Tooth Fairy

Paris lost another tooth tonight.  The whole tooth fairy business seems to go in waves, and we have been caught somewhat offguard by this third round.  Just when I think I nearly have a handle on this whole motherhood gig, another sideways kneecapping.  Darned Imposter Syndrome!

The new job is going wonderfully well.  Still pinching myself.

There is one downside of my job, however, is the very dry but daily awareness that there are people out there having less than stellar things going on in their lives.

But then, there are diamonds and there are stones everywhere, it seems.

Paris' week, however, has had its fantastic moments - and those in the not so fantastic realm.

She told me tonight about some of the things that may be connected to her bad dreams in the last few nights.

She feels so deeply sometimes.

(Hey, she is now 9 - there are still some things that she feels shallowly or not at all.

This is one of the "fantastic" things she has brought home from school this week -



)

The currency in TF land has had its highs and lows over the years (sometimes fuelled by the guilt of tardiness)

And the cover has been blown for longer than she has been alive.

The tooth that fell out tonight was a pretty interesting one.  Whether through natural wear of the movement of position that braces and headgear have wrought, it wasn't as smooth, or indeed as molarish as one would have expected.  And I hope that she will be chuffed that TF recognised this.  And I hope that she knows that TF is on her side toon.

The Parisian Boulevardes of my childhood... (part whatever)

I remember that I was about 8 years old.  Old enough to know what I wanted to do and what I wanted to wear.

Young enough that my mother still thought that she could tell me what to do.

She could.

I was eight.

It was the Seventies.

Whatever Women's Rights may be, Mothers Rights ruled supreme, with their wooden spoon sceptres and their castles their homes.

So when she told me what to do - which was to take this tablet, this bright red, shiny and very round tablet, and to ingest it after my breakfast, but before going to school - I took the tablet.

"It says that it is chewable," she offered, as she proffered the orb.

It lied.

It was neither chewable nor swallowable.  Forces external to my body rejected it, all moisture was sucked from my mouth and the red shell cracked and mixed with whatever chemistry was left.

--

That being said, she had allowed me to choose my clothing.  She was a fair and smart mother for making such a compromise.

I had just ONE item in my wardrobe that I really felt said it was authentically ME when I was that age.

It was so cool.

It was a white t-shirt with silhoettes of buildings with a few bright trees in the foreground, and a lamp-post and the words "Paris" across to one side.

So me.

Not so cool that I looked wannabe - it was a little bit too twee for the part of the Seventies I inhabited, with Countdown just getting going with more live music and stuff that Molly Meldrum told us was the "next big things" - but I digress.

She allowed me to choose my clothing, which was my Paris t-shirt and a pair of shorts.  I can't even remember which shorts.

--
But yes, in return, I took the tablet.

I put it into my mouth - and the subsequent projection was in the form of foam.

I could not stop blubbering the foam out as I looked in panic at my mother. The foam was red.
Really, really red.

And it was like there was a fountain within my mouth flowing down the front of my shirt.

My beautiful shirt.

My mother's eyes and mine met.

Me begging her to make this not happen - and her pity for me and regret at being the purveyor of such a curse.

--
It was not the last time she would ever make me throw up in the name of medicine.

It was the last time that I ever saw my Paris t-shirt.

--
Do you want to know the worst bit?

The worst bit was - the tablet was for worms.  The worms that she thought maybe I had, because I was always on the toilet.

The reason that I was always on the toilet was that I was addicted to reading.  It is possible that I had just discovered several years worth of National Geographic - or a good Betty and Veronica - and was slacking off from whatever tasks and chores my parents would allot me if they caught sight of me.

And so I would sit on the pot and read.
--
And now, I am the mother of a similarly afflicted child CALLED Paris.

And for two nights in a row earlier this week, she has "had to go to the toilet" for extended periods after bedtime, because she has got a book.

Not necessarily a good one.  Just any one.

Then yesterday, she got some new technology.  A cereal company was running a promotion over the school holidays, where if you pestered your grand/parent/s enough to get THREE of their SPECIALLY MARKED packs, you could apply online and get a FITNESS TRACKER.

And to put the cherry on top, her stodgy parents ACCEDED TO HER WISHES.

And, as promised, within three weeks she received a BRIGHT RED FITNESS TRACKER.

It is awesome - although I have a feeling it may have its limitations.

She thinks it is AWESOME and will accessorize her school uniform and be AUTHENTICALLY her.

Yes, she is eight, why do you ask?
--
This morning, she was up at half past dark, because she had a book to read.

And she had her new fitness tracker.

And by a quarter-to she-is-usually-being-dragged-out-of-bed-at-this-time, she has "already done 547 steps, Mum".

We then did a scientific experiment.  I got her to walk five steps away and five steps back.  "Now how much" I asked her.

"573" she replied, downcast.

"It'll be good for your maths, then," I joked with her.

She was not amused.

She then spent the next five minutes, on the bog, shaking her arm, occasionally yelling out numbers.
--
Perhaps she has worms?

