Calgary

 Is very cold.

So cold that your snot freezes and your eyes feel crunchy. That's cold. And of course, living for almost 10 years in Sydney, Australia, means that my blood is nice and tuned into humid muggy hotness, not crispy dry freezer air. But wait, I am skipping ahead.

One can break my trip into three distinct parts: Getting There, Being There, and Getting Back.

Getting there

Travelling with children under the age of, say 18 is not to be taken lightly. First, one must ensure that one has sucked up to every available ground staff and cabin staff in the vicinity ("Oh thank you so much Steeeve"). That way, you get pillows and blankies first, your meals first and a good steady supply of vodka to ease you thru those 'oh my god these kids haven't slept in 14 hours' kind of panic. Also this means you get extra colouring books, chocolates from first class. All you have to do is get your oldest child’s arm in a pinch-twist and threaten to actually flush the airline toilet while she's in there if she doesn’t say 'please' and 'thank you'. (This works better if you tell her that it sucks nasty rude children into the toilet and then plops them into the ocean with the poo). Nice polite children are easy for cabin staff. And for Mum.
But neither child slept. Hub did due to the law that seems to dictate that if Mum and kids and Dad are all together, Mum still works and Er... Dad is on holiday. Whatever. We had an eight hour stopover in LA which involved ferrying kids and baggage on an airport bus to a hotel and then trying to check in while seriously jet lagged and stinky. The hotel was okay; never again will we share a room with the kids. They sleep like wild animals. No one slept and our bankcards mysteriously didn't work so we were living on the $50 US we'd had the foresight to change at the airport. Funny how it goes less far then it did the last time we went overseas - sans kids. Apart from the basketball court that was positioned next to our room (can you say 'ker-thunk, ker-plappity, ker-plappity, ker-thunk' all night?) and my incandescent rage that turned into meek acquiescence when I actually stormed out of the room and met said basketball (one word. T.A.L.L.) - The stopover was liveable.
Two out of three sisters met us at the airport, which was a delight and warmed my heart to no end. They hadn't changed a bit. Mum and Dad looked older and weary.

Being There

My folks have a pretty flash house in a very nice area and well.... sorta reminds you that you don't. Or at least, reminds my hub that our house, while lovely, doesn't compare. So he always is a little on the back foot when we visit home, some sort of crap about feeling less then adequate. Although I reckon it's got more to do with being seriously out numbered by women and not only that, women who are mouthy and smart and not afraid to tangle. It must be a weird experience. You'd think he'd have more confidence since he lives with one of those women, but alas.
Anyway, it's too damn cold to take the kids out, so they spend most of their time watching PBS Kids and going feral. While my parents pretend that they aren't noticing that the house has become a dumpster and that kids are screaming and shrieking and chucking Wobblies all over the place. My oldest persists in practicing her dance steps (totally made up) in the kitchen, looking like a demented Kate Bush in the throes of performance art, while my youngest crawls over the expensive flooring leaving a trail of puke like a slug. Parental smiles get strained and grandparental smiles become grimaces.

I got to go out a bit (my parents are really a tad too long in the tooth to ferry a fat crawling baby up and down stairs for nappy changes or to lift a hysterical 3 year old off the kitchen floor) – a memorable Sushi dinner with my youngest sister which allowed us to mend some bridges (although I must admit, I feel less than accountable for atrocities I committed at 13, nonetheless, said cruelties such as locking her out of the house or tying her up with skipping rope and leaving her in the closet apparently leave scars, and who am I to judge?). Anyway, she’s a peach and once she sorts out whether she wants to be a team player or run the team, she'll be fine. She's just married so her time with me was limited, but then again, I am not much more than a blip in her life, so what can I expect? Maybe next time.
My second youngest sister and I are very close, so we hung out big time, and I’ve already mentioned how great she is. I am sure she was bored sometimes, I am sure she had things she wanted to do and I am sure she felt like I was being a big drag and her own life was being put on hold. But she came and hung out and did stuff knowing she wouldn't see me again for a long while. That meant something special. Suffice to say, if the weather wasn’t so damn cold and I was younger, she’d be a major reason to move back home.
My next in line sister I didn’t see much of. Actually  4 or 5 times in the two months I was there. She’s pretty busy and pretty important and well…. She has her life; it’s unfair of me to assume that she’s going to put it aside to hang out with me, especially since I live so far away. We have lives running on totally different continuums, I guess. I am not competing. I just wish we'd had more time together. Life's so short, you know?
My mother is well, though as stress prone as I remember. (I get my online name honestly). She frets and worries and gnaws each and every issue to a little nub that she can bury and then dig up later when she needs something to worry about. She is far more patient with the kids than I am, and it was good to see how it is ‘done’. I think grand-parenting must be great – all the wonders of kids and no 3am wakeup calls.
My father was in good form, generous, humorous and full of wisdom. He’s a smart smart man, and I judge all other people by him. He is getting a bit curmudgeonly now (he’s 70) but I think when you get to a certain age, you should just be allowed to tell people to fuck themselves if you feel like it. And he does. Though not in those words. He writes a lot of letters to the papers, sorting out the world.
So the holidays were frantic and crazy and lots of women in kitchens screeching about who hid the whipping cream and lots of kids hopped up on sugar and bursting into tantrums and equal amounts of dramas and tears at any given moment. In other words, the usual gig in a family that defines ‘highly strung’ by whether you cry if people leave the table before Christmas pudding. (Yes, there were tears over this issue). But it was good. It reminded me of all the wonderful things families give you, and all the things that you want to ignore and pretend that they aren’t part of you. I know when I get tired, I get snappy – so does my mum. I know that I like to solve every problem immediately and hate rehashing – ditto sister #3 and my dad. I know that the endless dramas make me crazy and make me want to run away like sister #2 and I know that I worry about my identity like sister #1. And that’s who I am, the good and the not-so-good.

