Flutter Nutter

Master Samuel turned 8 recently, and being the quirky little fella that he is, he requested a canary for his birthday. He settled on a little yellow birdie which he named Flutter Nutter. First name Flutter, last name Nutter. He considered some alternative names such as Nutty Fluff (ew, makes me think of hairy balls?) and Cannie Can Can (just to overstate the fact that he's a canary). He is very cute and thus far has survived the continual attention of Miss Frannie, who likes to climb up on a step ladder and push her squishy little face up against the cage whilst making various high pitched noises.
Today she took it one step further and said "I could bite your tiny yellow head off", which I take full responsibly for as I often stand and observe Monsignor birdie and imagine how easy it would be to put his tiny head between my teeth. Okay, that sounds a lot worse than it is. The context here is that I find him ridiculously cute and grit my teeth when I talk to him (as I would a kitty or a baby) and as it not possible to inflict the affection I have for him onto him (because his little birdie bones would be instantly crushed), I have to tell him.
You get it. I don't really want to decapitate the bird. I just like him a lot. Anyway, when Annie said it, it was a) ridiculously cute (seriously, imagine her little baby girl voice saying "tiny yellow head") and b) a little worrying because she could easily repeat this at child care. I'm sure they've heard far worse, but I'd prefer them not to think my daughter is a serial killer... because cruelty to animals is, after all, one of the warning signs of a future sociopath. There's a chance she might still well be a sociopath, but lets not jump the gun.

Pantless bird accosting

Where's my chicken soup you bastards?

I am sick. Oh boo hoo, yes I know.

It's just a cold but by golly I feel like a bucket of warmed up cat sick.

I would not be exaggerating to say that one of the things I dislike the most about being sick is the fact that I still have to be the mummy. Oh how I long for my uni days when I could lie about in my tissue infested bed of toast crumbs and DVD covers, bedside table swarming with tea cups. Yes I still had to make my own toast, but hauling my arse to the kitchen for 3 minutes and then immediately back to my darkened bedroom to feel sorry for myself  is but a distant dream.

It got me thinking actually, that as far as being "looked after" when you are sick, as you get older, it's a gradual descent into hell really.

As a kid it was almost an event to stay home from school with a cold. I admit, I had it pretty sweet.
I would get shepherded off to my Nanna's house, where I would be set up on the couch with pillows and blankets, the TV and my faithful nurse maid, nanna!
My god my nanna was a legend when it came to nursing her (sometimes faking it) sick grandchildren. There was a constant snack trolley for starters. Salada biscuits with all manner of toppings. My favourites incuded, tomato and cheese, cheese and pickled onions and cheese and gherkin rounds. She also let me drink tea out of her fancy china cups and Loys Lemonade. Remember Loys? Was it Loys? I don't know... there was a dude in a van and he bought soft drinks to my grandparents house once a month. I frickin loved that dude. The Loys van was almost as exciting as Santa's sleigh. In summer, my cousins and I would hang out on  my grandparents verandah waiting for the Loys van and go a little bit mental when he rocked up. The clinking of those bottles was the stuff of childhood summer memories I tells ya!

Anyway, I digress. Other highlights of getting to spend a sick day at Nanna and Papa's house were as follows:

1. Playing shops. My Nanna had an enormous icecream container full of buttons which I would thread onto wool and subsequently sell to my Nanna. She was my only client but she was very loyal. She paid me in 5c pieces- REAL MONEY. Bloody legend.
2. Sitting up at the kitchen counter watching my Nanna peel the beans. I don't know why this was so appealing but I vividly remember watching her peel and slice beans and being mesmerised.
3. The ambiance. Grandparents homes have a certain feel about them. The look, smell and texture of their 60's furniture (now highly hip), the smell of baking and moth balls from my "convalescing blankets", the awesome lino in their kitchen which I still make a habit of sitting on when I visit and the sound of my Papa's ban saw in the distance and the faint smell of saw dust (he was a carpenter well into retirement).
4. No brother. Whilst all this was going on, I didn't have to share my grandparents with anyone. All mine. No pesky brother to detract from MEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

What a lot of sentiment. I didn't begin this post with the intention of becoming all sentimental. I was actually intending on having a giant whinge about having to continue on with the daily grind despite feeling like garbage. My point was going to be that it is such a harsh shift from nanna's house to "fend for thyself single gal" and finally, the woman I was last night, cooking dinner, soothing tears, checking homework, all the while feeling and looking like the walking dead and feeling sorry for herself because "no one gives a crap that I'm sick. Bloody kids are so self indulgent". My point though, seems to have been hijacked by the fact that I have realised I had my time being looked after in the most lovely possible way and that's what being a kid is all about. My kids won't have those memories exactly but I still really enjoy making a fuss of them when they're ill.
They deserve it after all, because one day, they will likely be in my shoes, cursing the little monkeys hovering about their feet and very much wanting to throw a quilt over their head and sob.
And if I am VERY lucky I might get to be the Nanna, playing shops and making Salada biscuits and cups of tea.

                                                             Nanna and I circa 1974.
I need to give a shout out to my mum for the the frickin' awesome wall paper choice in our lounge room.
Ever the style conscious, she changed it to fake wood paneling in the 80's.

Balloon animal protocol

I promised I would write this down one day. A tid bit if you will.
Balloon animals... seemingly harmless... seemingly.

