Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Dada has nothing on your average two-year-old.

Not much time to blog at the minute. I'm immersed in the surreal magic of life with pre-schoolers. Looping rounds of colds and flu may be raising temperatures, or I may just breed wierdos, but it gets more absurdist around here by the hour.

At the minute, Ivy has a special squeaky voice that she uses as the voice of her stuffed animals, inanimate objects, and parts of her body. And they all sing one of two songs:

Animals or dolls all sing: 'Eyes, eyes, I have got eyes, eyes, eyes...'
Her feet, fingers, the broom, bananas and other objects sing earnestly 'I have no eyes, no eyes, eyes, I have no eyes..' Even the birthmark on her leg we call Harry sang to me yesterday. 'I have got no eyes...'

I've been in trouble recently for trying to stop Ivy parading around with a plastic bag of rubbish over her shoulder like a handbag, and from collecting my toenail clippings into a little bowl and sorting through them.

Ted, meanwhile, has taken to slipping off to the bathroom to eat toilet paper. I find him, often, when I hear Ivy say 'No, Teddy, it's not a cheese sandwich.' (Standard Mogantosh for 'take that dog poo/paper clip/newspaper out of your mouth.) He looks so proud of himself when he sees me, trails of paper streaming from his mouth.

More and more, he reminds me of a young Labrador.

Monday, July 20, 2009

Dilemma of the day.

Can I raise Ivy to question authority, rage against the machine, stand up to the man, and lead a future feminist revolution...







Friday, July 17, 2009

I had a bad morning.

So I went out, bought some brown boots and saw Bruno, alone, at the movies. All better now.

OR I could have just watched this:

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

I think we've all been there.

Ivy, on the toilet tonight, laughed and laughed and laughed.

'Daddy!' she yelled.

'I did a fart-wee!'

Sunday, July 12, 2009

Shame on you, Andrew McManus.

Keith took me on a surprise birthday outing yesterday, to the Big City by train to see...

...drum roll please...

So You Think You Can Dance Stage Spectacular!

To those who would mock me, I say to you: Take your turn! I've been mocked before, and I remain a proud gaylord. Oh, I love a little terpsichorean virtuosity. Almost as much as I love a ten-dollar word.

Man, it was an exciting outing for me. And for all the thousands of nine-year-olds surrounding us. 'Look how cute,' I pointed out to Keith as another troupe of mini-hipsters sauntered past. 'They're all in little boots and hats! All of them!'


Me too!

Moving on.

Really, the show was so bad it was hilarious. Keith and I had a fine old time rolling eyes at each other from the back row as cliche tripped over the heels of sappy sentimentality, who was standing on the feet of mawkishness. Not to labour the point or anything.

The cheap bastards running the show (Andrew McManus, your name is on the ticket, and we blame you) must have rubbed their greedy hands in triumph as the dollars flowed their way, going by the cheapness of the set-up and the number of little bums on seats. If only the merch stand had stocked SYTYCD hats and little boots, McManus, you could have paved your house in gold.

No host, just crackly video with poor sound replaying cheeseball packages from the series and the dancers themselves forced to hoot inanities, Oprah style. 'Hey, Sydney, you guys are AWE-Some...thanks for sharing our JOURN-ey! ....Don't forget to spend heaps of cash on PRO-Grammes!'

But Keith and I had a blast. Enjoyed some fabulous dancing. Read the paper on the train. Drank rough red and ate chorizo in a little Spanish bar. Wandered through Chinatown. Held hands in the street.

Happy birthday to me!

Thursday, July 9, 2009

Does this happen to Heidi Klum?

Picture it.

Eating, picnic-stylee, on the floor with the little ones at the house Mum and Dad are minding up the road. I casually eat a bit of chicken off Ivy's plate.

Ooh, it tastes bad.

'Ugrh, did you put a whole lot of parmsean on that chicken?' I ask Mum as I get a glass of water.

She says no.

Teddy looks innocent, but then I see a little puddle next to Ivy's plate, and quite close to his head.

He threw up on her dinner and then I ate it.

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

To hyphenate or not to hyphenate?