 We will never truly know what the Paris t-shirt looked like, but one thing is for sure - it didn't look much like this at all...

The Great Glitter Explosion 2017

This post shall not be littered with photos - I shall expect you to use your imagination - as long as it constantly throws glints of gold from every angle, its working well.

Allow me to preface this with the first world acknowledged fact that young girls do like a bit of the glit - well, all young girls who I have birthed that is true for, anyway.

And we all know there is never "just a little bit" of glitter, is there?

So yesterday, we saw out the end of Summer with a little craft before bedtime - a pinch of gold was used to accessorise the odd colouring in, but all in all it was relatively contained - if relatively equates to across the table, on the dining room floor, around the rubbish bin and traipsed through the house.

But relative is relative.

Last night, Paris was slow to go to sleep.  I put it down to it being hot.  I put it down to being melancholy at her sister starting her new life far away.  I put it down to her fidgeting.  I put it down to her needing to go to the toilet.  She took an age to wash her hands post this reminder.  Hindsight would have cued the ominous music at that point.

Then she started crying, and voiced her fear that the whole school would laugh at her.  I did my mum thing and lay down with her and talked her around from the anxiety of anticipated bullying and mean girls and how to win the schoolyard skirmishes and positive approaches to the new month and resilience and by the end of my little talk, even I was feeling like grasping hold of life anew.  Go me!!!

I could even feel glitter between my teeth when I was getting ready for bed, and I did notice that the bar of soap had a very bright sheen.

As I said, relative is relative.

We are currently breaking Paris of the habit of crawling into our bed and taking up 70% of available real estate EVERY SINGLE NIGHT.  Until recently, our mattress was extremely uncomfortable and truth be told V and I almost raced each other to nab hers when that moment occurred in the wee hours of the morning.  However, her area requirements are growing AND we bought a more comfortable mattress, so we heralded change in this area to go with the changes in every other area of her life this year.  It is an ongoing process.

She went REALLY well last night - only one 3:30am sneak in for a cuddle and return to her own bed.  I was very chuffed at her and vowed to myself that the promise of scrambled eggs was as good as cooked.

When I had finished my morning rituals including the promised eggs, I went in to waken her for the start to her new day, the new month and the new attitude to life, and...

I awakened a GOLDEN child.  From her eyelashes to her toes, there was glitter.  The trail of glitter across the books at her bedside (and strangely, bottle of nail polish.  Huh?), pooled throughout her bed and piling underneath the bed belied a saga of a little girl who had a glitter nailpolish desire after lights out, and how it went so HORRIBLY wrong.

The poor darling.

No amount of showering, scrubbing and empowering discussion would erase the hue, the tone and the fear of eternal chastisement from the THEM at school and she never, ever wanted to leave the house again.

It was a VERY LONG MORNING.  The eggs helped a little.  The promise of school swimming today had torrential repercussions.  There was the leading with the front foot lecture (where the title of this post comes from).  The negotiations required were very delicate, pivoting precariously at every juncture.

When we got to the classroom this morning, she was slightly buoyed by the greeting of one which didn't SEEM to be too mean.  The teacher had just dealt with one child broken down by the lack of her swimming bag, and greeted Paris with "well, at least you aren't crying and you have your togs, hooray!" 

I advised her of our morning and she remarked "you look quite glorious yourself" to me.  When I told her of Paris' big fear, she deserved every shekel of her salary when she responded "Oh darling, they won't laugh at you.  They will be jealous.  You look FANTASTIC!"

Paris, bicycles, teeth, card-sharps, ponies, cutting out, Salina, somersaults, car-sickness and

grant-me-the-power-I-wish-I-could-find-a-suitable-cuss-word-for migraines.

Paris has learned that she can ride a bicycle without training wheels.   The butterfly has emerged, and she is having the occasional bumpy ride, but a bumpy ride by a confident girl who is growing hourly is a pleasure to behold...

She got to compare her bruises with one of her favourite people in the world, her cousin Violet.  Violet is training to be a trick horse-rider (or is that a horse trick-rider?).

---

In the middle of her first week of school holidays, she lost her second wobbly tooth.

And by lost, I mean kept firmly under her control until she could transfer it to the tooth fairy, a concept in this house she knows to be heavily reliant on the maternal influence but is willing to play along for coins of the realm. 

And by lost, I mean her sister bribed her to pull it out with some treat or other - a treat lucrative enough to warrant the resolution to overcome her natural reluctance. 

And by lost, I don't mean a sudden cessation of tooth from back of mind but the end of a month-long contemplation. 

The tooth fairy bartered her a deal of some awesome octagonal silver pieces, which as we all well know are the best coins of the collection.  A couple of fancy ones if I recall.  I know, brownie points for the tooth fairy.

---

There is much of what I want to say with pride about my eldest and her life and peers and the life choices she makes and how human and wonderful she is, but she is of an age now where she doesn't need her mother singing her praises when the fence over which the praise is sung is the internet - she has her own voice.

But there was some wonderful stuff involving movies and buses and sushi amongst other things.

