TWELVE BIG YEARS

I did it!

Today is our twelfth wedding anniversary and I not only remembered first I remembered before either of us had left the house for the day!

"I'd like to accept this 'husband of the year' award with thanks to my lucky wife, Tracey, and all the encouragement she's bellowed at me over the....." Yeah, maybe that's a stretch. But I'm still going to pat myself on the back.

Twelve years! Where does the sleep go?

Tracey's popped off to work now, but tonight we'll head out for a nice dinner. Or, we'll take the kids out for dinner with us. We're currently locked in discussions about which way to go.

Below is our wedding song, which, despite not knowing a crotchet from a quaver, I wrote the words and melody for. Fortunately I have clever friends who play and together they wrote the music and recorded this special (for us) song with Tracey and I singing vocals.

We played it while Tracey walked down the aisle and then while we danced our wedding dance. It's lovely to be able to reflect on our years together while we play this song which helped begin this part of our journey.

Love you, Tracey. Incredibly, more now than ever. I'm self-diagnosing Stockholm Syndrome. XX

Perfect.

I spent a night taking stock 

Of what I am and am not

I know my faults more than some

I face my demons head on

And there's one thing I've found

I'm not perfect it's true

But I'm perfect for you

Sometimes at night while you sleep

I lay awake as you dream

It seems like fates lent a hand

And I know how lucky I am

To be here in your arms

I'm not perfect it's true

But I'm perfect for you

The nights don't seem so cold now you're here in my home

My laughter spreads to my eyes when we talk late at night

We'll reap from seeds that we've sown as we age, and I know

This love we've declared 

Is perfectly shared

With every word from your lips

With every touch every kiss

You sweep the doubts from my life 

You give me strength and I find

Life with you seems so right

You're not perfect maybe

But you're perfect for me

When we first met it felt right

You made me work for a while

Then you brought the mountain to me

You placed the world at my feet

And I need you to know

You're not perfect maybe

But you're perfect for me

The nights don't seem so cold now you're here in my home

My laughter spreads to my eyes when we talk late at night

We'll reap from seeds that we've sown as we age, and I know

This love we've declared 

Is perfectly shared

I believe, I believe, I believe (you're perfect for me)

words Bruce Devereaux

music Brett Young with Martin & Carol Hart

If you'd like to hear the song you can link over to last year's anniversary post HERE. I'd repost the song only I can't for the life of me work out how the hell I did it. I'm such a technoputz.

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Unscheduled Stops On The Toilet Train

It does seem I'm having a poo themed month, although I promise this isn't the case. Fact is, when you're toilet training a little one it can be all consuming.

There has been more than a little success this week with Miss2 managing to make it to the toilet several times to do wee and even achieve splashdown a couple of times.

Yesterday, Miss2 raced to the bathroom yelling, "I do snake!"

"You do what?" Tracey wanted to know, trying to work out what toilet function rhymes with snake.

"Snake. Snake. I do snake," repeated Miss2. And sure enough, she did: pointing at the long, snake-like thing she'd cleverly produced which was floating in the bowl.

But the moment we realized that was definitely light we could see at the end of the tunnel and not just an oncoming train was when Miss2 slept through the night with no nappy and no accidents.

Not that we meant to put her to bed with no nappy. And by 'we' I, of course, mean 'I'.

Tracey was at work so I was in charge. The kids having been fed and bathed I settled in to catch up on my Facebooking and emails while they watched a movie in the next room. Only Miss2 wasn't watching TV, was she. She'd tottered off to bed with a bear and a book and fallen asleep.

"Cool," I said (very quietly) when I spotted her, not for a moment thinking to check she still had that nappy on (which she couldn't possibly because I didn't put one on her after her bath).

But she still seems to be having some confusion regarding basic anatomy.

This morning she barged into the bathroom while I was clearing some space for my morning coffee. After a pause while she summed up the situation she pointed at my tackle and asked, "What you call your tail?"

"A doodle," I told her.

"Why I got no tail?" she wanted to know.

"Cause you're a girl," I told her. "Like Mummy."

She left still frowning, but I think she's starting to get it. I'm just glad I don't call it a snake - that would really confuse her.

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Kids + 18yrs = $$$$

When you think about the costs of raising kids, it's easy to mistakenly think about how expensive university will be, or their first car - maybe something cheap like a VW Beetle, because you figure everyone loves Herbie, right? Well slow down, Turbo, there's a long way to go before you need worry about those.

With kids it's like you're always putting your hand in your pocket for something.