I'm musing on what to go by when married. Nearly as exciting as my Confirmation as a eleven-year-old, when much of lunchtime was taken up in heated discussion over which saint had the prettiest name. 'Angela' was very popular in the early 80's. I can't remember if she was the one who stopped eating for God, or the one who plucked out her eyeballs for God with a stick... (6th grade lunchtime conversation changed soon after Confirmation, when Kymana Hastwell-Baton started bringing in her parents' copy of The Joy Of Sex.)

Some inspiring married examples from my mum-in-law:

My 38th birthday - in pictures.

Happy-birthday morning hugs. Poor Ivy has inherited Mum and Dad's crazy hair.

Off to a local fete for aimless wandering and togetherness.

Look Mum, a 'C' for children!

A sneeze, frozen in time. Keith rises above his swine flu to put on a happy face, a funny hat and a yummy bacon-and-egg-roll birthday lunch. Hug me, Mummy! And cover me with kisses. Just before bed, a final lesson for Ted: love hurts. And here they are, my best present of all.

Friday, July 3, 2009

In which I confess to an affair with my breadmaker, and Keith lays down the rules on boogie etiquette.

A few people have asked me recently about bread-making.

I've always loved to bake bread, but my current oven foils me at every attempt. (Confession: if I cleaned it, results may change. I really will clean it soon. This weekend, probably. Totally.)

So my sis-in-law Karla lent me her breadmaker and I love it so much that if Keith jilted me at the altar I would not rule out walking it down the aisle, and later, dancing with it slowly and caressing its cold, white curves to the strains of 'My Heart Will Go On.'

I had a burst of creativity early, but these days I can throw together a basic bread recipe in 5 minutes so haven't been experimenting at all.

Rhonda at Down to Earth listed an excellent step-by-step bread tutorial recently though, and after mastering the basics you could move onto fabuloso fancypants recipes at Artisan Bread. Below is an amazing no-knead method which looks very cool. Can't vouch for it yet, but would be interested to hear if any of you give it a try. Link via Vents de Boheme.

And now, to bed. Sick kids. Much work. This morning in bed Keith had to use the Voice Of Authority as he told Ivy 'Stop that naughty boogie behaviour right now.'

runny nose
so many boogies
so many funny places to put them
all funny places naughty
Terrible, terrible frustration for a two-year-old.

Surprise wedding reception!

New York artist Katie does wild and crazy things, and her blog always makes me laugh.

Planning our wedding is getting complicated, so this surprise City Hall reception struck a special chord with me...

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

A vist from the self-pity fairy.

Illness has hit the pre-school circuit again.

Keith, in time-honoured man-flu tradition, is sicker than the rest of us. Me, every time I bend over I feel like a horse just kicked me in the head. Which is bad, considering I spend all day with two people the size of Ewoks.

We've been discussing the psychological dynamics of sickness and relationships. My theory is that you nurse your ailing partner the way you wish they treated you when you're sick.

I like to sink a little into the feather-soft pillow of my misery. Ideally, I think I'd like to be be delivered of comfort food like toast with the crusts cut off and soft boiled eggs. Quiet voices. Cool hands on my forehead. A respectful creeping in and out of my presence.

So this is how I tend to treat Keith.

He, on the other hand, rages against the power of illness. He likes to deny it, to ignore it and to be finished with it as soon as possible, so he can return to normal programming.

This means that I'm lucky to get a cup of tea... and I'll be cutting those toast crusts off with my own sweaty, shaky fingers.

Some deal!

The kids are sooky-sick. Ivy, with the glassy stare of the addict, keeps demanding Panadol. Teddy has lost his voice and can only complain in a sad croaky whimper. Both are being treated with intensive cuddle therapy. A good day to bake some Daddy's Little Tarts (not a reference to any of his old girlfriends in particular.)

It's really a bastardised classic French apple tart. Puff pastry rounds in muffin cases, sprinkled with almond meal and a dollop of strawberry jam, then topped with apple slices rolled in caster sugar.

Ivy, while constructing these, told me 'Mum, I really, really love sugar.'


Sugar, and Panadol.

Mother of the Year, you think?