Dress Sense

I have no dress sense. I admit it. I'd happily wear the same six t-shirts for the rest of my life. If it gets cold I'll just throw on another t-shirt. Problem solved.

And my kids seem to be following in my footsteps.

But this is good. Because apparently kids should be allowed to dress themselves. It encourages free thinking and independence or some such. I love it when my kids dress up, and we have a huge dress-up box. But according to Tracey it shouldn't necessarily happen in public.

When I was courting my wife I would embarrass her by letting the now Miss17 (back when she was two) dress herself before we went into Tracey's work. Nothing would match. She'd have half the dress-up box on and she'd think she looked awesome.

It doesn't bother me how the kids are dressed when I take them down town. I've started insisting they wear shoes, but that's mainly because I'm sick of carrying them if the ground is hot or rough.

When Tracey goes downtown the kids are preened and brushed to within an inch of their life. Even their shoes match. Mind, I've gone to the shops, come home and finished an episode of Big Bang in less time than it takes Tracey to get out the door.

Pleasingly, it looks like the clothes horse gene is strong in my young kids as well. Master7, for example, would happily wear nothing but a singlet and undies all day, everyday, everywhere. 

I walked into Miss2's room this week and found she'd dressed herself for a nap. As you can see from the photo she'd gone off to sleep dressed in one half of every pajama set she has. 

I can't wait to take her shopping. Maybe we can go to Woolies and visit Nanny :)

Cool Under Pressure

"Get in the back," I told Master7 for the upteenth time, and still he didn't move.

One thing I can't stand is deliberate disobedience.

Yet Master7 is usually easily managed. I briefly wondered why he was squatting frozen on the car seat instead of jumping over into the seats at the back. He knows the routine. Was he sick? Defiant? Brain dead?

I could feel my blood pressure rising.

"Hey, kiddo, into the back!" Still nothing. I snapped his name to grab his attention and he seemed to come out of a daze. He looked at me, smiled and started moving.

"Sorry, dad," he said, and jumped over to his seat. "You smell really nice and I was trying to enjoy it before I jumped back here because now I won't be able to smell you." He gave me his winning cheeky grin again. "You really do smell really, really good."

That is either the most original lie or the most disquieting truth to come out of his mouth.

On an unrelated topic, I think I might drop a hint about another bottle of Cool Waters for my upcoming birthday.

Keeping it simple

Things have become way too complicated around here.

First of all, we have more children than I have brain cells, so I can't always remember their names. Joshua (Master7) becomes Geoffrey (Master20), Geoffrey becomes Shane (my brother) and Grace (Miss8) becomes Mishaela (Miss17) and Mishaela calls herself Mishi, which I refuse to do - although I have been known to rattle off Mishtake to rile her up. 

But my worst trouble has been with our youngest. I'm especially forgetful when it comes to our youngest three. Why did we make them all end in an 'ee' sound?

I'm so bad at getting their names right Miss2 now answers better to Mosophie than Sophie because I always go to say Molly (Miss5) then change halfway through. We also have a Molemily (Molly and Miss0, Emily), cause I don't like to play favourites.

"Why don't you just call all three of them Sophemolly?" a friend suggested today when I was explaining the difficulties I was having. There was a moments silence while I weighed up the arguments for and against. 

Who am I kidding? There are no arguments against this: it's brilliant!

"This will work!" I explained to Tracey when I arrived home. "We go from seven names to three! We'll have Sophemolly, Joffua, and Gracaela!"

"And they can combine our names too," suggested Tracey, although I don't think she was feeling it. But I was in the zone.

"Brilliant! Cause they're always getting confused and calling me mum anyway. What do you think? Mud? Dam?

"I think we go with something in keeping with the spirit of the whole idea," said Tracey. 

"Mad?"

"Dum."

Our Hidden Memories

"You can't give them that!" Tracey snapped when she saw the one terabyte hard drive in my hands. We were on our way to drop it off to a friend. The reason Tracey was flipping out? I had an idea but I asked anyway.

"Why not?"

"The birthing photos are on there!"

"No, they're not."

"Yes, they are."

We've had a little trouble with this sort of thing before, which has made Tracey a little sensitive. At high school both Master20 and Miss17 took Tracey's birthing photos to school on a memory stick, which they were using to transport their homework. Fortunately neither they nor their teachers ever opened up the file which held the photos. We know this because, firstly, we were never hauled into the office, secondly, the kids can both still look Tracey in the eye, and thirdly, neither is in therapy.

But as upsetting as the prospect of someone stumbling over your birthing shots, the idea of someone actually possessing them is even worse. And we should know because this sort of horror isn't new to my family. My brother's house was burgled a while back and the crooks made off with all his electronics, including their VHS tape collection, which included their birthing video. Even now it's possible they're out there, although fortunately finding a working video player is becoming increasingly difficult.

As for our birthing photos...well, I can understand Tracey wanting to be certain they remained private. But I also didn't want to have to drive all the way back tomorrow if I could avoid it.

"They're not on here," I told her.

"Yes, they are."

"No, they're not."