Getting Home

Was a breeze. Despite the tears and scenes at the airport, my oldest was the poster child for air travel (a shock considering her previous performance at the age of 6 months). She was helpful, articulate and a real pal. My youngest was a pill, but then she had just started crawling and was determined to keep on going, so the seatbelt thing didn’t work so well.  I didn't help much by taking to have her nappy changed twice an hour, until I figured out that the guy next to me was farting in his sleep. I think I was overcompensating for being the woman with the kids on the plane that no one wants to sit beside. Personally, I think my seat neightbour should come with a warning stamped on his ticket. My kids weren't stinky. I abstained from booze (a first for air travel) and managed just fine. Apart from long interminable lines in LAX to get past security (yeah mate, do I look like I even have the energy to hijack a plane when I can't even get my stroller to work?) , it really wasn’t that bad. I am proof that a neurotic woman can indeed, manage 19 hours of travel with two kids under 4 and survive without the aid of drugs. Go figure. Of course, when I got home, I immediately cracked open the bottle of vodka and started drinking, but then no one is perfect.

And now I am here, in plus 38 degree weather (close to 100 degrees F for you Yanks) and slowly getting adjusted to whatever life is like with two active kids instead of one active kids and a blob-baby. The house seems strangely empty without women clogging up the stairways whispering about the latest dramas or having heart-to-hearts perched on the kitchen counter. My house is just a wreck and hell... I just don't care. I miss my family, I don't miss the cold and I don't miss the dramas. But I sure do miss the love.

Sistah.

Thank you for giving up your days and your nights to run around with your cranky old sibling. I had a blast. Who knew that shopping at IGA could be so much fun? Or that watching 'American Chopper' could be a religion?

Thanks for ensuring that my M*A*C makeup collection stayed current, even though I rarely wear makeup, some how it's nice to see it all arranged there in my drawer, by colour and by function. Some day, I might even wear it. Or end up giving it back to you.

Thanks for pushing that battle scarred car of yours to its limits. It really is a piece of crap, ain't it? The trips to and from the Rockies with noisy stinky kids in the back, Crowded House blaring from the tape deck and the fog setting in, will haunt my dreams. Next time, we take a Porta-potty. Get yer windshield fixed before you become tuna steak on the highway and I know my lip pencil is under  the front seat. You aren't fooling me, but you can keep it.

I hate your dog. You know that. It's little and yappy and my socks still smell of pee. But hey, it's the house dog, and you come with it. Make sure you get it to make friends with a Rottweiler whilst it's wearing its little booties, okay? It make be a lovely little dog-sickle.

Thanks for going to see movies with me - and not eating my popcorn. And for trudging thru Wal-mart, because the evil empire has not yet struck down under.

Bless you for catering dinners and lunches. And curse you for not believing that I can calculate how to cook a roast. It was the most expensive beef jerky in Christendom, but hey, Dad woulda liked it. And I need the Tater recipe, okay? It's the only time I've seen Mouse eat a vegetable.

Mouse misses you terribly. She wants to go over to your house and put on pink lipstick and paint her nails gross purple colours and eat crappy junk food and talk talk talk until your eardrums are bleeding. That was a nice thing you did for her - not once but all the time. It's good for her to see that other women are just as nutty as her mother.

And I know kids are weird for you, since you don't have any. But they can grow on you, and you did a good thing by spending time with her, on her own. She'll remember that for as long as she lives, the same way you remember the things I did with you.

You are a wonderful person. You are smart, funny and good looking. You need to remember that. And remember this - I love you more than anything else in the world, except my kids.

(next entry, the full run down on the trip. I needed to get this one out there.)

Cranky.

These are the things I am currently very cranky about. Yes, I am tired, yes I am stressed, but mother-of-all-that's-good-and-holy, why must these things torment me?

Citibank.

I would like to reach down the phone and rip the hearts out of each and every so-called "Customer Service" representative that works there.
Tip for "Customer Service" Reps: if you say you are going to call me back, then do so. Otherwise, that's called lying. I don't care if you have nothing to report except that nothing has happened, you said you'd call back.
I am sorry that Simon who was supposed to call went home sick except when I called and then he was on another call, I am sorry that Dominick waited  until 6:45pm and then thought it was too late (who are you kidding, bub?), and I am desolate that you have 6 other customers with the same issues and you are spending hours on the phone. You ain't spending hours on the phone to ME, so that isn't customer service. And your co-workers aren't my problem.
I have better things to do then sit around waiting for a non-existent courier to arrive, and much much better things to do then sit through your endlessly perky automated phone menu so I can call to tear your balls off. If you can't handle your job responsibilities, which appear to me mostly about interacting with customers, then find a job that suits you better. Say, growing mould in a petri dish.

Australia Post.

If a letter arrives registered mail, and I am not here to sign for it, you must must let me know that you did, in fact, attempt to deliver the letter. I believe such things are called 'Attempted Delivery Advices' and you simply fill them in, and pop them in the mailbox. Otherwise, you are relying heavily on my ability to pick up your mental vibrations and sense through ESP that there is a parcel waiting for me at the Post Office. I hesitate to mention this, as I know you will find it hard to believe, but my psychic abilities deserted me about the time I fucked with an Ouija board in Grade 8. But believe this, this parcel is a passport, and should it go back to Canberra where it was issued, this will totally fuck my holiday.
And then I will buy a pump action shotgun and cheerfully blast your soft poofy donut eating, McNugget gobbling ass through the Post Office wall. So make sure it's there when I get there, bub. You don't want to fuck with a holiday deprived stay at home mum with a teething 9 month old and a 4 year old diva in training who's afraid of the dark.