It's not just the cost of keeping them in nappies, formula, clothes and food. Even bringing them home is expensive, what with car capsule, cot, highchair and pig pen.

But the biggest expense is TOYS! The money we've blown on plastic junk! And I really don't know why when up to the age of eighteen months the only things they consistently want to play with are car keys and all the cards and stuff in a purse: presumably because they know how expensive and painful it is to replace them.

And we haven't even touched on cost of the stuff the kids break.

In the ten years before I had our five little grommets I made not one claim on my insurance. In the nine years since I've had them I've made eight, the last one being for a laptop they pulled off the table. You might think eight claims is a lot, but there would be triple that of things we could claim for but chose not to so we didn't blow out our premiums.

But it's the little things they destroy which can add up to big dollars. Like last Monday when my five and two year olds got hold of a permanent marker and went looking for things to write their names on, like they were claiming dibs on what was theirs in the event Tracey and I pass away before the others got all the good stuff. Fortunately I caught them before they'd moved on from their lunch boxes because there was still a lot of ink left in that pen. If they'd made it into the lounge room they could have made a real nice mess of the leather lounge or cabinets.

Which still wouldn't rate a mention against the stuff I wrecked growing up.

I was a bit of a poster child for this sort of thing when I was a young sprog. My hammer feats as an adult are well documented and may, in fact, stem from trouble I had as a child. Legend goes, I found a hammer while my parents were busy moving furniture into their new home. Despite this being a new home, there was a disappointing lack of nails and wood lying around so I did the next best thing - I walked around the house chipping the corners off the bricks at my chest level. The whole way round the house.

You can imagine the praise my efforts earnt me when my folks discovered what I was doing. Yep, my ass is still sore and to this day all common sense and logic seem to evaporate the moment I hold a hammer in my hand (Tracey's assertion, not mine).

So don't let your kids near tools, is what I'm sensibly saying here. Forget worrying about them losing a finger, they might do serious damage to your stuff!

Scissors are another thing they can wreck your stuff with. I don't like to see scissors in my kids hands ever.

We keep our scissors behind stuff in the highest cupboard in the kitchen and don't let them see where we get them from. They might start with the A4 sheets of paper we have in their craft box, but without supervision (proper mummy supervision, not the way I administer it) they'd soon be into books, clothes, hair and sheets, and that could get expensive.

Or they could cut out the middle man, as the young child of a friend of ours did yesterday.

Their kid got hold of both a pair of scissors and their mum's purse. You might imagine the little bits of kaos that ensued.

Last I heard they were still looking for the other half of a fifty dollar note.

Fifty dollars. Phooey! Their child's attempt at havoc is amateurish at best. Fifty bucks wouldn't have covered the call out fee for the tradesman to fix my parents' bricks, and that was forty years ago. One day I'll tell you about the time I painted their car. I gave it racing stripes and a number like Herbie :)

I figured everybody loves Herbie. Turns out I was wrong.

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Holy Crappoli

Toilet training is frustrating but there's the Holy Grail of 'no more nappies', which means steak is back on the menu, to keep you focused.

And you need the encouragement because toilet training is a lesson in failure - you follow the kid around with a mop and every time they look a bit pensive you pick them up and run through the house to the loo holding them out in front of you like they're made of something smelly and foul. Which, if you're not quick enough, they may be.

You'll try anything - you talk to them about how much fun weeing in the toilet is, offer lolly bribes, you read them books on weeing and pooing, you write shitty ditties to sing ('peeing is fun with no nappy on my bum; I love to do a poo when I'm sitting on the loo'), you have them call up Grandma when they fluke it and you even show them how to sit on the toilet. Not that you need to arrange this last point.

As any parent will attest, there is nothing unusual about having the kids walk in on you while you're in the bathroom.

My dad tells a story about how he was reading a newspaper on the dunny when he suddenly realized my 2 year old sister was sitting on his lap and he had no recollection of her getting there.

Things are especially bad around our house because we only have one bathroom which is in the same room as the only shower, bath and toilet, plus both washing machines and the dryer (it's a big room). This means you are never alone in there - it's almost as popular as the lounge room as a place to catch up on the day's news.

Master20 was always very understanding with the little kids barging in on him when he was in the shower, but Miss17 is freshly horrified every single morning. Every morning. Without fail. Loudly.

"I'm in here!!" has been her early morning catch cry for about six years.

"But I need to do a poo!" whoever it is will say back, and then just open the door and walk in. Cause when you need to go, you need to go.