---

The last few days has involved a weekend with cousins - and it was one of those school holiday weekends when the kids are all at that magical age where they can play card games together - and there were some doozy card games. 

Dash is a magician of family-wide repute, with enough basic card tricks and a way of shuffling that really impresses for an oh-my-goodness-how-on-earth-did-he-get-so-big-so-quickly 13 (14? really?) year-old. 

We discovered that Paris has the luck of association when playing one particular card game, and a game that was so entirely dependent on luck that no-one-can-get-upset-if-they-lose was learned by all.

---

One of the drawcards of the weekend was the opportunity for the grandchildren to ride with their grandfather on the land that he first came to when he was younger than most of them. 

While 'Salina had a very close association with him when she was younger and she learned to ride and muster with him and then with my brother-in-law. 

She has always had a strong affinity with horses (something she shares with her aunt) and good memories of working with Grandpa. 

As Paris was born in a different phase of everyone's life, she has only got to ride a few times. 

At first she was trepidatious, a fact not helped by the usual pony jokes and jocular stockyard humour.  She was determined that no, she was not actually going to ride today.  She had thought it over, done the risk assessment and was not budging on her stance.

Violet did a very good sitting trot on Buddy's back down to the bottom of the yard - that is a skill I have never mastered and I clench all core muscles as I even contemplate it in recall.

Against her better judgement, she did eventually have a short ride with 'Salina and then alone - but that was it.  She had a firm position - and that position did not involve going along with plans made by others.

We first got to watch grandpa do what he loved to do most of all even when we were children.  The first job you get when you were a kid - when we were kids - was being on the gate.

---

On the gate is not a fun occupation at first glance. 

Everyone is yelling at you as animals are rushing towards you and you and your horse - generally a pony of determined jaw and cast-iron guts - and you know that it will be your fault if they have to all go through to the other side and get the animals rushing towards you with a great deal of yelled - and even contradictory - instruction.  It took years of instruction to reach the next dan of cutting out.

To be able to become the star attraction, the one moving in to select a beast and gather the spotlight to your masterly blocks and turns, to confidently yell out "gate", to have gumption expect the others to be your seconds - well, that wasn't something I put my hand up for many years - I was always the one who would always be the most cautious when approaching any challenge myself.

As you know, I never quite mastered the grid - in bicycle or truck mode, apparently - and once I discovered my myopia, I had a default excuse should the requirement to be anything other than buried nose-deep in a book.

However, it has been discovered that often a handicap in one sensory field of an animal hones the skills in another - and mine, when a child and teenager was that because I couldn't see enough to differentiate stumps from cattle and anticipation from the body language of the beast - and therefore I stayed put in that gate for the majority of my childhood, but by goodness, I ensured that rarely did I get yelled at with anything by instruction - you can attain a level of zen with their contradictions and it can become background noise to the dust, the flow of the mob, the count and the final requirements - that is how my Dad operated when at his peak, just complete expectation that you could read his mind and anticipate his unvoiced requirements.

I think I hit that zen somewhere about 10. 

It was all downhill from there, of course.  I did not do adolescence (or several other phases in my life) easily, and there may have been fallout (causal or resultant) with this particual parental relationship. 

But knowing that moment existed, that somewhere in our memory banks there is a time when he could head a beast in my direction and I would instinctively know whether the call was "block up" or "right" - despite it always seeming to be a 50/50 call.

These days, I am the fat old woman who hovers around as a driver and far too unfit - and therefore I did my best softball spectator from the sidelines, giving a blow-by-blow and anticipating Grandpa's reactions to this most wonderful blessing in his life getting to work as his team - or indeed, him working for their team.  

---

There were bits where I saw that this was Grandpa in action and not Dad - but sometimes the Dad that I worked with when we reached Zen was at work, and he got three grandchildren and him doing it low stress and with joy.

Then my sister took Paris down with her to do some photos. 

Bush Babe has got a special relationship with both of my daughters.

I cannot explain how she can be with Paris and it is like watching a form of a magic show.  Paris is so timid, yet she will do almost anything for her aunt.

One of those things was to hop up in front of Grandpa on Jill and bring up the cattle.

---

There is a photo that was taken where you can see pure joy.

Not taken by me of course.

You must be new.  No, I expect both of you to use your imaginations, because I always forget to take photos.  I have a sister, a sister-in-law, and an aunt and a mother who are all very happy to snap, but myopic little me just likes to describe.

The gang took the mob back - taking the mob back is easy, especially when you are going through clear paddocks and there is good pick.  The little pony borrowed from a cousin who couldn't make it trailed after Grandpa's Jill, with a beaming Paris looking at the world and her Grandpa and her sister and cousins all doing slow-motion tricks on their horses around the mob.

