My head is spinning

I felt like a bit of a wally today because I had to be driven home from work. 

One of my colleagues has been dragging herself into the office for a week despite sniffling and talking like she's doing a bad Krusty the Clown impersonation.

Whereas I went home because I was dizzy. What a princess.

For an hour I lay on the floor with my feet on a chair reliving every bachelor party hangover I've ever had. I was nauseous and the room wouldn't stop spinning. When I tried to open my eyes and focus on something my eyes would slip off the object.

Tracey was really concerned. She fluttered over me in a manner that made Florence Nightingale look negligent. But not all her fussing was well received - she wanted me to go straight to the doctors.  

"I don't want to go to the doctor yet," I whined from our bed, my eyes clamped shut and my arms outstretched on either side of me so I wouldn't fall off the Earth. "I'm pretty sure it's some form of migraine. I'll see how I feel tomorrow."

"Don't you die and leave me with seven kids! Don't you dare!" Nothing inflames Tracey more than me trying to get out of helping around the house.

"You'll be right. My life insurance is up to date," I told her.

I expected a thump or another verbal slap, but nothing. After a couple of seconds of silence I risked falling off the world and opened an eye just in time to see Tracey heading out the door.

"Cool. Well, good luck then," she said over her shoulder, closing the door behind her.


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Crying Shame

Just over a week ago, Tracey went out on the town with a girlfriend to see some stand up comedians.

Now here we are, nine days later, and she's out again! This time with her mother and sister, watching a  show called Motherhood or something.

I know what you're thinking - what a selfless man: what a lucky woman. Hey, maybe I don't know what you're thinking afterall.

All I know is once the dinner, baths & bed are done, it's all about me.

All day at work I kept running over things in my head to ensure it was going to run smooth. Should we play UNO before bed? Should I let them bunk in the one room? What are their names again? It's important to get these little things right.

Which was lucky I did because, as always on the big jobs, something was overlooked this morning.

"Tracey!" I said when she answered the phone. "You need to put some beer in the fridge."

Disaster averted.

So now it's 8pm and everyone is asleep. Actually they've been asleep for nearly an hour. Usually their bed time is around now, but they looked so puckered out and besides, I hid the clock.

How. Awesome. Is this.

Tonight is about me. I can drink beer on the lounge and watch the shows which make Tracey cringe. I'm starting with an episode of Yes, Minister followed by Who's Line Is It Anyway and then a little Fawlty Towers, all while reading The Bourne Supremacy on my kindle....wait, that's the baby. All good - installed a dummy.

So now it's 10.30pm. 

The big kids were great tonight. The only time I heard hide nor hair of them was when Miss8 popped into the lounge room and asked me to keep the baby quiet because she was trying to sleep.

I don't know what my wife did to our baby before she left but clearly Miss0 was broken.

I've barely had time to scratch myself tonight. I haven't watched a single thing I wanted. I haven't even had a beer. My night was a cycle of dummy, bottle, burp, nappy, dummy, bottle, burp, nappy - none of it making any difference. 

Of course, when Tracey walked in the door she took the crying baby out of my hands and the noise stopped.

"Is there a button or a switch I don't know about?" I asked her.

Next time Tracey wants a girls night out I'm thinking she can take the kids so we can both have some fun.

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Clothes Dyer

Tracey hates the way I wash our clothes.

I don't blame her. I hate it too.

"They go in dirty, they come out clean," I told her on the weekend. "What wrong with that?"

"Everything pink!"

What makes this worse is when Tracey first moved in with me I gave her the 'separate the whites' lecture. Although I can't remember this I feel like I was there because of the detail Tracey goes into when she's retelling the story.

In my defense I would like to point out I do, in fact, separate the whites from the towels from the colours - it's just sometimes, when I'm down to the last of the pile there isn't enough for a full load of each. So shoot me, I like an empty laundry basket.

Apparently I also suck at hanging clothes out.

Tracey has developed a system whereby she hangs each child's clothes together on the line, making it simpler to bring the clothes in and put them straight into the appropriate wardrobes.

