Please Ignore My Daughter

‘Come in,’ I said to the man who had arrived to give me a quote for a painting job. ‘Please ignore my daughter in the corner.’

‘What? Why?’ he asked.

‘Oh,’ he said.

The Mop was sitting stark naked on the potty in the middle of the family room. Next to her a roll of toilet paper, her undies and her dress. She clutched her favourite toy, tears in her eyes.

She had been there an hour.

I should have known better than to allow a tradie to come by at 5.30pm on a Friday. It’s not a time typically known to be particularly relaxed in most households with small children. Dinner was burning on the stove, the baby was screaming because she was hungry, the Bombshell was sulking because I wouldn’t let her start painting five minutes before dinner. And my husband was nowhere to be found.

The Mop, in her own good time, had finally decided she should start using the potty. It’s been going ok, except for the bit where she had diarrhoea for a few days. Somehow, good fortune had it that she was always in a nappy at the times her bottom exploded. Like bedtime. Awesome.

Except today, when she ran inside to do a wee on the potty, her bottom decided to explode. I didn’t realise this initially, as I was making meatballs and couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about.

‘I’m afraid of the stick,’ she wailed.

‘What stick?’ I asked. ‘Did you step on something outside?’

‘No,’ she moaned. ‘The stick, I don’t like the stick.’

‘I think she means the stink, Mum’ the Bombshell said helpfully, from where she was reclining next to the potty. ‘She smells pretty awful,’ she added.

‘Then move!’ I groaned. I went and sat down next to the Mop. She looked so miserable. ‘Stand up honey, and I will wipe your bottom,’ I told her. She shook her head. ‘I don’t like the stink’, she said.

‘Honey, poo always smells funny. It’s just that you haven’t noticed before because it’s been in a nappy. Trust me though,’ I added, ‘Mummy has noticed.’

I tried to pull her up off the potty, and she started screaming hysterically. ‘Well you can’t stay there forever,’ I said.  ‘Yes I can,’ she told me. ‘I want a nappy,’ she moaned. It’s a bit late for that, I thought.

I knew the painter guy was only minutes away at this point and decided not to risk hauling her off the potty and having her have a poo melt-down all over the walls (although, they were going to be painted in a day or two). So I went back to the meatballs.

Every few minutes I would check in with her. ‘Can I wipe your bottom now?’ I would ask. ‘No. But can I have dinner?’

‘No dinner on the potty,’ I said.

The doorbell rang and I invited the painter in. He said hello to all the girls, including the naked one on the potty, which I think was awesome. I hate it when people ignore my kids in their own house.

Still she sat there. She was waiting for Daddy, she said. I wondered if she thought Daddy would magically take the stink away. I had already sent him two text messages warning him of joyous task that awaited him when he got home. The second one simply read ‘she’s been on there for half an hour. HELP!’

I took the painter outside to show him downpipes that needed painting. The roll of toilet paper got stuck on my foot and it rolled outside after me. He bent down and picked it up for me. Now that’s service.

Finally, after an hour my husband, the poo saviour, walked through the door. The Mop burst into tears. ‘I did poo. It stinks,’ she told him. He went to change out of his white work shirt and I took the painter out the front to look at more downpipes.

A few minutes later, with a new nervous tic in his eye, my husband reappeared with a clothed and nappied Mop. ‘Got a tummy upset, has she?’ was all he asked.

Something like that.

Life Intruded

Do you think that's a good name for a novel?

If I ever get around to writing my autobiography, I think that is what I will call it. Because it will explain why despite my best of intentions (and the occasional good idea), I never got around to finishing my novel.

Life has a knack of getting in the way of my writing. And by 'life' of course, I mean 'kids'.

I wrote a while ago that this was NaNoWriMo and I was going to make a crack of getting 50,000 words of my first novel out by the end of November. Today is the 20th and I have written about 17,000 words. You do the math. Unless aliens come down and kidnap my three children and take them to the best creche in the universe - for ten days straight - there is no way I am going to make it.

I even have a good idea for a novel. Two in fact.

I spent the last two weeks of October writing a detailed plan of one novel, with character studies and a plot (though, alarmingly, no ending. That should have rung alarm bells immediately).

Then while I was standing on the corner of George and Liverpool Street in Sydney, on the last day of our holiday, I got a new idea. Two weeks of preparation went down the toilet and I ran straight into NaNoWriMo with a new story with no plan whatsoever. I do have an ending though.

