One year ago today, I lost my blogging virginity.
That sounds rather risque, doesn't it?? Ha ha. But it's true. After umming and aahing about it for a while, I sat down in my dressing gown one Friday night and wrote my first post. I felt exceptionally ridiculous. I was sure no one but my hubby would read it. And I was fairly certain that if, by some chance, someone other than my beloved took the time to peruse my ramblings, they would chuckle at my foolishness and turn away.
While I'm sure there have been many visitors to my blog who were not convinced enough to come back, over the past year I have received some amazing bloggy love. I have had readers from all over the world visit my blog, either by accident or happenstance. So a big shout out to all the beautiful people in Australia, America, United Kingdom, Latvia, Malaysia, Russia, Canada, Germany, Ukraine, New Zealand, Ireland, India, Saudi Arabia, Poland, Denmark and South Africa. I love youse all. (as well as anybody whose country I missed in my stats...)
By becoming a fledgling member of the blogging community, I have "met" some gorgeous people. It's quite funny really, but deep in the days of being a stay-at-home mum, sometimes the only adults I would speak to would be women whose blogs I followed. It sounds mad, I know. I always thought it felt as though I was being welcomed into a coffee morning being conducted in kitchens all over the country. Just as I was standing at the kitchen bench with my laptop, lukewarm cuppa in hand, kids running manically through the debris of breakfast, commenting on another mummy's blog, so too were hundreds of other mummies. More often than not, the same bloggers run across one another in commenting communities. And I like that, very much. It's socialising, without having to be presentable.
I still look at other bloggers and marvel at how pretty their blogs are; how cleverly they weave their stories about their lives; how many people comment on their posts. My brain lacks the IT department necessary to create a really whizz-bang blog spot, and I still think most of my writing would be absolutely smashed if given to a Year Nine English teacher. But I have, over the past year, received some absolutely delightful comments, and I have treasured every one. (Quite frankly, I'm a comment addict. It's terrible, I know, but I've got an addictive personality and comments are better than ciggies or alcohol, right??)
My blog has been many things to me. What began as a cyber-baby book (the lazy mummy's version of keeping a record!!) quickly morphed into a place for me to pour my thoughts, purge my emotions, and find the funny in the revolting. Most recently, it has become a true place of peace for me. And although blogging is therapeutic, I am sorry that many of you have had to plough through some fairly negative posts. Sometimes, not even black humour can negate a dark mood.
Thankfully, it usually doesn't take long until someone gives me a smack in the chops and gives me a giggle. My kids are pretty good for that. With any luck, when they're grown up they'll forgive me for telling you all about the funny and disgusting things they have done. Such as the other day when Phoebalina announced proudly, "Mummy, I don't let Maisie pick my nose any more." "Sorry?" said I. "Because then she takes my energy" she concluded, with a satisfied aren't-I-grown-up smile. I was still stuck on Maisie picking her big sister's nose. Ewwwwww.
It's not all disgusting, some of it is a little bit funny (but if you can't read about breasts, breastfeeding, boobies or nipples, stop reading now.) Maisie Mouse made me laugh out loud last week. Recently, we taught her to blow on her food if it's hot. It's pretty cute to watch her puff her cheeks out and huff on her dinner. But then the other night, in the middle of a breastfeed, she stopped drinking, blew on my boob, had a little chuckle, and started drinking again. So does this mean I'm hot, or what???
Over the past twelve months, I have blogged about babies, toddlers, pets, moving, building, happiness, frustrations, washing and vomit. Interestingly enough, some of the key words that find my blog on a Google search are quite revealing about the content of my ramblings. For example, the words "buzz lightyear party" or "buzz lightyear birthday" will lead you straight to my little place in the blogosphere. As would "heart tupperware" and "maisie mouse"( surprise, surprise). I wasn't shocked when I saw that someone had searched for "young baby chunky throw up" and had found me, nor did I flinch from "disinfect couch from vomit" or "red vomit chunks". Nope. It's all there.
What did concern me, ever so slightly, was that someone had found my blog after doing a search for "baby chick sleeps all the time". That didn't sound so good. But that was nowhere near as bad as seeing that someone, somewhere, had searched for "anal art", and had found moi. Sorry???? Anal art?? Firstly, what on earth is that?? And secondly, what has it got to do with my blog??? WHAT??????
Shudder.
So anyway, here we are. The very first candle on my bloggy cake, blown out. Yay. I'm sending you all enormous kisses and hugs to say thank you. Thank you to those who read me. Thank you to those who comment. And to those people searching for anal art...I'm sorry I wasn't what you were looking for (actually, I'm GLAD I wasn't! Sorry.)
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Dear Mr. Telstra
Dear Mr. Telstra,
I don't like you very much. In fact, I would go as far as to say I detest your stinking guts. However, as you are an enormous business, I doubt very much you know or care what I think. I know for a fact three of your employees don't like me very much. Particularly after today's events.
I have never been fond of the arrangement in this country, which essentially dictates that for communication purposes, there are two options - Optus or Telstra. I've been to Optus. I won't be going back.
We've been with Telstra for a few years now. It's an uneasy relationship. I hate them. And they take our money. Tricky, isn't it?
Last November, we signed up for a "bundle" with Telstra that basically gave us our internet, home phone and mobile phones in a deal which wasn't terrible. Thanks to a promotion at the time, we also received a T-box thrown in for nothing. I didn't want it initially, thinking it would be terrifically expensive. Two separate "sales representatives" assured me that it was a special Christmas deal, and that I should take advantage of it, as T-boxes were typically $300.
So we said, yeah, ok, why not? A free digital recording thingy! Great! More telly for the kids! (Woohoo!)
And when the first bill came in with an unexplained extra payment for "hardware", I tried to query it. Only, I was put on hold for so long that I gave up, and thought I would try again later.
I ended up ringing Telstra so many times, and waiting through that ear-piercing waiting music (what is that?? specially designed ear torture?? It makes my ears bleed, no joke) that eventually, I kind of gave up. Until today.
The T-box stopped working. Which meant that not only could I not use the damn thing, but I was paying for it WHEN WE WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO BE IN THE FIRST PLACE!!!! So I bit the bullet, and phoned *ahem* "customer service" (*hack* *cough* *splutter*)
Today, I lost 45 minutes of my life that I won't get back in a hurry. I spent 45 excruciating minutes on the blower, explaining the same situation to three different people, all of whom would be paid regardless of whether or not my problem was solved.
I would like to congratulate you, Mr. Telstra, for training your employees magnificently in the fine arts of contempt and condescension. All three of them had perfected an impeccable phone manner, in which they repeatedly assured me that I would be taken care of, whilst simultaneously clearly implying I was an imbecile.
The first two told me that they would explain my situation to the next "customer service" representative that I would speak to. I'm not sure what information was passed on, but each new person answered the phone completely oblivious to who I was, or what I wanted.
Initially, I spoke to a rather obsequious young man who assured me that my problem was indeed unacceptable, and that he would personally ensure that a solution would be found. Enter handball number one.
The young lady who followed kept telling me that she was a T-box performance engineer, or somecrap thing like that. She patently didn't believe me when I told her the thing was broken. I told her that it had never worked properly, that we had developed strategies when it needed "help". I informed her that we had changed the batteries in the remote, disconnected the whole shebang, put it all back together, and still it didn't work.
She asked me if it was switched on at the power point.
She's quite fortunate I didn't stick my fist down the phone at her at this junction.