I have developed a system whereby regardless of how they're hung I bring the clothes in and dump them on our bed ready for sorting when she gets home from work.

My trouble is I can't tell which garment belongs to which child. The sizings are too close. To make things worse, we hand a lot of clothes down, so picturing who I've seen wearing a skirt or dress doesn't help. To make things even worse, everything is pink.

But I guess that bits kind of my fault. Luckily most of our kids are girls :)


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I can see clearly now

"Hi, Bruce!" a voice called out as I walked towards my car this evening reading my kindle. I just about shat myself.

Where the hell did that come from? I thought, clutching my ebook to my chest like a granny's handbag.

"Hello, whoever you are!" I called back, because some people consider 'Don't sneak up on people in the dark, you prat!' rude. Fortunately, it turned out it was my mate from the chemist up the road, who had every intention of letting me drive away with my wallet and watch, so that was okay.

Unfortunately, if it was a mugger, I wouldn't know they were there until they were on me.

I remember when I was at boarding school and a few of us snuck down to the woods to play, essentially, hide and seek. Oh, sure, we called it something cool, like Commando Black Ops, but any three year old could have joined in without us having to explain the rules.

The young fourteen year old me weaved my way between the trees until I found what I thought was the perfect hiding spot - a scrub. I squatted and waited for them to not find me.

"Bang, bang, you're dead, Bruce," someone somewhere called out. Game over.

Here's the thing - I realize now what I thought was a fantastic spot because I couldn't see anything around me was, in fact, perfectly visible to everyone else. The shrub was in the middle of a small clearing, for Pete's sake. But I didn't know this until a few months later when I went there during the day.

And I didn't work out until many years later, compared to every other bugger on this planet, I have no night vision. Nothing. Naught. Nada. When the lights go out it's like I'm in a cave with patches over both eyes.

This is, naturally, of enormous comedic value for my wife. One of her favourite games is to set up an obstacle course between the light switch and my side of the bed.

As I stub my toes on a shoe or whack a shin on a wicker basket Tracey's response is always the same.

"Hahahahahahaha," she'll coo sweetly. If I actually crash to my knees and cuss I can usually elicit a snort.

So tonight, after being verbally accosted by a ninja in the car park, I arrived home feeling a little out of sorts. Parking the car I reached over and grabbed my kindle, undid my seat belt and stepped out of the car.

Something crunched beneath my feet.

"Bloody kids," I mumbled, wondering why their toys were in the carport, and headed upstairs.

After throwing around kisses and cuddles I set about my usual after work routine - I picked up my ebook and reached for my glasses.

They weren't there, of course. They were in the carport. In pieces.

So now it seems I not only can't see at night, I can't see in the daytime either.

Tracey's gonna love that.

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Home Maid

We are forever chasing our kids from room to room cleaning up after them.

Sure, we drag someone back into their bedroom and demand they pack the mess up themselves, but inevitably while almost cleaning up the room the child will find something amazing to play with and nothing will get done. Supervising the cleanup is almost completely out of the question because while we're standing over Miss8 in the bedroom, the other Gremlins will be tearing up the rest of the house.

And in our experience the teenagers are even worse!

We really only argue with Miss17 about housework these days. She's expected to do the dishes once a week, and take care of her own room and clothes. Not a big stretch, you might think.

Wrong.

The huge mountain of washing in her room is my main beef. Trouble is, her week is just so full. Of course, she doesn't have excuses for not getting to her washing, she has reasons.

We were using the washing machines - even though we have two.

There was no room on the line - again two, but she doesn't like to use the Hills Hoist.


She was working, and after a big five hour shift the day is spent. 


Conversely, (my personal favourite) it was her day off. I mean no one is expected to clean on their day off - right?!

You might imagine my surprise when a couple of months ago Miss17 announced she was being paid to clean the inside of a house for a bloke she knows.

Not only that, when she'd finished, other blokes started hiring her to do their cleaning as well.