BBQ Guests.

No, you cannot bring your slobbery aggressive dog. I don't like it and I will kick it every time it comes near me.
No, you cannot bring your crusty old rellies, they bore me and they hog the bathroom, making stinky poos.
No, your children will not be served healthy snacks, I intend to stuff your kids with enough Red Dye No 3 to preserve them for decades, and enough sugar to keep them bouncing off the walls until breakfast time. It's a party, geddit?
No, you cannot sneak your $5 bottle of Chateau Sydney Harbour into the fridge and then glugg back my $19 bottle of Leuwin Estate. I see you, and I will spit in your glass when you aren't looking, and wipe boogers on your chicken wings.

St. George Bank.

You are all a bunch of tossers. It is incredibly bad customer relations to take an overdraft fee out of the account 4 days after the alleged offence occurred. Especially when the funds were transferred in, 6 minutes after the overdraft happened.

It is even more insulting when you realise that it was due to a bank error that the overdraft occurred.

And it is tremendously bad form, to promise to reverse said charge, and NOT DO IT.

This is why you have no friends.
This is why you can't get laid.
This is why we, the popular fun people, laugh about bank employees at our incredibly fun parties.
We laugh at you, we laugh about you, and we plot ways to take our money and our large mortgages to Trust Companies.

Walt Disney.

Excuse me, but you spent millions upon millions marketing the Lion King to littlies. Your artists drew cute big eyed lions, your writers worked on a sappy preachy story line, and you got that old drag queen Sir Elton to write pappy melodies. So why is it so hard to believe that when the stage show comes to town, that parents would want to take their kids?
Oh it isn't.
That's why you refuse to offer childrens ticket prices, and insist that babes in arms, pay full adult prices. This brings the cost of a family outing to $400:

• Two Adults - $200. 


• 1 Child who gets her own seat - $100. But she better not talk and disturb the other patrons who are there for intellectual edification.


• One baby who doesn't get her own seat - $100.  Hey, seems fair to me. I mean, she must be renting the rareified air space that the artists (aka known as "actors who can't be recognised behind warthog masks") are breathing.

And when queried, you tell me that the show isn't for kids, and they are not encouraged to come, hence the outrageous ticketing policy. Well that sucks, Mr. Disney.
News Flash: It may be wonderful, it may be spectacular, but it isn't ART. It's a bunch of people with lion outfits on (that's called 'dressup' in our house, and we can do it with eyeliner and a bedsheet), pretending to be African (cultural exploitation is a recurrent Disney theme) and it won't change the world, especially with Elton John music (the world ain't Croc-Rockin' last time I checked). You are just being pretentious wankers, and all the pretending in the world won't let  us forget you got rich on the back of a badly drawn cartoon mouse and fairy tale rip-offs.

Yah Boo Sucks to all.

Sleep.
(or the lack thereof.)

Aaah. The kids are napping. Well, they might not be, but I chucked them both in their beds and threatened them with grievous bodily harm if I heard one leetle PEEP out of  them (the baby gets the tone of my voice). Yes, I sound like my mother. Both are crabby wee besoms and I am well free of them for a couple of hours. Or I might just tie them up and leave them outside for the wolves. Haven't decided.

This whole house is seriously sleep deprived. I don't mean the kind where you are a little foggy for a day, because you tossed and turned all night, or you had a few jars, I mean the kind where you fantasize about sleep. You lust after sleep. And all things related,such as big featherbeds and breakfast trays for a glorious breakfast in bed, plumpy pillows,and ear plugs. You'd rather have 2 extra hours in bed asleep than sex, than chocolate, than a cabana boy wearing a sarong and holding an umbrella drink.

It all affects us differently.

The Boy is sleep deprived because he has to get up every morning at 5am, so he can faff about for 2 hours having breakfast and staring into the distance. He doesn't have to iron anything,or make his lunch, the resident maid does that for him. He just hates to rush about in the morning. But since he doesn't get home till 8 or so, and doesn't really unwind till 11 or so, he is running on about a 2 hour sleep deficit (for him). As a result, he gets really really  S     L     O     W. As in, anything you want done, doesn't. Or takes four times as long, since he keeps forgetting where he was going and what he was doing and why he was doing it in the first place. Conversations are like speaking underwater using snorkles.

Mousey wakes up with Dad, and has had some bad nightmares, and so hasn't had good solid blocks of sleep. As a result, Mouse gets whiny and dramatic. Everything is a big goddam deal. Every setback becomes the end of the free world as we know it. Every bump or scrape becomes a tragic disability she must bravely overcome. And since I am the kind of mother who requires the sight of blood or bone before I even reach for the Bandaids, you can imagine how well this goes over. Playmates are all stinky, or mean or stealing things. All her clothes are only fit for circus clowns and the only reason I want her to wear them is so she will be pointed out on the street and laughed at. Everything  foodwise is treated with suspicion that it is poisoned (don't for one moment think I haven't contemplated it lately) and only given to her on purpose, to. make. her. cry. That's just the way it is.

Cherub gets woken up by Miss Happy (see above) and  just grizzles non-stop all the damn time. She isn't happy sitting, she isn't happy lying, she isn't happy being held. I don't know if she's happy lying in her room screaming with the door closed, but hell, who cares? She is teething and waking a couple of times a night. Now, okay, I get that it must be painful, but can anyone tell me why it's only painful at NIGHT? Do the little toothypegs go to the Bahamas from 9am to 9pm? I thought not. It's just more fun to be miserable with company. Then you can take everyone else with you.

