Out with the old. In with the shoes.

Miss2 was hell today, very whingy and demanding, and Tracey thinks this was somehow my fault.

It all started because a school shoe of Miss9's blew out yesterday, leaving her with one sole flapping about like a fish on land. Meanwhile I was home sick today, nursing myself back to good health curled up on the lounge watching Toy Story 2.

Now you might see these two things as unrelated, but you would be wronger than a man in a marriage.

Because of the shoe blow out, this morning Tracey made a mad dash to the shopping centre to buy new ones.

Because there was a 'buy one pair, second pair half price' deal Tracey saw an opportunity to save money.

Not.

Tracey saw an opportunity to buy more shoes.

Gleefully checking her purse to see how many credit cards she had on her, she gave the girls their sizes and instructions and sent them hurtling through the shop looking for something suitable.

Within a minute, Miss5 was back with her new shoes on her feet. They were pink with two inch heals and her little feet barely made it out of the toe box.

"Um, I don't think-"

"But they're my size!!" screamed Miss5, teetering precariously.

And they kind of were - they were a size 9 in adults, and not childrens.

Not that Miss5 left disappointed. Tracey came home with 5 pairs of new shoes. My lack of high fives and exclamations of 'Oh wow! Shoes! Yes!!' didn't go unnoticed.

"You don't think I did well?"

"Why five?" I asked, as Tracey deposited box after shoe-box onto the table. How do you discover you need  more shoes at the shops? It didn't make absolute sense to me. "I thought we needed to replace one pair?"

I don't know why I wasted my breath. I'll give Tracey this, she was able to explain the logic behind each and every purchase. Or I assume so. I drifted off to my happy place fairly early in the conversation. Although this lack of gushing and, let's face it, genuine interest might possibly be attributable to the fact I'm not well.

Tracey, on the other hand, was suddenly full of energy. Shopping can do that.

"You watch the kids. I'm cleaning out their rooms," she announced, bounding off to the bedrooms.

Now this bit does make sense - because Tracey had all these new shoes to somehow fit into their cupboards she needed to make space.

So I put on a movie and Miss2 and I lay on the lounge together, with only occasional interruptions as Mum as she walked past the telly with armfuls of toys she expected to be able to throw out.

A little pointer for all you Mums and Dads out there - the Toy Story stories probably aren't the right movies to put on the telly when you're in the middle of throwing out old and unused toys.

Well I know that now.

And fortunately it's a lesson I won't quickly forget because Tracey bought herself a new pair of shoes this morning with which she intends kicking me up the bum :)

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The Big Event

We get to look at this! How exciting!

There's a real buzz in the Devereaux household: we are at four sleeps and counting to The Big Event. 

In anticipation of this weekend, there's been smirking, gleeful giggles and even skipping all through the house. The kids, of course, are completely in the dark - mainly because The Big Event has bugger all to do with them. It's me and Tracey who are acting like school girls with a secret crush.

This weekend Tracey and I are going away with my colleagues for our staff Xmas party for a WHOLE NIGHT.

We're booked into Twin Waters Resort on the Sunshine Coast, and the package includes dinner and breakfast and even a bottle of sparkling and some choccies. I can't wait. Apparently the resort is right next to the beach but if I can't see waves from the seafood buffet I don't think I'll bother with it.

We have our baby sitters organised (we're farming them out - we can't really expect one person to look after all of our kids because that would be especially cruel). The only bone of contention has been what to do with Miss0. A number of options have been 'discussed' including my mum, Tracey's mum, Tracey's sister and even a friend of Tracey's who has volunteered to ohh and ahh at our Miss0 for a night.

"I don't mind who we leave her with," I told Tracey honestly when the topic was originally broached. So naturally we're taking Miss0 with us.

I don't know how this came about either.

Tracey assures me I was there for this decision but maybe the telly was on because I know I was surprised as hell when this arrangement was tossed into a conversation earlier in the week.

Naturally, I've used all the usual arguments against this.

"Don't you-"

"She's coming with us."

"What about-"

"It's decided."

"But if-"

"That's the end of the discussion."

Ah well, I tried.

Still, like a good husband, I've decided not to argue this point any further, although mainly because it would get me nowhere.

Besides, I've worked out the only thing taking Miss0 with stop me doing is going out after the dinner to dance, and no-one in their right mind wants to see me dance. I have all the eighties moves but none of the rhythm which makes them look good.

Even better than a night away without most of our kids is on either side of the WHOLE NIGHT are two perfectly good shopping days.