---

Did I mention cards?  Those kids played cards.   For one of my birthdays (was it my 22nd or 23rd Anne?) I got given a Hoyles.  For those not in the know, the Hoyles is the rulebook of all card games and a few friends and I decided to choose a card game at random and learn it from scratch.  We chose Casino.  For over half of my life, I have been seeding that card game with those around me.  It is a corker, and now that I have taught my children I have ensured that it will travel down through the ages.  500 was played.  Cooncan500 required a double deck so Nana came to the rescue.  As I was about to leave, I taught them Maltese Rummy.  If you are in any way into cards, find a Maltese descendant and learn this game.  It is so wonderfully woven with the staunch Catholic ritual of that country it ought to be latticed with pastry and baked!

---

The pool is another feature of our visits, and just after Easter is really the last opportunity to swim before the weather gets just that bit fresh out there that dips are more screamy than fun.  Paris decided to learn how to somersault.  Under water.  And almost handstand.  She had individual swimming sessions with most of the adults available as well as a few cousin-centric splashes. 

Lets just say that, as far as school holidays goes, this one is a pearler.

---

On the way home, I could have sworn that it would be twenty minutes of Taylor Swift before she dropped off, but today she didn't. 

Whether it was the wrong bump at the wrong moment of the trip, but she decided she was starving (and could not be appeased with the thought of another hour before repast) or thirsty or - ah yes, that's what she was - she was sick.  And oh, how she was sick.

I was a car-sick child.  It was how we eventually discovered the above-mentioned myopia.  Apparently not being able to focus on anything outside the car has as much to do with being carsick as reading while a car is moving.  Take THAT grown ups and people who told me that if I just stopped reading in the car I would feel better!  I was TRYING to feel better by reading.  I mean, just about anything in the world is better if you can be reading a book, right?

So I really GOT that whole sudden realisation that the cause of your discomfort was not something intangible, but something real and RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW.

I also got it from the parent perspective a little bit - the need to think on your feet and find clothing, cleaning products, counselling and clarity in what could be a very messy situation - sixty-kilometres from nowhere.

But she grew a little bit in those few moments too - she didn't freak out, she just took the solutions and played in the red dust on the tailgate while I went into Uber-mother role (just had a mental image of an international non-taxi non-organisation branching out into such tasks and thought NOT ON THIS MOTHER'S WATCH). 

When the promised stop at the next town's magical merry-go-round (which I swear is the world's best kept secret and you can't even GOOGLE it) and phone call to V took place, she demanded the phone.  "Guess what Daddy," she said.  "I was REALLY car sick.  I SPEWED."  and I thought yeah, you did, that's my girl!!!

Long Drive to the Power of Paris

On the weekend, we (Paris and I) had occasion to embark on a journey together through distance and time.

It so happened that 'Salina was being returned to our fold, and we had been counting down the hours until this one for several days prior.

As a result, seven minutes into an forty-five minute journey (15.55% for those of you in the Advanced Class) the first rendition of "I'm bored" emanated from the back seat.

Me?  I was in a "oh its nice to have some peace and quiet after a morning of pushing a mower around awaiting the call from a long lost daughter' frame of mind, and so some shifting of gears in my attitude was called for.

While searching for the ideal meeting point between instant entertainment now requirements and economy-sized effort available for input, I hit upon something that I consider A BRILLIANT IDEA!!

"How about we count all of the cars that go past us on the drive?" I asked.

Immediately (and true to form - takes after her mother too darned much) she decided to test the rules and bend where possible.

"I'm counting the parked ones too."  The demand for instant perfection was also made.  "I am counting as far ahead as I can see - and I will see how much you are paying attention by counting certain cars several times."  She didn't actually add that codicil out loud.

I was quite surprised how the car tally mounted as we worked our way through the nearest big smoke.  When not enough cars were on offer going past on the historic bridge we had to cross, she spied below a park near a boat ramp, with an assortment of vehicles and trailers.  There was some debate about the need to count the attached playground's special feature - a half-submerged ship, with climbing opportunities a-plenty and a grim reminder of the possible fate of the voyage for the adult observers.

We had a swift lesson in the relationship of 1000 to 100 as we went through some roadworks, and learned the shorthand for counting in three digit numbers as we finally escaped the confines of the town.

One hundred and seventy through to two hundred seemed to pass so readily, only occasionally having to resort to tractors plowing fields to keep our momentum, but the first few decades after two hundred were interminable (although she still flatly refused to allow the burned out shell of a victim of theft and Easter joyriding to join the tally),

The second major hamlet  of our drive co-incided with two hundred and ninety, and I mentioned it was "only ten until three hundred" and you could see the stars aligning in her eyes.

The next car went past.  "Two hundred and ninety-one" we exclaimed, and she added "nine more to go."

"Two ninety-two."  "Eight more."

"Two ninety-three. Two ninety-four."  "Seven.  Six."

I sat back and she commentated the last few - and suddenly there was a convoy.  We stopped at three hundred and three because we thought that was a big enough number.

She offered the next diversion.  I spy.  We did some good ones.  The rule is, if the other person can't get your spy, you get to spy again.  If the other person fails three times in a row, you win.  Doesn't everybody have that rule?  Its funny, but this is one game that Mummy is HAPPY for her child to win - because it really is win-win.   It is fairly manageble, so you can stay playing as long as you want to, but once your patience has started to flash, its amazing how little perception one can have.

