Tranquillity For One

August 26, 2015 by Bodysoluble

Life is quite busy with three children. That’s the biggest understatement I’ve made in some time. Life is absolutely, frantically frought with mayhem and chaos with three children.

For instance, the other day, the children had only been home from school for perhaps 20 minutes, but managed in that time to rip their room to complete shreds. It was outstanding. An Olympic effort of mayhem and chaos.

Mr B: – what on Earth… should we just burn it to the ground?

Me: Don’t even – just – i can’t… I’ll fix. But I can’t… Don’t come near me. Don’t look at me. Don’t talk to me, and DEFINITELY don’t touch me.

Just… shut the door.

Around 90 minutes later I emerged, exhausted and dusty. I may have been shivering from shock. But the room was clean again. In fact it was *spotless*. The kids were given a talk about tidiness and respect. Which they happily ignored. Mr Bodysoluble took them through their bedtime routine, and said to me, “Tomorrow I’ll take them out of the house so you can properly unwind. Or study. Or sleep. Whatever you like.” I laughed it off like a joke, because that’s like offering to walk to the moon so your partner can become the Empress Du Cheesecake or something. Stop talking nonsense, Mr B.

But he was good as his word, and the next day, I found myself again in a silent house. This time alone, with the long afternoon stretching out before me, like a beige nylon stocking about to rip back and slap my face with the smell of feet.

That analogy was brought to you by The Laundry that I started on.

Next I tried to pull out the text books and study, but it felt almost immediately like I would have a better time with a nail gun and my own toes as target pratice.

I wracked my brain for things that people do when they have time to themselves. Specifically what do mums do when they have some time to themselves. The internet made the usual laughably unhelpful suggestions.

With one or two reasonable suggestions.

Until I found the suggestion of having a warm bath.

Brilliant, I thought. I nearly NEVER take long baths. I take showers, but never baths. Just in case you thought I was funky. The bad kind of funky.

So I went into the big bathroom, sized up the huge corner spa bath that I never use, and began to fill it. I thought, you know, I’ll ransack my cupboard of bath bombs and milks and things, that I also never use, and see if I can’t find something I could enjoy. I found some bubble bath, “with lavender for relaxation” it said on the label. Perfect! Poured a large quantity in. It’s a large bath. Wanted to make sure I got enough saturation to ensure relaxation.

Read some of my book while the water ran.

Bath filled, bubbles formed, and I sank in.

Aaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

It was lovely. At first. Then I got bored. My book was on the ledge, nearby, and I reached over for it. Read it a while. Still kind of bored, and not particularly relaxed.

I was both bored and anxious at the same time.

I think this is a skill that almost every parent has mastered. I’d venture to say that there are long stretches of time when I am in fact comprised entirely and exclusively of these two emotions.

I put the book back on the ledge and noticed the button to start the spa bath. Sweet! I thought. This will be doubly relaxing!

I pressed the button, and let the water jets calmly and serenely …

… scare the living daylights out of me.

Once I got used to the noise and rushing turmoil of the spa bath, I started to kind of not hate it. It reminded me of roller-coaster rides as a kid. Where you scream and everything is terrifying and then at the end you want to do it again. Possibly just to see if you really did leave your soul on the top of the fourth mountain, cos it sure felt like SOMETHING left your body up there.

Anyway, I lay back and shut my eyes and tried to just vague-out for a while. Think about nothing. Relax… Reeeelaaaaax. Reeeeeeeeeeelllaaaaaaa- there are bubbles in my mouth.

And in my nose. What.

I opened my eyes, and the entire corner of the room with the spa bath in it was a pulsing hive of bubbles. With my head poking out of one end. There were bubbles all over the ledge so I couldn’t see my book or the kill switch. Bubbles frothing over the sides and on to the floor. Bubbles were climbing up all the walls, higher and higher, covering the lower windows and blocking the light. The bubbles were also increasing every second, and were crawling up my face and trying to devour me.

Well what the… for serious. No.

At this point two things happened.

1. I realised I had a problem.

2. Mr Bodysoluble and the kids came home.

Mr Bodysoluble walked into the house, so he tells me, calling my name, to find me and say they were home. I didn’t hear this, because of the noise of the spa bath, the distance from the bathroom to the door he came in, and the fact the bathroom door was closed. It was also covered in bubbles at this point.

Er… sweetheart?

I started floundering around, trying to locate the kill switch for the spa bath.

Mr Bodysoluble, hearing the spa motor, deduced where I was, and opened the bathroom door. And was rewarded with 13 cubic metres of bubbles to the legs.

Um. Is anyone in here?

Sudden deafening silence as I turned off the spa motor.

I’ll …. I’ll just be a minute.

Oh. What are you doing?

…Relaxing?

You’re THAT out of practice?

Bubbles were quietly popping and sliding down the walls.