"Are you wearing clothes while you're cleaning for them?" I asked. Given the battle we have getting her to even make her bed it was the only reason I could think of that someone would pay her to clean. 'Miss17 the Unclean' simply wasn't gelling with the 'Miss17 the Cleaner' she was describing. "So if you know how to clean, why don't you do it here?"

"It's like you say, Dad, mechanics never get around to fixing their own cars."

Of all the things I tell her, this she remembers.

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Bad Egg

According to a friend of ours, the great thing about raising kids is they eventually leave.


When this happens some amazing stuff starts to happen around the house. Forget being able to watch what you want on the telly and not having to wait for the toilet. Apparently the biggest changes involve water and cups.


More specifically, when you have a shower the water doesn't turn to ice after thirty seconds and there are always clean mugs available for cups of tea and coffee.


I asked Tracey what she was most looking forward to when the kids leave home and we finally become empty nesters.


"Getting my own room," she said. She's such a kidder. That she says it with a deadpan straight face makes it even more hilarious. 


For our friends, these huge lifestyle changes became more apparent this week when one of their daughters popped home for a few hours. 


While mum & dad prepared dinner, the daughter jumped in the shower, after which they all caught up over the lovely home cooked meal.


It was only after they'd waved her off they realized they'd been left with a sink full of dirty dishes: and only after they'd cleaned up and were preparing for bed they realized all the hot water had been used up in their daughter's twenty minute shower.


But then I imagine that's why parents love when the kids drop home once they've moved out - it reminds them how fortunate they are the buggers left at all.




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What's Happening To Me?

When I was a kid I learned all I needed to know about the changes my body was to go through from a couple of books called Where Did I Come From and What's Happening To Me. They were the first romp into anime porn for many young sprogs, and are probably under-credited in their role in helping spawn an industry.

Puberty doesn't have to be scary, but around here we insist on it being funny.

Hey, whatever floats your boat, people.

We learned how important chatting with kids about puberty is, and not just mentioning it once or twice and assuming they're all clued up, with Master20. When he first noticed a couple of hairs had appeared in a new spot (as a kid, not recently) we heard a strangled sort of horrified cry from the bathroom and thought he was dying.

So these days we start a dialogue with the kids from about when they start school - just so they know they can talk to us about these things and there's nothing to be scared about.

In theory.

"You're coming to an age when you'll experience some changes to your body," Tracey said to one of our girls in the car the other night. The whole recent string episode with Cousin12 had us thinking about these things.

"Like what?" she asked suspiciously.

"You'll get boobies and grow hair," Tracey told her.

Suddenly there was a problem - a big problem. Our girl was absolutely horrified. She was shaking her head from side to side and shrieking at Tracey, "I don't want hair on my boobies!!"

We're really good at this. Anyone know a good book store?

Not always true I'm afraid. I know, I went to boarding school.

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Stop the press!

I got the call yesterday.

"Hey, can we take your photo? We're doing a piece in the Gympie Times on the government's cash bonus to help families with the cost of education. Your name came up at the morning meeting. What do you think?"

They had me with, "Can we take your photo?" I will take any opportunity to get my mug in the paper. I'm a media tart. My thinking is one day, some two or three generations down the track, a descendant of ours will be doing their family tree and I want to give them something to find. Sometimes I wonder if my strategy might be too successful.

"I found something," a great great grandchild of mine will exclaim. "No wait, it's nothing. Just that daft looking Bruce again. He's everywhere!"

Tracey wasn't quite so quick to jump at the chance for immortality when they rang to request her and the kids in the photo.

"I don't want to be the face of government hand outs!"


What finally won Tracey over was the idea of having a photo with her and the kids - she's the family photographer this doesn't happen very often.

The paper also asked me to give them my top ideas (cause I'm so smarts) for what to do with the money. Here's what I sent them:

Save. My wife suggests we save ours for her birthday.

Holiday. But more Tin Can Bay than Byron Bay.

Toys. So these payments arriving the same time as the toy catalogue sales start. Coincidence?

