Random Hat Mumblings and Other Non-Handbag-Related Stories

I wrote this post a few weeks ago. Maybe four weeks ago? I can't remember. Anyhoo, I was too tired to finish it so I chucked it in my Drafts folder and promptly forgot about it. I can't even remember what I was blathering on about. Sorry. But...here. A post. Wooo! *says she slinking away after not actually writing anything this evening due to blatant laziness*


I'm not a hat person.

I love love love handbags. I have way too many, considering how unfashionable I am. It's not like I actually coordinate them with my outfit (Haha!! 'Outfit'. What a grown-up word. Makes me sound like I don't look like a bag lady most of the time...) or use them for anything other than carrying nappies and tissues.

And I adore shoes. Oh, how I worship lovely shoes. Have I been known to drool over the displays in Wittner? Have I been asked to leave Nine West for mildly disturbing shoe-related behaviour? Is there an imprint the same size and shape as my nose on the window at Jimmy Choos in the city?

Um...

That's not the point. (What IS the point? I hear you mutter. Geez this woman rambles.) And you'd ramble too, I reckon, if you were perched atop a pile of freshly laundered sheets, on the couch, still in your work clothes, late at night, tapping away on your trusty pink laptop while you waited for yet another load of washing to finish and the cake for tomorrow's staff morning tea to come out of the oven (also pink - the cake, not the oven).

Hang on. I'm so tired I've forgotten - are you talking, or am I? It's me? Oh. Sorry.

Anyhoo, the point is, I was so tired on Tuesday night, it wasn't funny. I'd had yet another insane very busy day entertaining  teaching the Preppies. I'd managed to get all of the kids to daycare / kinder / school in the correct clothing, at the (roughly) correct times. I'd even managed to wear clean clothes to work. I'd raced Phoebe to her appointment with the surgeon after school, to see about her dodgy adenoids. And may I say, my girl was mighty impressive. Even with a camera stuck up her snozz, she still managed to keep her cool (and her pom-pom beanie on). It took me a minute to convince her that the doctor wasn't about to shove Daddy's SLR up her left nostril (the look on her face was priceless). Even considering the micro-camera on the long thin tube was pretty small, I was still dead impressed with how cool she was about the whole thing. Best of all, she scored a photo of the inside of her nose to parade around at kinder. I think it made the whole ordeal worthwhile. That, and the pink jellybean the doctor gave her for being brave.

So what with this full-time gig and whizzing around the hospital appointments (not to mention the weekend spent with Argie in hospital, the ballet and swimming lessons, the five meals made in advance of the working week, the washing and ironing (hahahahaha!!!!!) of "work" clothes, etc., etc), I was pretty knackered on Tuesday night. Which meant that when I climbed into bed at 11.15pm, straight into a cold pool of cat wee, I wasn't the happiest lady alive.

Poor old Ernie must have struggled to get down the stairs - arthritis is a bugger - so my bed must have been the next best option. Unfortunately, he neglected to let me know this little fact, so when I pulled the wet sheet over my legs, it wasn't the most pleasant surprise. Given that we only have one underlay for the double bed, and one doona, Christian and I slept on towels (to soak up the excess) and blankets on Tuesday night. And again last night, since I have been at work (and the magical housework fairies have not visited) and the rain made my washing all wet again.

Quite possibly (unless my darling husband has done it for me...???), we will be sleeping on towels and blankets again tonight. Whatever. I won't be awake to notice. Tomorrow is Friday again, and the end of my second week as a full-time working mummy of three. Which brings me to the subject of hats. (Really???)

Yes, really.

Regardless of whether a mother works for fun, or for money, or for the "adult conversation" - even if a mother does paid work outside of the home simply so she can go to the toilet by herself (with the door closed, without having to narrate the experience) - it seems to me that by doing this she is forced to wear many different hats. Sometimes, more than one hat at once.

Personally, I tend to wear the same couple of hats over and over again. The hat of pride I wore at Phoebe's appointment with the surgeon was adorned again at the school assembly on Monday when Jack was the Prep Student of the Week. I also threw it on when collecting Maisie from her first day back at daycare after three weeks' absence, when she was so breezy and happy to see me, without the usual teary palaver.