When she asked if the telly was actually turned on, or if I had forgotten to do so, I got a bit, um, authoritative. It took her 30 minutes to tell me to press this, and reset that, and hold this button, and enter this PIN that you will find underneath the modem on the other side of the room, only to find that none of it worked. At which point, I simpered, "So, now do you believe me? It's B-R-O-K-E-N".
Would you believe I was then tranferred to a new person?? This one, the lucky last, went through my personal details again, asked my life story, again, and then explained in the most condescending tones an 18 year old could muster, that I needed to pay for the service if I wished to use it.
"Look," I said, in my best teacher voice. "You might think I'm thick, but two separate Telstra employees told me and my husband that this was part of a promotion. The words "you will not be charged for this" were uttered, twice. At no point in time would I ever, EVER, sign up for a recording device costing $300, especially since all it did was stuff the telly up and break down all the time."
I was then asked quietly if I would like to return the T-box. Well yes, actually, I would. You can take your T-box and stick it in the proverbial sunshine-deficient place.
Long story short, Mr. Telstra, not only am I sending back your piece of plastic, but you're paying for the postage, and I'm getting a full refund. And all because I stopped speaking nicely and used the same tone of voice your company is famous for.
I'm not saying I'm going to start swaggering around being rude to all and sundry. Heavens to Betsy, no. That would be most unpleasant. No, no - what I learned today was that whenever I deal with your company, rude is the way to go. It's the only language you understand, you see.
So thank you, Mr. Telstra, for helping me find my chutzpah today. Oh, and the refund will be most welcome, too.
Yours (ever so delicately blowing a raspberry)
Salamander
I don't like you very much. In fact, I would go as far as to say I detest your stinking guts. However, as you are an enormous business, I doubt very much you know or care what I think. I know for a fact three of your employees don't like me very much. Particularly after today's events.
I have never been fond of the arrangement in this country, which essentially dictates that for communication purposes, there are two options - Optus or Telstra. I've been to Optus. I won't be going back.
We've been with Telstra for a few years now. It's an uneasy relationship. I hate them. And they take our money. Tricky, isn't it?
Last November, we signed up for a "bundle" with Telstra that basically gave us our internet, home phone and mobile phones in a deal which wasn't terrible. Thanks to a promotion at the time, we also received a T-box thrown in for nothing. I didn't want it initially, thinking it would be terrifically expensive. Two separate "sales representatives" assured me that it was a special Christmas deal, and that I should take advantage of it, as T-boxes were typically $300.
So we said, yeah, ok, why not? A free digital recording thingy! Great! More telly for the kids! (Woohoo!)
And when the first bill came in with an unexplained extra payment for "hardware", I tried to query it. Only, I was put on hold for so long that I gave up, and thought I would try again later.
I ended up ringing Telstra so many times, and waiting through that ear-piercing waiting music (what is that?? specially designed ear torture?? It makes my ears bleed, no joke) that eventually, I kind of gave up. Until today.
The T-box stopped working. Which meant that not only could I not use the damn thing, but I was paying for it WHEN WE WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO BE IN THE FIRST PLACE!!!! So I bit the bullet, and phoned *ahem* "customer service" (*hack* *cough* *splutter*)
Today, I lost 45 minutes of my life that I won't get back in a hurry. I spent 45 excruciating minutes on the blower, explaining the same situation to three different people, all of whom would be paid regardless of whether or not my problem was solved.
I would like to congratulate you, Mr. Telstra, for training your employees magnificently in the fine arts of contempt and condescension. All three of them had perfected an impeccable phone manner, in which they repeatedly assured me that I would be taken care of, whilst simultaneously clearly implying I was an imbecile.
The first two told me that they would explain my situation to the next "customer service" representative that I would speak to. I'm not sure what information was passed on, but each new person answered the phone completely oblivious to who I was, or what I wanted.
Initially, I spoke to a rather obsequious young man who assured me that my problem was indeed unacceptable, and that he would personally ensure that a solution would be found. Enter handball number one.
The young lady who followed kept telling me that she was a T-box performance engineer, or some
She asked me if it was switched on at the power point.
She's quite fortunate I didn't stick my fist down the phone at her at this junction.
When she asked if the telly was actually turned on, or if I had forgotten to do so, I got a bit, um, authoritative. It took her 30 minutes to tell me to press this, and reset that, and hold this button, and enter this PIN that you will find underneath the modem on the other side of the room, only to find that none of it worked. At which point, I simpered, "So, now do you believe me? It's B-R-O-K-E-N".
Would you believe I was then tranferred to a new person?? This one, the lucky last, went through my personal details again, asked my life story, again, and then explained in the most condescending tones an 18 year old could muster, that I needed to pay for the service if I wished to use it.
"Look," I said, in my best teacher voice. "You might think I'm thick, but two separate Telstra employees told me and my husband that this was part of a promotion. The words "you will not be charged for this" were uttered, twice. At no point in time would I ever, EVER, sign up for a recording device costing $300, especially since all it did was stuff the telly up and break down all the time."
I was then asked quietly if I would like to return the T-box. Well yes, actually, I would. You can take your T-box and stick it in the proverbial sunshine-deficient place.
Long story short, Mr. Telstra, not only am I sending back your piece of plastic, but you're paying for the postage, and I'm getting a full refund. And all because I stopped speaking nicely and used the same tone of voice your company is famous for.
I'm not saying I'm going to start swaggering around being rude to all and sundry. Heavens to Betsy, no. That would be most unpleasant. No, no - what I learned today was that whenever I deal with your company, rude is the way to go. It's the only language you understand, you see.
So thank you, Mr. Telstra, for helping me find my chutzpah today. Oh, and the refund will be most welcome, too.
Yours (ever so delicately blowing a raspberry)
Salamander
Sunday, July 24, 2011
The 200th non-event
Just a quick note before I pop off tonight. It's the last night of this year's Tour de France, you see, and after three weeks of late nights I'm a bit pooped. I stayed up last night to watch Cadel's triumphant time trial (which made sense, really, since I had a husband running between the telly in the loungeroom and the telly in the bedroom, barely able to contain himself. Not to make him sound effeminate or anything, but there was hand flapping. I kid you not.)
Anyhow, Cadel is already cruising steadily along in a Schleck sandwich, heading towards the Champs Elysee and the winner's podium. Christian and I have both been planning our lessons for tomorrow with one eye on the bikes. But I am so tired, my one eye on the telly is rapidly becoming my only open eye, so I am going to turn in. Otherwise my Grade Fives might be met by a snoozing Mrs. O'Toole tomorrow. Ha.
I don't really have anything spectacular to tell you today. Went to swimming lessons this morning. Jack's fingernail came off (did I mention how his little finger met the door of Grandpa's safe? No? Oh. Well, it did. And it was messy, to say the least. The nail lifted up due to the biggest blood blister known to man and hovered there for a week. We called it "the finger of doom". Then the finger burst in the staffroom at my new place of employment, while I was meeting the staff for the first time. Someone thought Jack had tomato sauce slathered on his potato chips. There was no sauce. Then it shriveled (the finger, not the sauce), and grew brown and manky. And today it fell off. Nice?!?!)
Um, sorry, right - swimming lessons, finger of doom fell off. Quiet afternoon at home (translation: kids played frenetically in a small space because of rain and washing strung everywhere; Christian tried to do work at kitchen table - not sure how successful that was - and I cooked three meals to cover my days at work.) Took the dogs for a walk in the rain. Maisie was so delighted to be outside in the rain that she didn't try to pull her beanie off once. Jack held Daisy's lead the whole way and was mightily chuffed with himself. Archibald practised being a gentleman.