And Miss17's response to this is always the same. "Shut the door!!!" Because our kids just plain don't see the need to do that.

But the real problem with having only one toilet, which is in the bathroom (which has the bath, shower and laundry) isn't the lack of privacy or being able to see who's into the fridge from the shower. The real problem is things get a little confusing for the young kids.

Master7, for example, didn't pee standing up for years. Now we weren't about to correct him on this because, let's face it, there's a lot less mess to clean up. But unfortunately the confusion can work the other way.

Miss2, who is currently being toilet trained (by which I mean she is piddling all over the house and then running to the loo to sit and wipe) might need some extra toilet tutelage. I think she's been spending too much time in the bathroom while I'm in there.

On Monday she was standing in front of the toilet with her pants down, frowning and holding her left index finger with her right hand, as though it was a doodle.

"What are you doing?" Tracey asked Miss2.

"I do wees," she said. Then she pointed at Tracey's crotch and asked, "What you got?"

I might need to add a new line to my song: 'If girls pee standing up, you'll have to mop the floor a lot.'

Yep, things might be getting a little messy around here. Looks like before we get to the Holy Grail we're going to have a lot of Holy Fail.

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Permanently in the Poo

This morning, when I explained how tired I was to my young son, Master7 offered to help me out.

"I'll be the dad for the day and you be the kid. So you make the mess then I'll get pissed off and clean it up," he said. I quickly explained you can't say things like 'pissed off' when you're seven. He wasn't having any of that. "Well I can't say 'I'm pooed off'. That wouldn't make sense."

I knew it was going to be a rough day when I woke up at 4am to give the baby a bottle and couldn't get back to sleep. Further anecdotal evidence presented itself a couple of hours later when I went to make a coffee and had to refill the coffee jar. But instead of filling the jar I poured the whole lot into the plunger. I think my subconscious was making a point.

And sure enough, there was only moderate success today on the child minding front while Tracey was at work. I mean, no ambulances were called and they survived the day unscathed, but I confess I'm worried I may not.

Usually I manage to hide all the bits which go wrong: the baby sleeps for four hours, waking just before mum comes home, meaning she'll be up all night: the two year old pulls a chair over to the duchess and spends ten minutes riffling through Mum's makeup: the five year old wanders across the street to fetch their ball back. You know, that sort of thing.

What I'm fairly certain Tracey will spot when she arrives home are the scribblings on the side of the kids' lunch boxes, not least because Miss5 and Miss2 used a permanent marker.

The most disturbing thing about this incident isn't that it occurred a mere two meters from where I was sitting sipping tea and watching Youtube videos of QI, but that I'm pretty sure the permanent marker is kept above the stove.

I think there's a fair to middling chance Tracey is going to be a little pooed off when she gets home. And 'pooed off' makes perfect sense as opposed to 'pissed off' in this instance because I know I'm going to be in all sorts of shit.

I took photos because at this point I realized I was toast anyway

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Mother-buggered

I get it now - being a mother is hard.

What with Tracey working all through the long weekend we swapped roles last night - I got up to the kids and Tracey stayed in bed and stole the blankets.

It's been one night and I'm exhausted.

Earlier this evening I was making myself a coffee so I could keep my eyes open while I put the kids to bed. This in itself is not unusual. Ever since Master20 was a toddler I've had difficulty reading bedtime stories to the kids because I inevitably fall asleep before I finish the book. Seriously, I'm generally yawning as I open to the first page.

But tonight the coffee was needed so I had the energy to walk to the bedroom to pick up a book and start reading it without nodding off because after last night I'm not just a little exhausted - there is no expression on my face.

To give you an idea of how mother-buggered I am, I considered takeaway for dinner tonight so I could get out of cooking but then realized I couldn't trust myself to drive to Pizza Hut and not fall asleep behind the wheel. So the kids had plain rice with soy sauce for dinner.

And I've still got one more night to go!!

I can't complain either. I can't bring myself to say, "Tracey, I'm buggered. Now you're home from work I'm off for a power nap." Tracey doesn't do that so how can I?

So, as I say, I was filling up the plunger with coffee (because instant just wasn't going to cut the mustard) so I could read the kids a story and I didn't quite have the energy to lift the heavy spoon of granules up over the lip of the plunger, so I spilled them - into the steamer containing the baby bottles.

'She'll be right,' was my first thought as I dusted the bottles off and put them back.

On any other night I might have gone with that, but it very quickly occurred to me of all the food substances I don't want to introduce my 10 month old, caffeine would have to be right up there in the top ten. So all the bottles, and the steamer, had to be thoroughly washed and re-steam cleaned.

