What makes minds tick in a house of 6 where
the majority vote lies with The Youth.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Don't Mess With The Lady

There are few things more ignominious than defeat at the hands of a 7-year-old. And here I'm not talking about pretending to be bowled out in cricket or letting them win at Scrabble. I'm talking about ACTUAL defeat where you're trying your valiant best but come to the heart-breaking realisation that you're seriously not going to win this game of chess. She's got you on the ropes and aside from resorting to infantile methods to remedy the situation (i.e. upending the board with feigned alarm, diverting her attention while reinstating your Queen, or convincing her that Rooks actually can move diagonally) you're going to have to fall on your sword.
This, however, is almost impossible. I stall, I perseverate, I pontificate, but she's onto me. "Just make a move," she says in her mini wise monkey voice. “Don't rush me, kid! There's dignity at stake here.” That's what I'm thinking, not what I'm saying. In reality, some verbal rubbish about being very busy or very tired or some such escapes from my lips before I can help myself. Then, "Oh Christ, look at the time! We've got to go." (These humiliations (plural) usually occur in the hour between breakfast and leaving for school so there’s always a good get-out clause.)
There is a fair amount of harumphing, tsking and ohhhhhhing before I can convince her that it really is most important that we get on the road. While she’s safely strapped into the car, I bolt back inside and sweep the chess pieces into their box. My pain is over for another week or so.
This ruse, of course, will only last for so long until she realises that she has the better of me. Is there any shame in that? I'm not sure, but it certainly doesn't feel good. In fact, in stinks. I thought at some point my children might overtake me - but at SEVEN!
So I take my lead and minor solace from the rambunctious French pip-squeak Napoleon, who opined that Death is nothing, but to live Defeated and Inglorious is to die daily. I don't mind dying on the chess battlefield if it means that I'll be remembered fondly. Adieu.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Life, the Universe and Everything

There are a couple of killer questions that you're never quite prepared for when they issue from the mouths of babes. So, on Wednesday I could deal with the "where do babies come from?" clanger from the 4-year-old. But the one that threw me was Thursday's, "Mum, do you believe in God?" Okay, so maybe when you're 7 these things really play on your mind, but I'd done my perseverating on Creationism versus Evolution many decades before and hadn't really given it much more airtime since.
Right, I thought, I'll go through the logistics first. I'm going to give him the facts and let him work it out for himself. I tell him about what the scientists say about the Big Bang Theory and Darwinian Survivial of the Fittest. At this point I'm struggling a bit having ditched Science in Year 11. But I'm sounding pretty erudite (to The Youth anyway) and Mr 7 is nodding sagely, taking it all in.
But when it comes to the Creationist theories I'm struggling a little. The more I talked about how some 'being' created the entire universe and every living thing in it in 7 days, the more Mr Back Seat is looking like I'm spinning him some sort of crapola. "What!", he says. "Invented EVERYTHING...in SEVEN days."  In the rear vision mirror I see that he looks supremely unconvinced and starts shaking his head. "No", he declares. "That doesn't sound right." I'm not sure at this point whether he's doubting my credentials as a reliable source of fact or whether the whole God Theory isn't washing for him. After an interminable silence he pipes up from the back. "I'm an Evolutionist", he says. I nodded my head in agreement. Do you think it's too early to introduce him to Richard Dawkins?

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Who was that hoon?

In my teens everyone was doing it, in my twenties it was totally de rigeur, in my thirties it was generally tolerated, but now that I've hit forty, my hoon driving has become officially unacceptable (to selected persons anyway). I'm not sure if you know the type of driving I'm talking about, so let me live it for you here. The sunroof is open, all the windows are down (regardless of wind chill factor), the stereo is at ear-bleeding, sunnies are on. Music selection is incredibly cool, of course, and all other family members have been dispatched from the car. It's just me, the stereo and the open road (or Anzac Parade). The speed limit is not necessasrily being adhered to at this point.
In my own mind I'm this hip, urbane, groover behind the wheel. But then there's the time-space continuum. Strictly speaking consciousness is subjective, so I can be whomever I want in these little hoon fantasies of mine. However, the continuum does allow for other realities and I suspect that mine may be at the delusional end of the Bell Curve.
Let's take a moment to study, shall we, how an unbiased voyeur may see things. Observe, the mother in the 4WD with the four baby booster seats arranged in the rear of the vehicle. Note, the harried look and furrowed brow. These seemingly inocuous details are vital in determining what we have here. She is The Ageing Hoon, unable to glide gracefully into middle-age, into sensible shoes and grown-up couture, into blow-dried hair and Blackberries.
The Youth have declared my hoonish behaviour mildly amusing, sometimes alarming but only acceptable if their choice of music is playing. My husband vascillates between love and loathing. He loves it on a Friday night after a dinner out when he can play Joy Division as loud as he likes and hang his head out the window yelling at passers-by. He hates it on a Saturday morning when my erratic antics bring on billious attacks.
Yes, it may be juvenile behaviour on my part, but I like it and I'm sticking with it.
But this does beg the question: how old would you be if you didn't know how old you were?