And me. Oh Lordie. I get cranky (obviously). I start throwing things at Dr. Phil when he suggests 'gentle ways to parent'. I take the dog poop monuments on my front lawn as a personal affront and plot to send the poop back to the owners via registered mail. I regard Mouse with unending irritation as she goes through her Diva antics,and the baby spends an awful lot of time staring at the ceiling of her room. The postman who only delivers our mail on sunny days finds me tapping my foot ourside the mailbox, and the well-meaning friends who ask me to come to movies that start past 7pm get sardonic laughter. The housework just isn't enough fun for me to do it, and hell, I am a volunteer after all. It's just going to get all messed up in twn minutes anyway, so why not skip that extra step? Toys get thrown into giant Hefty bags and dragged to the kerb while my children sit weeping on the sidewalk. Suit jackets get thrown viciously into the bottom of the closet since they obviously don't belong on hangers. All laundry gets done together - because it all lies on the floor in stanky old heaps, so again, let's get efficient and skip the middle step of sorting.

In short I am mean to other people's kids, other people's pets and....other people. I am mean to my own people.

I don't think I'll be heading to the mall today.

Remind me, only 19 more sleeps until holidays,right? Only 19 more sleeps until I descend upon the loving bosom of my family. God help them. I hope they are well-rested.

Vortex.

I am finding that online life is becoming a great big drag lately. I feel like the mother of 800 women, who all need to be closely supervised or they will snatch each other's toys. I can hear the whines: "MUUUUUM! SHE SAYS SHE ISN'T MY FRIEND"....Oy. I am done with being sympathetic, I referee enough squabbles in my day to day existence under my own roof. Enough people. It's online, it is 2D, not 3D, and if someone is trying to pick a fight - ignore it. And for heaven's sake, where is the payoff in picking fights, anyway? It's not  like you can SEE the person cry or get upset. All you get back is words. You all need to take a deep breath, and spend more time with your families if this is all you can get out of an online community. Life is too short and too precious to waste it warring over words that may or may not have been said, or implications that may or may not have been implied, or sticks and stones that may or may not have been thrown. Not to mention, it is the height of arrogance to assume that everyone is all that fucking interested in the linguistic swipes going back and forth. I have my opinion on who's right and who's wrong, but I cannot even summon the desire to get involved anymore. Give it up, and give the rest of us some peace.

Okay. On to other things.

Guess what? I am going home to Calgary for the first time in 3 years for Christmas. And I am taking the hub and the 'gruesome twosome'. My mum hasn't seen Mouse since she was 6months old, and hasn't even met the Spewprincess yet. Ditto to my gorgeous three sisters, one of whom has a new son whom I've never met, and who, from all biased accounts, I am going to love.  (ahem, not enough to want one of my own, see previous entry). I haven't seen anyone with whom I share DNA in the Great White North in 3 long years. I have a new brother-in-law that I have never met. And another whom I've only met when he married my sister, and another whom I've known for a while, but never get a chance to get silly with.

Does everyone get how important this is?

So why am I nervous?

Well, let me count the ways.

1. I still haven't lost my post-Spewprincess baby weight. I am carrying about 20 extra pounds and feel like John Candy. And for some reason, I always feel fatter around my gorgeous siblings. (No guesswork required there). I am sure they are gonna look at me and say 'too bad, she's really twinkied out since the second kid'. Call me superficial, call me shallow, but hell, I am older than dirt, and such trivial things start to matter when you can fold your boobs in half and tuck them into your waistband. If you had a waistband, that is. 

2. I actually LOOK like my passport photo. And it's shocking. I look about 100 years old. I remember hearing once that when you age, you are either a 'shrinker' (your face gets tight and hollowed out and wrinkled' or a 'sagger' (your face starts to slip down your neck). I am the latter. I had cheekbones once, but since I had baby No.2, they appear to be located on either side of my mouth. You might, in a fit of nastiness, call them 'jowls'.

3. What if no one really thinks it's a big deal?  What if they are all sitting there, silently resenting all the hoo-haa that is going on in preparation for our visit, and wondering why I think I am Miss Thang?  (My mother has already planned the entire visit, right down to when we get the tree, and the baking of cookies. She's also bought, wrapped, re-bought and re-wrapped, all the girls' presents.) I can imagine that, if you were one of the daughters who didn't leave her family behind in a spate of 60's revisionist soul tripping/navel gazing, you might start to get a little narky about the prodigal daughter coming home to the fatted calf. (think Richard Gere as King David dancing around in his diaper undies while the people throw palm fronds at him and genuflect. I'd be the one throwing bricks, prolly if the tables were turned). 

4. We are broke. We cannot make up for being the prodigals by buying lavish presents and treating everyone to neato things. Which would be my usual way of handling things. So I am going to have to get by on sheer personality. Which brings me to No. 5.

5. I know I have changed since I had kids. I changed when I had my first, and I can guarantee I have changed even more since my second. Insert words/phrases like 'short tempered', 'grouchy', 'goes to sleep at 9pm','no fucking fun' and you get the idea. They will probably hate me. Worse, I will probably bore them. I used to think there was no worse fate than to be a bore. Now I just think 'I hope I am so lucky'.