But the Proud Hat is usually worn over the top of the Every Day Mummy Hat - you know, the one that goes with pretty much every outfit and hides stains easily. I have my Teacher Hat, which goes on every morning as I fling my Every Day Mummy Hat off and chuck it in the back of the car, ready for home time. The Teacher Hat makes me stand up a bit straighter, and wear clean clothes. I'm quite fond of the Teacher Hat. It also comes in very handy when faced with unruly teenagers on public transport.

Every so often, I drop my bundle and whack on the Beanie of Sloth...the hat which means that I stay in pyjamas all day and try to convince myself that someone else will clean the house and feed the children. Usually, the BOS is replaced swiftly with the Kercheif of Housewifery, in which the house is returned to more sanity standards swiftly (and usually just before the arrival of visitors).

My prettiest hat doesn't get paraded often enough. It is, of course, my pink, sequinned, fabulous Party Hat. When I put that particular hat on, the clock winds back more than a few years. (Let's just leave it at that, shall we?) The funny thing is, as much as I love wearing my party hat, I can only keep it on for a short time before it starts to feel funny. You might say I even begin to miss the familiar contours of my Every Day Mummy Hat.

Right now, there is dirty hair under my Every Day Mummy Hat. The Hat is accessorised with the old faithful Hello Kitty pyjama bottoms and a hoodie that used to be blue. Even the Hat itself could use a wash. It has a trail of something on it, left over from the Mouse's massive hug before she went to bed. It has texta on it, after helping Jack with his "homework". It has some toast crumbs mashed into it, courtesy of Phoebalina's time spent on my lap at breakfast this morning. It's pretty filthy, actually, the old Mummy Hat. But it's comfy, and it fits my head. I may not look pretty in it (I told you, I'm not a hat person!) but I can't seem to go a day without wearing it. Besides, it hides my unwashed hair.

Mummy's Pensieve

A few weeks ago I found my precious box of home videos while tidying under my bed (read: pulling out the old tissues, clumps of dust and random items shoved under there during a 'clean-up').

Rather than arranging them neatly and putting them somewhere appropriate, I perched on the edge of my (unmade) bed and began looking at them. Somewhere along the way, I rediscovered my babies (and lost several hours).

There were the messages we made for each child while still in my tummy. There were precious minutes captured of each newborn, most likely between those interminably long feeding sessions that delineate the first few weeks of a new baby's life. There were first smiles, breathy little oohs and aahs encouraged for the camera. Rolling over. Crawling backwards. Bum-shuffling. First steps. Birthdays. Christmases. Random little vignettes that were simply captured because the camera was at hand.

They were so, so little. And so very gorgeous. It was magical, watching my babies grow up through the tiny lumps of time captured on tape.

But it was also a tiny bit sad.

Watching these pieces of my children's lives, I realised how much I have forgotten. And yes, I understand how pathetic I must sound right now. I also know how lucky I am to have children to video at all. I know that if we spent our lives recording every event to watch later, we'd miss out on life altogether...but I still wish I could remember it all. Stupid, I know.

I suppose it's Life's Big Filtering System, really, isn't it? Actually, now that I come to think about it, forgetting the minutiae of parenting is probably an evolutionary survival mechanism, honed over thousands of years of wiping bums.

Watching my old video tapes, I can see the enormous jowls that Jack developed after breastfeeding every two hours. I am reminded of his Leo-Sayer-esque hair at age two - huge, bouncy, ginger-hued curls that were the envy of many a little girl at playgroup. I remember how much he adored trains, and the Wiggles, and his baby sister. I remember how I used to find him on his "naughty stool", just sitting there, biding his time until he decided that he had done his penance. He would cheerfully tell me what he had done 'wrong'. I had a very hard time not laughing at his self-discipline.

I don't remember much about Jack's monumental temper tantrums at age 3. I don't remember the months when he would refuse to go to sleep at night. I don't remember how terrible it was, each and every time he had a new tooth come through. I don't accurately recall his phenomenal bouts of vomitting, his reflux, his eczema. I am so glad not to remember his toilet-training phase. Oh, the trauma of opening his kinder bag at the end of a working day, to discover how many pairs of soiled undies that needed to be dealt with. Motherhood at its' finest.