I know I'm going against type by admitting I like shopping, but I'm looking at the bigger picture here. I see these two shopping days as my ticket to a very merry Christmas.

If everything goes to plan we will have our Christmas shopping in the bag by Sunday night, and that means we are done for the year with the whispered arguing in the bedroom (sorry 'discussions') about what to buy each kid. With the Christmas shopping finished we can revert to using the bedroom for what it's intended to be used for - hiding piles of laundry from visitors.

Then, for the next five weeks, while everyone else in G-town is battling the crowds at the shopping centres, we'll be sitting at home drinking beer. Well, at least one of us will be.

Oh, yes, after The Big Event I'm foreseeing a very merry lead up to Christmas. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to skip into the bedroom and dig through the washing pile so I can pack my travel bag.

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New Australian Payment for Dads

Looks like there's good news for expectant parents in the new year.

One of the most frustrating things for us about popping a baby out every couple of years has been working out the holidays, especially because it's generally a fantastic, if a little 'ohmygodwhathavewedoneagain', surprise. You wouldn't think, by the seventh, it would still be a shock. You would be wrong.

Usually, it's a nightmare trying to plan out the details. 'Where the hell are we going to fit in another kid?' is always a fiercely debated topic, hot on the heals of 'How the hell did this happen?'

We've also usually either just gone on hols or we've booked something, so working out how much help Tracey's going to have with the school run and general around the house stuff is also hotly debated. Suddenly I'm shaving a day here and there off booked holidays to make up as much time as I can for when Tracey heads for the delivery ward.

I recently received some information from the government about a new entitlement for Dads -  two weeks of Government funded leave to ensure us fathers can be home to instill a little common sense and order into the proceedings.

I took over lots of Tracey's duties when we brought Miss0 home from the hospital in January, things like napping and snacking, so Tracey could focus on breast-feeding and the housework.

I think this is a fantastic new entitlement, giving dads a chance to participate and contribute in settling in their adorable little poo-factories. And two weeks seems about perfect. Two weeks of my 'help' and Tracey was begging me to go back to work.

Best of all, this new payment seems to be keeping up with the sensible, new standards of our changing world - as in it isn't just for dads (it's partners, including same sex partners) and it includes adoptions.

Spread the word, people! It's a great initiative. I'd use it myself but sadly (and by sadly I mean YAY!!!) we've reached our bag limit and won't be having any more munchkins. Of course, that's the fourth or fifth time I've said this so I also won't be deleting this link anytime soon.

For loads more information head over to this webiste - Australian Government, Department of Human Services.

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Snakes & Feathers

A family member has taken their little family away for two days well deserved R & R so we're babysitting their talking bird.

I mean it's not much of a conversationalist, their little feathered friend, and its entire arsenal of witty banter consists of a  "Hey, sexy!' and a wolf whistle.

The only talking bird I have time for.

I've never had a talking bird before, and I must say, I will be glad when they come home and take it back. It never shuts up!

Worse thing about having their feathered squawker here isn't the constant noise, but the destruction of my good standing in the community. I fear I might gain something of a reputation because the skinny chicken is constantly wolf whistling so passing women, who can't see that it's only a bird, will think someone here is a bit of a perve. And as I'm the only male in the house over 7 I have no doubt who the fingers will be pointed at.

Not that these family members don't deserve a break. They've been working flat stick on renovations and landscaping lately and need some time away from 'to do' lists and snakes.

The mention of snakes isn't random.

They've been having all sorts of slithery visitors at their place up on the hill. A few weeks back they jumped up into the roof cavity to sort out the noise keeping their kids awake and discovered eight green snakes. More disturbing were a couple of red belly blacks outside their back doors not long after.

One snake even put a dint in their car! Although the details are a little sketchy, it seems the snake jumped out in front of their car and, in their hurry to get away, they backed into a ditch.

So, to summarize  it's like being at the reptile enclosure at Australia Zoo at their place, and all this legless (but not in a good way) and  fork-tongued activity has resulted in some extensive tree lobbing and bobcating all around their house, which has resulted in their need to get away for a break.

"I'd want to get away for longer than two days," Tracey told me. She doesn't like snakes. Personally I'm reserving judgement - I've never tried one. Probably tastes like chicken.

Anyway, because we're the sort of family members who aren't afraid to dive in and get our fingers dirty, we're doing our bit too, not just looking after this silly talking bird but trying to teach it something useful.