I might have made some poor choices.

OK well, we’re going to watch a movie on TV. Call out if you need help.

He turned to leave.

Frothy bubbles popped and crackled all over the room. I gazed around at the mayhem and chaos.

Mr Bodysoluble poked his head back in the door.

“Did you have fun?” He asked.

I sure did.

Caroling.

December 24, 2014 by Bodysoluble

On the first day of Christmas the market gave to me a turkey that won’t fricking defrost.

Day 2. I am growing a suspicion that the fridge is broken and it’s this turkey that is keeping the food cold. WHY are you still frozen, turkey, WHY? Better yet, HOW?

On the second day of Christmas my distant relatives sent to me, two “assembly requireds”,

… and a turkey that won’t freaking defrost.

On the third day of Christmas my toyshop sold to me, three toys with batteries,

Because we don’t have enough toys already.

…two “assembly requireds”, and a turkey that won’t bloody defrost.

On the fourth day of Christmas my family gave to me, four raging tantrums,

…three toys with batteries, two “assembly requireds”, and a turkey that won’t flipping defrost.

On the fifth day of Christmas the discount store sold to me, five crappy crackers,

Because pour me another drink, dammit.

… four raging tantrums, three toys with batteries, two “assembly requireds”, and a turkey that won’t fricking defrost.

On the sixth day of Christmas my cupboard revealed to me, six stained napkins, five crappy crackers, four raging tantrums, three toys with batteries, two “assembly requireds”, and a turkey that won’t fricking defrost.

Day 2.5, the turkey defies all known laws of thermodynamics.

On the seventh day of Christmas my post man left for me, seven unanswered xmas cards, six stained napkins, five crappy crackers, four raging tantrums, three toys with batteries, two “assembly requireds”, and a turkey that won’t fecking defrost.

Day 3 I believe the bird is attempting to make friends with me.

On the eighth day of Christmas some hipsters sang to me, eight boring carols,

…And a happy new beard.

… seven unanswered xmas cards, six stained napkins, five crappy crackers, four raging tantrums, three toys with batteries, two “assembly requireds”, and a turkey that won’t sodding defrost.

On the ninth day of Christmas my wallet gave to me, nine maxed-out store cards,

…eight boring carols, seven unanswered xmas cards, six stained napkins, five crappy crackers, four raging tantrums, three toys with batteries, two “assembly requireds”, and a turkey that won’t smegging defrost.

On the tenth day of Christmas my fridge had left for me, ten types of custard,

I’m at least 80% sure that those are all custard.

… nine maxed-out store cards, eight boring carols, seven unanswered xmas cards, six stained napkins, five crappy crackers, four raging tantrums, three toys with batteries, two “assembly requireds”, and a turkey that won’t bleeping defrost.

On the eleventh day of Christmas I basically engineered for myself, eleven panic attacks,

Either I have managed to finish everything on time, or I have forgotten something important.

… ten types of custard, nine maxed-out store cards, eight boring carols, seven unanswered xmas cards, six stained napkins, five crappy crackers, four raging tantrums, three toys with batteries, two “assembly requireds”, and a turkey that won’t damn well defrost.

Sod this, it’ll be pizza all round.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, Pope Gregory XIII arranged for me, twelve months of planning…

Mr Bodysoluble

March 26, 2014 by Bodysoluble

It’s our wedding anniversary this week. My husband remembered. (I forgot. Again.) I also forgot Valentine’s Day this year. Valentine’s Day. My husband NEVER forgets. So for all the years I’ve forgotten, and the anniversaries I have also forgotten (I know, I suck), this one’s for my husband.

You may have already met my husband. AKA Mr Bodysoluble. This guy.

Yep, that’s him.

He is extremely good with kids. There was this one time when we were new parents with just one baby, and one night at about 2am when she had been crying in my arms for what felt like ten years, and I was losing my mind; he came over and took her and rocked her to sleep. Even though it took him half an hour and she fought him on it. By then I was about as useful as a wet rag, in the corner mumbling homicidal poetry to a stuffed toy giraffe and rocking back and forth.

He just calmly put on the baby sleep CD of whale songs and water whooshing noises, and rocked and rocked that baby, and when he finally got her to sleep, he put her down and we all stopped breathing in case she woke up, and she DIDN’T and I slumped on the floor and almost cried from relief. He walked across the room to turn off the CD, and stepped on this rubber duck toy and it went

Like a pteranodon in mortal agony. I think that’s the actual name of the squeaker insert. We both totally froze, and looked at the baby, and she murmered and shifted a little, and then stayed asleep, and we both started breathing again, except then we realised at the same time that he had his foot still on the toy, and sooner or later he was going to have to raise his foot off the toy or stay there forever. I was going a kind of purple colour and spluttering out of my nose from trying not to laugh, but he just had this look like he would definitely pick up the baby again if he woke her up. I really appreciated him in that moment.