That being said...  I must admit, I have never spied "a - air", it does sometimes take a leap to realise that the "y - yellow" was on the cards, and "f - fingers" can come from left field these days.  I do admit to throwing the first two in the final spies - but the third was a doozy that I could not have got had I actually tried.  Who spies the "h - humans" at age five?

Songs was the next suggested past-time.  I vetoed her first suggestion (shoot me, but I am not a fan of Old McDonald as a starter song.  You need to warm up to that) and taught her the clapping song, B-I-N-G-O, and then I allowed her "If you're happy and you know it clap your hands" [clap your hands] (with those other well-known verses, "If you're sad and you know it, cry boo-hoo" [cry boo-hoo with fully faked tear-ed up eyes] and "If' you're angry and you know it, have a frown" [dramatic frowning required])

When I offered the next suggestion, it was met with "but Mummy, I haven't done frustration yet."

"Okay" I said.

Silence.

Then a huge grin.  "By you not singing, I am getting so frustrated!"

The little minx burst out laughing.

"Get it" she cried.

This button says "push"

Paris practices the dark art of button-pushing.

She always starts so innocently.

---

 It is a lovely day.  I am collecting her from after-school care.  There is joy to be had at home in Paradise, together all as a family while the sun still shines.  We are blessed.

And then…  its not even like she was instrumental in causing the first frisson of the afternoon.

Interruption to the reverie came with a flapping paper - about a long ago skinned-knee incident and bureaucracy.  The irritation was amplified with a shriek as Paris' tomfoolery tumble so akin to the knee-skinning moment all those weeks ago is enjoyed.

“Come along” as the mists of that perfect afternoon vanish and blow away with the list of THINGS TO DO steady inflation.  Come along she does not, and the request is repeated – again, again – with her cries to her friend to join her in brave new adventures ignoring my entreaties.

Expletive-deleted (because I am a decent mother) “it, I am going” I yell, with a spin on my heel and a huff ricocheting off the playground angles and she suddenly pays a little attention in fear that the threat will be carried out.

But its Mu-um. 

Paris knows that Mu-um is tired from her day and Mu-um’s concentration span is always frayed by the sawing of too much to do and too little time, with a twist of too bleeding lazy to be superwoman. 

Well, she probably doesn’t know that, but Mu-um does and Mu-um’s mind can be read so darned easily when it is the end of the day.

Figuratively, Paris is the nymph forever poking at Mu-um’s sanity, checking to see what she can get away with and what invokes the best reaction.  I love her so much, she is a beautiful joy in my life, Holy Mother of God give both of us guidance in not engaging!

I am sure it is worse some weeks more than others.

---

That being said, she started at the car.

“When we go to the shops, I’m not getting out of the car.”

 Translated reads “this is my superpower.  I am stating my will.  I throw down my gauntlet in a challenge to you, you power-hungry matron.”

I am all logic and love in my reply.  “That is a pity, dear, because when WE get to the shops, I have to get out because I need to get bread and milk at the shops, and you have to get out of the car with me because you are five years old and it is illegal for me to leave you in the car all by yourself.”

See, I could be hired to negotiate with expletive-deleted-ists.  I did not engage.  I was showing her open palms, my powerlessness in this society, its not that I don’t want to help her, my hands are tied.

And see, this is how my daughter could be hired to send expletive-deleted-ists unhinged, because she then ups the ante.

“What does illegal mean?”

Ha, easy question kid.  I got that under my belt in year six social studies.  Of course, in those days illegal was basically breaking any commandments and drink driving.  They had just brought in the latter.

But I have half a brain and I am a mother, therefore the target market for all things related to what is RIGHT or WRONG in raising YOUR CHILD.  Therefore “illegal” in terms of leaving a stroppy child of any age up until such time as they are taller (and therefore that much harder to drag from the car) than you means that you are BREAKING the LAW (and if God, the police and the justice system doesn’t get you, I dare you to try it on with a jury of your peering parents over at Perfectville, a space that some people inhabit just for recreational purposes).

I didn’t say all of that, of course.  I deal in conciseness when required.  “Illegal means it is against the law.  Now, hop into the car.”

She dawdles as she climbs ever so tentatively into the car, stretching out the external moments as long as she can, eyeing me at all times to identify that moment where patience snaps.

“What does illegal mean?” she asks.

Expletive-deleted.  It is a muddy morass once you start to try to define, knowing every definition will then be questioned.  I don’t have a dictionary, I have a strong desire to get home to caffeine and downtime and I just know that whatever the response is given to her, it will come back as a question so fast my head will spin.

“Illegal means doing something that is against the rules.” And I wait for the inevitable response – but she surprises me with a twist for the winner.

“Why do they call them rules?”

at which point I break down and admit that I just DO NOT KNOW...

Ecole de Paris

You know those really cute first day of school pictures that adorned your Facebook feeds a few weeks ago?