Oh how I wish I had been given the low down on this before I had a second child. It's very simple really and allows you to avoid the possibility of  a scene that makes the first ten minutes of Saving Private Ryan look like Milo and Otis frolicking through a meadow. Although I probably should say that I'm pretty sure the filming of Milo and Otis involved some priiiitty questionable goings on... animal welfare wise. There's a definite lack of a "no animals were harmed in the making of this movie" disclaimer in the credits. I've checked. A lot. Anyways, I digress...

So here it is. When purchasing balloon animals for children, always, ALWAYS, let the older child choose their balloon first. I know it's tempting to appease the little one who's clawing at your thigh and eyeballing the balloon dude like a junky waiting for their next hit from a crack cocaine dealer, but please, resist. Once the older child has their hands on their pirate sword balloon, THEN, and only then, allow the 3 foot maniac to choose their balloon. They WILL change their mind from the butterfly to the sword, and they will not be swayed to change it back. Easy. Crisis averted. Scene avoided. No need to carry a screaming child sideways on your hip, balloon butterfly in mouth, whilst getting kicked in the stomach, back to the car park. No need to cut short your foolishly envisaged idyllic romp through the Botanical Gardens in the sunshine (fool). Nope.

You're welcome.

Some stuff happened.

It's been an eventful period in the land O' Fran. The little mite had a birthday, a hair cut and Christmas to contend with.

Her third birthday was fairly low key. I'm afraid the little lady is always going to have that mental "Christmas rush" thing surrounding her big day, but that's what you get when your ridiculously fertile parents have poorly timed sex. Sorry Annie. Anyway, we spent the day at the local pool with her accomplice, Miss Clara, having a picnic and generally getting all razzed up on sugar and sunshine. 'Twas a good day.

I was kind of looking forward to the "terrible two's" being behind us. I wasn't expecting a miracle mind you. It's not as if I thought she might wake up the next day and suddenly resemble one of the children from Little House on the Prairie, but I thought perhaps my small but emotionally volatile house mate might have chilled out just a smidge. No such luck I'm afraid. If anything she has been spurred on by the craziness of the last few weeks, and all the sugary, over-tiredness it has bestowed upon her 3 foot frame.

The first hair cut could have been a disaster but actually turned out to be one of those moments you think you're going to have (but rarely do) when you envisage having children one day, where you gaze down upon the smiley, unfathomably cute little miracle you have created, through tears of pride and love. Unfortunately all sentimentality came crashing down in steaming pile of horse crap though when I tempted fate and tried to squeeze the grocery shopping in after. It wasn't pretty.
I fear "imposter Annie" and I may be inadvertently responsible for motivating the creation of future offspring for the 20 something year old hairdresser lassy, who was witness to this rare display of sweetness from my little psychopath. The presently perky and well rested young woman will no doubt be cursing me amidst her own Coles toddler meltdown one day for having given her a false impression of "the joys of motherhood" and instead into the harrowing experience that is shopping with a semi wild animal.

Christmas was, as it always will be from now on, a mixture of sweet moments where you remember the magic of being a child on Christmas morning and are stirred by the looks on your own children's faces as they experience this wonderment for themselves, contradicted with bitter resentment toward corporate greed as people seem to spew money into wealthy department stores in some sort of frantic display of psychotic spending.
It's easier if I do a list.

What I really hate about Christmas (I probably shouldn't start with the negative but it's much easier)

• Over spending. I refuse to spend $18 on a tin of short bread biscuits shaped like a Scotty dog. Go away.
• Christmas shopping. People seem to be at their very crappest when shopping at Christmas. I have so little patience for "the peoples" at the best of times, but overcrowded shops full of mentally deranged consumers with trolleys piled high with plastic crap really makes me freaks me out. I have a permanent scowl when I am Christmas shopping.
• Slutty Mrs Clause costumes advertised in the junk mail.
• Mariah Carey in my face (wearing a slutty Mrs Clause costume probably).
• The inevitable religious associations that come with celebrating a Christian holiday... and yes, I know that makes me a massive hypocrite because I am, for all means and purposes agnostic and my partner a militant atheist, but I celebrate Christmas for my kids because I don't want them to "miss out". It's very complicated.
• Car travel in the heat. I have a 5 degree comfort zone (18-23 degrees), anything outside of that requires some method of heating/cooling. I don't engage well with the heat. Hot seat belts, sweaty legs, shade blinds that spring up. I don't like it.
• Hot weather. Don't even. 

What I really like about Christmas:

• Putting up the Christmas tree with my kidlets while listening to Christmas carols. It reminds me of my childhood. Of complete and utter blissful ignorance of  anything outside of my own little world. Sigh. 
• Cherries
• Prawns
• Michael Buble in my face. He is the Christmas whore (as Sash eloquently put it) but that's okay. He's a hot guy that can sing. C'mon!
• Seeing friends and family that I rarely get to see.
• School holidays. I have to admit I love having my boy at home with me. He is such a darling and it's nice not to have to contend with the school run everyday. 

 Also I really hate the beach. I know it's not directly linked to Christmas but it's worth a mention because I hate it so very much. 

Right, so, rant over. I'm glad things are starting to slow down a bit and return to normal. However that is providing that normal includes rinsing skid marks from tiny, fairy adorned knickers.

     

I took this photo earlier today. It captures perfectly the moment between being told she wasn't allowed to watch Peppa Pig on my phone and deciding whether or not to burst into tears (she went with the tears).
I call it the "hover cry". In the event of the hover cry there is an ever so brief moment in which to distract a toddler with something shiny or loud, high pitched sounds. I wasn't on the ball.