On the downside, he’s ridiculously messy. There have been other times when I wonder just how messy he really is, and whether
he makes any attempt at all to be more tidy. If he is, it doesn’t show.

Plot twist: I found sticky tape instead.

It’s annoying, because I dislike extreme mess. Meanwhile the other four people in the house seem to prefer it. They all generate quite a lot of it. Sometimes I walk into a room and say “oh my gosh, it looks like something exploded in here!” and then I tidy up. This morning my eldest daughter walked into the playroom and said “oh my gosh, it looks like something exploded in here, something like a TOY-VOLCANO.”

I suspect she was just wishing out loud.

So I lose my nut over mess pretty regularly. He never does, because he honestly doesn’t care. In a way it’s liberating. He doesn’t care if it’s kind of messy, therefore doesn’t care if I don’t clean and polish like a maniac. I do anyway, time permitting, but when I do it’s for me, not him.

Mostly he stays solid as a rock, while i lose my mind at something.

It’s just that, at this altitude, I have certain expectations…

Or when I am struggling with absurd, obtuse instructions.

Government forms are my nemesis.

Seriously? So what on Earth do I do below it??

He almost never does housework, so he kind of fails that, but on the up side, he does a heck of a lot of last-minute and/or late night running errands. Except he can be pretty literal at times. Like, really literal. For instance, I asked him last week, “Can you go to the grocer and buy a bag of apples. Oh, and if they have eggs, get a dozen.”

So off he went, and half an hour later he’s back again, unloads his car, and fills the kitchen with apples.

I looked around and said, carefully, “um, honey, can you please tell me what is happening?”

Well, they had eggs!

But he deserves some focus for a change. Because this guy has my back.

He deals with the blood, when there is blood. And honestly, with small kids, trampolines, bikes, scooters, bunk beds, and general tomfoolery, blood will happen sooner or later.

This one was jumping on the sofa. Correction: Jumping OFF the sofa.

He has saved each child from choking on something at least once. One of them tried to eat a box of tissues when she was very tiny and her mouth was so full and her airways so blocked that she couldn’t make a sound to let us know that she was choking. I glanced over at her and screamed and my husband threw furniture out of the way to get to her fast, and scooped them all out. Maybe she would have been ok anyway, but I’m seriously glad we never had to find out.

Plus, I always hated that table.

This other time, one of our children was potty training, she was about 2 years old, and doing pretty well at it for the most part. we had also learned to recognise her signals, of when she needed to go. This one time, she obviously needed to go, like, REALLY needed to go, and for some reason the potty wasn’t where it should be, and she had already gotten herself ready to go, so she was panicking and sort of half-sitting and past the point of no return.

In other words, she was about to defecate on our brand new carpets.

My husband, bless him, realised there were no options left. He closed his eyes and turned his face away and stuck out his hands and caught the poop on the way down. My daughter ran off happily. My husband stood up and ran VERY CAREFULLY to the bathroom.

Yep, we know how to party.

So, happy 7th anniversary, Mr Bodysoluble; watch out for the Toy-Volcano, and here’s to the next 7 years. We’ll be having apple pie for dinner. Probably for all seven of them.

Trumpet Vine

January 10, 2014 by Bodysoluble

I hate trumpet vine. I only found this out recently. A year ago, I didn’t know what it was. Today, it’s my nemesis.

It grows all over my back yard. I’ve been systematically hacking away at it for months. Digging it up, watching it sprawl and send out shoots that grow a new head, much like the Hydra in Greek mythology – cut off one head, another grows in its place.

(Actually there is a plant called the hydrangea named for that mythical beast – but it is WAY easier to dig out. I know this, I have tested this, because I hate them too.)

Hydrangeas are long gone. But the trumpet vine lives on.

I went out to face it again today.

It has mad tendrils and grows super fast. And it seems that while I’m cutting down this part, another piece will pop up and grow somewhere nearby, but just where I can’t see it.

And that it’s laughing at me.

When you read about trumpet vine online you find it often paired with words like “Murder” and “obliterate” and “willing to try anything”.

You quickly reach a point where you realise the plant is winning.

It’s taken over the garden, and I am not even kidding when I saw if I had a time machine the first thing I would do is go back in time and find whoever planted it and STOP them from doing it.

I do understand that once upon a time it probably was little and pretty and it seemed like a good idea. Grows easily, birds like it, pretty flowers, what’s not to like?

That does it. Where’s my flux capacitor.

After a while I needed a break. My arms felt like they were put on backwards and my back felt like I had given an elephant a piggy-back ride through a swamp.

So I went inside to play computer games. Admittedly this sounds like the early cop-out of a teenager who just can’t be bothered. But I really had spent hours digging a medieval moat around the thing, and I was legitimately tired.