Moving on to other tapes, I find a smiling, chubby little baby Phoebe - the Baby Who Never Cried. What a little doll she was. I always feel particularly guilty about the black hole that is there instead of memories of Phoebs as a baby...but I suppose that's post-natal depression for you? What I do remember though, is golden - Phoebe's obsession with our cat 'Nernie'; her sheer relief when I finally gave her solids at four months instead of horrible milk; her funny little one-knee-bent-forward-bum-shuffle that allowed her to "crawl" while still talking to us face-to-face; her painless teething and toilet-training; her wispy fairy-floss hair that has only now begun to grow in earnest. How there was one night, when she was about 6 months old and she just wouldn't sleep. I distinctly remember telling myself to relish the sensation of having her fall asleep in my arms, because very soon she would be too big to hold for that long. How I rocked her, and rocked her, and her entire body relaxed and curled around mine, while her breathing calmed. How I stood there, for another 30 mins, simply rocking and humming, for the sheer pleasure of holding my sleeping baby while I could. How, when she was about 18 months old - maybe 20 months? - she did something naughty and I asked her to come to me. I counted to three. She looked me dead in the eye and said slowly, "four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten", and then walked over to me, while Christian shook with laughter and mouthed at me, "Did you know she could count to ten?" Point made, Phoebs. Cheers.

Sometimes, I look at my daughter and wonder how on earth she will be five in a few weeks. I have forgotten her toddler tanties. Her refusal to eat anything at dinner time. Her determination to convince everyone that she and Jack are in fact, twins. I have tried hard to forget how she broke her nose, aged 2, jumping on the bed, but memories like that are hard to erase. Especially when she did it with a week-old baby sister in the house, and a Daddy who had had heart surgery only 24 hours prior. Fun times.

Being Baby #3, there are fewer videos of the Mouse. Still, it makes me gasp to see how small she was when we brought her home...and how little Jack and Phoebs were too. I can vaguely recall her wispy mullet and her folded-up froggy legs, but only the video can help me recall the squeaky little mouse noises she used to make when beginning to wake. Watching footage of the Mouse, aged a few weeks old, I can recall the heat of the summer, the hum of the ever-present air-conditioner, the small weight of my babe in arms. The theme song of Waybuloo can transport me back to the gentle days of a three year old Jack, a two year old Phoebalina, and a newborn, snuffly little Mouse. I suppose, being the most recent bub, time has not yet erased my unprompted memories of my baby Maisie. On the rare occasion that she falls asleep on me now, I can catch a glimpse of my tiny baby...but only for a second. It's just nice to know that my last little bubba is still there, tucked inside the body of a two-year-old teenager.

I know that, eventually the edges of my memory of this time will go fuzzy. The daily screeching and battle of wills that we are enduring with Miss Mouse will fade. I won't need to use the naughty step on a daily basis (fruitlessly, it often feels). I won't recall the round-and-round conversations in which I might ask my youngest child, "Would you like some lunch?", to which she screams her reply, "No!" At which point I say, "Ok, then, it's time for bed." To which she replies, "No!" "They're your two choices, Mais. Lunch or bed." "No! No! No!" And so on, and so forth. Sigh. In years to come, I will desperately try to recall the mumbly baby-talk 'conversations' that I have with Maisie  - those long-winded sentences that end with one or two recognisable words, but are given in such an enthusiastic manner, you can't help but laugh and join in.

I watched my kids playing this morning, and I thought, I won't remember this day. This particular Sunday, just like so many before and after it, will be swallowed up by my brain. Being an ordinary day, there is no reason to video it. So after a while, I will not remember my girls flitting around in fairy dresses (Maisie trying on three before being satisfied with her fairyness) and dancing with each other, just like Hermione and Viktor Krum in the Harry Potter movie. Indeed, I won't remember that being a cold, wet Sunday, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire was playing on the telly for the umpteenth time. I won't recall how funny it was this morning when Mais was prancing around, swishing a pencil at all of us, saying, "I Harry Botter!" I won't remember Jack dressing himself as a 'dinosaur' and begging to turn his bedroom into a dinosaur cave, complete with newspaper rocks and 'dark fings'. I won't remember Phoebalina sitting next to me with the Donna Hay Kids Annual open to the "Enchanted Garden" birthday party pages, reverentially turning the pages and telling me every five seconds the sweet treats she would like at her fifth birthday party. I won't remember that this was the day we took our first trip to Masters to begin gathering the compost and mulch to begin our tiny vegetable garden, instigated by an over-excited Jack. Hopefully, in time, I'll be able to tell you about my children harvesting the vegetables they grew themselves. I just won't remember the hours spent picking up dog poo and fixing the mess left by the bankrupt landscapers necessary to make a decent garden. Deliberate memory loss!