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

School Holidays SUCK

"Let's get one thing straight", I said to The Youth this morning as they whipped up their 457th origami crane to add to the collection which I will later be called on to purchase from their 'shop'. "We're not spending any money today, okay. We're not buying any Strawberry Squeezes from Boost Juice, we're not going to the cinema, we're not even getting a box of orange Tic-Tacs at the service station." This news went down like the proverbial lead balloon, and their tiny little minds started ticking over almost immediately. How were they going to vanquish this parsimonious malcontent they had before them?
As I see it, the whole game of master and slave is a relentless exercise in autocracy and degrading submissions. Regrettably, The Youth have sussed this and are using it to their advantage. They know that a war of attrition is the ideal way to achieve their goals, and that school holidays are the parents' Achilles Heel.
With this ammunition in their holsters, they began their assault early. Could they watch a movie before breakfast? Absolutely not. Could they check their emails? No. Could they have pancakes for breakfast? Are you joking. With my despotic reputation intact, the Infantry decided to make their move. I want a haircut today. Can we go to Alice's house? What are we doing today?...You get the idea. My armour was slipping, and it was only 7.15am.
Weet-bix were eaten, clothes were donned, travel was undertaken and we found ourselves at the Museum where I had booked them into a FREE children's show where the little blighters were required to do things maritime: scrub decks, haul supplies, eradicate rats, you know the stuff. After an hour they came off the 'ship', huddled, conferred and arrived at the universal opinion that the show was 'for babies'. 
Was Dostoevsky talking about me when he said in The Idiot, 'The soul is healed by being with children'?

Saturday, September 18, 2010

The Book Club

It has been much talked about and finally it's been done. I've started a book club with 4 friends. You know how it works: you read a book, make a date, gather at a wine bar and discuss in a very grown-up fashion the contents of the nominated text. All very straight-forward. Or so I thought. However, there is peril at every turn here. Choose a book that's too lightweight and you risk being branded an idiot. Aim too high-brow and you're a wanker. Go the middle ground and you're just too predictable.
Then there's the angst of 'jumping the shark'. Have all your incredibly smart and literate friends already read the very clever tome you're putting up as the next target? This is an anxiety reserved specifically for Book Club.
But it doesn't stop there. I also get a little worked up over how fast everyone reads. One of the Book Clubbers snorted that she hadn't even started the novel we were to be discussing in 3 short weeks' time. What! While I've been religiously reading my 10 pages a night so as to arrive at the conclusion just in time for the meeting, this anti-swat has devoured another 3 or 4 books and will "just read it in one sitting" on the weekend.
Some might say this flies in the face of what Book Club is all about - the pleasure of reading and re-reading each sentence at a leisurely pace, taking in every nuance and grasping every plot line.
Regardless, it's my turn to choose the next book, and I'm getting in early because who knows how fast these conches read and what's currently stacked beside their beds.
So, I'm off, I need to get reading. This is my reputation at stake here! And as we all know, the appearance of success is a great competitive advantage.

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Deja Vu...all over again

There's a certain comfort in repetition, predictability, reliability - especially so for children. And so it comes to pass that a number of perfectly good genres of music and artists has been forever sullied by The Youth and their desire to play certain tunes over and over and over again. And we're not talking about juvenile trash here, we're talking about reputable material. As an example, Michael Jackson can never be listened to ever again in our household - he is persona non grata. In particular, anything from his Thriller phase is considered The Devil's Work by pure dint of it being played on such high rotation that it shall never be rotated again in my presence.

However, I never learn. Every time I introduce The Youth to a new artist it's with a certain amount of alacrity, but the bonhomie is quickly sucked out of me when they insist that every conceivable moment near an ipod is spent listening to said artist and generally to one particular tune.

And so it was with my new favourite, TZU, a very clever band from Melbourne. The Youth have comandeered them and ruined them forever. Their favourite track, Number One, was a winner, but is now a loser. I apologise to TZU and give them this advice: happiness is destroyed by the repitition of slowly destructive LITTLE things.

Monday, August 30, 2010

Don't Try This At Home

Having poo-pooed a number of seemingly reputable Yum Cha establishments in the last four weeks, The Youth were prepared to try again on Sunday. This time they consulted The Sydney Magazine and decided on a joint recommended by Terry Durack which attracted a "civilised business crowd". After much preparation, The Youth (who were ready by 8.45am) and their chaperones powered into town, parked the vehicle and poured a couple of pocketfuls of change into the parking meter.
The establishment was reached by way of a red-carpeted spiral staircase. Greeted by waistcoated waiters bemused at our early arrival, we were ushered to the central table. Trolley Dolleys were summonsed from the back room, unprepared for such prompt diners. The fare was tasty, if a little predictable, but there were a number of highlights. The first was the 'prawn ball'. It contained the compressed bodies of many hundreds of prawns and was wrapped in an enormous layer of...let's see...fat, I think we'll call it. Needless to say, it was ambrosial, manna from heaven. Some short time afterwards, the husband began to complain of chest pain and 'a zinging sensation' in his brain. His MSG tolerance obviously substandard, we assured him that the post-cha buzz would fade. And it did (part-timer!) The second highlight came straight after the 10am chocolate mousse. The Youth, who had been specifically herded by the waiters to seats on the east of the circular table, were mesmerised by the plasma screen in the west wing behind us. In their stupor, they failed to notice the glass of icy cold water teetering on the tablecloth in front of them. The husband didn't stand a chance. The ignominy of an ice chaser to the groin after the MSG assault was unspeakably cruel.
We vacated the establishment poste-haste and, on our trek back to the vehicle, deemed the joint "a dud" on a number of different levels. Our quest continues.