I’m famous for overdoing it. And being a drama queen.

For some reason I have been re-playing the Witcher 2 lately. It’s one of those games where you have to be a guy and you have to have swords and kill monsters. I like it. I really don’t like the fan sites for it, because I’m a girl and they tend to think I’m either doing it wrong or I’m just trying to impress a nerd.

Or you know. Both.

Disclaimer: This is a re-enactment only

But then I get to this monster, the Kayran.

These live all over Australia.

This thing is famous for being hard to kill. Tendrils whip around and slam you dead in an instant. This is one of those sequences everyone changes the game from hard to easy for, or loads and reloads about a thousand times, while screaming and kicking things and saying things like “just one more time, I’ll try just one more time.”

Me, I took forever to kill this thing. Which is frustrating, because I play games to have fun, not to feel like I’m doing a harder job than the one I abandoned to play games in the first place.

And the whole time, this crazy woman is on a bridge nearby screaming “trap it with the Yrden!” (Yrden is a trap spell. I like stating the obvious.) She says it over and over. “Yrden! Trap it with the Yrden!”

Or maybe she says it once, and I re-loaded so often that I just *heard* it a million times.

She looks exactly like this. And is about as useful.

She said she was casting helpful magic, but I didn’t see her do anything at all.

Next time I see someone struggling with something incredible difficult, I’m going to just stand there and tell them that I am casting useful magic. It’s not like they could prove I’m not.

So anyway, after a short time of that (ok several hours) I gave up. Felt like fighting the damn trumpet vine would be the easier task.

It’s not the first time I’ve been wrong.

That screaming is not me, it’s the plant. My struggling made it angry. And hungry.

I’ve had to stop again, because my elbows are screaming and I’ve just about dug my way to France and I STILL can’t get all the roots out. Oh, and the sun went down. Piker.

Tomorrow, though, I’ll be back out there. Running around madly, hacking away at it. Casting Yrden spells at it.

Unless of course it rains. Oh PLEASE let it rain.

Then I can stay inside, and work on building my time machine.

Oh, and while I was busy with all of this, the kids had so much chocolate, mud and vegemite that they ended up looking like cheetahs.

Chocolate, mud, vegemite… your three basic food groups.

Yes, it’s chocolate. Or mud. Or vegemite.

If only I knew some kind of trap spell to keep them in one spot while I worked.

It’s probably good that I don’t, because I would never stop using it.

The Night Before Christmas

December 20, 2013 by Bodysoluble

So I was reading to my kids the other day.

And I get up to the bit where Santa and the reindeer land on the roof. So far, everything is fine.

Until Santa starts naming all the reindeer.

Let’s see… There’s Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen, Comet and Cupid and Donder and Blitzen.

(Just between us grown-ups, now that I read this as an adult, these names are kind of weird. To my ears the first four sound like strippers and the last four sound like condoms. I mean, who WROTE this? What was THAT all about?)

So anyway, he names them all. (After strippers and condoms. Seriously?)

And there’s this glaring omission. I’m sure you know then name of the one who isn’t there.

3 year old interrupts, distraught.

She says “MUM! Wait!! Where’s … where’s… ” and it is obvious that she can’t remember the name for whatever she’s looking for. Her 6 year old sister fills in the blanks.

“Hey, yeah, mum, where is Rudolph?”

Eventually, in a surprise burst of inspiration, I say “see that night sky? Clear as day. No fog here, so he doesn’t NEED Rudolph. Remember? He only gets Rudolph when it’s too foggy to see. This is NOT a foggy night, so Santa can do it all without Rudolph. Rudolph is probably at home eating a whole lot of reindeer food right now.” I sit there, feeling about as smug as pie.

Silence, while this sinks in.

Nothing happens. So I open my mouth to keep reading, and I’m cut off again.

I ask, “What is it this time?”

“Where are the elephants?” She says.

We all stare at each other. She’s actually looking kind of angry. She says it again.

“Where are the elephants??”

Now she’s exasperated.

“Where is the lightning?” She demands.

We all look back at the book.

Frantic flicking through the book… I find its lack of elephants disturbing.

I get the weirdest feeling that I’m letting her down.

I thought Christmas would be exciting enough for a kid, what with the toys and the food and the people and mystery and tinsel and the civic decorations and the festivities and the hype and the whole mythos and cultural experience – if anything you’d think it would be overwhelming, not insufficient.

But after a moment, I start thinking, you know what, she’s right. There’s plenty of things in here about this magical (and oddly judgemental) guy with apparently endless funds who delivers presents on a fairly dubious honours system, there are some magical reindeer, whose main skill is flight, and then toys happen. But it’s somewhat lacking in the *excitement* department.

Oh wait I forgot, there’s also a tree. A heavily decorated fir tree. Sometimes, even, with flashing lights!

That’s exciting, right?

… Right?