I realise that, if I were to remember every single tiny thing about my children's early years, my brain would be unable to function in a normal manner (which, now that I mention it, fails to happen anyway...so what's my excuse??) It is a natural progression of time that daily details, no matter how cute or disgusting, are lost to the recesses of our brains. It would be fair to say that if we did manage to remember every little thing, perhaps parenthood might suffer a decline...especially if those memories of rainy, cold, bored days with exhausted parents and fractious toddlers were permitted more than their fair share of air space.

I suppose there's only one way to look at my memory loss. Thank goodness that the reality of the newborn-days-of-exhaustion has faded. Thank goodness that I cannot remember the dark, dark days of poo and vomit and not being able to leave the house (aka: three kids under three in the middle of winter) Thank goodness that I have three beautiful, amazing, messy, noisy, farty, clever, shouty, huggable children to give me memories in the first place.

And thank Buddha for those video tapes.

I am...

I am a mother of three young children.

I am a full-time, boots-and-all, Grade 5 teacher.

I am juggling many, many balls in the air. And, most days, I am dropping a fair few.

I am trying desperately to stay organised. On top of things. Providing, at the very least, a pretense of being in control of my household.

I am completely, and utterly, contradictory.

I miss my daughters while they are at childcare so much, it is almost shameful. I crave their company. I desperately glean morsels of their days from them when they clamber, tired and happy, into my car at hometime. My womb contracts at the thought of all the time I have been separated from them, and how many smiles and cuddles they must have shared with their amazing teachers, instead of with me.

And yet, I am delighted at how much they love their creche. I am thrilled at how busy they are, how many little friends they have both made. It must be so much more exciting than folding washing at home with Mummy, with occasional trips to Woolworths. I love the fact that going to childcare is something they look forward to. For Phoebe, kinder is the gold-plated cherry on her cuppy cake. As for Maisie, after the Mouse's two days with her adoring Grandma, she spends three days at "work". Not creche. Not kinder. Ask my youngest child where she goes on childcare days, and she will state defiantly and proudly, "Maisie go to work".

I saunter through the school playground at recess and lunchtime, just to grab a glimpse of my tall, sweaty-headed, ninja-and-Star-Wars-playing son. I relish the fact he is still so happy to see me when I do this. I dread the day my presence is an embarrassment.

But then, not many mothers have the luxury of seeing their children during school hours. And to be brutally honest, Jack is happiest when he is at school. These days, when he is at home, it is a constant quest to keep him busy. On a rainy day, his passion for Reading Eggs is both a blessing and a curse...

I stay up late on the weekends and every weeknight, cooking meals, ironing work clothes, preparing lunches, organising lessons, cleaning and tidying, just so that I don't have to waste a moment when my children are awake, and actually with me. I have lists of specific foods to buy, for specific freezer-friendly meals, so that my supermarketting is as quick and efficient as it can possibly be.

And yet, as my working-mother-shopping-system gets honed further with every passing week, I think to myself...I should have done this a long time ago. Being organised in the supermarket saves me time and money. It forces me to cook better meals, to use all our leftovers, and to think about stretching our dollars more efficiently. It gives me more time at night. It's worth the effort.

I ignore the unneccessary cleaning during the week, and clean furiously on Friday and Saturday nights to try and stem the tide of dust and dirt.

But then, I have also begun to see what is important, and what can be shunted a little further down the list of priorities.

I have never before worked full-time whilst mothering three children. I have taught full-time (albeit very briefly) with two tiny children. I have taught part-time with two children and a big pregnant belly. But this full-time gig...it's taking some getting used to. Every minute of every day is accounted for. There is no time for slacking off. This ship...she's a tight one.

And the thing is...I'm actually really enjoying it. No, really. Brownie's honour. Yes, I am getting less-than-desirable amounts of sleep. Yes, I am planning and cooking five or six meals at a time to avoid the supermarket crush after work with three tired kids. Yes, I am constantly juggling time spent at work and at home, racing desperately from one to the other before and after school. Yes, I feel guilty about being away from my kids, and therefore sometimes (ok, a lot of the time...) get my discipline/mummy-cuddles ratio mixed up. Yes, I think about lesson plans and learning activities in my sleep.