That's right, the entire Devereaux household is pulling together, taking it in turns standing in front of the cage saying things like 'Did you hear something?' and 'SNAKE!' We figure it can act as a sort of early warning system.

Or just freak them out.

It's our little way of saying. 'thank you'.

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Got a family member you'd like to annoy in a similar fashion? Here's a link :)
HOW TO TRAIN A PARROT TO TALK

Good morning....for me anyway

Because she can't quite get her tongue around Emily, Miss2 has taken to calling Miss0 the Enemy. It's cute and, I guess, if you were superseded as the youngest and elevated to middle child, borderline appropriate.

This morning I was woken up before 6am by squawking from the cot. With Christmas fast approaching I decided to improve my chances of receiving a gift from Santa and snuck Miss0 out of the bedroom and into the lounge. I say 'snuck' but I mustn't be as quiet as I think because within fifteen minutes all the other kids in the house had joined me.

"What's for breakfast?" Master7 asked me.

"Nothing yet," I whispered.

"But I can smell it," he said.

"That's not breakfast," I explained to him. "Although it does contain last night's dinner." I put on a movie and started changing dirty nappies.

Another five minutes, while I was finishing changing Miss0, I noticed Tracey was also awake. She was sitting behind me on the couch, looking miserable.

"What happened?" I asked her. "I was letting you sleep in." I was a little miffed. If Tracey didn't want to sleep in I would loved to have traded places with her.

'You misplaced one," Tracey told me, pointing at Miss2.

"Really? She was helping me with the baby wipes."

And not just the wipes, it seems.

"I need wash my hans!" she'd marched in and announced to Tracey without me realizing.

"Wh-wha?" Tracey had muttered.

Miss2 then stuck her hands into Tracey's sleep-addled face. "I need wash my hans!"

"Why? Whasson 'em?" asked my lovely wife, brushing Miss2's fingers off her chins and lips and steadfastly refusing to open her eyes.

"Enemy's poo!"

After which Tracey found the need for sleep was shoved aside in favour of the need to spit and scrub her face.

You know what? I'm glad I got up to the kids this morning and let Tracey stay in bed. After all, she deserves it ;)

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Note to self

This morning, because I'm hilarious, I placed a nappy under Tracey's pillow for her to find tonight. I figured we'd have a giggle.

Turns out I was wrong on a number of fronts.

Firstly, Tracey says she found the nappy virtually as I was walking out the door to work.

"I can smell," she explained to me. "It was either a nappy or something dead."

Secondly, she isn't laughing.

However, she is smiling. Unfortunately these nasty little smiles don't reach all the way to her eyes and tend to come as she's giving me things. Like dinner.

"Here you go," she said to me tonight as she handed me my bowl of Stroganoff. Then she stood smiling down on me, watching my spoon as I brought it to my lips.

My hand froze a couple of inches from my mouth. I looked closely at my spoonful of food.

"What have you done to it?" I asked her. I felt a bit like filling a little nappy of my own.

"Nothing," she said airily, the thin smile still in place. I brought the spoon another half inch closer to my mouth. "Probably nothing."

My wife could write a text book on psychological warfare. My book, on the other hand, will be a first hand account of Stockholm Syndrome and how a prisoner fell in love with his captor. Assuming I live long enough to write it.

"You try yours first," I suggested.

"Okay," she said, and took a mouthful from her bowl. "Now you. Try it. Go on. Tell me what you think. It's a new recipe."

I looked at my bowl of food. It seemed to be the same as hers but mine definitely had a sinister air about it.

"You try mine," I suggested, offering her my spoon.

"Okay," said Tracey. She did.

"Now, it's your turn," she said, handing me back my spoon and continuing to stand looking over my shoulder, moving away only to bring me a cup from the kitchen. "I made you a cup of tea too," she said, placing it in front of me. "Take a sip. Go on. Try it."

And she was still smiling.

"I love when we play these little games," I told her as she offered me dessert. "But we're even now, right?"

"I'll be sure and tell you when," she answered sweetly, and then asked if I wanted her to pour me a beer.

"I don't think I'll drink tonight."

Drink. Relax. Sleep.

"You're enjoying this," I accused her.

"Not yet," she grinned. "But give it time."

She'll probably do nothing. But then she might strike just when I think it's all over.

Note to self: no more hiding nappies under Tracey's pillow.

I just hope I'm still here in the morning to get the memo.

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Don't tell Tracey - it's a surprise

Don't you love it when the kids make you something?