Bath time.
Dinner time.
Story time.
Bed time.
Cleaned the kitchen; made the lunches; packed the bags; laid out the clothes; prepared the spelling words for tomorrow's lesson.
Sat and surveyed thedestruction toys distributed throughout the house. Observed three baskets of unfolded washing. Thought about it. Decided they wouldn't hurt anyone if left alone for another day.
Had a cup of tea and opened my laptop to check things out before bed. Realised that this would be my 200th post. Then realised I had nothing of note to say.
So now I really am off to bed. I am going to trust Cadel to make it safely to the finish line without me being conscious. At this point, I'm not sure my eyes will be prised open before recess tomorrow. But with any luck, tomorrow will be super-duper interesting so that I might actually have a story to tell you. Or not.
Anyhow, Cadel is already cruising steadily along in a Schleck sandwich, heading towards the Champs Elysee and the winner's podium. Christian and I have both been planning our lessons for tomorrow with one eye on the bikes. But I am so tired, my one eye on the telly is rapidly becoming my only open eye, so I am going to turn in. Otherwise my Grade Fives might be met by a snoozing Mrs. O'Toole tomorrow. Ha.
I don't really have anything spectacular to tell you today. Went to swimming lessons this morning. Jack's fingernail came off (did I mention how his little finger met the door of Grandpa's safe? No? Oh. Well, it did. And it was messy, to say the least. The nail lifted up due to the biggest blood blister known to man and hovered there for a week. We called it "the finger of doom". Then the finger burst in the staffroom at my new place of employment, while I was meeting the staff for the first time. Someone thought Jack had tomato sauce slathered on his potato chips. There was no sauce. Then it shriveled (the finger, not the sauce), and grew brown and manky. And today it fell off. Nice?!?!)
Um, sorry, right - swimming lessons, finger of doom fell off. Quiet afternoon at home (translation: kids played frenetically in a small space because of rain and washing strung everywhere; Christian tried to do work at kitchen table - not sure how successful that was - and I cooked three meals to cover my days at work.) Took the dogs for a walk in the rain. Maisie was so delighted to be outside in the rain that she didn't try to pull her beanie off once. Jack held Daisy's lead the whole way and was mightily chuffed with himself. Archibald practised being a gentleman.
Bath time.
Dinner time.
Story time.
Bed time.
Cleaned the kitchen; made the lunches; packed the bags; laid out the clothes; prepared the spelling words for tomorrow's lesson.
Sat and surveyed the
Had a cup of tea and opened my laptop to check things out before bed. Realised that this would be my 200th post. Then realised I had nothing of note to say.
So now I really am off to bed. I am going to trust Cadel to make it safely to the finish line without me being conscious. At this point, I'm not sure my eyes will be prised open before recess tomorrow. But with any luck, tomorrow will be super-duper interesting so that I might actually have a story to tell you. Or not.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Bush-bashing
So I think I owe you a few posts, right?
Not that you have to read them. I'm not demanding your undivided attention, or anything bossy like that. I know I just mentioned a few things I meant to blog about, and hadn't got around to actually writing them. So if you'd rather, you can just turn away now and go back to Facebook, or Twitter, or actual work, whatever takes your fancy, really. I'll just stay here for a few minutes and fill in my virtual baby book, ok?
Ok.
So last Friday, we took the kids bushwalking. We were meant to go on the Monday, but Maisie and I were as sick as the proverbial canine. Since I spent all of Monday in bed (I know, right?), and the Mouse had a hacking gutteral cough, we waited until Wednesday...and then postponed the hike again, since by then Mousie's nose was streaming freely and copiously.
Jack and Phoebe were, understandably, most displeased at our delay tactics. They had been very patient and understanding on the Monday morning when Mummy's head did not separate from her pillow. They were grudgingly sympathetic on the Tuesday, and again on the Wednesday. By Thursday, there was open dissent amongst the troops. So Christian and I girded our loins, and prepared for our trip regardless of Friday's weather. The plan was that if the Mouse woke still snotty on Friday morning, I would stay home with her. Thank goodness, she was raring to go.
Clad in trackies, gumboots and warm skivvies, we hit the road at 7:30am. Did I mention we had borrowed Grandma and Grandpa's car? The clutch on my Tucson had given up the ghost on the Tuesday, and since our little Barina does not take three Maxi-Riders, we were going to have to ride our bikes to Tarra Valley if we ever wanted to get there....
Enter Grandma and Grandpa's Fairlane!! That poor car got stuffed full of backpacks and picnic rugs and books and snacks and coats and nappies and hand sanitiser, and off we went. Daddy had drawn a cunning little map for Jack and Phoebe so they would know what to expect. After two hours in the back seat singing classic 80's pop, we arrived at our first bush track.
Now you see, Christian and I used to do a lot of camping before the kidstrampled their way graced us with their presence in our lives. We had panniers to carry our camping gear on our bikes, and would ride a fair distance before setting the tent up for the night. I knew it was only a matter of time before we took the kids on some sort of outdoorsy trip, so a spot of bush-bashing seemed to be the perfect introduction.
Both of the big kids insisted on carrying backpacks with their water bottles and a muesli bar in them. With Maisie in the Baby Bjorn, we trekked along a windy, hilly bush path for a kilometer or so. There were enormous tree ferns and lyrebirds singing, rushing creeks and little bridges, and an overriding sense of calm. The kids were delighted to reach the waterfall (the destination on their map), and then they ran back through the forest to the promise of a picnic.
There's nothing quite like a ham sandwich eaten on a damp wooden bench, in a still, dripping rainforest that literally rings with your children's laughter. We had a lovely little picnic, which was only marred slightly by the need to use the long-drop toilets nearby. Wouldn't have been so bad if I had just been able to nick in quickly myself...it was holding two children over the toilet while they took care of business and had lengthy chats with me that did my head in (not to mention my nose...)
Our next stop was a longer walk, this time to a suspension bridge. Originally, the plan had been for me to carry the Mouse in the sling for the first, shorter walk, and for Christian to take her on the second hike. However, she carried on so badly when Daddy strapped her in, that I ended up with her again. She was a bit stroppy on the 1.5km trek downhill, but nothing I couldn't handle. I let her run along the suspension bridge, and she flapped her arms and screeched with joy.
All three kids absolutely loved the bouncy bridge, and looked down into the deep gully filled with ferns from behind the safety of the barriers. It was worth every minute of the walk with eleven kilos of toddler strapped to my front, just to see our kids ignite a love of bushwalking right in front of us. I watched them running up and down, and thought, why haven't we done this before? This is magic.
And then came time to walk back to the car.
Firstly, we had to convince the Mouse to get back into the Baby Bjorn. We were not very successful. Even though we managed to force her limbs back into the correct bits of the sling, she screamed and flung herself around so wildly that I had to physically restrain her to stop her from falling out. Which is how I found myself climbing a steep bush path, UP HILL, gripping one arm and two legs of a wailing, flailing 18 month old banshee. There were no birdies cheeping merrily near us, peoples.
With everyone back in the car, safely strapped in and with food shoved unceremoniously in their gobs, we began the trip home. And I must say, I reckon our kids had a brilliant day. Considering we took three kids aged five and under on two (smallish) bushwalks, we came home relatively unscathed. Here is a summary of what we took home from Tarra Valley:
* some rather cute photographs of the kids running through the ferns and posing in front of waterfalls
* a few photos of me in my favourite brown beanie. (Not the most fetching garment, but warm.)