But I am loving this job. I adore my grade, even after only such a short time. They are a brilliant bunch of kids and I must say, I really enjoy their company. The days go so fast, it's stupid. I am thriving on being part of a teaching team, exchanging ideas, the banter, the support...my brain feels as though it has actually moved up a notch on the speed dial.

I am tired. I am happy. I am guilt-ridden. I am grateful. I am excited. I need a holiday.

I am a working mother.

I am going to bed.

Return Of The Absent Mummy Blogger

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...

Pog Mo Thoin, Mr. CityLink.

Hi.

You might remember me from such rants as 'Dear Mr.Telstra', in which I vented my feelings towards the pathetic excuse of a communications company (and by the way, I am obviously using the term "communications" veeeeeeery loosely).

I will shortly be writing a post about my builder. And also my builder's wife, their *ahem* receptionist, the developer, the concretor and the three foremen who preceeded our current (fourth) foreman. (Does that make him our fourman?? Or am I tired?) But since that post will probably make you rename me Ranty McRant, I will hold off for a while. Probably until we actually have the house and have passed beyond the 13-week maintenance period. I'm not completely stupid.

Anyway.

Tonight's rant is a doozy. It's not quite up there with the story of our house construction...frankly, that one is in a league of its' own. Trust me.

But tonight's venting is brought to you courtesy of CityLink, that magnificent bastion of new, congested and expensive roads. A company so inordinately disorganised, they don't realise how ridiculous they are. A company who employs people so stupid, it must be a prerequisite of employment to have an IQ lower than 10. Oh, but listen to me, rattling on. I'm being far too kind. Let's begin, shall we?

Once upon a time, a few years ago now, a dirty great road was built across Melbourne. Everyone was really happy about it, because not only did the interminable roadworks cause massive congestion on every other route available, but when this new road opened, it was just as clogged as the old road. Not only that, but it incorporated a lot of old roads that we'd already been using for quite a while. The only difference was, now we had to PAY to use this new road. And the old roads that were already there. Which we had previously used for free. But I digress.

Like so many other people who used this road on a regular basis, I signed up for an access account to make paying for my road usage more manageable than forgetting to ring up the toll line within the stipulated three days, and then having to plead with the operator to let you pay on the fourth day.

This access account worked pretty well for me for several years. Every once in a while I'd get a piece of paper in the mail telling me how much CityLink had taken out of my bank account, and I would glance at it before doing something important. (Let's just pretend I was doing something important, ok?? Ok.)

I even bought a new car when the Mouse was in my tummy (I'm thinking around mid-2009), and put the new car on my account. Too easy.

So it was a bit of an unpleasant surprise when I got a nasty "you drove on our road and you're not allowed to without paying for it" letter late in December last year. It was actually for EastLink, the even newer, less congested but still damned expensive road built between my nearest freeway and CityLink.

So I rang EastLink to see what the problem was. They wouldn't talk to me because I'm not Christian. I explained that he had authorised me to speak to the call centre about our account, and that I had been doing so for several years. Nope. Nothin' doin'.

Christian rang them, and waited on hold for 45 minutes. After explaining that we did in fact have an access account, EastLink explained that obviously there had been a problem transferring our details across to the new system incorporating EastLink. We were to phone CityLink, because they would have all the answers. Right then.

Phone CityLink. Again, wait on hold for nearly an hour. No, says the CityLink man, you don't have an account with us. And, might I add, you never have. (You could just imagine him shaking his pumpkin of a head at Christian over the phone, sadly denouncing the public who deigned to phone the call centre with stupid questions). Christian told him, with admirable courtesy, that we did have an account, and had the statements to prove it. Perhaps there had been a glitch in the system? Perhaps we had dropped off the list in the transfer to EastLink??

Mr.CityLink insisted that there was no way that they could have made a mistake, and that we were simpletons who clearly had never had a CityLink account. At which point my husband pointed out that there were only two explanations: either we had been driving, unnoticed and therefore, for free, on CityLink for several years, OR our car had dropped out of their system.

Mr.CityLink then agreed with Christian that quite possibly, there had been a problem with their computer system. And that maybe, just maybe, the mistake was not our doing. Huh. But that he couldn't fix the fine, because it was on EastLink's system. I'll fix it at this end, he promised, and you ring EastLink and sort it out with them. Ok? Oh, and by the way, your wife is now authorised to ring us if she wants. Gee, thanks a bunch.