Arriving from the direction of the lounge room, Miss2 walked up to me in the kitchen with a clean nappy and a pack of baby wipes. She didn't say anything but the smell which walked in with her was like being slapped in the face with a turd. Clearly, she'd not made it to the toilet to do her 'snake' (her term, not ours).

I took the nappy and wipes off her and took her hand.

"You know I know you sent her in with these, right?" I called out to Tracey, walking Miss2 into our bedroom. "Just for that, I'm using your side of the bed."

Tracey couldn't have appeared quicker if I'd announced a red spot special on boxes of Ferrero Rocher Raffaello. Suddenly, making our bed was her priority. 

"Just use the floor," Tracey told me.

I was still gagging and wiping after Tracey had left the room. Miss2 was grinning at my facial expressions and handing me wipes. Obviously the smell wasn't bothering her at all - it seems even at a very young age we rather fancy the smells our own body makes.

Once I had her cleaned and changed I wrapped the offending nappy into a neat parcel, reusing the sticky tags to keep it all together and stop the soft chewy center from leaking out.

Which is a good thing, because otherwise we'd have to change the sheets later tonight when we go to bed and Tracey finds the whole stinky mess under her pillow.

Miss2 worked pretty hard on this one. Hope Tracey remembers to say 'thank you'.

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Return of The Mac

Blunt is something of an art form around here, and it's good to know we're passing it on to the kiddies.

For years, Grandma Mac has been the families title holder for Queen of Blunt. A spade is a damn silly looking bloody spade with this ol' girl. She's a genuine pleasure to converse with, but thinks nothing of knocking you down a peg or three if she believes it's warranted. 

Late last year I was in the paper because there was a panic about fake $10 notes circulating in G-town and they wanted a photo of someone holding some notes up for the article. Naturally, I threw myself in front of the camera the moment the reporter came into the branch. That Saturday I got a phone call from Tracey's grandma, Grandma Mac, after she spotted me front and centre-ish on page 15.

Me, looking ridiculous.

"You're in the paper," she said to me. Of course, this was no surprise because I was there when they took the picture.

"Oh, they put it in today's, did they?" I said casually. "How do I look? Gorgeous?" Hey, I can dream.

But Grandma Mac isn't known for pandering to bullshit. 

"You look ridiculous," she told me. "You should be embarrassed." And I'm down a peg, where I belong.

But, to be honest, The Mac has been a bit quiet since then.

Still, it seems a new generation of straight talkers is coming through. This morning I was racing around the house picking up all the clothes and toys which seem to spontaneously erupt from my children's wardrobes when my back is turned, when I decided I needed to have a shower. I'd only taken off my shirt and tossed it in the wash when I received a different set of instructions from Miss2 - she'd decided she wanted toast. Now. 

I popped some bread into the toaster and decided to start the dishes while I was waiting for it to cook, when all of a sudden there was an indignant yelp from behind me.

"Put a shirt on!" demanded Miss5. "You're nudie rudie!" 

"It's okay," I told her."I'm a man. Men are allowed to have no top on. Women only wear a top because they have boobies."

She cast a calculated look over me. "You've GOT boobies," she informed me.

"No, I haven't got boobies, I've got pecs," I lied. "And anyway, I'm going to have a shower in a minute."

Again, there was a pause while she thought about this. "Okay, but you're not allowed to go outside." 

Yes, because heaven help us if the neighbours saw. Actually the real concern would probably be the drivers - the reflection off my lily white torso might cause an accident.

But as blunt as this was, it wasn't the bluntest thing said today by members of our extended family - the last word must once again go to the wonderful Grandma Mac, the reigning Queen of Blunt, who was chatting with Tracey's sister, Belinda, this afternoon.

After a lengthy conversation, Belinda was bidding Grandma Mac farewell with the rather nice sentiment, "I can't wait to give you a big fat squeeze."

"Yes," said Grandma Mac accusingly, "you have put on a lot of weight since you've left Weight Watchers."

Look out, people, The Mac is back!



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BetaMan

My manliness has once again been brought into question by none other than my darling wife.

I remember when Tracey and I started dating, whispers seemed to follow me everywhere: "I thought he was gay?"

Not that this summing up of my preferences was news to me. My sexual bent seems to have always been in question. I've developed theories as to why I've been battling this manliness issue for the past twenty five years. It's even been the topic of conversation over coffee at work.

"I thought you were gay for sure," mentioned one colleague several years ago. There was a group of us sitting in the lunch room.

"Me too!" chipped in a couple of the others.

"But why?" I asked.

"You don't like watching football," someone said.