And if I say so myself, it's a little bit naughty. So much so, that even if I write the damn thing, I would be reluctant to let anyone I know actually read it, unless they can't look me in the eye afterwards. Or look me in the eye with a raised eyebrow and a saucy, knowing grin.

November was always going to be a tough month for me to write with abandon. We were in Sydney for the first 3 days, then my husband was away twice for work. Less than 6 hours after he hopped on the plane for his second stint in Adelaide, the Mop was vomiting with a tummy bug. I spent the next 24 hours doing four loads of washing because I rather stupidly kept remaking the bed in between vomits. Nice... but stupid.

So, just in case you think I am giving up - I'm not. I will continue to keep going with my novel. Even if I make it to 25,000 words this year, I think it's a decent first effort.  But this is where I ask for help.  Every now and then (not every day, because I will go mental) will you drop me a line and ask how the novel is going.  Maybe a bit of external encouragement will keep me going.

And then in about a decade (don't they say it takes ten years to write a first novel?) you can all read my saucy little novel, and all stare at with me with a raised eyebrow and saucy, knowing grin.

When Good Intentions Go Bad

The Curly Mop has a little blanket with an elephant head called Ella.

Really, it's not as creepy as it sounds.

Because the Mop developed such an attachment to Ella, we went out and bought a second one, so there was always a spare in the drawer if she got covered with food, or vomit, or if we ever lost one.

We lost one.

Our family has just returned from a week in Sydney. Unfortunately, Ella did not make it home. She disappeared on the last day. Whether she was dropped inadvertently, pinched by a two year old pickpocket or just decided she liked the bright lights of Sydney more than she liked Perth, we'll never know.

The Mop was distraught, but knowing that we had a spare waiting at home I told her that I was sure someone would find Ella and get her home to us in Perth. Sure enough a few hours after we got home, I dumped spare Ella on the front doormat, rang the doorbell and bolted.

The Bombshell was most impressed that Ella had returned home and asked all sorts of sticky questions about how the person knew where we lived etc etc.

The Mop just squeezed and squeezed and wouldn't let Ella go.

Good on ya Mum.

Then this morning the Mop asked for her 'other Ella'.

Umm, excuse me?

'My have two Ellas. My need the other one,' the Mop said. 'She's in the drawer' she added very helpfully.

Oh crap.

So I had to come clean to the Mop (and the Bombshell) that the other Ella did *not* in fact make it home to Perth, and that she had been lost in Sydney, and there she will stay. Her face just crumbled and my heart dissolved. So I did what any mother would do: I offered her someone else's toy.

Baldy Baby has two little blankets with bear heads.  Again, not as creepy as it sounds. She is 8 months old and hasn't shown any interest in them (probably because they are in the drawer and she has never even seen them) so I offered them to the Mop and said she could choose one to be Ella's new friend.

She promptly grabbed both of them and tossed the remaining Ella in her bedroom.

Mum fail.

One Day The Prince Will Come (Just Not Today)

It was like some kind of Barbie 'So You Think You Can Dance'.

The dolls were dancing for Prince Eric, and whoever was deemed to be the best would marry the Prince. I couldn't tell if the Barbies were selling themselves short for the affection of a plastic mound, or if Prince Eric was some kind of man-slave in this scenario.

The Bombshell had asked me to play Barbies with her this afternoon, so I did what any girl would do. I plonked myself down on the floor and began undressing dolls and then re-dressing them in the biggest, most elaborate outfits I could conjure.

Then the Bombshell came after me, and found each of the dolls shoes, 'so they wouldn't slip when they dance'.  This is easier said than done, because of the 24 dolls (yes, you read that correctly), only half of them were genuine Barbie dolls, the rest of them random plastic dolls of varying dimensions, some with removable heads, some with wings, and some with mermaid tails hidden under their ball gowns (no shoes for you!).

After we had sat them in a group it was time to dance. I couldn't help but stare at some of the dolls whose non-poseable plastic legs prevented them from sitting in a ladylike manner, their legs spread wide as though they were taking a trip to the gynaecologist. Luckily, five year olds don't notice these things.

My job was to play the music. Each doll was allowed about five seconds to dance and impress the Prince, who sat in stony silence at the end of the bed.

I was under strict instructions 'not to see' the Bombshell, as she 'helped' the Barbie's dance. She lifted their dresses, and stuck their legs up in the air, whirled them around, and helped them defy gravity and a number of laws of physics.

And still Prince Eric sat, unimpressed.