Mind you, I already know I'm in for hell tonight because I let the baby sleep for more than two hours late this afternoon while I stared dumbly at the wall and ignored the kids as they dismantled their wardrobes and stripped the beds. But heaven help my little darlings tomorrow if I don't manage more than a couple of hours sleep tonight - If rice was hard today I'll probably just stick a raw potato in front of them for tomorrow night's dinner.

Yep, I'm ready to give up this mother caper. Although it could (regrettably) be argued I have the breasts for the job, it turns out I just don't have the balls for it.

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Ten Things Which Were Different In My Father's Day

1. BIRTH. When I was born my dad wasn't allowed in the birthing suite. He took this a step further and left the hospital. 
2. NAPPIES. Apparently, in the sixties, nappies couldn't be changed by men. My mother went into hospital to have her tonsils out when I was five, my sister was three and my brother was one. Dad didn't change a single nappy all week. He'd walk my siblings next door so our neighbour lady could deal with it. 
3. DRINKING. Mum wasn't allowed into the pub. Dad would bring her out a lemonade while she sat in the car. He was a responsible drinker too. Yessiree. Drink driving was firmly frowned upon so Dad always made sure he took the back streets.
4. KIDS. I did what I was told. My kids, not so much. 
5. WIVES. Wives did what they were told.....yeah, I'm not so sure about this one. My mum might have appeared to do what Dad suggested but I'm pretty sure he was only suggesting what she'd suggested, if you know what I mean. My wife? Don't even ask. Sometimes I think she does the opposite of what I suggest, even if it was her suggestion originally, just to show me who's boss.
6. DENTISTS. Dad's always been a stickler for regular check ups. Every twenty years, whether he needs it or not, he gets a check up. When I was fourteen, despite my solid argument it was six years too early, he sent me for a check up. The dentist took one look at my surname and burst out in hysterics. Seems my father was the only patient he'd ever had to bring in an anesthetist for a few simple fillings. I did ask if this was still an option but it wasn't.
7. FOOD. My Nanna had seven meals she'd work her way through every week. If it was Sunday, you ate roast. If it was Monday, you had cold cuts from Sunday. Visitors tended to avoid Monday. My Mum, on the other hand, was cutting edge. She was cooking spag bog back when you went out for that kind of fancy schmancy food. 
8. FASHION. I've seen the family photo albums and I'm convinced there wasn't any. In my father's hay day everyone in Australia wore the exact same clothes and that's not fashion, that's communism. When the seventies arrived, and people discovered the colour wheel, my Mum dyed all Dad's white shirts vibrant colours rather than buy new ones. He even had a pink shirt which, she assures me, was the seventies equivalent of a metrosexual.
9. ROAD RULES. Back when Dad learned to drive you didn't need things like indicators or an understanding of how stop signs work. My Dad is very nostalgic and to this day he still drives like it's the sixties.
10. GENDER SPECIFIC ROLES. Dad worked hard while Mum only had to clean the house. Or that's how he saw it. What actually happened was Dad went to work and Mum stayed home and cooked, washed, shopped, mopped, vacuumed, swept, helped with homework, mowed, weeded and did all those other irksome little woman's duties. Dad was so good at his work some of it could even be done while drinking beer: none of Mum's was. Dad has finished his work and retired now. Mum isn't as efficient and so hasn't stopped yet. 

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Can't Fight Literally

It seems, when it comes to fighting, my son is a chip off the ol' block - that is to say, he has no idea.

Tonight I walked into the lounge room and found him on all fours, chasing after Miss5 and, when he caught up with her, ramming his head at her bottom.

"What the hell are you doing?" I asked him.

"I'm headbutting my sister," he said matter-of-factly. I guess he's into interpretive fighting.

I've always maintained I'm a lover not a fighter, although I said this to Tracey back when we were dating and she asked me if I had a back up plan.

When Master20 and Miss17 were much younger I started taking them to Tae Kwon Do during the week. I figured it would be good for them to learn discipline and self defense. My big boy was into Power Rangers at the time and was always disappointed at the end of a lesson when they didn't give him a zord.

Before too long Tracey and I started joining in as well. Tracey was really good at it. I sucked, black hole style.

In my defense, though, it was difficult to fully concentrate on the routine when there weren't many adults in the class so I often sparred with kids. My punches went well over their heads but their punches, which as instructed they mostly managed to pull up short of the mark, were headed squarely for my groin.

