Trumpet Vine

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.

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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.

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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”.

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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?

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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.

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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.

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Disclaimer: This is a re-enactment only

But then I get to this monster, the Kayran.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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The Night Before Christmas

So I was reading to my kids the other day.

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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.

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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?”

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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

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.

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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.

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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

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!

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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:

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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:

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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.

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

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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.

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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:

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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:

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My will to live is now completely restored.

Catch up

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.

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.

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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:

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She said, knowing full well they would ignore her.

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

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

Some days we stay in…

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

Some days we go out…

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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.

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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:

fish kick

And this…

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OK twice. I changed my mind.

And every so often, this…

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So that’s me, in a nutshell.

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

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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.

Boxing.

So we moved house last week.  Again.  As if packing it all up isn’t a drag, now I have to unpack it all again.

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Go Go Gadget Enthusiasm!

This is like housework times a million.  I also got flu in the middle of the move, so you can just about imagine how perky and motivated I aren’t.  So far I’ve unpacked the tissues and the paracetamol.  So I’m done for now. 😛