They were so cute weren't they?  All those little people dressed up in their gorgeous little clothes becoming so big and serious - awwww.

Well, we didn't really get any good "first day of school" shots of Paris - because the Paris picture approaching the first day of school can be stylistically interpreted as:

She survived - and she did do some cute filmmaking post the first day that pulled it out of the fire, but it was a long first week - and then she discovered that, due to a public holiday, that was actually a short week.

She. Was. Livid.

 

Paris is not yet in love with the whole concept of school.  She enjoyed one day of it last year for orientation, but cannot see the value of it being FIVE days EVERY week.  She did not sign that treaty, white man.  

I can see her point.

She is becoming resigned to it being a fact, however.

The battle to get through the:

• get dressed in uniform
  
  
• put hair up
  
  
• put shoes on
  
  
• eat breakfast 
• do teeth
  
  
• get out of the door
  
• drive to school 
• walk to the classroom 
• be stoic in the face of losing your parent for the whole day
  
  
•  in a classroomful of strangers and bossy but very nice ladies with a bell

• eat what you are told when you are told
  
  
• explore and play in a confined space with twice as many strangers
  
  
• sit quietly in the heat 
• get picked up by old friends
• wait for your parent to take you home
  
  
• bathe
  
  
• eat
• bed 

routine is gradually getting a little easier.  

She is more keen about the experience in the rear view mirror than in anticipation.

But at least she isn't hating it.

She quite likes the concept of reading.

    

 She gets to do music.  And PE.  Look at me do a handstand on the couch Mum!  Science - she got to look through a microscope.  Library was good.  When will I get to go on a big bus?  Homework (we ALL get to do that - last week it was a family portrait!)  Every day there is a new friend - well, not really a friend, just someone new with a nice name and the potential of maybe getting her down the track.  She immediately names a doll a similar name and they play schools where Daddy is the principal and the good kids get to sit on silk bow thrones.

 I don't know how to break it to her that there is another 12 years of it after this one, though.

The Quadrennial Parisienne Review

I know here in internet land, there are those who are primed to see amazing feats of childhood dreams being breathed into life with matching straws and dispensers of spun sugar.

If you are from this category of fish, its probably best to look away now.  We didn't do that to celebrate 4 years of having Paris in our lives.

Actually, we didn't really "celebrate" at all internet style.

We just awoke at 6am at her request and did her bidding all day - pretty much an average day in Paradise.

 

It has been four years of joy,

smiles,

and love.

She lights up our lives

and adds colour and sunshine to our days.

We made fairy cakes,

she got some new wheels,

we went and ate junk food together in the park,

and she got lasagne and mango (separately) for dinner.

Paris, Family, Jesus, Santa Claus, Friends, Society and Food

A lot of not much is going on around here, but a little of a great deal happened to.

It was like this.

Paris is now 3.  She woke up one Friday and she was three, a number she has been anticipating for quite some time.  She opened her eyes, and her attitude and her understanding and her membership and her lifestyle and she markedly and absolutely turned the cog to three.

A party was held.  I thought I was super organised, with cupcakes and party bags and gluten-free options and the sandpit finished (the latter was all V's doing, actually).

In fact, I only overlooked a few tiny, weeny little things.

The first was realised in the weeks before as Spring waned and Summer approached - the party had been organised for the morning (I was thinking of naps and over-and-done-withs when I concocted that little time-bomb), and it spanned exactly the period of time that 100% sunshine is available in 93.7% of the back yard, otherwise known as the venue.

The second was realised the night prior, but not enacted upon until 1/2 an hour before the start time - no drinks organised.  Slight oversight.  Possibly could have played that one better.

Especially when in conjunction with the fact that time I had written on all of the invitations for the party did not exactly match the time I had stuck in my head that I had written on all of the invitations.

Major expletive-deleted synapse error there.

This meant that the 1/2 an hour before the start time that the drinks absense was acted upon was in actual written fact the start time of the party said drinks were for.

Might strike project management from my career prospects.

(I did crisis-manage that one though, by roping arriving guests into erecting ye-olde tarp-over-clothes-line shelter while juggling the watermelon my sister had brought (thank you BB and see - I can do long-distance organising at times) with the coffee and toast I still hadn't started from breakfast.

We had corralled off an area of under the house so that tools and bikes and powertools weren't subject to little hands.

We seriously underestimated some little hands and the deviousness of their methods to get into anything that someone challenged with a no.

Don't get me wrong - not to the level of "losing a limb or a little child" type of underestimation.

More a "oh my goodness, my poor friend having to be on that level of alertness at all times just to keep up with that monkey" wrestle of the party bags from prying fingers that had discovered one stash of chocolate frogs and was intent on sniffing out as much trouble as he was able.

'Salina and I had cooked up a storm on the actual day of Paris' birthday, and had great delight in litres (kilos? metres cubed?) of exotically coloured buttercream icing and a new piping set to explore.

First, there was the gluten-free option - Not Quite Nigella's Vanessa's Simplest Chocolate Apple Gluten Free Cake - which got the Mama Me Gluten Free's Buttercream Frosting in apple green.

