The chill factor

A mom in the crowd of the "patient waiters" who gather outside the school gates at 12:30 every day asked me if I still hate winter. She caught me a bit off-guard. 

"Huh? Sorry?"

"Last year you said you hated winter and that you couldn't get up in the mornings," she reminded me.

Wow, I thought, good memory for a lady who's just had a baby.

"Hmmm, I did say that, didn't I?" 

It's true. I hate winter mornings. It's dark, so there's no pressing reason to get up. It feels like my alarm is going off in the middle of the night. Every. Single. Morning. It's cold and my bed is so, so warm. Most winter mornings I will be running late, because I just can't get myself going. It feels so wrong to leave the cosy sanctuary of my eiderdown.

I don't mind the rest of the day, really. It's quite satisfying bundling up against the chill, watching the rain drizzle outside, sipping on hot chocolate. By evening, a fire is lit, heaters are on, fuzzy slippers are the required footwear. Winter, itself is a festive and pancake-worthy season. But those winter mornings! How I wish we could start a normal winter day with a bit of sunshine and flip flops. Even daylight savings would be worth a shot if it meant we could just get the day going a little bit later.

Please, Uncle Jacob! Please can we start winter days later?

Girl Talk

Dear Wives, Mothers, Sisters, Females of the Species

I write to you under the influence of fresh dog turd marched through my house on the shoes of my four year-old, and, as such, I cannot take full responsibility for what I may say now, as the fumes of canine excrement seem to hamper my normal functioning.

Sisters, ladies, sufferers of menstrual cramps and gynaecological examinations. My fellow wearers of tampons and corsetry. Women of the world, you busty and hormonal defenders of the meek, vaccuumers of popcorn kernels and likers of all things pink. Those of you that enjoy the pampering of a french manicure and delight in all things pretty. You who at some point in you lives have appreciated ballet and Hello Kitty. I summon you all closer so that I may divulge a little secret.

(All that gynae crap and lace and frills stuff was to bore the men and shake them off the scent of the knowledge which I am about to impart to my sisters).

You've heard the expression: Men, you can't live with them, you can't shoot them, right?Well, it's true. You shouldn't shoot men. In fact, please don't. Men can be quite useful for cleaning out the litter tray and opening tightly screwed-on lids. So we do kind of need them.

No, I am in no way condoning violent behaviour. Instead I wish to impart a coping mechanism to my sisters who share the burden of trying to see eye-to-eye with the men they share a life with.

We've all experienced that quandry when the charming beast of a man that you note as your significant other let's you down in a nose-dive of chasmic proportions. We've all looked into the eyes of this muscular chunk of masculinity and been completely unable to comprehend the inner workings of that mind that seems to be fueled by Formula 1 and rugby. At some point, we've all rolled our eyes to the heaven's and begged to be understood by the slab of testosterone that sleeps in our beds. And more than once, the cosmic differences between Mars and Venus have lead to disputes, arguments, and in some cases, nuclear jihad.

We just want them to get us. We want them to hold our hands when we're looking at a beautiful sunset, not start a game of tonsil hockey. We want them to put a comforting arm around our shoulders when we're teary, not to suggest we go talk to a shrink. We want them to wink at us across a crowded room, not order another beer. 

Ladies, let me tell you a little secret. And I mean this sincerely. From the bottom of my heart, with the utmost respect for the carriers of the y-chromosome:

Men are retarded.

Now don't get into a flap, everyone! Seriously. I say it with my greatest appreciation for that which is "Man". Men ARE retarded. Say it a couple of times, and suddenly it all makes sense.

Why do they watch a field of sweaty blokes chasing a chunk of dead cow? Why do the burp and fart in company? Why do they consider a beer and pizza as a decent meal? Why do they battle to sort the lights from the darks?

But what I think is most beautiful about this revelation is this: not only does it explain a man's short-comings, but far more valuable than that, it creates a sense of pity for our brothers. When you're pulling your hair out with frustration over the way your man behaves, just think to yourself, "Ag shame, he's retarded," and suddenly you can't be mad at him. Your anger evaporates like the morning dew, and instead you feel a sense of sympathy for your better half. You look at him with affection and mild amusement, and you know, in your heart, that he does mean to do things right, but he just can't quite get it right all the time.

And everything is ok.

A Mother is Permitted to Complain. Once in a while.

Maybe I'm doing something wrong. Or maybe it's them. I dunno.

The majority of conversation directed at my children these days is, "Tidy up this mess!"

Seriously, at least 80% of what I say to my children is about the state of their rooms, the toys littering the lounge floor, the crayons strewn across the passage.

Now, you tell me. Am I expecting too much from these kids? Am I hampering their fun? Aren't they supposed to make a mess, and play and enjoy their childhood? Am I supposed to quietly pick up after them, with a BIG smile on my face, content in the knowledge that my children have had the opportunity and the unlimited space to develop their sweet creative little selves?