*crickets*

Nobody wants to make, let alone watch, an action movie about a slightly magical postman who gets all the mail delivered on time. (Well, not unless they also include the four strippers and four condom brands. And even then it’s still only a maybe.)

To be fair to the illustrators, the poem doesn’t actually make any mention of elephants or lightning. But then, it doesn’t specifically say that they WEREN’T there, either. Am I right?

So here it is. Especially for my action-packed little three year old, I am pleased to present an arguably more thrilling alternative to the standard Christmas scene.

To help them fit in with the Reindeer style of names, we can call them Bambi and Trojan.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

Solutions for Modern Living

November 21, 2013 by Bodysoluble

So today, I have a car full of tired kids, a screamy crying baby, a roll of carpet and a ton of groceries. (Rounded up to the nearest ton.) Easy enough to get the kids to go inside, with me walking behind them… slowly… at their annoyingly frustrating kid-pace of 1 foot per minute. After they are all inside, I go back to the car. I get the first few grocery bags, and walk back to the house. It’s a hot day today.

Then I saw the wheelbarrow. The empty wheelbarrow. I walked on. Put the bags inside the door, quickly, so the flies don’t come in. Then turned around and went back to the car for more.

It was on the way back to the car, that I again looked at the wheelbarrow.

I started thinking, man, it would be great if you could just use your wheelbarrow for all your groceries and the other stuff in the car… and I walked to the car.

And then I walked back to the wheelbarrow, and was like, I am totally doing this.

Next time I’ll put the kids in too, stop them walking ahead of me so slow.

I filled that baby up. All the grocery bags, the carpet, my bag, my other bag, the baby bag, our lunch boxes, drink containers, discarded clothing, the works. Took it to the back door. Was about ready to unload the loot to just inside the back door. Stopped myself, and stood there for all of a quarter of a second before deciding that I was taking it all the way.

Wheeled the whole lot to the kitchen. I mean, if I unload at the back door, flies come in. Then I have to walk the individual bags all the way to the kitchen, and put them away.

I’m nothing if not lazy.

Now they’re just waiting for someone to put them away… waiting… waiting…

I will definitely be doing this again. No elbow pain from carrying too many heavy bags, no trekking back and forth in the heat. No danger of dropping things out of split bags.

Out of ten, I give it a score of Awesome.

The Will to Live

July 26, 2013 by Bodysoluble

So I went to the toilet just before. It occurred to me at the time that it was the first time I’d sat down for 7 hours. Three kids is more work than a full-time job. It is hard work. Someone smarter than me once pointed out that any number of kids is a lot of kids. This is true. Especially if that number is three. Some days are rather good, or at least my mood is sufficiently bolstered to see the good in anything at all. I might not get anything done, but I can appreciate that nobody died and we probably ate more than one food group over the course of the day. Probably.

Shhh! You’ll jinx it!

That, and at this point we are up to the third child, we have the skills and confidence to handle things that totally freaked us right out when we had that first child. It helps sometimes to step back and just appreciate how far we’ve really come. I like to take a little pride in the progress I’ve made.

That’s right baby, I changed the HECK out of that nappy.

There was one day recently where the children-of-chaos activity-meter was just off the charts, and I actually had to dress them in pretty clothes to make it easier to be nice to them.

Aw, so precious. I can almost forget the carnage you unleashed five minutes ago. ALMOST.

Some days are so overflowing with evil that even the cupboards are against me.

Huh? Who, Me? Oh, just battling the overheads. No, I’m fine, don’t need any help, thanks. I have this.

This feeling is compounded by the endless, tedious, despicable housework, and also riddled with guilt over the irreversible psychological damage I figure I must be causing to my children, pretty much daily. Just by, well, being me. It stands to reason.

There are times when I’ve had the house to myself for a short while. They are rare, but they happen. I tend to squander them, by using that time to tidy up, which often means throwing away other people’s stuff, which I then have to hide underneath something else in the rubbish bin.

Pictured: the agony and ecstasy of throwing other people’s stuff out.

Green child upset me quite a bit last week. I picked her up from school, and announced that I’d just bought her a ton of painting paper, paints, brushes, art books and a rather full bag of all kinds of things to get super creative with. She says flatly “ok, but what about getting me a present that says ‘I love you’?” I was so upset I had to take her home immediately and dress her beautifully again. Five-year-olds will hurt your feelings, man.

But she works well at the other end of that scale, as well. Yesterday when I picked her up from school, I asked what she had learned for the day. She said this:

Hey, wait a – no, ok, I see your point.

I thought, well that’s hardly fair. What about that kid with the invisible eye-brows? Or the twins who walk their cat to school? What about that family who ride those bicycles with no pedals? But then she explained that they were learning odd and even numbers, and our family has 5 people in it. That makes us odd.