Then I found an Orange Chocolate-Chip Cupcake recipe (the address is http://www.pebbleinyourmouth.com/orange-chocolate-chip-cupcakes/ but the site no longer seems to exist) - which got orange buttercream.

I made a double-batch of our current favourite chocolate cake, Stay at Home Mum's Moist Chocolate Cake - half went towards the actual birthday cake in pink buttercream for the day of the birthday and the other half became cupcakes and were blessed with purple buttercream.

The night prior, I suddenly did the maths and thought I might not have enough cupcakes, so I did a batch of Banana Cupcakes from a book I currently have from the library - which got buttercream au naturel.

The party bags had been done - with names and all.  Of course, there were a few kids whose names I didn't know or indeed didn't know were set to attend or wasn't sure whether they would be there or not - nothing like having a kids party near Christmas to make you start doubting the validity of an RSVP option.

There were chips, dips, biscuits - the before-mentioned watermelon and indeed, many dozen fine gluten-free sausages.  Oops.  Forgot the bread.

Activities had been planned.  Firstly, there was the sandpit - unfortunately 100% of it fit in the 93.7% of the back yard receiving 100% sunshine, and while there were enough chairs to fit the adult bottoms of the 9.07am arrivals and enough of the 6.3% of the back yard receiving only 85-90% sunshine to dapple the chairs with a dash of bottle-brush, I think the adult members whose bottoms were set to sit around their 100% sunbathed children looked at me and thought I was crazy.

However, I had a plan, and moved into action moving the cubby-house to beneath the banana grove behind the adult bottoms, dragged the swingset to beneath the frangipani and offered a prayer to avert any serious ant attacks from the ferocious insects should the wrong section of the frangipani tree be approached, although which section that should be changed often and thus they had the element of surprise on their sides.

Again, I will skip to the end at this part and advise that no incidents of this nature were reported during or since the party, and therefore I will assume that my prayer worked.  Just in case you were worried.  About the children.  You know.  I appreciate your concern - they did cross my mind.  It may not look like it, but I was aware that children would be in attendance of this party.  Indeed, I am the parent of one such children, and the level of attention and care that I exhibit in my primal party planning skills are in keeping with the level of attention and care that I use in every day parenting.  As I have one that has survived until adolescence I feel it is an endorsement of this strategy.

 'Salina and a friend of hers and some older children pulled out the buckets of play dough we had created (This link is for Natural Parenting Tip's Easy Peasy No Cook Play Dough) and various cutters and they played cooking and mixing colours - we now have 3 full buckets of multi-coloured (but gradually morphing into new conglomerations) play dough that no-one will relieve us of (its only a bad thing in the way that we have a half a shelf devoted entirely to play dough, and if you think Christmas and leftovers and watermelon and suddenly a half a shelf is a valuable piece of real estate).

We (read people who looked at me and took over organising for me at this point) then handed out watermelon (we had drinks available by this stage - we weren't THAT bad) and iced water and cleaned up the play dough and I got the cupcake holder and bevy of cupcakes and candles organised and the older kids set up a bubble-blowing station and bubbles were blown and cakes were artistically arranged and candles were inserted.

I was amazed that Paris did as well as she did - she is not the centre of attention seeker by any stretch of the imagination, and even noticing that she is singing or dancing by one person can send her into a fit of shyness, let alone the virtual turning inside out of self that can occur when total strangers' attention is brought toward her in any shape or form - the fact that she accepted the singing and attention with grace, and she (with a little bit of help from her big sister) blew out the candles was beautiful and astonishing.  They all fell upon the cakes.

We then opened presents - she was very much blessed with all manner of toys and clothing and delights and accoutrements - Dora was suitably celebrated, as were the colours purple and pink, and tutus.

After this, a craft table was made (I am just realising how much work 'Salina did) and sausages were cooking (ditto for V), party bags were finalised (and there were still enough chocolate frogs - victory) and I found my discarded coffee with chips floating in it and some not-so-ferocious (yes, we do co-habitate with several varieties of varying intensities of ferociousness ants) ants swarming on my breakfast toast.

At some point my mother went out to get the bread, people left to travel far afield for Christmas, "frogs in the pond" (aka massive sugar-rush - little hands managed to toke about a half-dozen of them before my friend could pounce), party bags were handed out, balloons were blown and busted, whistles were blown, sausages were devoured (with bread) (or without, in the case of the gluten-free requirees), farewells were exchanged, party bags were handed out, messes were tidied, naps were ensured, dishes were stacked, shut down was achieved - and there were still 2 hours until it was all set to start again...

(I know the title does somewhat suggest that this post might also have touched upon the subjects of Family, Jesus, Santa Claus, Friends and Society, but I am exhausted - and the next party hasn't even started, so although these were all very worthy subjects, I think we all need a bex and a good lie down.  Don't you?)