I could sit here all night and tell you the to-ing and fro-ing that went on after that. I'm not going to, only because my blood pressure is rising as we speak. Needless to say, EastLink couldn't fix the problem, because it didn't originate with them. We (and I say, 'we', but I mean Christian - I'm still not authorised to speak to them. I can't imagine what Christian needs to do to allow me to do such a grown-up thing as speak to CityLink about my own car??) rang CityLink four times to get put back on the system before they finally managed to do it. Including two times when they gave us a "new" account number over the phone, which then turned out not to exist.

Throughout January of this year, we had to ring CityLink every time we travelled to the city, because every single time we would receive an infringement notice. In the end, (after being transferred to the Department of Climate Change by a "Senior Supervisor"), we were advised that the problem was fixed, and that we should ignore any further infringement notices or nasty letters from them because they were already in the system, and couldn't be stopped. Whatever.

So I did just that. I ignored the nasty letters that kept coming, and coming. I collected every document that came from CityLink and EastLink shouting that we, the worthless vermin who dared to travel on their gold-paved roads, had not paid our tolls!!! I also collected the ones that showed our (automatic) payments, thanking us for travelling on CityLink, and celebrating Victoria's wonderfulness.

Until today, when one letter arrived that was so horrible, it took my breath away. And then formed a rant in my hot little head.

Apparently, one tiny little toll imposed when we took the kids to the Wiggles in early December (when I had just come out of hospital? And I was absolutely stonkered on pills? And it hurt, a lot?? Yep - that time) had slipped through the "don't worry love, we'll fix it" net.

Because now it's not a few bucks to travel in North Melbourne, it's a few hundy or a date with a judge in court. Are you serious?? We now have to spend time and energy (on top of the already considerable time and energy already expended) dispelling this false fine, or risk jail time?? Mr. CityLink, you must be off your tree.

And you just bought yourself a fight.

My hubby and I, we're peaceful folk. We like to keep life simple, keep it nice. I don't think you could ever describe us as litigious. Until now.

Bring it on, Mr. CityLink. We have the names and numbers of the people in your company we spoke to, the dates we did so, and for how long. We have the invoices and receipts proving our payments, and our ownership of an access account. And we are sick and tired of being harrassed by you, of spending our precious little spare time sitting on the phone waiting for you. And you can bet your backside, you are not getting one red cent from us. Christian is more than prepared to don a prison-issue jumpsuit and spend a few days behind bars, rather than pay you anything.

Given that your phone system does not allow us to speak to someone about this issue, but instead asks for our problem in writing, expect some writing. From a lawyer. Mr.CityLink, you have taken stupidity to a new level. We'll see you in court. It means I'll have to buy new shoes, but I'm willing to endure that hardship.

Rant over.

Thank you.

Jack is SIX!

Six is a great number.

Six is old enough to be so stupendously excited about your birthday that you inform everyone you meet in the days preceeding the event that you will soon be SIX!!

Six is young enough to crawl into your mummy's lap on your birthday morning for a birthday snuggle, with spindly arms and a bony little bottom hiding in the dinosaur pyjamas.

Six years is a short enough time to remember exactly how it felt to see his perfect little face for the first time; to recall the joy of his safe delivery; to think about his baby idiosyncrasies and uber-jowls; to once again imagine yourself cradling his warm, wrapped weight in the morning sun, on the day of his birth.

Six years is long enough to have forgotten the fear of nearly losing him in the delivery room; to fade the last lingering feelings of doubt that I did something wrong in my 'failure' to push him safely out of my body; to almost forget the distress felt over his isolation in the tiny chamber meant to cure his jaundice; to realise that only the hairdresser could pick the horrific damage done to his skull.

Six is old enough for a mother to glimpse the man-child more than the baby.

Six is little enough to still see the sweetness, the guilelessness, the joy of toddlerhood.

Six is big enough to present a facade of cool; to have a vast knowledge of the DS games all the 'other boys' play; to ask Daddy limitless questions about the nuances of Star Wars; to have firm opinions on which baddie is the baddiest of all.

Six is little enough to be absolutely delighted with a birthday cake, simply iced with the number 6 picked out in Smarties on top.

Six is old enough to remember to thank his family properly for his presents, and to show them real gratitude.

Six is young enough to get excited about the family coming over for tea to celebrate his birthday with a meal, and a small gathering singing "Happy Birthday" around a homemade chocolate cake.