6. And what if they hate my kids? There is no rule that says just because you are related to a child that you have to like her. And my 3 almost 40 year old can be hard work. I mean, I love her, and I understand her, and I get her little quirks and I get when she is testing limits and when she is just tired and confused, but then I have to. They don't. They can just go home, shaking their heads about what a terrible mother I am. And my youngest does this weird grunting thing almost all the time. I know someone is going to get irritated, I do - I mean it does go on all the time she is awake. And let's not mention how cute the spew will be the 40th time it's appeared on someone's freshly laundered shirt. Or expensive carpet.

I need a liposuction, and a Dr. Phil personality makeover with a side order of some Oprah 'Live your real life'.  And I've only got three weeks to do it in.

 

Two.

Yeah, yeah, I know. You all thought I'd left. I haven't left, I just can't seem to find the time to write anymore. My days are filled with kids and home and hub and friends and all my 'me time' seems to be sucked into space through a vortex that exists between the kitchen and my youngest's bedroom. Or so I tell myself. And when I am not telling myself that, I am telling myself that I don't have anything interesting to write about. My days are pretty settled, and while I don't believe you need to be full of existential angst to write - I write better when I am tortured or angry. Hell, I write better when I am not sleep deprived too. 

See what happens when you add another child to the mix? 

I was talking to the Boy yesterday about another child. I think he'd like another, since my cousin (second cousin actually but who cares) just announced she's expecting Number Three. We've kicked the idea around a bit, and I even went so far as to refuse sterilisation when I had the chance (c-section). 

But I have to be brutally frank. If I found out I was pregnant tomorrow, I would be suicidal. The thought fills me with horror. I would plunge into a depression the likes which have never been seen in this parts. I would be reduced to sitting on the couch, watching Oprah and feeding the family Swanson TV dinners without defrosting them. I'd slowly get larger and larger until I died lying there, remote in hand, and my kids only noticed because the dog was feeding on my bloated corpse and the neighbours complained about the smell. 

That's how I feel about having another child. 

I am sucked dry on the mothering/nurturing thing some days. There are times that all I want is for my kids to be old enough to make their own lunches, get themselves dressed and leave me in peace to read a book without pictures. And that day is coming, I can taste it. I can almost touch the day when I am not covered in puke and shit and cooking disgusting smelly meals and having banal conversations about Bratz dolls or trying to stuff food into unwilling mouths. I will have some freedom. It will be a new phase of motherhood, one where I am not dragging my sorry ass out of bed at some ungodly hour to feed/change/soothe/banish monsters. I will get some 'me time'. 

I love my kids. I am a reasonably good mother to them. I shout too much, I don't have enough patience, I expect too much of them and I lose my temper too often. But I can balance that with lots of love and cuddles and laughs and genuine enjoyment of who they are and what they are becoming. But I only have this much. I don't have it for another child. People tell you that you will find it, that you will discover depths you didn't know you had. And I say BOLLOCKS. 

There's no denying that my relationship with my oldest daughter has changed, and not necessarily for the better, since my attention became divided. And not only my attention, my patience, my understanding, my drive to be a good mother all got splintered in two. You may love both your kids, but no way do you love them the same, and nor do you love them equally. You love whichever kid needs you most at a particular moment. And you also are quite capable of detesting the other one who interrupts you when you are loving the first one.

 That's right, I said detest. As in, 'don't like very much'. 

So right now, despite not finding much time for me, I am finding some sort of balance between these two extremes that allows me still to be a good mother. But I know my limitations. I know I don't stretch to doing this for three. Only two. 

Mothering two children is good. It stretches me, makes me better and teaches me about what I am capable of. But I've learned enough lessons to know that there isn't room in my heart or my mind for another. And that's a good enough reason. Two's a good number. Two kids gives you a chance to explore different personalities, and to watch two human beings grow up. No need to push the envelope or prove anything to anyone. 

It's about knowing your limitations and making the best decision for everyone. 

And 'everyone' includes me.

SSDD

(same shit, different day.)

Well  yes, I haven't been around for simply AGES. Because since we moved into the house by the sea with a saltwater pool and a gas BBQ - all our friends are treating  us like resort owners, and we have yet to have a weekend alone in 8 weeks.

The latest arrival is my mother-in-law. Whom, those of you will remember, is not one  of my favourite people.  Still, she is the kids grandmother, and hell... even she  deserves time with her grandkids. Or so I thought before this extended visit.

Hell, this is more than I can bear. My hub leaves for work everyday at 7am, and doesn't return until 8pm. It's a long day,  and most of the time, I feel sorry for him. Not when his mother is here. All I can think of lately is 'that bastard! he doesn't have to deal with her at all, and it was HIS idea she come and stay for 10 days."

Okay, so what's so hard about living with her? Read and learn, my lovelies...

Transgression #1: She is as deaf as a post, as deaf as a dead parrot on a perch, as deaf as a pail of hair. So the television is up doubleplusloud and  you have to constantly shriek to be heard. And because she can't hear, the conversations have a strangely surreal quality. You can be discussing immigration issues with your husband and she interjects loudly "HAVE YOU EVER SEEN 'TOUCHED BY AN ANGEL? IT'S A LOVELY SHOW..  SO NATURAL AND LOVING." Hello? What the fuck is going on?

Trangression #2: She is lazy as fuck, so all she wants to do is watch television all day.  The televsion is on from 7am in the morning until about 3am. Loudly, and without any kind of discretion whatsoever. Jerry Springer, Game shows, soapies, movie-of-the-weeks starring Jane  Seymour... it all assaults your eardrums virtually 24 hours a day. Now, I am not a television snob - I watch plenty. But not all the time. I watch my favourites at night - on Monday, and Thursday,and I am not adverse to the odd Oprah running while I feed the bub. But if there is crapola on, it goes off. Not now, no sirree. And you have to endure the running commentary on such stellar offerings  as 'Lethal Lolita: The Joey Buttfueco Story' and even when you are patently not listening -the monologue doesn't stop. She just thinks you want her to explain  the plot.