"Yes, they are."

"No, they're not."

"Yes, they are." Behind us in the car I imagined our kids' heads pivoting back and forth like the crowds at Wimbledon.

As arguments go, this was going particularly well. I read somewhere it's important kids hear their parents 'discussing' things so they can learn how to deal with disagreements in their own relationships when they're older. It's nice to know our mature banter and squabbling will enrich their lives long after we've moved on to a higher realm.

"No, they're not," I re-re-repeated. "There are no photos on this drive. It's just my stuff. That's why I bought the thing, so you wouldn't freak out about photos and I can do what I want with it."

"Are you absolutely positive."

"Of course I am."

Of course I wasn't. But I was mostly positive. As things turned out my friends weren't home so I got the chance to check it again when I got home (and no, they weren't).

Plus, on the way home we decided that certain photos are better off being deleted than risk them leaking into cyberland. I never need to look at the things anyway - there's no way I could forget the births of any of my kids.

The Worst Bit

This has not been a good day. It ended well, I'll grant, but getting there was a bitch.

Unfortunately we woke up to a beautiful morning today, so soccer wasn't cancelled and I had to get out of bed and shower and face the world. But this wasn't even close to being the worst of it.

For once I was all over the soccer routine. We even  arrived before the game began (big improvement) and I had a chair to sit in and a travel mug of strong coffee. While Master7 changed shirts and started kicking a ball around I sat down and took a swig of Joe. And the hot coffee spilled into my lap, making it look like I got so excited at the prospect of my son losing his game I peed myself. But this wasn't the worst the day had install for me either.

This afternoon, Tracey was taking photos for a friend, Miss17was working and Miss5 had to go to a birthday party - all at 3pm. This meant I had to go to Hungry Jacks with FIVE KIDS. But this wasn't the worst.

The first thing I did when I arrived at Hungry Jacks was to pull out a bottle for Miss0. The second thing I did was to spill the formula powder all down my jeans and through my shoes. Not the worst bit.

Then as I was packing everything up, encouraging Miss5 to say thank you to her hosts and comfort a whingy baby, I suddenly noticed Miss2 had disappeared. And still this wasn't the worst moment.

Seconds later I spotted her. Someone had just walked in and let her out the automatic doors: she was standing outside the building. Not the worst moment, but we're getting close.

I was holding the baby, and between me and the door was the pram, tables, chairs and Master7 and Miss8.

"Quick!" I snapped, pointing at their little sister. Like troopers they took off. So did Miss2 - straight towards our car on the other side of the carpark. You'd think we were at the worst bit, but we're not there yet.

In a flap I scanned the carpark. No cars were coming in or out and the kids were on their way. I didn't panic, although I had maneuvered around the obstacles towards the door. I could see it would all be okay in a few seconds.

Then Master7 came racing back up to me. "The doors won't open!"

But Miss8 was through the automatic doors. I later found out when they hadn't opened for her she'd been trying to pry them open with her fingers while screaming out, "I have to get out!"

So now Miss8 was outside the building and only fifteen meters from Miss2, who was over by our car.

And for some reason Miss8 stopped. She stopped and started to yell out her little sister's name. And for some reason her little sister left the vicinity of our car and started to walk towards the highway.

THIS was the moment my heart faltered.

"Don't just stand there. Go!" I shouted at Miss8. Of course the trouble with someone running at a 2 year old is they tend to run away. This was the moment I saw the inevitable disaster I had no way of stopping. This was the worst bit. "Quick! Grab her."

And she did. And it was all okay. She grabbed her and held onto her and, unusually, Miss2 stayed put until I got there.

But the questions kept ringing in my head - Where did I stuff up? How did I allow myself to lose track of her? How am I going to explain all this to Tracey?

So here I am six hours later and the whole scene keeps playing over and over in my head. If Miss2 had run instead of walked towards the highway: If a car had turned into the carpark: If someone had backed out.

It can happen to anyone, I know, but the thing is it happened to me, and I don't want to go through that again. My ticker couldn't take it.

Back to basics

Miss17 took Miss5 to prep for us one day this week.

Arriving early, they quickly put Miss5's lunchbox in the fridge and sorted out the water bottle, fruit snack and bag. 

"What do we do now?" Miss17 asked her little sister.

"You sit here," Miss5 told her, pulling out a mini chair at a short legged table covered in colourful pens and exercise books. Miss5 quickly sorted out her book, opened it up and handed her big sister a pen. "Now you have to write my name."

Miss17 dutifully wrote Miss5's name in yellow.

"What do we do now?" 

"You write my name in blue now," Miss5 instructed. A minute later Miss5 was plucking the blue out of her sister's hand and replacing it with an orange pen. 

Which was when Miss17 noticed lots of other prep kids and their parents had arrived. And NONE of the adults were writing their kid's name in a book. In fact, she was the only grown up sitting at the short legged table.

Which was when Miss17 realized Miss5 had tricked her big sister into doing her book work. 

Which was when Miss17 realized, despite having finished school last year, she seemed to have re-enrolled herself in prep.