Six is big enough to choose one's own clothes, deliberately and carefully.

Six is little enough to choose clothes that clash brilliantly and are almost, almost, too small, and apparently, not give a damn.

Six is big enough to hold Daisy's lead on a family walk in the late afternoon sunshine, confident in his ability to be responsible with his pet.

Six is little enough to think a walk around the block with his family is just the funnest thing to do, late in the afternoon of a birthday.

Six is big enough to take a few days of excitement, attention and cake into his stride, knowing that a birthday is special because it isn't every day; to enjoy the time without meltdown or tantrum; to share the fun and presents kindly with younger sisters.

Six is little enough to be exhausted by the events of the weekend, and to now be tucked up after a favourite dinner and a warm bath, sound asleep with his teddy.

Six is gorgeous. Six is exciting. Six is the cusp is big-boyhood. Six is the number of years of life and love we celebrate today, for our beautiful, luminescent boy, Jack. Happy sixth birthday, sweetheart. We love you to the moon and back again xxx

Random funnies

Every now and then, the pace of day-to-day parenting threatens to get the better of me. It usually coincides with the kids having growth spurts (and the inevitable trip to K-Mart to address the everlasting problem of clothes that actually fit my three beansprouts) and makes me stop and take note of what's going on around me (as opposed to blindly carrying on).

One of the best things about being a parent, aside from chubby arms thrown around your neck in a passionate cuddle, are the funny and stupid things your children do and say. If your children are my children, funny and stupid come hand-in-hand on pretty much every day that ends with a 'y'.

I'd love to say that I remember every mispronounced word and every ridiculous habit or obsession, but unfortunately my memory is limited to retaining the two items I need at the supermarket (and yes, my lovelies, make it three items and I'm officially stuffed...)

As a result of this, I try desperately to hold onto the funny, the stupid, the adorable, and the downright ridiculous things that my kids say or do...and I fail miserably. Which means only one thing: I will have literally no fodder for their 21st birthday parties.

So more for my own good than anyone else's, I have collated a few random moments from the past week. They are, quite literally, unrelated to each other. They form no pattern, and provide no theme for this post other than the fact I need to remember something embarrassing (at least for Jack's 21st, at any rate). So here they are. Randoms from this week in April. Enjoy.

At the moment, all three of my kids break into random song for no other reason than because. Phoebs favours songs about what she is doing or watching; Maisie sings the tunes of known nursery rhymes combined with vowels and consonents of no particular order. She sings so earnestly that her voice strains to get the words out, which makes her singing crack on the top notes. She favours ABC and I'm A Little Teapot, but her absolute favourite song this week is "Call Me" by Blondie, which she screams "All Eeee!!!" Almost as funny is Jack's current operatic style of warbling, which is quite disturbing. He knows it freaks me out. I can't quite transcribe Jack and Phoebe's lyrics to "Mamma Mia", but it goes something like this:

"Mamma mia, here I go again, ay ay, e e e nasist ya,
Mamma mia, na na go again, ay ay, something something let you go
Here's something wrong my darling, ooh there's a danger on it
Ay ay! Will you ever let me go?"

Which is totally how it goes. Obviously.

One of the activities most enjoyed by our kids on Easter Sunday was collecting old, sun-bleached kangaroo bones in the paddocks surrounding the house. They were fascinated by them, and kept asking which part of the body each bone had come from. Now, keeping in mind the sombre reason for our trip to the country, what Jack did was particularly...um...well, let's just say he lifted the mood somewhat. Grasping a piece of kangaroo vertebrae and thrusting it triumphantly into the air, he exclaimed, "I know what this is! It's a Star Wars spaceship!" And he hurtled away with his "spaceship" flying through the air, making the most extraordinary "spaceship" noise (I can't do it - it's this thing he does with his lips and they vibrate and whistle and...it's just weird). I've never seen a kid fly a bone through the air, but my son managed to do it with aplomb.

Whilst the boys were zooming roo bones around, running barefoot through the grass, Phoebe and her beloved Harper were involved in secret girls' business. There were dolls and teddies strewn about, and I saw them running with the kite around the house. But every time I spied the two middle children, they each had cheeks bulging with Easter eggs. The first time I collided with Phoebalina as she ran out the kitchen door, lips wrapped around a bunny's ears, her eyes bugged and she tried to hide the rabbit. "Harper gave it to me! She couldn't eat it all!", she blurted, and as permissive as a mother on Easter Sunday can be, I let her go with her chocolate booty. Each successive time I glimpsed Phoebe, the rabbit was smaller, until I deduced that she had consumed the entire thing. I didn't really care - if you can't eat chocolate at Easter when you're a child, then your mother must have been kidnapped by the fun police. That's what I reckon, anyway.