"So? I know gay blokes who love it." According to one mate it's all those tight shorts and man on man action in the scrums. Plus they just plain like sport.

"You notice when we cut our hair," said one lady while others nodded. "Not even my husband notices that, and he pays for it."

"You wear turtlenecks." In my defense, it was just this one shirt and I thought it was very fashionable at the time.

"You wear nice aftershave."

"You notice another guy smells nice and you ask him what he's wearing." This was true. But only this one guy who worked in the office because it used to freak him out and he'd run away from me. He definitely thought I was gay.

But eventually the girls decided, more than all the rest, it came down to one stupid little thing.

"It's the way you say 'five'."

Yep, apparently when I'm halfway to ten I talk funny and therefore don't like girls.

This, of course, was a revelation to me because I'd always thought you were gay if you fancied people with similar tackle.

Fortunately all this talk disappeared when I started dating Tracey. It seems if she thought I was straight then that was good enough for everyone else.

This morning, however, after fifteen years together, Tracey has started to have doubts herself.

This guy is doing it wrong.

I was woken from a dream about buttons by the sweet sounds of children making their own breakfast. I then snuck across the bed, attaching myself to Tracey in what I thought was a pretty loving gesture of non-expectation.

Not that it could have been anything else considering all the kids were spilling breakfast into their bowls just outside our open door. Even if the door had been shut, Miss0 was standing in her cot staring at us. There really was no pressure, which I know are Tracey's favourite hugs.

"You feeling alright, Princess?" Tracey asked me as she stroked my head. "You a little needy this morning?" She kissed my forehead. "Never you mind, I'll protect you."

"What are you going on with?" I asked.

Then I realized - In movie bed scenes, I was in the typically female position. I had my leg over her leg, my hand across her torso and my head was snuggled up into her neck so I could occasionally give her a little peck on the check.

"It's all right," Tracey told me as I scooted back to my side of the bed with my tail between my legs. "I know you're a big manly man," she added as we assumed the proper Hollywood sanctioned straight man's pose, me with my hands behind my head and her snuggling into me and ignoring my crotch entirely. She tilted her head and gave me a peck on my chin. "Even if you are a big girl."

This is how it's supposed to look...

...but let's face  it, this is more realistic. 

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Some explanation required

A career in childcare seems to have sucked all the cuss words out of my sister in law, Shell, because despite knowing her for about 20 years I can't say I've ever heard her use worse than the word 'idiot.' And almost without fail this will have been firmly directed at my brother, Shane.

Shane's work has had him jet setting all over the place for the last several years. I get jet lag just listening to his itinerary.

Working in a bank, I see loads of blokes come through with jobs which take them away from their families. People in the mining sector, in particular, tend to fly away regularly and for long stretches of time. It's interesting talking to both the blokes who go and their wives who stay behind.

I don't know how these blokes do it. I can't go to Brisbane by myself for one night and get a good night's sleep. I toss, I turn, I annoy Tracey by calling every five minutes. I'm starting to think I'm a bit needy.

Some couples have nailed it. They know why they're putting themselves through all the hassle and they even enjoy both the time together and the time apart. Other couples, not so much. Often I think it's setting a time limit which can make a difference - five years and we're out, sort of thing.

Where the family units break down, I tend to hear the same complaints - 'I haven't had a break from the kids in weeks. He'd come home, put his feet up and expect to be on some sort of holiday,' from the wives, and 'I'd come home exhausted and she'd expect me to take over every little thing so she could have a break,' from the husbands. Wives resentful because they're basically single parents anyway and husbands resentful because they're giving up being with their families to get ahead and not feeling appreciated for it.

Fortunately, my brother and his wife seem to have the 'time apart' aspect sorted. I mean, they're human, I'm sure they argue - and I lived with the man for the first fifteen years of his life: you can't help but want to slap him - but I just don't see them stress over Shane needing to travel. My brother seems to enjoy in-flight food and the all too real (for me) risk of becoming a air crash statistic, and when Shell says he's heading off to Asia or somewhere for a few days there's never any hint of resentment or tone. I'm guessing she rather sensibly likes to limit his influence on their three children.

But I had to laugh when, earlier this week, Shane sent Shell the above photo of himself in Malasia, but failed to add text saying the young boy was a mate's son.

Containing, I think, the only time I've ever known Shell to use of the F word, I'm sure her response (below) had my brother scrambling to thumb in an explanation.

"Great picture my sexy husband, but who the fuck is that child??? If you tell me it's yours you're dropped!"

At least she didn't call him an idiot.

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