And she turns up with her laundry. Picture my delight at washing old lady skanky pants. And undergarments that I have only heard  about in Jane Austen novels, not in reality. And  why am I washing them, you ask? Because they need washing and she doesn't want to leave them until she gets home because they will get dirtier.  (no lie, that's what she said).  What kind of houseguest  turns up with 2 Hefty bags full of dirty clothes for you to wash? Huh? So in addition to doing the 2 loads a day I do for a family of four, I am now doing hers. And she rinses out  her  undies (not wash them, nooooooo) and hangs them over the main floor banister where they wave delightly at anyone who comes to the front door. Oh my god, my head just about exploded.

Trangression #3: She is as stupid as a box of hammers. No kidding. Words fail me. She needs written instructions to use the tv remote. She  won't answer the phone  because she can't figure out how to use it. (hint: Pick.the.fucking.thing.up!!) She doesn't read anything, so her opinions are formed by what she  watches on television. (er... see #2 above). Not good. She can't work out how to turn off the lights. What is with that, for heaven's sake? Lights have two settings, On  and Off. And light switches  are found in 99.9% of all cases, beside the door. So what is so hard? Last night she got me out of bed at 2am to switch the dining room light off because she.couldn't.work.it.out. My god. I fell to my knees and prayed that my children didn't inherit her brains.

Trangression #4 (aka 'We'll  laugh about this when we are older): This ties into #3 as well. As parents of two children under 4, my husband and I get very little  er... adult time. Usually, we wait  until the kids are in bed, then retire ourselves and get some frisky thangs happening. So there we are, Sunday night, getting us some action that hadn't been seen  in over 3 weeks, and there is a knock at the door. 'I CAN'T TURN OFF THE LIGHTS!!'. Hub gets  up, wraps a towel around himself and shows her where the light switch is. Back he runs, hoping that I won't have fallen asleep in the meantime. So, things are re-heating, there we are, rolling around like a couple of crazed weasels, when there is another knock at the door.... 'I CAN'T WORK THE KETTLE, I NEED MY HOT WATER BOTTLES.' He gets out of bed again, (leaving me in a most inopportune position) to show her how the fucking kettle works. (Hint: Turn it on.) Back he runs, and at  the moment of truth - you guessed it, another knock on the door... this time (wait for it, it's good).... 'YOU DIDN'T KISS ME GOODNIGHT'.  Holy fuck. At that point I just started having hysterical giggles and completely and utterly ruined my experience. And hubbys.

Transgression #5 - everything else.

• She is always on a diet, yet manages to gobble/suck/chew every nice thing we have in the house, like chocolates, or biscuits. No, she never eats them,  but nevertheless, they are all GONE. Not even Mouse's animal crackers  have  survived the onslaught.


• She is always bending down, picking bits of fluff out of the carpet. She can't do  her own laundry, or cook her own meals, but she can find time to find the specks on the rug that prove I didn't vacuum today.


• She thinks rinses out her  dishes and stacking them  on the draining board is good.enough. Nevermind the dishwasher right underneath the draining board - she's helping me by stacking them all crusty and waterlogged on the counter for me to put into the dishwasher. Guess what? She can't "figure out how to open the dishwasher, dear."

So yes, I want to kill her. Somebody that stupid and deaf deserves to die. I want her gone, I want  her silent  and most of all, I want to have sex with my husband, watch tv at a volume suitable for people without ear trumpets and not have to wash her clothes.

I want my life back.

Secrets.

My daughter thinks I am boring. I don't surprise her anymore, she says.  Well fuck... I've finally turned into my mother, but my kid is bored by me and she's only three. She's not even old enough to slouch against the doorjamb with her arms folded, a look of pained condescension on her face and do that eye-rolling thing that I had down pat at 15.

Humph.

Confessions of a Boring Old Fart:

I have a sneaking affection for monster trucks. For some reason, all my middle-class upbringing goes straight to the trailer park  when I can see big big trucks with big bouncy wheels pop wheelies in big old dirt arenas. I especially love interviews with the drivers who are inevitably named 'Junior' and who allus wear Caterpillar baseball caps.

I can only take about 6 or 7 BeeGees songs before I start snorting with laughter. Funny thing about that trio -  you hear one of their ballads and you think 'that's such a great song' and then by about the fourth one - you are retching and gagging from the sheer paucity of the lyric offering. My favourite is the one about the guys dying in a mining disaster. I wonder which of the  Brothers Gibb thought that would be an excellent top- 40 tune. Especially when the melody is so knee jiggling and bouncy. "Hey, let's do a song where everyone gets buried alive and maybe we'll get on American Bandstand and everyone can dance to it". HUH? And the depth of feeling that their fans have for this light-weight group just astounds me. I mean, they are three guys who wrote clever slick pop songs, sang like girlies and one of them got the other two's share of hair. And women  are still shrieking, for cripes sakes. News flash: they all have bad teeth, lousy bods and they are about 100 years old... except for the short bald one, who's dead. So who cares what kind of meals they like???

I don't like Ani DiFranco. She's whiny. And she always seem to promise more than she actually delivers. Actually - I don't think I like many so-called rock chicks. Or women artists that are supposedly intellectual and earnest. If I want earnest, I'll read a book, not listen to Ani. Or Jewel. Jewel sounds like she's 4 years old and writes godawful poetry. Do not buy this book. Your retinas will bleed. If you want your eardrums to bleed, try deciphering Sheryl Crowe.  I can't understand any of what she is saying, in any of her songs. Is it just me or is she singing in a different language? Melissa Etheridge is Bryan Adams in drag. Okay, I don't like any rock chicks.