* a significant amount of mud gathered on gumboots, pants and hands. (Definitely worth it.)
* three carseats full of biscuit crumbs and bits of muesli bar
* a red-faced, knackered Mummy with permanent weals on her shoulders and back in the exact shape of a Baby Bjorn, and kick marks on her thighs which match the Mouse's booted feet
* a plan for a camping trip in the near future, which will expand on the fun had by all at Tarra Valley
* a decision that next time, Mummy will not wear the sling, but will instead lure the Mouse using sugary treats or whatever is necessary to move her. Tooth decay be damned, I am not wearing the Baby Bjorn up hill ever again!!
Not that you have to read them. I'm not demanding your undivided attention, or anything bossy like that. I know I just mentioned a few things I meant to blog about, and hadn't got around to actually writing them. So if you'd rather, you can just turn away now and go back to Facebook, or Twitter, or actual work, whatever takes your fancy, really. I'll just stay here for a few minutes and fill in my virtual baby book, ok?
Ok.
So last Friday, we took the kids bushwalking. We were meant to go on the Monday, but Maisie and I were as sick as the proverbial canine. Since I spent all of Monday in bed (I know, right?), and the Mouse had a hacking gutteral cough, we waited until Wednesday...and then postponed the hike again, since by then Mousie's nose was streaming freely and copiously.
Jack and Phoebe were, understandably, most displeased at our delay tactics. They had been very patient and understanding on the Monday morning when Mummy's head did not separate from her pillow. They were grudgingly sympathetic on the Tuesday, and again on the Wednesday. By Thursday, there was open dissent amongst the troops. So Christian and I girded our loins, and prepared for our trip regardless of Friday's weather. The plan was that if the Mouse woke still snotty on Friday morning, I would stay home with her. Thank goodness, she was raring to go.
Clad in trackies, gumboots and warm skivvies, we hit the road at 7:30am. Did I mention we had borrowed Grandma and Grandpa's car? The clutch on my Tucson had given up the ghost on the Tuesday, and since our little Barina does not take three Maxi-Riders, we were going to have to ride our bikes to Tarra Valley if we ever wanted to get there....
Enter Grandma and Grandpa's Fairlane!! That poor car got stuffed full of backpacks and picnic rugs and books and snacks and coats and nappies and hand sanitiser, and off we went. Daddy had drawn a cunning little map for Jack and Phoebe so they would know what to expect. After two hours in the back seat singing classic 80's pop, we arrived at our first bush track.
Now you see, Christian and I used to do a lot of camping before the kids
Both of the big kids insisted on carrying backpacks with their water bottles and a muesli bar in them. With Maisie in the Baby Bjorn, we trekked along a windy, hilly bush path for a kilometer or so. There were enormous tree ferns and lyrebirds singing, rushing creeks and little bridges, and an overriding sense of calm. The kids were delighted to reach the waterfall (the destination on their map), and then they ran back through the forest to the promise of a picnic.
There's nothing quite like a ham sandwich eaten on a damp wooden bench, in a still, dripping rainforest that literally rings with your children's laughter. We had a lovely little picnic, which was only marred slightly by the need to use the long-drop toilets nearby. Wouldn't have been so bad if I had just been able to nick in quickly myself...it was holding two children over the toilet while they took care of business and had lengthy chats with me that did my head in (not to mention my nose...)
Our next stop was a longer walk, this time to a suspension bridge. Originally, the plan had been for me to carry the Mouse in the sling for the first, shorter walk, and for Christian to take her on the second hike. However, she carried on so badly when Daddy strapped her in, that I ended up with her again. She was a bit stroppy on the 1.5km trek downhill, but nothing I couldn't handle. I let her run along the suspension bridge, and she flapped her arms and screeched with joy.
All three kids absolutely loved the bouncy bridge, and looked down into the deep gully filled with ferns from behind the safety of the barriers. It was worth every minute of the walk with eleven kilos of toddler strapped to my front, just to see our kids ignite a love of bushwalking right in front of us. I watched them running up and down, and thought, why haven't we done this before? This is magic.
And then came time to walk back to the car.
Firstly, we had to convince the Mouse to get back into the Baby Bjorn. We were not very successful. Even though we managed to force her limbs back into the correct bits of the sling, she screamed and flung herself around so wildly that I had to physically restrain her to stop her from falling out. Which is how I found myself climbing a steep bush path, UP HILL, gripping one arm and two legs of a wailing, flailing 18 month old banshee. There were no birdies cheeping merrily near us, peoples.
With everyone back in the car, safely strapped in and with food shoved unceremoniously in their gobs, we began the trip home. And I must say, I reckon our kids had a brilliant day. Considering we took three kids aged five and under on two (smallish) bushwalks, we came home relatively unscathed. Here is a summary of what we took home from Tarra Valley:
* some rather cute photographs of the kids running through the ferns and posing in front of waterfalls
* a few photos of me in my favourite brown beanie. (Not the most fetching garment, but warm.)
* a significant amount of mud gathered on gumboots, pants and hands. (Definitely worth it.)
* three carseats full of biscuit crumbs and bits of muesli bar
* a red-faced, knackered Mummy with permanent weals on her shoulders and back in the exact shape of a Baby Bjorn, and kick marks on her thighs which match the Mouse's booted feet
* a plan for a camping trip in the near future, which will expand on the fun had by all at Tarra Valley
* a decision that next time, Mummy will not wear the sling, but will instead lure the Mouse using sugary treats or whatever is necessary to move her. Tooth decay be damned, I am not wearing the Baby Bjorn up hill ever again!!
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Unfriended
Hiya.
You may not remember me.
I'm the girl who used to blog every day, or every second day, at least. I'm the chick who found it difficult to wander through the hazy days of housewifery without a little bloggy interlude to get her through. I'm the mum who always tried to find time to jot down the comings and goings of her brood, to prevent forgetting those delicious days of childhood.
I'm still that girl. Only now, I'm also a part-time teacher. And since Term 3 began this week, I have either been at school or desperately, scarily, wading-through-thigh-deep-water tired. So I owe you a post about our bushwalking trip last Friday. I owe you a post about puppy school on Saturday. I owe you a post about Maisie's adventures at Southland. And I owe you a post about diving back into the world of a working mumma (and by that, obviously I mean a PAID working mumma - pshaw).
But tonight? Tonight I am hurt. Confused. Extremely tired. And just a little bit angry. Peeved, you might say.
I'm the first to admit I have been a long-distance friend to a lot of my girlfriends over the last few years. There has been a combination of factors contributing to this - babies, moving houses, working long hours, post-natal depression. Without exception, my friends have been there to support me, regardless of how long since we last spoke.
I told you recently how I was reunited with Jen after four years. It took a funeral to get us back together, but the grief was all for Stan. There was not an ounce of sadness between us, no recriminations or blame - just joy at finding each other again. That's what I call a good friend.
On Sunday, I went to the funkiest baby shower I've ever attended to celebrate the impending arrival of Kirsty's little princess. Most of my high school girlies were there, which is a recipe for a good time. It was only when Fleur, one of my lovely friends, commented that it was nice to see me happy, that I realised that I probably haven't been the best company for some time. And I felt compelled to apologise, to explain.
So I told her about my struggles with PND after Phoebe's birth, and how I avoided seeing the lot of them when I could. How guilty I felt about that. How I knew that I had been a poor friend. And my words were met with understanding, smiles, and love. Not once did I feel judged, or found lacking in the necessary skills for friendship.
