Gosh.
I almost feel a bit shy, fronting up here after being AWOL for three months. I say 'almost', because anyone who's ever met me (even for five minutes, or via the bloggy world, or in the pitch dark during which time I say or do absolutely nothing) would probably not use the word "shy" anywhere near my person.
But as bolshy as I am, it still feels a bit like I nicked off for a few months without so much as a 'back in a tic, m'kay?' and have just arrived back on the block, expecting my mates to be standing exactly where I left them. Or something.
I can explain what happened - no worries there. The problem is that my head is so messy, and tired, and so, so much has happened in the last three months (and it's been EXACTLY three months since my last post - yeah, because I so totally intended to do that...) that there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that I will do an awful job. I will make no sense at all, probably, and you will end up either shouting at your computer or plonking your forehead onto the keyboard in sheer disbelief, and I will give myself sugarholic poisoning. (Yes, there is a bag of Skittles next me right now. Yes, it is being emptied as I type. No, it's not my first bag of Skittles this week. Judge away.)
So consider yourself warned, and read on at your own peril. I can't control your eyeballs.
Um...right. Three months in a nutshell. Here goes...
So basically the last time I bothered with you was just before I took on a two-week stint teaching a Grade 6 class. If we're being totally honest here, I knew I wouldn't bother blogging during that time. I mean, with three kids, two dogs, two cats, a full-time job and packing to move house, would you have plenty of embarrassing bloggy fodder? Probably. Would you have the time to tap-tap-tappity-tap it into your laptop at night? Nope. Unless you are a Superwoman-type-of-person, able to go without important things like sleep. Which I am not.
So I'm guessing my kids did funny and cute and revolting things during that time, but I don't really remember because I was too busy making school uniforms, ironing sandwiches, organising clothes to teach my students and preparing lessons to wear to school.
The only thing I do remember from that time was that it was my 36th birthday, and my beautiful, wonderful, amazing Gertrude flew down from Queensland to spend the weekend with me. We had lunch at my mum and dad's house with all the fam, which was made extra special because my brother was also home from Queensland, so the big square table was surrounded by my parents, Uncle Joshie and Aunty Son, Aunty Miffy and Uncle Whale, Argie, my kids, Asha, Christian, Gertrude, and I. Pretty damned impressive, I must say.
Then, in our typical wacky, spontaneous, girls-gone-mad style, we left the kids with Christian and went to the supermarket (I know!), and then Target (crazy, right??) Apparently the sight of two *ahem* 'respectable' women trying ugg boots and coats on in Target and laughing fit to wet their pants was just too much for the citizens of my town. Who cared if I had to try on every single red winter coat they had? It was 50% off, one day only!! And it was my birthday. If I wanted to prance around Target with my best friend, trying on gumboots and slippers with pom poms and 1000 coats, all the while finding it hysterically funny, then why shouldn't I? Shut up. And anyway, I didn't buy a red coat after all that. I bought a white one. (Shut up!)
So anyway, despite having to drink wine out of plastic picnic beakers from Coles, and despite Gertrude having to sleep on the loungeroom floor near Daisy's snores and Archie's big-ness, and despite the fact that on the Sunday Gertrude had to leave me to go home to Queensland, I had a fabulous birthday. And then I went back to work. So I didn't tell you about it.
Oh, and four days after I last blogged, we took possession of our house. Like, totally got the keys and the mortgage and stuff. Which would have been super-cool, if we'd actually been able to move in to the house. And before you start saying what dumb-arses we are for settling on a house we couldn't live in, here's what happened:
We bought a house off the plan in April 2010. Actually, it was April 1st, 2010. Should have known better... Anyhoo, for one reason or another, our slab was poured in June, 2011. That's right lovely people, 14 (count 'em!) months after purchase. After our "builder" began "building" our house (hahaha!! "building"!!!!! So funny) our house, we were told the only thing that would hold us up would be the common driveway (servicing the 20 houses in our cul-de-sac). Haha. Hilarious!
When the driveway began being poured in February 2012, we foolishly had hopes that we would soon move in. By April, we were told to move in without a serviceable entry to our home, as there would not be a driveway in the foreseeable future. Being that we had been paying rent, a mortgage and storage for our furniture for two years at this point...we succumbed. And settled on the house with the intention of moving in and trekking over the mud until our drive was poured.
Except.
Two days after we settled, we were told we could no longer access the property. At which point, we owned a house we could not live in, and were renting a house full of stuff we could not use because it was completely boxed up. Twas mind-bogglingly funny, I can assure you (and perhaps explains to some extent why Gertrude and I could be found around this time, rolling in the aisles with mirth in Target ladieswear...)
So we did the right thing and waited...and waited...and finally at the end of May, we thought, bugger it. So we moved into our beautiful new home (sans driveway but with lots of lovely free rubble strewn about) only two years, two months and 20 days after we bought it. Can't complain about that (*insert maniacal, slightly strained laughter*) And it was brilliant. I mean, as long as we ignored the disgusting wasteland outside the house, and the fact that I had to park a block away and trek up the middle of the road with three kids and all the groceries without anyone getting run over or drowning in the mud or falling down an open pit. Apart from that, it was great.
We finally got the rest of our driveway about 6 weeks later (following a fair few lawyery-type letters from Consumer Affairs), which was handy. We're still waiting for the landscapers to come back from smoko...but I can live with a crappy garden. Even with piles of blood-and-bone everywhere. (Maisie holds her nose every time she goes out the front door and exclaims, "Ew, Mummy. Poo-dog. Schmells! Tinks!" Indeed, Mouse. Indeed.
Do you know what? I think I'm going to have to finish this tomorrow. Because although my bloggy itch is far from scratched, I need to go to bed. And before you call me soft, I've just spent an entire week teaching Prep (hence the Skittles), with another two to go. So I'm practically typing with my eyes closed. Which is probably a skill I should cultivate. Never mind.
So at the risk of never seing you again, thanks to this appalling blog post, I'm going to crawl into my jarmies. I haven't told you any news of the kids. I haven't begun to think of anything with any detail, really. I haven't allowed my brain to even broach the story of Archie. I will tell you. But later.
Right now...me and my Prep-fatigued brain are going to bed. In my newish bedroom. In my old, old, oh-my-goodness-is-that-a-hole?-Hello-Kitty-jarmy bottoms. And apparently, a little Mouse will be joining me, since she's just come down the stairs looking for Mama, fairy-floss hair flying and full of stories of "closhing my eyesh to be ashleep", but she woke up because she had a "big toff" (cough). Wish me luck. I think someone slipped the toddler some Skittles...