Basically, raising kids is an emotional minefield, or rollercoaster, or some kind of juggernaut. Or possibly an emotional cyclone. Or quite likely all of the above.

Some days it must be written all over me, when I’m running out of … whatever it is that I’m using up when raising children. That would be will to live, I suppose. Or, “Life”, as we know it, for short. I’m running out of life, and some days it must be just written all over me, in black and white print. Because there are times when my husband looks at me, and says:

Except I’m so low on life I don’t even realise how low I am.

Because I’ve had a HARD DAY and I Don’t Want to Talk About It. Plus, in all honesty, I am suspicious of my husband’s motives at times. It’s like: he’s a man… I’m exhausted… I can’t be too careful.

Me, suspicious and exhausted. This is my emotional ground zero these days.

Thankfully I can recognise when I’m being a complete twit, and when to show appreciation. Although I am not great at reciprocal affection. I have lots to learn about that, in fact.

True story.

Mind you, I regained some of my will to live the other day. Pink child was refusing to go to sleep, my husband kept putting her in bed, she kept getting up again. She kept insisting she had to tell me something so I wouldn’t forget it. Eventually he caved in a little, and let her come down to see me in the study. I asked her what she wanted to tell me. She said:

Which is cuter than a bug’s ear, coming from a 3 year old. So I said good night again and began to usher her back to bed.

And then she said this:

My will to live is now completely restored.

Catch up

June 19, 2013 by Bodysoluble

It’s been fairly busy around here lately, what with the new baby and all. So just to catch you up, here’s a sort of montage of what I’ve been up to lately. Admittedly most days are blurring into each other, but there are some memorable moments.

Out and about, showcasing our impeccable manners.

Thanks, kiddo, shout that out, nice and loud. Make sure she hears you. *sigh*. But overall, one day is pretty hard to distinguish from the next. Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t “lost” myself. I am still the same as ever.

I wish I… nah, forget it.

I have to admit, though, less days start like that now. I save it for weekends.

Now, most days start more like this:

She said, knowing full well they would ignore her.

He asked. When he could have been dressing the children.

Tried it the other way around but my toast got soggy in the shower.

Some days we stay in…

This happens about 10 times a day, but out of kindness I’ll only show you once.

Some days we go out…

To splash about in puddles, one inch deep…

And to keep sane, every now and then Mr Bodysoluble and I enjoy an occasional date night.

We could do with a bit more practice. But we try.

A bit.

Or we will.

When we get more time.

Maybe.

In the meantime we get to enjoy this:

And this…

OK twice. I changed my mind.

And every so often, this…

So that’s me, in a nutshell.

No, that’s not quite true. THIS is me in a nutshell:

Looks quite comfy really… A nut is as inviting as an armchair, to the woman who has no time to sit down.

And on that note, I’d best get back to it. If I get all the chores done, I might have a few minutes to myself, to work on another post, or play a computer game, or even, if I get lucky enough, chill out in an oversized walnut shell.

It will always be the dream.

Food Fight

May 12, 2013 by Bodysoluble

Food and children is a battleground. Well, maybe not for everyone. But certainly for my kids this is true. I want them to eat properly, vegetables and everything, with a knife and fork. They want to eat garbage. With their hands. On a beanbag. While yelling at maximum volume. Upside-down. With their mouths full.

Pictured: the natural state of a 5 year old.

So when the opportunity comes up to go out for dinner, I have mixed feelings.

See, at our house, I do almost all of the cooking.

Takeaway pizza notwithstanding.

I have learned over the years that cooking for others can quickly become a soul-destroying experience.

Even if it is something they actually like, there is always one fussy eater who won’t co-operate.

I drew your face wonky because I don’t like what you are saying.

This is why I love restaurants. I’m not responsible for what everyone eats for a change. That, and the hugely rare experience of someone else serving me. Whenever anyone else brings me food I have to fight to hold back my tears of gratitude. You could serve me tepid microwave quick-oats but it will still feel like I’m being served seared unicorn cutlets garnished with the hanging gardens of Babylon.

Actually in all honesty I suck at microwave quick-oats. They always seem to climb out of the bowl.

Is it cooked or is it… sentient?

But while I may love going to restaurants, I was still apprehensive, because I have memories of the last time we tried to take the kids to a nice restaurant.

It didn’t end well.

OK I’m exaggerating. But not much. So this time I thought we’d better get in some practice first. Take them out for lunch at a regular café, get them practised at sitting still, eating with cutlery and so on, eating from their own plate and nobody else’s. That kind of thing. Things I am actually always trying to do anyway, but that become infinitely more important when eating in public.

We found a small fairly casual café, and were seated amongst other people. Right there, that puts us at a disadvantage.

There were no other children in sight. This is a blessing and a curse. On one hand, other kids means other parents, who will commiserate and who understand and who won’t judge and hate us for ruining their day. Probably.