But on the other hand, really? No. I mean REALLY? Am I REALLY supposed to have my spawn turn the sanctuary of my home space into a battle field - Every. Single. Day. Am I REALLY supposed to give up the idea of neat living, feng shui, open, tidy home spaces until, gee, I dunno, they move out? Is that how it's supposed to be? Am I fighting a losing battle here? Because it feels like that. Like a battle. At night I fall into bed crippled, exhausted, war-weary.

And it doesn't matter how hard I try, how well I've tidied their doll's house, how neatly the puzzle boxes have been stacked, tomorrow, without fail, the havoc and mayhem that seems to follow these two seemingly innocent young girls, will find a way to demolish my designs, upturn my tupperware, blow up my book cases. I am unequal to the power of childhood entropy.

And the solution? "Let it go," you say. "Roll with the punches." I hear your "never mind" and your "it's just a phase", and I can't, for the life of me, let it be. I can't accept that this phase is bigger than me. If I let this chaos consume me, I will have no control left. I will be like flotsam swept away in a tsunami of Polly Pockets and paper dolls.

I need a full time housekeeper. It's a matter of sanity.

Oh. And a full time gardener to pick up the dog poo. Thanks.

The lighter side of Terrorism

I received this super email today. Made me laugh so much, I just had to share it. Enjoy.

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The British are feeling the pinch in relation to recent terrorist threats in Islamabad and have raised their security level from "Miffed" to "Peeved." Soon, though, security levels may be raised yet again to "Irritated" or even "A Bit Cross". Brits have not been "A Bit Cross" since the blitz in 1940 when tea supplies all but ran out. Terrorists have been re-categorized from "Tiresome" to a "Bloody Nuisance". The last time the British issued a "Bloody Nuisance" warning level was during the great fire of 1666.

The French government announced yesterday that it has raised its terror alert level from "Run" to "Hide". The only two higher levels in France are "Collaborate" and "Surrender". The rise was precipitated by a recent fire that destroyed France 's white flag factory, effectively paralysing the country's military capability.

It's not only the French who are on a heightened level of alert. Italy has increased the alert level from "Shout loudly and excitedly" to "Elaborate Military Posturing". Two more levels remain: "Ineffective Combat Operations" and "Change Sides".

The Germans also increased their alert state from "Disdainful Arrogance" to "Dress in Uniform and Sing Marching Songs." They also have two higher levels: "Invade a Neighbour" and "Lose".

Belgians, on the other hand, are all on holiday as usual, and the only threat they are worried about is NATO pulling out of Brussels .

The Spanish are all excited to see their new submarines ready to deploy. These beautifully designed subs have glass bottoms so the new Spanish navy can get a really good look at the old Spanish navy.

Americans meanwhile are carrying out pre-emptive strikes on all of their allies, just in case.

New Zealand has also raised its security levels - from "baaa" to "BAAAA!". Due to continuing defence cutbacks (the airforce being a squadron of spotty teenagers flying paper aeroplanes and the navy some toy boats in the Prime Minister's bath), New Zealand only has one more level of escalation, which is "Shit, I hope Austrulia will come end rescue us". In the event of invasion, New Zealanders will be asked to gather together in a strategic defensive position called "Bondi Beach". 

Australia, meanwhile, has raised its security level from "No worries" to "She'll be right, mate". Three more escalation levels remain: "Crikey!", "I think we'll need to cancel the barbie this weekend" and "The barbie is cancelled". There has not been a situation yet that has warranted the used of the final escalation level. 

A number One

I have no idea what compelled her to say it, what little nugget of festering after-thought lead to the growth of the concept, but for some reason, my demure lady-like little 6 year old has claimed ownership of the term: pee-tank. As in, on route to ballet, "Ooops! I better go to the pee-tank before my class starts!"

I tried to determine the origin of the word, but to no avail. "I just thought it up on my own, in my own head," she shrugged.

"Well, there are better things to say," I said, thinking along the lines of I need to visit the little girls' room. The part of the brain devoted to toilet humour at this age took immediate control of all her cognition. She started inventing new options. "I need to visit a private place that gets stinky," she suggested. "If I don't get there soon, I will leak," she added.

"Tinkle," I corrected her. A little lady tinkles.

She thought that was mildly amusing. "I need a private tinkle," she experimented with the phrase.

By the end of the day, her two favourites were I need to sit on the royal throne, and I need to squeeze a lemon, which had some rather dubious and primitive roots which I'd prefer not getting into detail over.

I think she misheard him

Him: What would you like to drink?

Me: Hmmm, do we have Savannahs?

Him: Sure. Would you like one?

AirBear (very, very eager):  Oooooh! Me too please!

A moment of shocked silence passes where I scrutinize my four year old.

Me: You want a Savannah?

AirBear: Yes, I love them! I really, really love them!

Me: Savannahs? You don't even know what a Savannah is.

AirBear (indignant): Oh yes, I do. It's a sausage.

Princess Pepper

This is our dog.

She eats scuba divers for breakfast.