I do however, like rap. I own 'Straight Outta Compton' and I love it. Eminem is alright, but other black artists did it first and did it better.

I can dance. I dance all the time. To me, nothing is more pathetic than a bunch of white people trying to seat dance at a concert. If they were black, they'd be dancing. If they were black, they'd look cool. Instead, white folks just bite their bottom lips and shake their shoulders while staying bums-on-seats. A bunch of sardines wiggling on pins.  I wish to apologise to any musicians who have had to endure this.  It's an embarassment to our race. On the other hand, I will get up and dance exuberantly at anything.  I fully intend to wiggle my way through my children's recitals, just to embarass the hell out of them, and to show everyone how it is done. That is, when I am not waiting at the door of the school in a big rubber chicken suit, waving and screeching to them down the hall... he he he.

Kids bore me stupid. And yes, I  have two. But I find most toddler activities boring as hell, and I cannot wait until I can put away the glue stick and the glitter and actually do something that doesn't make me want to  internally shriek with boredom. Oh, and I don't like your kids. Some days, I barely like my own - and I can tell you, I certainly don't like yours. I don't care how cute they are. The only reason they are in my house is because they will keep my kids occupied and you and I can get stuck right into the wine and  the trashing of mutual acquaintances.

I think Queen was a terrible rock band.  I think they were talentless buffoons and I will die a happy woman if I  never ever hear another rendition of 'We are the Champions'. And yes, I did own that album. When I was like 13. I also owned all of Alice Cooper's albums too, but I don't delude myself that it was anything more than some crap-ass rebellion. It wasn't good music. Nevah evah.

I don't like nature. That means, you will never hear me exclaim over how beautiful a flower is, or see me hunched over the remote control, jealously guarding the Discovery Channel. I can appreciate animals and all the flora and fauna best when it is behind glass - preferably at least 10 inches thick. Fuck camping, too many damn bugs. And dirt everywhere. I will leave it up to the educational system to teach my children the wonders of the natural world. I will teach them how to order two double strength espressos in Italian.

I hate exercise. I hate it even more when it's good for you. I love to walk places, cos you get to look at things, but only if I am going somewhere on purpose. I don't walk unless I need to get from point A to point B. And I certainly don't have special shoes. And for all of you runners out there - you look in pain, and you look stupid with your shorts going up your ass and the only thing I think are stupider than runners jogging in a downpour, are bicyclists puffing uphill in their leetle tight black outfits in the hot Australian summer sun. Whoa. That's why cars were invented.

I like shopping, but I detest clothes shopping. I only like to shop if I have nothing to get. Nothing better than pissing off sales assistants, or pulling out a wad of crumpled 50's out of your ripped jeans when you want to buy some useless toy. Ditto to paying the waiter cum actor between jobs in some fancy cafe.

I have phoneaphobia. I hate hate hate using the telephone. I never call anyone, because I am convinced that I am calling right in the middle of some spousal warfare, or, even worse, they are hissing at each other to make up excuses to hang up on me. The answering machine is the bestest invention ever. No matter when someone calls me, it's the wrong time. I might be staring off into space, or looking forward to the next chapter of a book or painting my toenails bright red or watching some shite on the telly - I never want to answer the phone. I don't know why - I think it's something to do with me being a control junkie. When you call me, I am not in charge. That's pathetic, isn't it? But it's not you, it's me, okay? I like emails, they can be answered when I feel like it, at my convenience, and don't require me to drop everything I am doing at the toll of the bell.

Okay, I'm done now. Baby is crying. Toddler is whining. And the phone is ringing.

Two.

I've been musing about love. And kids.

What does  it mean to love your children? Do we have some sort of blueprint about what we think motherlove is, and if so, can you portioned it out? Can we love the same way each time? And if not, is that love a lesser one than another?

Am I making any kind of sense?

I love my kids. Do I love them in the same way? Nope. And I will even dare to say that sometimes, I don't even love them equally (despite what your mama told you). You can't love people equally - it doesn't work that way. I will say, that there has never been a moment that I didn't love each of them fiercely - but there has been times that I didn't particularly like either one of them. And sometimes, I liked one better. So there. My oldest child is a handful - loud, stroppy, demanding, articulate, imaginative and playful. She is also sweet, helpful and determined. Some days, she and I gel terrifically and some days we retreat to our corners in the boxing ring and glare warily at each other while nursing our bruises. On those days, she doesn't engender the wellspring of love in me that her younger sister does. Her younger sister is still very young, but she is calmer, less intense, more social, less prickly and more easy going. And (let's face it) a helluva a lot less work. And she's more vulnerable and dependent and that means that all my mother-bear instincts sit right underneath the surface ready to leap out and savage any threats. Her head smells new, her face creases with smiles when she sees me as if someone told her I died in the night, and I am her world. Pretty easy to love. Except when she has colic and is screaming unreasonably for 4 hours every night or pukes all over me for the third time or gets poop all up her butt crack and all over the sheets. Then, I grab her sister in a headlock and remember all the great wonderful things that make up a three year old.

And I feel guilty. Guilty because I resent having to turn love on and off like I am a tap. I resent having to fake what I don't feel. And I feel even guiltier knowing that I am an adult and supposed to be in charge.

Do they pick up on my resentment?

I resent having to beg my eldest child for five minutes peace. For not wanting my lap encumbered with a child every damn time I sit down. And resent so quickly can turn to dislike unless you are careful. It's not my eldest's fault that she isn't content with the scraps of attention that she gets when the baby is sated. She's three, not thirty.