Friday, August 27, 2010

Friday Night Special

On my way to collect The Youth this afternoon, a travelling compadre of mine suggested that Fridays were an excellent excuse for a glass of wine with dinner. FRIDAYS, I guffawed, drawing only polite tittering from the entourage. FRIDAYS are when you really let loose. I extoled the merits of a glass with every evening meal in which children were involved. More polite smiles. And then expanded on the benefits of two glasses on a Friday night whilst some other sucker took the heat for a couple of hours. A few more whimsical looks. And that's when the chasm opened, when I realised that there are two types of mothers: 'Sensible' mothers, and 'Those Who Can't Actually Believe They're in Charge of Minors' mothers. Quite clearly, I fall into the latter category. The contenders for the former then began to talk about how bath time was a good juncture at which to pour a glass of Chardonnary. Bath Time. Are there really children out there who bathe EVERY day? Is this natural? Surely it can't be good for their delicate skin. What a hideous waste of time and water. A good spruce down in a communal shower once a week is good enough, isn't it? The chasm was now a bona fide crater. I bid my farewells and collected my dirty child from pre-school, flicking bits of last night's honey soy salmon out of her hair as we moved on to pick up her grotty brother and sister. And as we all walked home together through the park we made a pact that we wouldn't discuss our drinking or bathing habits in mixed company ever again. Later, we consulted Cicero who confirmed for us that "diseases of the soul are more dangerous and numerous than those of the body," and we felt vindicated. Pass the Pinot.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

It's Competitive at the Top

Today was Book Week parade at school. Come dressed as your favourite book character. Simple enough. But, NO. Lady R was adamant she would go as "the ninja from Kick Ass". (What! What! How has a 7-year-old ever heard of, let alone seen, an episode of that ridiculous piece of excrement? And why can't the Americans spell arse?) No amount of banter would convince her that this character featured nowhere in any written, literary, erudite text. At a stretch I decided that she could be a Tashi Ninja. No good, it seemed.
Meanwhile, The Young Man would be going as Ron Weasley. Far too many Harry Potters were forecast, so this would be the surreptitious outside chance. Many tears were shed, many infant gauntlets thrown down, and in the end no-one was entirely happy. Especially when Lady R saw the Young Man's costume - cape, complete with hood and Gryffindor logo, cloak clasp and wand (the only moment of lightness coming when we discovered on the packaging that the French translation for wand is baguette - much hilarity).
So goes the preamble for today's extravaganza that included Chess Club, multiple wardrobe changes, lurking outside toy shop windows for doors to open and delivery of NEW costumes to the youth all before 9.15am. However, all this seemed in vain when we spotted the calibre of costume cruising past us as we walked through the school gates. Mad Hatters, Frodos, Chewbaccas, Alices...they were all there. Not in store-bought rubbish like ours. No. Parents had quite obviously spent precious time at sewing machines, late into the night, to produce such high-quality garb. No expense had been spared, no corner cut. Our hearts sank. The Young Man waved his wand half-heartedly, hoping to knobble some of the competition, but without success.
Yes, the lunch time parade was fabulous. No, the youth didn't bring home the prize-winning bacon.
But the valuable lesson learnt from today is one in the eye for all those over-achieving haberdashers: waste your money and you're only out of money, but waste your time and you've lost a part of your life. Touche.

Monday, August 23, 2010

The Tummy Bug

Not to harp on the subject of sinking feelings, but there's another one I detest, and it goes a little like this..."Mummy, I don't feel good". The guarantee is this - you're either going to be wearing a gown of vomit in the next hour or spend the next 24 of them praying against all odds that, surely, the child is merely (1) hungry, (2) tired, (3) deluded. The odds, however, are not good. As we discovered again this week, with 2 of the 4 youth bed-ridden and threatening billious behaviour, one husband writhing with stomach coniptions, one au pair collapsed in the hallway at 3am on Monday morning with same, and the prospect of a lay-down misere for the remaining escapees. Wish me luck.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

The Toy Explosion

There's that sinking feeling when you hear the silence, feel the dread, and then enter the room where there should be noise, laughter, frivolity. And you find THE TOY EXPLOSION. You know the one where every conceivable item has been removed from its 'Proper Spot' and flung into a central repository in the living room. This Time Waster is one of my most loathed.