The downside of having other kids nearby is that within about ten minutes this:

Becomes this:

So we sat, and opened our menus. And our eldest daughter, let’s call her Sonia, starts getting antsy. Not about the food, which is guaranteed to be a struggle at some point, but about the table (too wobbly). Then the cutlery (too heavy). Then it’s the seat (too high). Then the fact that she has to sit still for more than 2 seconds at a time.

When her food arrives she eats about two mouthfuls then loses interest. It’s impressive to me that my children never seem to eat anything throughout the whole meal, yet always manage to have their mouths full when talking. I don’t know how they do it, it shouldn’t even be possible. It’s as if the natural rules of physics are something you have to grow into. Like, up until the age of 8 they are more guidelines than laws. It rubs off on me as well. I find myself saying nonsensical sentences like “I put nothing on her plate and it’s all still there, she hasn’t even touched it.”

So anyway. She says she has “finished” eating. She makes herself comfortable.

While my lunch is going cold, we have an exchange of words. She resumes her relaxed state.

By now, the warmest thing on my plate is the salad.

Just to get her off the wall I suggest that my husband take her to view the cake display and choose a dessert for the kids to share. This goes off without a hitch. Until it arrives, with a huge mountain of cream on the side of the plate.

Sonia doesn’t even blink, just dives on in and scoops up a handful of cream. That’s not a figure of speech. I mean an actual handful.

Even the 3 year old was shocked.

At some point in the carnage that was them eating cake, someone spilled a drink.

The liquid streaked across the table, and began pouring over the edge, straight into my handbag. I was holding the baby, and I think I shrieked, when I saw my bag filling up with juice. I reached down and grabbed the handles, and swung it upwards away from the juice, straight into the back of the head of the man behind me.

Me, smugly saving the day.

He turned around to get angry, but deflated a little when he saw me. I imagine it was seeing the look of complete horror that was on his face, perfectly mirrored on mine.

It’s around about then that we left. It’s possible the room applauded our departure.

Actually feel like applauding our departure myself.

So that was practice.

As a result, I am far more anxious about taking the kids to a restaurant.

Full House

April 21, 2013 by Bodysoluble

They say that the biggest change for parents is going from having no children to having children. The birth of that first child is the biggest learning curve parents will face. This is very true. That first child is akin to trial by fire. But what is less often talked about is how the third child impacts a family.

Back at the start, immediately upon becoming parents, my husband and I both found ourselves in situations we were ill-equipped to handle. We were challenged in ways we’d never imagined.

Sometimes we took it out on each other. OK, I lie. It was most of the time.

It always reminded me of that old Chinese curse: “May you live in interesting times.” I could see where that was coming from.

Also, I used to find that I was one arm short. I have two hands, one was always holding a baby. In general, I think that nature caters beautifully for everything. However in the case of human parents, I suspect that nature got it wrong. With the birth of any child, to better manage the new workload, both parents should each grow a new arm. It’s only fair.

For example, after your first child, you should have three arms.

Er… little help?

Then simple things like laundry wouldn’t completely paralyse me.

And, by simple extrapolation, after having three kids, you should have five arms. Because after having three children, two arms is laughably inadequate.

Before we had three children; I used to think that this was a mess:

Now we call this a slow day.

These days I practically have to rely on sonar to find my children.

Even though one of our kids is completely immobile, I am hopelessly outnumbered. The overall effect is that I have downgraded my expectations of my day significantly. I used to think it was reasonable to expect the house to be clean (ish), dinner of some sort to be prepared, and that I would get a shower daily. Often I would also get plenty of sleep, find time for a haircut when necessary, and have a few hours each week to play computer games or get a shoulder massage or something.

Parents of three or more children will find this hilarious. Some may even by crying by now.

These days my expectations of every day are simple: Get through it.

That’s it. Survive. That’s all I can aim for. Anything else is a bonus. If I get some laundry done, then I give myself a big gold star. I stick it on my baby-vomit-stained shirt and wear that bad boy like a medal. Do you know how long it takes to get three young children dressed, breakfasted, and all their teeth brushed? Saturday.

After three kids, your days are never, ever productive. They are not even predictable. Heck, they are barely tolerable.

I will give you an example.

This afternoon, I accidentally dropped my keys in the toilet. (I will spare you an illustration of that.) Yet I can honestly say that this wasn’t even the worst part of my day.

That’s what having three kids is like. You fish those keys out and keep going. You have no choice, you HAVE to keep going. While quietly making plans to buy a new car and move house, because now you can’t bear to touch your keys.

But seriously, my day was actually fairly typical of this “new normal”. It began as they always do.

I am not a morning person.

I was feeling a little extra flat than usual, so I thought I would have a second cup of coffee. By now the baby was awake. So I put her in the sling, thinking that this would free up my hands at least enough to make more coffee. The older kids were playing quietly together, and I got all ambitious and decided to make real coffee. Because I will never again have time to buy it in a real café. So I fired up the machine and went at it.