And I suppose over the last few years, Christian and I have dealt with our fair share of challenges. I don't need to tell you again. But a direct result of this, is that most of my friendships have been conducted via Facebook or text at some point or another, simply because I was clutching on for grim life. It didn't mean my friends meant any less to me. And thank goodness, my beautiful friends understood this, and never deserted me.
By this point, you probably think I'm a great big sook. Boo hoo, terrible things have happened and I forgot to ring my friends. (And most likely, you'd be right. I am a sook. And an ugly crier. Let's not forget that.)
But I do try to keep on keeping on, even when things are tricky. When we're not being traumatised in the middle of the night by men wielding weapons, or helping my husband recover from a stress-induced heart attack, or waiting to see if my mum's breast cancer has gone away, I'm a pretty happy person. And it's when I'm not expending every ounce of energy in my little family trying to keep things on an even keel, that I see my friends. Speak to them. Catch up with them. Have a coffee, even.
For the past two and a bit months, I've been dealing with a horrible, awful, stomach-churningly sad situation. Although it's been in the background of my life for about two years, recently it has come to a head. It's not my story to tell. Most of my friends IRL don't know about it. Certainly, I am not about to discuss it here. Nevertheless, it has affected me every day, and occupied my thoughts every night, for quite a while now. And there's absolutely nothing I can do about it.
So to get through the day without crying all over people, or having to explain the situation, or going out in public with a face that would curdle milk, I have done what I always do - poured my energy into my kids, and spent any left-over energy at the supermarket. The only difference is, this time I let a handful of my friends in on the secret. Rather than hiding away completely, I confided in some of my nearest and dearest - not those who were dealing with huge stresses in their own lives, but those who love me enough to cope with the ugly crier.
Once again, I have neglected to phone or catch up with a number of friends for a few months. But we're talking two or three months - not years. So it was absolutely gutting tonight to pop onto Facebook to see that one of my "good" friends had 'unfriended' me. Sorry? Are we in primary school?
I have absolutely no idea why this has occurred. I last spoke to this person in late April. Whatever heinous crime I have committed, I can assure you it is a mystery to me. But there it is - I have been dropped. Which I suppose, is simply long overdue judgement that I am a crap friend.
Whatever.
I wouldn't blame the lot of you if you dropped me for being a whinger. But before you do, know this. When I am running around busily, I often think of you. When I am hiding my sadness away, I am doing it because I don't want to inflict it on you. When I am only 'talking' to you on Facebook, it is because I crave your company but don't have enough hours in the day. When I am baking a cake, I'm wishing I could eat it with you. And when you have something go wrong, no matter how busy I am, I am there for you. And I would never, ever unfriend you for not phoning me. That would be hypocritical.
You may not remember me.
I'm the girl who used to blog every day, or every second day, at least. I'm the chick who found it difficult to wander through the hazy days of housewifery without a little bloggy interlude to get her through. I'm the mum who always tried to find time to jot down the comings and goings of her brood, to prevent forgetting those delicious days of childhood.
I'm still that girl. Only now, I'm also a part-time teacher. And since Term 3 began this week, I have either been at school or desperately, scarily, wading-through-thigh-deep-water tired. So I owe you a post about our bushwalking trip last Friday. I owe you a post about puppy school on Saturday. I owe you a post about Maisie's adventures at Southland. And I owe you a post about diving back into the world of a working mumma (and by that, obviously I mean a PAID working mumma - pshaw).
But tonight? Tonight I am hurt. Confused. Extremely tired. And just a little bit angry. Peeved, you might say.
I'm the first to admit I have been a long-distance friend to a lot of my girlfriends over the last few years. There has been a combination of factors contributing to this - babies, moving houses, working long hours, post-natal depression. Without exception, my friends have been there to support me, regardless of how long since we last spoke.
I told you recently how I was reunited with Jen after four years. It took a funeral to get us back together, but the grief was all for Stan. There was not an ounce of sadness between us, no recriminations or blame - just joy at finding each other again. That's what I call a good friend.
On Sunday, I went to the funkiest baby shower I've ever attended to celebrate the impending arrival of Kirsty's little princess. Most of my high school girlies were there, which is a recipe for a good time. It was only when Fleur, one of my lovely friends, commented that it was nice to see me happy, that I realised that I probably haven't been the best company for some time. And I felt compelled to apologise, to explain.
So I told her about my struggles with PND after Phoebe's birth, and how I avoided seeing the lot of them when I could. How guilty I felt about that. How I knew that I had been a poor friend. And my words were met with understanding, smiles, and love. Not once did I feel judged, or found lacking in the necessary skills for friendship.
And I suppose over the last few years, Christian and I have dealt with our fair share of challenges. I don't need to tell you again. But a direct result of this, is that most of my friendships have been conducted via Facebook or text at some point or another, simply because I was clutching on for grim life. It didn't mean my friends meant any less to me. And thank goodness, my beautiful friends understood this, and never deserted me.
By this point, you probably think I'm a great big sook. Boo hoo, terrible things have happened and I forgot to ring my friends. (And most likely, you'd be right. I am a sook. And an ugly crier. Let's not forget that.)
But I do try to keep on keeping on, even when things are tricky. When we're not being traumatised in the middle of the night by men wielding weapons, or helping my husband recover from a stress-induced heart attack, or waiting to see if my mum's breast cancer has gone away, I'm a pretty happy person. And it's when I'm not expending every ounce of energy in my little family trying to keep things on an even keel, that I see my friends. Speak to them. Catch up with them. Have a coffee, even.
For the past two and a bit months, I've been dealing with a horrible, awful, stomach-churningly sad situation. Although it's been in the background of my life for about two years, recently it has come to a head. It's not my story to tell. Most of my friends IRL don't know about it. Certainly, I am not about to discuss it here. Nevertheless, it has affected me every day, and occupied my thoughts every night, for quite a while now. And there's absolutely nothing I can do about it.
So to get through the day without crying all over people, or having to explain the situation, or going out in public with a face that would curdle milk, I have done what I always do - poured my energy into my kids, and spent any left-over energy at the supermarket. The only difference is, this time I let a handful of my friends in on the secret. Rather than hiding away completely, I confided in some of my nearest and dearest - not those who were dealing with huge stresses in their own lives, but those who love me enough to cope with the ugly crier.
Once again, I have neglected to phone or catch up with a number of friends for a few months. But we're talking two or three months - not years. So it was absolutely gutting tonight to pop onto Facebook to see that one of my "good" friends had 'unfriended' me. Sorry? Are we in primary school?
I have absolutely no idea why this has occurred. I last spoke to this person in late April. Whatever heinous crime I have committed, I can assure you it is a mystery to me. But there it is - I have been dropped. Which I suppose, is simply long overdue judgement that I am a crap friend.
Whatever.
I wouldn't blame the lot of you if you dropped me for being a whinger. But before you do, know this. When I am running around busily, I often think of you. When I am hiding my sadness away, I am doing it because I don't want to inflict it on you. When I am only 'talking' to you on Facebook, it is because I crave your company but don't have enough hours in the day. When I am baking a cake, I'm wishing I could eat it with you. And when you have something go wrong, no matter how busy I am, I am there for you. And I would never, ever unfriend you for not phoning me. That would be hypocritical.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
The Happy-Sad Smile
Are you familiar with the happy-sad smile? You know, the little smile that plays around your mouth when you see or hear something lovely, but falters slightly when your brain registers the bittersweet edge to the moment? And then, to cover the wobble which inevitably occurs in your facial region, you concentrate on bringing back the smile so that no one notices?