The baby isn't gorging on love and cuddles either. She's most often learning to be content with whatever attention I can give her without my three year old shouldering her out of the way. So far, she gets some knee-bouncing time, some singing games and as many kisses on her head as I can get away with. And I resent the 4 hour colic fit at night when by all rights, I should be able to sit with my feet up after my day began at 2am.

And here I am, juggling attention and affection in the air like a circus performer, hoping that whatever I can hold in the air for as long as I can hold it - is enough.

Perversely, you can sometimes love them more when they are at their most difficult. When my baby is screaming and angry, I feel a rush of fierceness that she wants only me. And that her sobs turn to whimpers when I pick her up and she snuffles into my neck. And when my child-of-the-hundred-questions gets revved up and asks all about death and where you go and what does heaven look like and why are that lady's lips on crooked and why do you fart and Mum Mum Mum listen to me Mum.... I get a thrill that she thinks I actually know the answers to such questions and that she trusts me to answer them and that for a little while longer at least - I am god to her.

How can you love equally when it's like that? Sometimes you just want to throw your hands up and say 'enough! Go ahead and write your tell-all book when you are twenty-five and hate my guts! I am done with this. I am doing my best. I am only human and I am so very imperfect.'

So here I am. The Cafeteria Lady of love. A cuddle here, a story or two, some bouncing, some head kissing, some jigsaw puzzles and kissed scraped knees and raspberried bellies and dear god, make that be enough.

Blips.

On Houses.

Why do women of a certain age (say, 55 plus) think that mint-green walls and violently pink carpet are the plus de plus of interior decorating? And why oh why is it always the most expensive pink carpet ever made, and why oh why is it only 3 months old?

Why do old folks never install enough electrical outlets? Don't they need to recharge their hearing aids or something?

Who decided that inventing fake stone lino was a really good idea?

When was the design era of fake wood panelling, and why did the people who previously owned my house love it so?

On Toddlers.

Who informed my just three year old that she is, in fact, a 41 year old woman and entitled to all the rights and opinions therein?

How come said three year old can grasp her colours and her ABC's and can count to 15 but fails to  understand what being "cheeky" means? Especially when every time she does it, her mother goes apoplectic? Is this some sort of learning disability?

Why is my little one's big bald head such a  magnet for my three year old's grimy hands? Despite being threatened?

Why is she never ever satisfied with just hanging around me? Why is she never satisfied with the copious guilty cuddles I give her? Why must she constantly be within 1 cm of me all the time? Why  must she climb all over me, hang off my arms, grasp me around my knees, jump on my lap and lick my neck all the goddamn time? Don't kids get skin overload like us grownups???

On that note, why has my three year old metamorphised into the demon spawn from hell? Yes. The move. The baby. Guess what? I don't care anymore. If she doesn't stop acting possessed I will investigate sending her to a boarding school staffed by nuns with hairy chins.

On Babies.

Why isn't my 13lb baby sleeping more than 2.5 hours at a stretch? Is she growing? Have I gestated Paul Bunyan?

Why does she spew up the most god almighty fountain of spew all over me even when she's been sitting upright for the past hour? What is with that, and why can't she ever manage to hit the pukerags?

How can something that smells so good on the top of her head, smell so foul from the other end? (Note to self: Discover the biological and biochemical process that actually occurs when you change milk to shit, cos something is so very very wrong with my child)

On husbands.

How can a 40 year old man still delude himself that he actually will accomplish one-tenth of all the home improvement projects he undertakes? Has he been asleep for the past seven years? Did he miss the part where we paid movers $120 an hour to move an uninstalled air conditioner, a broken treadmill and 4 lamps with various wiring problems? Was I?

Why is he always late for the morning commute, even though his shirts are ironed, his lunch made, his shoes are shined, his mobile phone and his wallet and his keys are carefully laid  out, and he has over an hour just to have a cup of coffee and shave and a shit? Does he believe he lives near a wormhole portal?

Why does he persist in telling me that we can afford to visit Calgary this year, buy a new pricey television/DVD and a motorcycle? Does he not grasp the reason behind our move? Is he oblivious to the mortgage payment figure and his weekly paycheck? Does he have thoughts of bumping off his mother for the cash or something? If so, I wish  he'd tell me - I could get away with it, I've been planning it for years. Hell, I'd instigate it if he'd only let me in on the plan.

On Everything Else.

Why do all the major crisises in my online communities happen when I have major ones of my own? Why, when I really need  to take some time and deal with my online friends woes, do I have absolutely no time to do so? And why do I always compose my best stuff miles away from a computer so it's all gone by the time I have bathed, fed and watered the kids?

Why do I get urgent emails when I haven't been able to be online for days?

Why can I never ever sort out a good time to phone my sisters now that we are off daylight savings time? It's not that hard to work out - but seemingly beyond me. I only ever have a spare 10 minutes when it's 4am their time. I don't think sisterly love extends to grumpy tired husbands woken up with calls from Australia.

Why isn't eating only 2 bars of chocolate a day instead of meals considered a crash diet? And why am I not losing weight by doing this? It's gotta be less calories than what I was eating before.

On that point, why are diets so damn boring? The person who invents the chicken kiev/laksa and Cadbury's diet will make a ruddy fortune.

Why are country folks so damn oddly dressed? My doctor today had a tie with hedgehogs on it. Did his wife buy him that - meaning that there are actually two people in the world who thought that was a nifty male expression of savoir faire?

And why when I have all these thoughts in my head that I'd like to write about, am I only able to jot down these blips before my mind wanders off again?

Argh.