(You may have noticed that all but one of the photos accompanying the post were indeed taken by My sister, mainly due to the fact that I hadn't found the camera to charge the batteries to take photos - and my mobile, which is the current camera of choice due to the first excuse, whilst on my person, neither took photos nor indeed noticed messages from various guests advising their timing - I am typing this and thinking WT expletive-initial-deleted was I doing while running around "ko kokosh bez glave"!!! )

Remember the days of the 12:39 blog?

(Long, ranty, could be intensely stream of consciousness - I mean, its an insomnia post for goodness sake.  Feel free to scroll and then comment.   Except the Spammers.  They need to read it all.  I have some great Spammer points in here for them.  Some other points too - darn my disclaimer is going to get as wordy as the rest.  Stop)

(Oh, and mum - there are a couple of swear words - sorry!  Can you just pretend they aren't there? Cheers)

Actually, they were the 4 something-or-other blogs, but that is not the point to the story.

Because there is a point.

Anyway (enough with the interrogation), yesterday (or was it last night? - That whole midnight-dawn area is very shady with its specificities in description - mainly because those who haunt them have either

1. engaged strategies to ensure that a state of extinguished specificities is being or has been reached;
2. engaged strategies to ensure that a state of distorted specificities has been achieved;
3. some fucker is messing with their minds and descriptive specificities are reserved for the instigators or targets of the chaos;
4. they have babies. - Shhhhhhh......;
5. they are “working”;
6. they are writing poetry; strumming guitars; making love; watching wildlife; watching porn; making porn; eating kebabs; reading blogs; you-tube surfing stand-up comedy; listening to the roar of the wind, the surf, the snores, the peace and quiet; the yells and bangs; the ticking of clocks; the waiting for locks to un or mistakes to be undone or anyone to stop the rhyme;
7. or
8. are numerically inclined.

)

 

 

But as I was saying before I got taken away from my initial point, which was… 

About 24 hours ago I was still scratching my head about the scenario about 33 hours before that, and I couldn’t sleep because of the rage and disappointment and busy sifting back through what had entailed of the previous 5 months of my life and working out what the expletive-deleted had gone on… 

 

Well, now we are still in the same boat as we were in 24 hours ago. One daughter ticked over another digit and another major household bill has come to light (or perhaps not – little electrical humour inserted there). (As an aside, anyone know a good honest electrician – I refuse to let certain situations make me assume that I cannot hope for integrity in the world) 

I mean my headspace is in a much better spot (obviously) (apart from occasional flashbacks – the doctors assure me that will fade – possibly over time) (again, attempt at humour there folks). I no longer look in shock and rage at what was and what was not, but instead am looking at what I have left and thinking “okay, this is a gift forcing me in a completely new direction” and I am a bit scared but quite excited of what that new path may be, and if it is anything like the dream I have forming then that would be AWESOME – if not, its still awesome right now – and much better than allowing the negative forces to have any more little wins. 

 

And so instead of the 24 hours ago negative rant that I might have given you, had I not the good sense to self-censor (and really, it did have far too many “fucking” and “asshole” and other words that I hope my mother failed to see in that example) - well, its a pathetic "instead I give you this" gesture, but  - here we go - ta-da.  ! 

The new dream is foolish but positive and a literal jump off a cliff, I will let this sit for 10 minutes while I contemplate before I hit publish or let the demons of self doubt make me delete – but publish it shall be – because that is just the sort of foolishness that marked the beginning of this blog, and one of the freedoms I have been given is I can be a fool, and by being one will do so with a smile and a nod to some of the great fools in life. 

Perhaps. 

(Oh, and because I actually had ONE spammer in my tens of spam comments I have had in the past month since I took the chastity belt – uh, verification – off my comments – tell me I should have more photos to go with my words – obviously I was making his/her job difficult – I will put in a little thinking picture.) 

 

 

(Oh, and since I have made the spammers read all the way down to here, can I offer you one little bit of advice? When you do put spam comments on my blog, couldn’t you perhaps make some sense? I am quite willing to contemplate your integrity and righteousness, as long as you are willing to contemplate that I am a sentient being and will mark you as spam with your little links to glomesh or exchange rates or gold or helping Albanianian shepherds exotic daughters stranded in downtown Manhattan with only a million dollars and a chance to grab it by you giving them a token for a wiggle of her buxom busom – yeah, make it real.) 

ha - like I make sense.

I do hope that the messing with the spammers brains I am doing right here is a community service and not some sadistic psychopathic streak in me (and why didn't anyone tell me such merde was contagious - again, a little dig showing that my recent experience has probably affected me far more than the average screwing over should) (I will try to get that whole bitterness thing toned down) 

(Oh, and if the spammers got that far, hopefully the real people have got this far, and can I ask that you one day attempt to outnumber the spammers – that would be cool – no pressure though. I’m not needy or anything. 

I mean, to be up at 1.09am writing stream of consciousness because it suddenly feels liberating, there is absolutely nothing wrong with that?

)

 (Is there?) 

Well, maybe not in whatever the new path may be. 

(I think that is all) 

(For now) 

Sleep tight. 

 (Images courtesy of the current fascination Paris has with the camera)