Waste. With all the boxes discarded after toy sale, they might need to bring the dump charges in early.

Medicine. Painkillers are really expensive these days. Especially as I prefer mine from a stubby.

Formula. Two tickets to Gold Coast Indy will do. Kids can watch it on cable at Nanny’s.

Petrol. For commuting to and from second job required to pay for all the price hikes coming our way.

Coffee. Needed to keep head clear for late night worrying about how we’re going to pay bills.

Supplies. I’m thinking tin food and candles - for when they cut our power.

Charity. People could give the money to some form of charity. FYI we accept cheques.

As it turns out we got a big photo on the front page and another on page five with the article.

The really great thing about a small town rag is the kids get their faces in it nearly every year - you can't do that in a big city. 

The kids are thrilled and I've been having great fun with it all day at work.

Gympie Times - Schoolkids' bonus starts this week

Yep, the great, great, great grandkids are gonna love that.

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String Theory

"Close the door!" is the most oft said thing in this house because we have one shower, one bath and one toilet, and they're all in the same room - the laundry. The rooms in old Queenslanders like ours are well proportioned, but there aren't many of them.


Whenever Tracey, Miss17 or I are trying to have a shower some little person will inevitably fling the door open and announce, "I gotta pee!"


And we'll scream, "Close the door!" because they never think to do it by themselves.


Getting caught with your pants down isn't something my brother and his family can afford to be prudish about either. They have six souls living under the one roof - a mum & dad, three beautiful kids and a granny - so bathrooms are at a premium over there as well. 

Earlier tonight, Cousin12 had just finished drying himself after his shower when Grandma walked past the open bathroom door.

"Oh, for goodness sake," she exclaimed. "Put some clothes on!"

Now when I was twelve I would have died of embarrassment if my Grandma saw my tackle. But not this lad.


"Look at this, Grandma," he said, a hint of pride in his voice. "I can still do 'the guitar'!" I'll leave to your imagination to fill in the gaps on what his hands were strumming at that point. "Hey, look," he added excitedly as Grandma walked off shaking her head. "It's got strings now!"


Usually it's the people in the bathroom screaming for someone to "Close the door!"


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Cut it out

One thing we're especially careful with around here is keeping the scissors away from tiny hands.

We have no less than twenty pairs of scissors in the house, and all of them are kept in a glass in the topmost cupboard above the stove.

I know what you're thinking - another example of helicopter parenting gone too far. You are so wrong. 


I'm not worried about our lot hurting themselves. I'm worried they'll cut things they're not supposed to - like books, curtains, clothes or cords. 


You know: my stuff.

Tracey, on the other hand, is worried they'll cut hair.

"You've had a haircut," I said to a colleague's five year old daughter today as she followed her mum into the office. I was grinning a bit because it was a crowd stopper.

"Hmmm," said her mum, frowning. Words momentarily failing her as she surveyed the damage. Obviously my colleague, Sarah, had tried to patch things up: there was judicious use of bows and ties. "She did it herself," she added unnecessarily.

Turns out while mum was having a haircut last night, the little miss got hold of scissors and gave herself a trim. She took chunks out of the sides and back, and got rid of the front altogether.

Which Sarah tells me merely means she's hitting the same milestones as her mother.

"When I was a kid I was having my hair cut for a wedding," she explained, "and I kept telling the hairdresser to cut my fringe. She'd trim it and I'd yell, Shorter! Shorter! until my fringe was nothing but stubble."

You might not be surprised to learn this was not the look she (nor her mother when she returned to the hairdressers) was going for.

Seems the young Sarah didn't want a short fringe - she actually wanted no fringe, but didn't realize the way to achieve this was to grow her fringe out, not to have it removed.

That's okay, I wouldn't know that either.

But I am sure of two things. Firstly, like her daughter this afternoon, no amount of accessorizing was going to help hide what she'd done to herself. And secondly, she's now going to start hiding the scissors.

I suggest shoving them in a glass way above the stove.

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