Usually, it's easier to recognise a happy-sad smile after the wobble. You can pick it from the extra effort required to maintain full-wattage in the grin; the slightly strained look around the mouth; the way the smile drops out of the eyes.
But people work hard with their happy-sad smiles. Especially mothers. Sometimes, it's only a little thing that makes us wibbly, so maintaining the countenance is not a true hardship. Other times, however, holding a calm outer shell is excruciating. But we do it, because to allow your children to see a chink in the happy armour would upset them.
IAll good mummies know, it's very important to keep a cheerful expression on your face, even if your heart is breaking. Even when the tears are spilling down your face.
I have worked hard at keeping my happy-sad face at bay recently. The reasons for my melancholy are diverse....we shall not visit them here. Rest assured, my children are keeping me occupied enough for twenty mummies. And it is because of them, that I have practised my happy-sad four times today...
Last night, the Mouse coughed and coughed and coughed. The poor little girl sounded like an emphysemic old man. Being under two, there is very little we can give her other than Panadol and cuddles. So this morning, I tried to breastfeed her before breakfast, to see if I could comfort her tickly throat at all. Unfortunately, every time she coughed, she bit me - needless to say, our 'cuddle' lasted all of five minutes.
It did not seem to bother my baby at all. She toddled off after Jack and Phoebe, shouting instructions at them in gibberish, and soon had them playing a game completely of her own design (Not bossy at all for an 18 month old?!) I sat on the couch watching her, marvelling at how grown-up my little string bean is becoming. She kept flashing her pearly whites at me, in between hacking coughs, and lunging at me for 'tuddles'. And my smiling face wobbled slightly, when I thought briefly about her growing independence, and how my last baby was rapidly growing into a little girl.
And then I felt like a bad mother, wishing for the Mouse to stay little, rather than relishing her growth, her confidence, her wonderful, strong little personality. So I plastered the smile back on my face, and went to make breakfast.
Later, I took the two big kids to a playdate while Mousy stayed home in the warm with Daddy. Jack was happy playing with his mates from school (who'd have thought they could survive two whole weeks without each other??), and Phoebalina was in heaven playing with the other little sisters. There were Iron Man games, Buzz costumes, and fairy dresses galore. Kid paradise!
The mums stood in the kitchen, fielding requests for drinks and preventing the smallest children from hurling themselves over the baby gate. The most exciting topic of the day was undoubtedly the imminent arrival of Sue's new baby, due in two days. We took turns rubbing her bump, trying to get the baby to kick, and attempting to guess it's weight. Such an incredibly thrilling time in your life, the days before a birth. I remember feeling as though the air was different. Everything had a hint of sparkle to it.
I would give anything to be able to have another baby. If this makes me selfish, well, then I'm selfish. But the fact that my body is unable to carry another child simply makes me want one even more. So I watched Sue's baby bump today with a smile, which wobbled very slightly when I thought about being pregnant, and how much I enjoyed it. Most likely, Sue saw the wobble. She knows how much I'd love Number Four. My wobble doesn't diminish my joy for her. But it was there, nevertheless.
So I slapped myself mentally, and reminded myself that I have three perfectly presentable children already. It would be greedy to ask for another. It would also be foolhardy to leave my husband to raise four children by himself (!) Besides, I can cuddle Sue's baby, and then in November, my own niece or nephew, and then hand them back to their mummies when they become stinky or unsettled. Happy smile back on face.
Back at home, Jack accompanied me on a doggy walk with Archibald. Being a freezing cold afternoon, we donned hoodies under our winter coats and walked like blimps up our street. I love walking with Jack. He keeps up a little patter of conversation while trotting beside me, about things like how he is going to be a dragon killer when he grows up. Today, a girl went past us wearing short shorts. Like, really short shorts.
Now, last year, Jack went through that phase all small boys go through, in that he would only wear shorts, regardless of the thermometer. Except, he called them "up pants". It followed, naturally, that long trousers were "down pants". You get the gist. It was one of the little things that made him so endearing, and I'll admit I encouraged it shamelessly because it was so darned cute.
Today, that girl went past us, and Jack said, "Mum, why was that girl wearing...um....you know...those pants?" I replied, "Do you mean up pants?" "No," he said, frowning. "No.....oh! Shorts! Why was she wearing shorts?" He was so pleased and proud to have found the correct word he was looking for. And I, oh, I faltered badly. I smiled, pushing harder and harder until it reached my eyes, and said, "That's right, darling! Shorts! Remember you used to call them up pants?"
Inside my head, I was thinking, "Please call them up pants. Please. Otherwise, you're a bit more grown-up. And just a tiny bit further away from me." But I didn't let him see that. How could I, when it would only take the shine off of his growing vocabulary? He wanted me to be proud. He needed me to be proud. So the happy-sad got happy again.
We came home, and brought Archie in from the cold. We sat around the dinner table, eating roast chicken and chatting (or coughing, in the case of the Mouse). Pyjamas were put on, teeth were brushed. A chapter of "The Faraway Tree" was listened to, snuggled on the couch. My brother rang from Queensland, to say goodbye before his big trip overseas, and I listened to my kids chatting sweetly to their big, exciting uncle. And the Mouse cuddled me on the couch, sobbing because she felt so miserable. Eventually, she fed quietly and calmly, until the coughing stopped and she slept deeply in my arms.
There was definitely no happy-sad smile by then. By that point, the smile had reached the eyes, and stayed there.
Usually, it's easier to recognise a happy-sad smile after the wobble. You can pick it from the extra effort required to maintain full-wattage in the grin; the slightly strained look around the mouth; the way the smile drops out of the eyes.
But people work hard with their happy-sad smiles. Especially mothers. Sometimes, it's only a little thing that makes us wibbly, so maintaining the countenance is not a true hardship. Other times, however, holding a calm outer shell is excruciating. But we do it, because to allow your children to see a chink in the happy armour would upset them.
IAll good mummies know, it's very important to keep a cheerful expression on your face, even if your heart is breaking. Even when the tears are spilling down your face.
I have worked hard at keeping my happy-sad face at bay recently. The reasons for my melancholy are diverse....we shall not visit them here. Rest assured, my children are keeping me occupied enough for twenty mummies. And it is because of them, that I have practised my happy-sad four times today...
Last night, the Mouse coughed and coughed and coughed. The poor little girl sounded like an emphysemic old man. Being under two, there is very little we can give her other than Panadol and cuddles. So this morning, I tried to breastfeed her before breakfast, to see if I could comfort her tickly throat at all. Unfortunately, every time she coughed, she bit me - needless to say, our 'cuddle' lasted all of five minutes.
It did not seem to bother my baby at all. She toddled off after Jack and Phoebe, shouting instructions at them in gibberish, and soon had them playing a game completely of her own design (Not bossy at all for an 18 month old?!) I sat on the couch watching her, marvelling at how grown-up my little string bean is becoming. She kept flashing her pearly whites at me, in between hacking coughs, and lunging at me for 'tuddles'. And my smiling face wobbled slightly, when I thought briefly about her growing independence, and how my last baby was rapidly growing into a little girl.
And then I felt like a bad mother, wishing for the Mouse to stay little, rather than relishing her growth, her confidence, her wonderful, strong little personality. So I plastered the smile back on my face, and went to make breakfast.