It's not that I'm competitive or anything, but when Tracey managed to triple grade while I only doubled at our first grading I hung up my yellow belt (which basically means I've learned how to bow) and took up a far less confrontational form of self defense called doing whatever the hell my wife says.

Besides I figure if some idiot shapes up to me in a car park I'll tell him, "I'm not your problem mate. My wife's a higher belt than me."

As for Master7 and his unique fighting style, well I can't wait to see his idea of king hitting someone - it'll probably involve his sister's tiara.

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Maybe I should get him to watch this :)

Wrong Room

Technology can be a little bit frightening when you've got kids.

I remember when I was growing up, the video player would absolutely baffle my parents, leading me to think they'd hit their heads and their brains were addled.

I suspect my kids think similar thoughts when they see me trying to answer our iPhone or, heaven help me, send a text.

Grandma's tenuous grasp of modern technologies, like the internet and buttons, has become the hot topic of conversation since she arrived home from a couple of months visiting my sister up near Port Douglas. Kerri and her partner, Darryl, run the Pinnacle Village Holiday Park on a lovely stretch of beach (thought I'd give them a nice little plug).

Naturally, the moment I heard my mum had arrived home we phoned her up. The kids had all sorts of questions.

"Did you go on a train? Did you fly in a plane? Did you miss us? Did you bring us anything?" 

I had one.

"Can you look after the kids on Monday?" It's been a hard slog without our babysitter. 

So Miss8, Master7 and Miss5 went to Grandma's on the first Monday of the holidays while Miss0 & Miss2 went to daycare and Tracey and I went to work. 

When we picked them all up in the afternoon the middle kids were talking excitedly about what a great day they had.

"We went into a room and chatted with people," said Miss5.

"It was on the computer," said Miss8.

"There were lots of Ashes and one weird old man," said Master7.

"It was fun!" said Miss8.

One weird old man? There's a phrase to make your hair stand up on end. 

"Umm, Mum," I said when I caught up with her, "just wondering...the kids...something about playing on the computer? I think it was a Pokemon based thing?"

"Oh, yes," she said airily. "They played Pokemon on the computer."

"Umm, I think they might have been in a chat room, Mum."

There was an awkward sort of pause. "Oh, dear. I thought it was just some sort of game."

I think she'll probably stick with watching movies from now on. If she can just get that dang Blu-ray thingame to work.

Gorgeous converted train carriage - one of the lovely
accommodation options at Pinnacle Village Holiday Park 

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Our Smart Car

As shown here, doors can be a
real problem with smart cars.

I've always wanted to name our car.

I've been bitching and carrying on about our Pajero for years. Its old, its noisy and its roadworthiness is dubious at best. It sucks in fuel like vacuums suck up dirt and is heavily addicted to oil.

Over the years the only redeeming feature of our car has been its ability to transport the whole family from point A to point C - with point B usually a service station. Of course, two kids ago it stopped being able to do even this. I don't really blame the car for its lack of seats: I blame how irresistible I am when my wife is drinking Southern Comfort.

Our car is essentially a dump on wheels.

Which is why the problem has always been the only names we've been able to come up with we couldn't repeat in front of the kids.

But all that has changed as of Saturday because our Pajero effectively named itself - from this day forth our car shall be known as Kitt.

It started when we arrived at Tin Can Bay to spend the day riding bikes and eating sausages and ice blocks with the kids. I should have known pulling a small trailer full of our gear would have been too much for the old girl. Within minutes of arriving things started to go wrong.

"Let's go!" I called at the kids and opened the back door of the car.

 And my fingers nearly tore clear off my hand.

The handle wouldn't open the door. I pulled it and reefed it and hit it and thumped it and cussed it. I locked the door and then unlocked it again. Nothing. That was one closed door.

Tch Tch. More door trouble with a smart car.

Which was a shame because its the door four of the kids use to get in and out of the car. The other door is blocked by the baby seat.

"I'm glad we brought the bikes," said Tracey, shaking her head at our disaster-prone car. "We might need them to ride home on."

But as inconvenient as a jammed back door was, Tracey brought up the real concern we had.

"What if we're in an accident before we get it fixed? The kids won't be able to get out."

Which was when our smart car decided to come up with a solution all by itself.

While I was busy cussing at the unopenable door our car allowed Miss3 to break a latch on a back window, making it unlockable, so the kids can now crawl out the new 'emergency exit' in the event of an accident.

What a clever car our Kitt is.

And best of all, I, by association, shall be The Knight Rider.

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