I didn't see Miss Phoebe for quite a while after that, until Anna and I cooked the snags on the outdoors fire and called the kids for lunch. The fact that Phoebe ate two bites of her "sodige" and begged off the rest didn't phase me at all. I just thought she was keen to get back to running madly around with the tribe. As I found out later, she was actually very green around the gills by that point, and a sausage just about tipped her over the edge! Daddy had found her eating a second enormous Easter egg (again, apparently donated by the more-than-generous Harper), but struggling to finish it. She asked Daddy very quietly to take the unfinished second egg away, and to please "not tell Mum". Uh-huh. As if Daddy's gonna let Mum miss out on a pearler like that!! Funnily enough, Phoebs hasn't gone overboard on the choc ever since...

The Mouse is at that delightful stage in which you could not imagine a more amusing, more gorgeous creature than a two year old. She's really started to push the boundaries, and we've had a fair few barnies at the dinner table lately when the Mouse has pushed her plate away and demanded (quite rudely, but with a charming smile), 'dogurt'. When the yoghurt is refused, and she is taken from the table, dinnerless and yoghurtless, the temper is something to see. She has perfected the fake, open-mouthed "cry", to which the eyes are completely dry and the wail can stop remarkably quickly.

We went to Ikea the other day, not for any other reason other than fun. We still came home with stuff we didn't know we needed until we saw it (and then it was like, how did we survive without this incredible storage solution before? and why don't I buy four?) but with a new house around the corner (bahahahahahahahahaha......huh) I figured, why not? Why not, indeed.

The big kids were pretty awesome. They know the Ikea drill - you can sit in the chairs, you can pat the cushions, but you hold Mummy's hand in the kitchen section and you listen to Daddy when his voice goes deep. The Mouse, on the other hand, has only recently eschewed the pram (much to my dismay). She likes to *ahem* 'walk', preferably without holding anyone's hand, and will insist on a 'tuddle' when she wants to be carried. Basically, she is a pain in the shops at the moment.

In Ikea, Christian and I insisted that Maisie held at least one of our hands at all times. In return, she responded by dropping to the floor at irregular intervals, splaying her body out across the crowded Swedish path. She would grin happily from her position, dissuaded by nothing - not Mummy and Daddy walking away, not strangers stepping over her, not enticing displays. She would have to be hauled to her feet every time and carried until she promised to walk nicely ("Will you hold Mummy's hand?" "No! Hahahahaha!" "Then you can't get down." "Yes! Down!!!!!" "Will you hold Mummy's hand?" "No! Hahahahahaha!" and so on, and so forth.)

In the end, we gave her something to carry (a packet of knives, I think) and followed the arrows as fast as we could. Next time, I'm going back to Ikea pretending to be single and childless. At least then I might manage to sit in the Ikea cafeteria without having apple juice poured everywhere. Phoebe managed to soak (and I mean, SOAK) her pants and undies with apple juice within, I dunno, 20 seconds of opening the bottle? And promptly burst into noisy tears at the table, crying, "Mummy! I'm sorry! It was an accident!!", as though I were a Mommie Dearest-type parent who would beat her with a wooden coathanger for spilling her juice. Everyone looked. I mean, everyone. I felt so judged (and my pants weren't even dripping).

Meanwhile, Maisie is practising her vocabulary. Which means she labels everything. Which means we have to parrot every single word she utters, and accompany it with a smile and a little clap. Or something like that. She labels her clothes, the floor, the pets, her food. Our car, other peoples' cars, the sky. She is obsessed with water, and pronounces it "war-ter", with a very strong 't'. Every glimpse of the beach (or, 'bitch') is announced with the phrase, "pa pa tit tit!", which means, "paddle, paddle, kick, kick!", which in turn means, "hurrah! swimming!" The poor thing is so delirious at the sight of her beloved warter, that today, in a rainforest, every time she saw a creek she proclaimed it was the "bitch". "No, darling, not the beach, a creek!" "Crik!", she'd cry, and then around the next bend, "Bitch!" Our children are charming, no doubt.