Later, I took the two big kids to a playdate while Mousy stayed home in the warm with Daddy. Jack was happy playing with his mates from school (who'd have thought they could survive two whole weeks without each other??), and Phoebalina was in heaven playing with the other little sisters. There were Iron Man games, Buzz costumes, and fairy dresses galore. Kid paradise!
The mums stood in the kitchen, fielding requests for drinks and preventing the smallest children from hurling themselves over the baby gate. The most exciting topic of the day was undoubtedly the imminent arrival of Sue's new baby, due in two days. We took turns rubbing her bump, trying to get the baby to kick, and attempting to guess it's weight. Such an incredibly thrilling time in your life, the days before a birth. I remember feeling as though the air was different. Everything had a hint of sparkle to it.
I would give anything to be able to have another baby. If this makes me selfish, well, then I'm selfish. But the fact that my body is unable to carry another child simply makes me want one even more. So I watched Sue's baby bump today with a smile, which wobbled very slightly when I thought about being pregnant, and how much I enjoyed it. Most likely, Sue saw the wobble. She knows how much I'd love Number Four. My wobble doesn't diminish my joy for her. But it was there, nevertheless.
So I slapped myself mentally, and reminded myself that I have three perfectly presentable children already. It would be greedy to ask for another. It would also be foolhardy to leave my husband to raise four children by himself (!) Besides, I can cuddle Sue's baby, and then in November, my own niece or nephew, and then hand them back to their mummies when they become stinky or unsettled. Happy smile back on face.
Back at home, Jack accompanied me on a doggy walk with Archibald. Being a freezing cold afternoon, we donned hoodies under our winter coats and walked like blimps up our street. I love walking with Jack. He keeps up a little patter of conversation while trotting beside me, about things like how he is going to be a dragon killer when he grows up. Today, a girl went past us wearing short shorts. Like, really short shorts.
Now, last year, Jack went through that phase all small boys go through, in that he would only wear shorts, regardless of the thermometer. Except, he called them "up pants". It followed, naturally, that long trousers were "down pants". You get the gist. It was one of the little things that made him so endearing, and I'll admit I encouraged it shamelessly because it was so darned cute.
Today, that girl went past us, and Jack said, "Mum, why was that girl wearing...um....you know...those pants?" I replied, "Do you mean up pants?" "No," he said, frowning. "No.....oh! Shorts! Why was she wearing shorts?" He was so pleased and proud to have found the correct word he was looking for. And I, oh, I faltered badly. I smiled, pushing harder and harder until it reached my eyes, and said, "That's right, darling! Shorts! Remember you used to call them up pants?"
Inside my head, I was thinking, "Please call them up pants. Please. Otherwise, you're a bit more grown-up. And just a tiny bit further away from me." But I didn't let him see that. How could I, when it would only take the shine off of his growing vocabulary? He wanted me to be proud. He needed me to be proud. So the happy-sad got happy again.
We came home, and brought Archie in from the cold. We sat around the dinner table, eating roast chicken and chatting (or coughing, in the case of the Mouse). Pyjamas were put on, teeth were brushed. A chapter of "The Faraway Tree" was listened to, snuggled on the couch. My brother rang from Queensland, to say goodbye before his big trip overseas, and I listened to my kids chatting sweetly to their big, exciting uncle. And the Mouse cuddled me on the couch, sobbing because she felt so miserable. Eventually, she fed quietly and calmly, until the coughing stopped and she slept deeply in my arms.
There was definitely no happy-sad smile by then. By that point, the smile had reached the eyes, and stayed there.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Shell, I'm sorry I dragged you to Planet Kids!
Back in the day, before my uterus was stretched beyond recognition and my life became noisier, messier, and cuddlier than I ever thought possible, playcentres made me shudder.
Not because of the masses of children. Oh no. I've always loved kids - doting big sister became busy baby sitter, became camp counsellor, became nanny, became teacher - being around kids is what I do. (Some might say because I am on the same intellectual wavelength...I say, don't insult the children).
No, I'll admit I recoiled from the idea of playcentres because the only ones I had seen were a bit grubby. A bit dingy, without any natural light, and with dubious ball pits for the babies. I wasn't entirely keen on the idea of my precious sprogs running around on sticky carpet or hurling themselves into enclosed curly slides, ending the ride by kissing the dirty mat at the bottom.
However, being a rational (yes, you heard me. Rational. Moving right along...) person, I have come to see the value of a good playcentre. We are lucky enough to have two centres within 15 minutes of home, both of which we have visited for birthday parties, emergency coffees, and desperately rainy days. Both have excellent sectioned-off areas for babies, are clean and well-presented, and offer more than hot chips on the menu.
On Friday, I had organised to meet two girlfriends of mine at Planet Kids for a morning playdate. Casey, the uber-housewife extraordinaire of Milkncookies fame, and Michelle, much-envied overseas traveller. Now see, we were all looking forward to the day, because years and years ago, the three of us had worked together in Shell's parents' newsagency. In actual fact, Shell and I had spent the majority of our teenage years together. We went to the same high school; shared a swimming coach and trained together (although she was by far and away one of the best swimmers I have ever seen - I was Mrs. McAverage, coming up the pool lane spluttering chlorine...); and when we worked together in the newsagency, we were regularly mistaken for sisters.
Since Shell has lived in Saudi Arabia for several years now, we had arranged this playdate months ago when she planned a visit home to Australia. Which meant that when Casey's little boy developed an ear infection on Thursday night and needed to see the doctor on Friday morning, our plans were going to go ahead, regardless! Casey dropped her daughter off with us, so that she could at least have a run with Phoebalicious, and took her poor sick little bundle off to get some medi for his ears.
Shell and I spent several hours catching up amidst the hubbub of a playcentre filled to capacity. It was so lovely to see her - incredible to think that I had not seen her for such a long time, but so grateful to have the chance to see her while she was home. Thank goodness she was there too - I kept losing sight of Jack and Phoebe in the swarms of children herbing around, and Maisie had developed an unhealthy obsession for the slide. If it weren't for Shell, I wouldn't have known which way to run!
Seeing Michelle was the best part of my day. But I can tell you this right now - I will not be gracing Planet Kids with my money again. The staff are always friendly and helpful, without a doubt. But any playcentre that cannot cope with a rainy day on a school holiday is not being run properly. That is their business. They should know what to do.
Firstly, I had to park a few blocks away and walk through mud and along a busy road with three small children (no footpaths, anyone?!?) because the playcentre's ten car spaces were full, and the marked parking on the road out the front is also a designated "No Standing" zone. I know this because the last time I went there, the friend I went with got a huge parking fine.
Once we had trekked our way to the entrance, we were charged $33 to enter. Bear with me. I may not be a genius, but the large, clear, laminated sign on the front counter said $8 for four years and over, $6 for three years old, $5 for one year old. 8 + 6 + 5 = $19, right?? The girl went to turn away, and I asked her how it possibly came to $33, thinking perhaps there was a holiday surcharge or an exorbitant fee for parents that was new?? Not only did she not see anything strange with the price she had just charged me, she could not work out how much to give back to me.
When Casey arrived to drop her daughter off, not only did she have to pay to bring her son in for five minutes, but they tried to overcharge her too! When she corrected them, the girl got confused and couldn't deal with it. She literally had to get another staff member to "deal with" Casey's refund. Considering Case had been standing at the entrance for ten minutes, waiting for someone to grace the cash register, this did not go down well.
