Likewise, my Mishaela with forever be the best Mishtake I've ever made.

It's not that I haven't had nicknames, I have. But they've been lame. At school there was Thredbo, Ski-jump (neither because of my snow skiing prowess, but rather because of my mountain like nose), Devo, Ace and Maverick.

And yes, those last two I might have made up just now.

Of course, it could have been worse. I went to an all boy boarding school so the kids had heaps of time to commit to thinking something up. Plus, you all shower in the same bathrooms so they get to see you naked. Lots of guys nicknames at school were a direct result of this.

I remember a couple of guys at school were called Donkey and Captain Hook because of one or another feature of their favourite appendages - in these cases size and leaning. Then there was Pencil, Wart and Thimble.

At college, I recall there was a bloke whose nickname was Pink. When I asked why, I was told his older brother was nicknamed Black when he went through the college, again because of a size consideration, but when this young man was stripped and tied to a pole outside one of the women's colleges, as was the norm twenty five years ago, everyone decided, compared to his brother, he didn't actually have a willy. So Pink.

Boys can be so cruel.

As I learned when the vote came in and, by a landslide, by fellow G Blockers decided to call me Scrotum.

Fortunately, after a few months, many decided two syllables was cutting into their drinking time so it was shortened. I say 'fortunately' because Scrote leaves me with some of my dignity intact, right?

No, I didn't think so either. But at least I felt accepted by my tribe :)

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Enjoying The Break

Before the drama began - everyone attempting to
 photobomb, with mixed (read as no) success. 

"Stop it!" snapped Miss9 at her brother for some perceived wrong.

Holidays are a lot of fun, but the kids do start getting on each others nerves if they spend too long under the one roof.

"Time to go to the park," I suggested to Tracey. "Sausage sizzle?"

She readily agreed and we headed down there for dinner.

We have the best park here in G-town. There's a flying fox and loads of swings and activity areas for different age groups. One of the bits of equipment Miss9, Master7 and Miss5 love is the spinning platform, although at least one of ours kids might not be so keen on it from now on.

"Aaaaagh!"

Tracey and I could both hear the scream from different parts of the park. I beat Tracey to Miss9 but Mums trump Dads when it comes to their kids being hurt and I was quickly relegated to gathering up the rest of our kids while Tracey saw to our oldest middle child.

"I've broken my leg!" snarled Miss9.

She couldn't bend her knee and she was in obvious pain.

"I'm sure it's fine," I assured her over her mother's shoulder.

Miss9 giving a fantastic fake smile

"No! It's not! It's broken!" she screamed at me.

"I'll get the kids in the car," I said to Tracey, and began mustering them towards the car park. Broken or not, we were headed to the hospital.

"I need to go to the toilet!" bellowed Miss5 in a tone equally as urgent as Miss9. Because it can never just be one thing, can it? It can never just be one kid demanding your attention. I thought for a second and decided Miss5 peeing in the car on the way to the hospital would not improve things.

"Right," I said, and we made a stop at the loos on the way, before loading the car with kids and BBQ stuff and then going back to carry Miss9 to the front seat.

Three hours later we were all home again, Miss9 sporting a cast. Turns out she was absolutely right - she had broken her leg. A hairline fracture in a growth plate behind her knee. They ran a couple of x-rays and put on a cast. This week we'll head in to speak to a specialist and they'll do it all again.

This morning, while she perched on the lounge, I asked Miss9 what the best thing about having a broken leg is. I think it's important to look for that silver lining.

"The crutches," she answered straight away.

I asked her why.

"I'll show you," she said, and picked one up before reaching out and whacking Master7 on the head with it, all without moving from where she was seated.

"Hey!" said Master7 indignantly.

"I should have done this years ago," grinned Miss9.

it's the little things

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Out Of Orbit

There was a full moon a few days ago. I was driving home from work when I saw spotted it over the houses. It sure explained a lot.

Earlier that day, I was chatting to a sixty year old bloke who was super excited because he'd just received some good news.

"I'm gonna be rich!" he told me.

I got super excited for him. Maybe he'd take me out to dinner or something.

"What's happened?" I asked him.

"I'm sitting on a gold mine!" he exclaimed. "Seriously, I'm gonna need to buy a huge safe!"

Now I was thinking dinner in Milan or Rome.

"I'm gonna buy my kids houses," he nodded at me. Would it sound odd if I started calling him Dad?

"What's happened?' I asked again.

"I told you. I'm sitting on a gold mine. Five tonnes of gold."

"Really?" I said. Hey, we live in Gympie. It's possible.

"Yep. About forty feet down."

"I'll get a shovel and meet you there," I offered.

"The psychic told me all about it," he grinned.

"The what?"

"The psychic. She told me there's five tonnes of gold about forty feet under my back yard. I'm gonna be rich!"

Yep, the full moon sure brings them out.

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Wetsuit

When I arrived home from work yesterday, the kids were cleaning up their mess on the balcony, picking up bikes and putting toys away in boxes.

I put my stuff down and started to help. Until I picked up a cup with half an inch of water in the bottom.

There were a couple of ways I could have gone with the cup of water. The way I chose was, with a flick of the wrist, to fling the water at Master7's head as he trotted past.

"Daaaaaaad," said Master7, as I chuckled and went back to picking stuff up. When I turned back to face him half a minute later I was hit by a wall of maybe ten times more water, most of which went over my shoulder, but a got bit got me fair in the face.

Master7, the jug in his hand, was laughing riotously. So was Tracey, who'd obviously handed him the jug through the kitchen window. The next five minutes were lost to a water fight of epic proportions and spilled out onto the drive and had everyone wet drenched and in stitches.

Funny stuff. Until...

I arrived home at lunch time today and stepped onto the balcony.

"Honey! I'm ho-"

I didn't get to finish my sentence, as I was met, once again, by a wall of water. Only my son's aim had gotten better with practice.

"Tracey!" I called, dripping from head to waist. Master7 was grinning at me like he'd just pulled of a major coup de grace.

My good wife stuck her head out the kitchen window and took in the scene.

"Is that what you wanted the jug for?" she grinned at our son.

So my lunch was a bit rushed today as I had to waste a bit of time finding and changing into a new, dry uniform, and explaining to Master7 any future water games must henceforth start with him getting drenched, not me.

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Puppy Dog's Trail

"What the...?" Tracey stammered when she found our dog in a bedroom. "Outside!"

Our dog, Jazz, is a beautiful member of our family, but she's only allowed on the wooden floors and certainly not the carpets. She's a fantastic dog, though, and has seemed to grasp this from the moment we brought her home as a 9 month old, adolescent puppy.

An hour later, Tracey was kicking her out of the house again.

"Three times I found her in the front bedroom," Tracey told me. "Three times! Jazz never sets foot on the carpet. I thought I'd have to go all Cesar Millan on her." Which means nothing more sinister than taking her for a walk.

The fourth time Jazz ventured into the bedroom, however, Tracey was in the kitchen and saw what had been happening.

Miss3 was grabbing a handful of dog food from the cupboard and doing a Hansel & Gretel. She was placing one little doggy biscuit after another in a trail all the way from the balcony, through the house, to her room. Poor Jazz was merely following the food.

Tracey asked Miss3 why she was doing this, and the answer she got amounted to nothing more than Miss3 wanting a bit of control.

"She follow me," grinned our attention seeking Miss3, like being able to get anyone in this house to do what you want is the Holy Grail.

And I guess, when you're the sixth child of seven, it kind of is.

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