Beerenomics

Oh happy, happy days! And nights! (mornings might be less cheery)

Fantastic special at local IGA this week has given me cheap beer.

For every $100 we spend at IGA we receive $15 off a selected carton of stubbies. As one of those said cartons of beer is currently on special for $30, this means we (I) got ourselves (myself) a $15 carton of beer.

As there is no limit on how many times you take advantage of this special we're (I'm) thinking we need to stock up on groceries this week.

No Parking

Catching up with my mum at lunch time we were entertained by a lovely old bird who was parking her car.

Just as our BLT arrived the lady pulled up twenty meters from us in her tiny little car and began reverse parking. 

She began, went half a meter, stopped, looked around, began to reverse again, stopped, went forward, went backwards, forwards, stopped. 

She went to hop out of her car around this point but realized she was closer to the center of the road than the footpath.

Forwards, forwards, backwards, forwards, backwards, backwards - always in half meter increments. The spectacle went on and on as we suspended all conversation and sat eating and watching the show. Every time we thought she was finished the car would move again. Then stop.

Just as we finished our sandwiches (yes, she was shuffling around the parking spot for about fifteen minutes) she flicked on her indicator and slowly, in half meter bunny hops, she edged her way into traffic and drove off without having done whatever it was she'd come down town for.

Chuckling (uncharitably I admit) at the poor dear's parking difficulties, we wondered how the conversation might have gone when she arrived home.

"Did you get to the bank, dear?" we pictured her husband asking.

"No," she'll answer irritably. "I couldn't find a park anywhere."

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A Clean Sweep

How do you get a teenage girl to clean her room? The answer may surprise you, cause it sure as apples surprised me.

My Miss17 is a lovely girl. She's thoughtful and caring and mostly unargumentative. She loves to talk and chat and say stuff. Listening, not so much. 

She's also very creative in coming up with reasons to not clean her room. If there was a degree in creative excuses she would have a doctorate, several self-help books and be working the seminar circuit.

Not that she pulls out the big guns straight away. If we're giving her grief over the state of her floor-drobe the first thing she does is to close her door. Generally, problem solved. It's the ol' stick your head in the sand routine: if you can't see it, it doesn't exist. Actually it's more if we can't see it she thinks we'll think it doesn't exist. And sadly, she's often right about this because there are a LOT of distractions in this house.

I've tried to explain to her each tiny bit of mess on her floor is only there because she put it there, but so far I clearly haven't sounded convincing.

And then something strange happened: Miss17 started following Tracey around the house when she was cleaning and asking what she was putting into the bucket, what she was spraying on the windows and what was she using to clean the sink?

At first we thought she was gearing up to clean our house in some sort of amazing, long overdue 'thank you for being wonderful parents' surprise. Only, a couple of weeks passed and nothing happened.

And then the mystery was revealed. Turns out Miss17 has started cleaning a friend's house. For money! 

So it seems the trick to getting a teenage girl to clean is to pay her. 

Unfortunately, we can't afford to pay Miss17 for the eight or so hours she'd need to tidy her room so I guess we'll just keep her door shut.

Hello, my name is....

With Tracey having a tooth pulled (while breastfeeding, so very limited painkillers) I was given the afternoon off work to pick up the kiddlettes.

To keep them amused while we raced around town I devised a car game for them: I asked them what name they'd give themselves if they had a chance to choose one.

"Broom!" shouted Master7 without a second thought. Hope he takes a little more time making decisions when he's older.

"You want to be named after the thing mum uses to sweep the floor?" I asked him.

"No. Broom! The sound a car makes." Oh, much better.

"I want to be called Meow," said Miss8. This wasn't going the way I thought it would.

"Like a cat? What about normal names? Alice. Dora. Candice. Amber. Samantha."

I guess I shouldn't be surprised the kids are picking strange names for themselves as we've entertained the kids by giving them, and other members of the family, odd names. Not that we've done it for a few years. It was all a bit Addams Family and lots of fun on long drives in the country.

Here's a list of names we've picked on each other with:

Bruce           Jock Itch
Tracey         Dogs Breath
Master20     Pig Swill
Miss17         Cow Pat
Miss8           Kitty Litter
Master7       Toe Jam

We haven't thought of names for the youngest three yet. We've been remiss, especially as we've names for their grandparents.

Poppy          Wing Nut
Nanny          Shit Tin (Poppy made that one up)
Granddad     Bull Frog
Grandma      Scrub Turkey

My sister once heard us chatting and laughing about these names and desperately wanted to be included.

"Make up names for me and Daryl!" she exclaimed. So we did. Auntie Horse Head and Uncle Tape Worm. She was thrilled. "I don't want to play this awful game anymore," she told us.

And here I was again re-naming my little darlings. Or at least helping them choose names for themselves. For fun. Hey you have your car games, we have ours. Not that this game was going exactly the way I expected.

"Zoe. Angela. Beatrice." I suggested about twenty names before Miss5 interrupted me.

"I want to be called Pop Out Eyeball," she told me. Okay then.

Must be in the genes.