The average wait for a coffee was 20 minutes. And when I say average, I mean I saw and heard people leaving because half an hour had passed, and their lattes had not appeared. There were tables with 'Reserved' written on them, yet there were not enough for the people actually present to sit down. Shell and I had to crouch in the babies' area for nearly an hour before we snatched a table. Even then, Phoebe had to sit on my knee because there were not enough chairs (and those reserved tables stayed empty the whole time I was there. Should have just sat there.)
No one told the ten year olds to get out of the babies' area. I eventually got my teacher's voice out of storage and used it on some pre-teens who were about to crush my daughter's fingers. They waited until I had retrieved the Mouse from underneath them, and then continued merrily on their way.
I got particular joy out of nuking the tiny hairs inside the noses of passers-by, when I had to stand for ten minutes at the front counter, screaming, flailing Mouse in arms, waiting for a plastic bag to contain the heinous mess inside her nappy. Her poo can stop a man in his tracks - on this particular day, I was glad.
Don't get me wrong - I felt sorry for the staff at this playcentre. They were overwhelmed by the sheer number of children that were given (overpriced) entry that day. There were not enough people to oversee the whole operation, and for that, I am sad. But it is their business to be prepared for rainy days. In the winter school holidays, they should have been ready for the deluge of money coming their way via crazed mummies needing their chai fix and kids devouring sandwiches and the jumping castle in equal measures.
But they weren't, and it wasn't pleasant. So on the next rainy day, I shall be visiting the other playcentre in our area. It's a bit smaller, and quite a bit older, but it is always a nice place to visit. The food is fresh and prompt, the coffee is hot and plentiful, and it has a dress-up corner that Phoebalina adores. The only drawback is that the Mouse can escape from the babies' corner...so I shall just have to teach her not to climb the enormous inflatable ladder into the kids' labyrinth. Or perhaps I might just don socks and join her - they can't kick me out for that, can they?
Not because of the masses of children. Oh no. I've always loved kids - doting big sister became busy baby sitter, became camp counsellor, became nanny, became teacher - being around kids is what I do. (Some might say because I am on the same intellectual wavelength...I say, don't insult the children).
No, I'll admit I recoiled from the idea of playcentres because the only ones I had seen were a bit grubby. A bit dingy, without any natural light, and with dubious ball pits for the babies. I wasn't entirely keen on the idea of my precious sprogs running around on sticky carpet or hurling themselves into enclosed curly slides, ending the ride by kissing the dirty mat at the bottom.
However, being a rational (yes, you heard me. Rational. Moving right along...) person, I have come to see the value of a good playcentre. We are lucky enough to have two centres within 15 minutes of home, both of which we have visited for birthday parties, emergency coffees, and desperately rainy days. Both have excellent sectioned-off areas for babies, are clean and well-presented, and offer more than hot chips on the menu.
On Friday, I had organised to meet two girlfriends of mine at Planet Kids for a morning playdate. Casey, the uber-housewife extraordinaire of Milkncookies fame, and Michelle, much-envied overseas traveller. Now see, we were all looking forward to the day, because years and years ago, the three of us had worked together in Shell's parents' newsagency. In actual fact, Shell and I had spent the majority of our teenage years together. We went to the same high school; shared a swimming coach and trained together (although she was by far and away one of the best swimmers I have ever seen - I was Mrs. McAverage, coming up the pool lane spluttering chlorine...); and when we worked together in the newsagency, we were regularly mistaken for sisters.
Since Shell has lived in Saudi Arabia for several years now, we had arranged this playdate months ago when she planned a visit home to Australia. Which meant that when Casey's little boy developed an ear infection on Thursday night and needed to see the doctor on Friday morning, our plans were going to go ahead, regardless! Casey dropped her daughter off with us, so that she could at least have a run with Phoebalicious, and took her poor sick little bundle off to get some medi for his ears.
Shell and I spent several hours catching up amidst the hubbub of a playcentre filled to capacity. It was so lovely to see her - incredible to think that I had not seen her for such a long time, but so grateful to have the chance to see her while she was home. Thank goodness she was there too - I kept losing sight of Jack and Phoebe in the swarms of children herbing around, and Maisie had developed an unhealthy obsession for the slide. If it weren't for Shell, I wouldn't have known which way to run!
Seeing Michelle was the best part of my day. But I can tell you this right now - I will not be gracing Planet Kids with my money again. The staff are always friendly and helpful, without a doubt. But any playcentre that cannot cope with a rainy day on a school holiday is not being run properly. That is their business. They should know what to do.
Firstly, I had to park a few blocks away and walk through mud and along a busy road with three small children (no footpaths, anyone?!?) because the playcentre's ten car spaces were full, and the marked parking on the road out the front is also a designated "No Standing" zone. I know this because the last time I went there, the friend I went with got a huge parking fine.
Once we had trekked our way to the entrance, we were charged $33 to enter. Bear with me. I may not be a genius, but the large, clear, laminated sign on the front counter said $8 for four years and over, $6 for three years old, $5 for one year old. 8 + 6 + 5 = $19, right?? The girl went to turn away, and I asked her how it possibly came to $33, thinking perhaps there was a holiday surcharge or an exorbitant fee for parents that was new?? Not only did she not see anything strange with the price she had just charged me, she could not work out how much to give back to me.
When Casey arrived to drop her daughter off, not only did she have to pay to bring her son in for five minutes, but they tried to overcharge her too! When she corrected them, the girl got confused and couldn't deal with it. She literally had to get another staff member to "deal with" Casey's refund. Considering Case had been standing at the entrance for ten minutes, waiting for someone to grace the cash register, this did not go down well.
The average wait for a coffee was 20 minutes. And when I say average, I mean I saw and heard people leaving because half an hour had passed, and their lattes had not appeared. There were tables with 'Reserved' written on them, yet there were not enough for the people actually present to sit down. Shell and I had to crouch in the babies' area for nearly an hour before we snatched a table. Even then, Phoebe had to sit on my knee because there were not enough chairs (and those reserved tables stayed empty the whole time I was there. Should have just sat there.)
No one told the ten year olds to get out of the babies' area. I eventually got my teacher's voice out of storage and used it on some pre-teens who were about to crush my daughter's fingers. They waited until I had retrieved the Mouse from underneath them, and then continued merrily on their way.
I got particular joy out of nuking the tiny hairs inside the noses of passers-by, when I had to stand for ten minutes at the front counter, screaming, flailing Mouse in arms, waiting for a plastic bag to contain the heinous mess inside her nappy. Her poo can stop a man in his tracks - on this particular day, I was glad.
Don't get me wrong - I felt sorry for the staff at this playcentre. They were overwhelmed by the sheer number of children that were given (overpriced) entry that day. There were not enough people to oversee the whole operation, and for that, I am sad. But it is their business to be prepared for rainy days. In the winter school holidays, they should have been ready for the deluge of money coming their way via crazed mummies needing their chai fix and kids devouring sandwiches and the jumping castle in equal measures.
But they weren't, and it wasn't pleasant. So on the next rainy day, I shall be visiting the other playcentre in our area. It's a bit smaller, and quite a bit older, but it is always a nice place to visit. The food is fresh and prompt, the coffee is hot and plentiful, and it has a dress-up corner that Phoebalina adores. The only drawback is that the Mouse can escape from the babies' corner...so I shall just have to teach her not to climb the enormous inflatable ladder into the kids' labyrinth. Or perhaps I might just don socks and join her - they can't kick me out for that, can they?
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