Absolute gold for the 21st

One of the best things about being a parent, is the collection of funny and embarrassing stories your children hand you on a platter, sometimes on a daily basis.

I know I was a source of amusement (and sheer squirm factor) to my own parents, because I've heard the stories many times. But I wouldn't dream of sharing them here. Oh no. I'd hate to bore you with tales of my loud-mouthed two-year-old outbursts. It wouldn't be fair.

My own kids have given me so many hilarious stories at their own expense that I'm assuming their 21st birthday parties will have to run for several days. The speeches alone could take 24 hours, given the gold that has poured from my children in their early years.

Like the time Jack had gastro so terrible, he was in Monash Medical Centre for five days. He was only coming up to fifteen months old, the poor little bugger. The doctors had given him medication to stop the *ahem* symptoms of the gastro, which meant that he didn't poo for a week. On the day of his follow-up appointment, we parked in the Monash carpark, and went to get Jack out of his carseat. As I (7 months preggers with Phoebalina) lifted him up, a sudden noise and smell pervaded the still winter air.

Christian and I ran through the car park, holding our boy as gingerly as possible, while a look of complete relief settled on his cherubic face. Scooting through the Emergency Department, we spied a disabled toilet / nappy change area and locked ourselves in. When we stopped to inspect our now deliriously happy child, the damage was considerable.

To say we had to strip him naked is obvious. I'm not lying when I tell you we binned his entire outfit. I'm certainly not exaggerating when I tell you we had to bath him in the basin. And I'm sure you're not surprised to hear that Jack attended his check up with the doctor wearing a nappy, a singlet, and Mummy's jumper.
Most likely I will not tell this one at his 21st. I'd hate to scar him any more than I already have.

Phoebalina is not immune to being the brunt of funny stories. We have hours of video footage of her running around in a nappy, dancing and making up silly songs. One of my personal favourites is the one where Christian "interviews" a two year old Phoebe about the dinosaurs, who are going to come and "bite her in the yoghurt". It is screamingly funny. When she is fifteen, she will hate it.

Most likely, she will also detest the tale of how she broke her nose. Only eight days after Maisie was born, I put Jack, Phoebe, Maisie and Christian to bed (Christian had heart surgery the day before, so he was a bit more worse for wear than my caesarean-ed self). Christian, Jack and Maisie all went straight to sleep. Naughty Miss Phoebalina decided to turn her bed into a trampoline.

Five minutes after tucking her in, I hobbled to her bedroom in response to horrific screams. There she was, in the middle of her bed, covered in blood. She had been jumping on it, had stumbled and fallen so that the bridge of her nose cracked on the wooden bedhead. I freaked, thinking she had knocked out teeth, because there was so much blood I couldn't tell where it was coming from. It turned out that she had broken her nose, and for weeks she looked like a bruised version of Barbara Streisand.

After I had cleaned her up, calmed her down and changed the bed linen, I asked her what had happened. Was she jumping on the bed? "No, Mummy", insisted my two year old demon. For months, even though she told everybody about the "blut" on her nose and role-played with her dollies, she denied jumping on the bed. It was only when boasting to her teacher at child care one day, that the true story came out. Phoebe is now an expert on "blut". And we have learned how to interpret our eldest daughter's "truths"!

Yesterday we were all in the car together, driving to swimming lessons. We were discussing our (elusive, mythical, doubtful-it-will-ever-actually-happen) new house which will have STAIRS. Oh, the excitement about the stairs!! Jack told us, "When I grow up, I'm going to have a house with stairs, just like you Mum." "Are you darling? That's nice" I replied, making a shopping list in my head.

"Yes, and Phoebe and I are going to live in our house with stairs just like you and Dad. And Phoebe will be the Mummy, and I'll be the Daddy, and Maisie can be the sister. I'll go to work, and Phoebe will stay at home and look after the babies, and she'll cook tea for me when I get home. But if she gets sick, I'll cook the tea." During this monologue, Phoebe nodded her head vigorously. Maisie miaowed like a cow.

Christian looked at me sideways, smirking fit to burst. "Do we tell them?" he mouthed. And even though I too was struggling to hide my mirth, I thought, no. Our beautiful little son sees a Mummy and a Daddy who live together, and love their kids. He sees what I do at home, and why Christian goes out to work. He sees that we all love each other, and he obviously loves his two sisters enough to want to live with them forever. The fact that he wants to live in a house next door to his parents when he is grown-up is delightful (and a fact I will remind him of when he is fourteen and revolting). The fact that Christian and I are not (thank the sweet Lord) siblings has not entered his blonde little head.

So I turned to Jack, and told him it was a lovely plan. I asked if he would let me live with him when I was old like Argie. He looked at me and replied, "Mummy, we'll never be old. But you can live with me. I'll look after you."

I am gobsmacked with delight over Jack's little speech. I know it will never happen. But still, it's nice to know that right now, my kids love each other enough to want to grow up together. I am grateful to have a little family that enjoys spending time in each other's company.

I am also eternally grateful for that little vignette. It will be invaluable at Jack's 21st birthday.