My first mistake was thinking I could steam milk. I used the hand furthest from baby, because safety is the cornerstone of success. Or at least, safety is the cornerstone of not spending the day in an intensive care unit.

For a brief, shining moment I actually believed I could achieve my aim. But then I realised I couldn’t use the other hand to feel if the jug base was warm. And I had no way of turning the steam off, without either nearly scalding the baby or actually scalding myself.

While this dilemma played out in my mind and I grew more and more anxious and the milk steamed hotter and hotter, the baby began to fuss, the kids erupted into a huge brawl which tumbled into the kitchen, and the phone rang. All. At. Once.

Also, my nose began to itch.

I only got out of it when realised I could turn the power off at the wall, using my foot. So I gave myself a gold star for making to 9:00 am without giving third degree burns to anyone.

Soon after, my husband took the older kids to the park. Because I told him to. One might even say I begged. So in those quiet moments after they’d gone, I decided to take the baby for a quick walk.

It took an aeon to pack the baby bag, dress her warmly, find my walking shoes, find myself some clean clothes, wrangle the enormous pram out the back door and down the steps while holding the baby in the sling. All of those things combined took longer than the walk would take. Even then, as I was about to place the baby in the pram, I realised that the tyres were flat. And the rear of the house is kind of, well, cat-litter-y, so I had to keep holding the baby while I pumped the tyres back up. Using one hand and two feet.

Another gold-star moment.

When we got back my unfettered hausfrau ambitions prompted me to begin making pumpkin soup. With the baby nestled comfortably in the sling.

OK… now what?

I did not get very far.

My husband and older kids eventually returned. I realised we need a few things from the supermarket and I said as much to my husband.

He got all excited, because going to the shops is a legitimate reason to escape from the house for a time, and get some relative peace and quiet. We tend to squabble over those small opportunities for solitude. They are rare and precious… so very, very precious.

I’ll give you $100 if you’ll let me do it.

After his offer, I pointed out that the kids already knew about it, and were insisting that they be allowed to come too. Suddenly it lost all its appeal.

I’ll give you $1,000 if you’ll do it.

I love my husband. And I know it’s true love, because even after three children, when he leaves his dirty laundry beside the laundry basket instead of inside it, when he doesn’t change a toilet roll, or forgets to put the rubbish bins out, or uses an entire packet of wipes on one (one!) nappy change, I still haven’t divorced him. THAT is true love, right there. Either that or it is fatigue. I am too busy to know the difference any more. Or to care.

So anyway. I am certain that we’ve all, us parents, had the moment where we are changing one nappy/diaper too many, and our spirit is just starting to flag. There is something about the monotonous inevitability of someone else’s endless stream of poop that can really wear you down. I really felt myself really sagging today, over this one soiled nappy.

OK to be fair it was REALLY soiled. I mean, there was a deep end, just like at the local swimming pool. Looking at it, I felt all the fight in me just draining away.

So I changed the nappy.

Even at the best of times, it’s still the worst of times.

Except it wasn’t like this. This picture is positively serene. This picture shows a person who can achieve their aim. This picture shows a woman in control of the situation. The reality was a tad more… dynamic.

First, there was another person around. With other-person type demands.

Cos I just love thinking about food while handling poo.

And another person with a whole different set of problems.

Pictured: A complete representation of the body’s relationship to solids

Oh yeah, and we weren’t at home. We were in a car park. And this particular explosive nappy situation was a bona fide poop emergency.

And I needed to pee.

Still not stressful enough? Did I mention the rain?

There you go.

Whatever you think you can handle, kids will always, always¸ find a way to make you handle just a little bit more. And then a bit more. And then a bit more. And then nature comes along to finish you off. And there you are, soggy and defeated in a car park.

But that wasn’t the worst part of my day either.

The worst part was after the evening kafuffle to get the kids into bed, complete with demands for extra stories, the frantic cleaning to find the floor and the cat once again, wiping the slime off the sofa, washing all the dishes and tidying everything up, I had enough time to watch a movie we’d rented. And to make my aching old feet more comfortable, I removed my shoes, stood on a splinter, and spent the entire film trying to extract it.

Too grumpy to cry.

I am lately feeling rather like a cautionary tale.

Or perhaps someone out of a nursery rhyme.

I am really starting to understand what that old woman in the shoe was about. I don’t know what gruel is though, and it sounds like something made by wringing out a water rat. I wouldn’t want to eat that. So instead I road-tested a microwave brownie-in-a-mug recipe, which lived up to the hype. So I can thankfully say that the day ended on a high note.

Who can even imagine what tomorrow will bring.

I am living in interesting times.

Bodysoluble

My Trivial Journal

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