Three different Ariels had their turn. Then a fairy with bent wings. Then Jasmine and Tiana. A neckless Barbie with a crew cut had her chance and failed when The Mop came through like a taffeta destroying tornado.

The crowd began thinning, as the Barbies moved from the staging area to the couch, where they were recast as 'Mummies' and 'sisters' in a violent new drama by the Mop.

Eric's interest had been piqued. He had fallen over, but was now staring directly at Ken, who was rather dashing in a purple padded dressing gown and Mary Poppin's bonnet. I began to understand why none of the Barbie's were scoring 10 out of 10.

'I wonder who the marry-er will be,' sighed the Bombshell, who thinks that weddings are simply a chance to wear a big dress and dance while everyone watches. But not kiss a boy, 'cause that's gross.

I rewound the music box and prepared for the final few contestants  I admired the Bombshell's unwavering determination that all dolls get an equal chance, even though I was already so bored I was mentally writing the shopping list and trying to remember that thing my husband had asked me to remember, but I had forgotten.

'Dinner,' hollered my husband from out back where he was barbecuing some snags.

The Mop suddenly bounced across the room, threw herself on the bed and sent Eric flying.

He landed, happily enough, right on top of Ken.

'So who wins the Prince?' I asked the Bombshell as we got ready for dinner.

'Oh, I don't know,' she said. 'I don't think the Barbies want to be married today.'

That's lucky, I thought, because I was pretty sure Eric had found his prince.

Dumped For Weetbix

As parents, we are just as fickle as our children.

It is 5.50am Sunday morning. I am lying in bed, in that half-sleep-half-waking-state when I hear a muted sob from downstairs. The Mop is awake. A single sob is unusual, once she wakes she usually treats us to a rousing chorus of heartbreaking tears and tantrums, but not today.  She is very quiet.

She is so cute, I think to myself. With her little cherub face, and her little pigtails. I want a cuddle. I will her to come upstairs. My jedi mind powers don't seem to be working.

My husband and I are both pretending to be asleep so we don't have to be the one to get up. It's only a matter of time before she starts crying and wakes the other two girls. So far though, silence. I wonder what she's doing.

It has been ten minutes and she has made only the smallest of noises.  It's raining outside and a bit cold for October, I don't really want to get out of bed, but I would like a cuddle. Why won't she come upstairs to find us, then I can pull her into bed with me.

Eventually we hear: 'Mummy? Daddy?'

Then: 'Mummmy? Dadddy?'

Then: 'MUMMMMMMY DADDDDY MUMMYDADYMUMMYDADDY'.

My husband bounds out of bed. Maybe he doesn't know I am awake. He 'accidentally' tosses a pillow at me.

Yeah he knows.

I open my eyes and tell him, 'Can you get her to come upstairs for a cuddle?'

Soon a little head appears, with wonky, slept-in pigtails. So cute.

She is preceded by a devastating ponk.  Oh, that's what she's been doing.

'I done poo,' she says.

'I know,' I tell her. I really wanted a cuddle but I don't really want the poo-monster in my bed.

'Why don't you go downstairs with Daddy and after he changes you come back up for a cuddle with Mummy?'

I expect her to get very excited, cuddles with Mummy in bed is rare indeed. How often, as Mums, are we in bed while our kids are up?

But she shakes her little head.

'No' she says. 'I want breakfast.'

And that was that. Dumped for a bowl of Weetbix.

NaNoWriMo - OMG I'm Going To Do It

Like many of us, I have a novel inside me. In the past it was just an idle dream, so blurry it was like my baby had been smearing her grubby fingers across my glasses.

Then, the other week, the idea crystallised (but I'm not telling you what it is).

November is International Novel Writing Month, so I asked my good friend Amanda Kendle - writer, blogger, mother, and social media expert - to write me a guest post and get me in the mood. 

So, if you are a wannabe novelist as well, will you join us?

November is NaNoWriMo. No, this is not related to Movember (despite the Mo) so I won't be growing a moustache, but it will be even sillier. Ridiculously crazy, in fact. NaNoWriMo (shortened to NaNo by those in the know) stands for National Novel Writing Month. In fact it's really International Novel Writing Month as people across the world take part, but I guess IntNoWriMo doesn't have the same ring to it.

As you might guess, this is a challenge where people go about writing a draft of a novel in just one month. The idea is that you should write at least 50,000 words, which works out at 1,667 words per day. This is probably a little short for most novels but it's a good chunk of it at least. The focus is on quantity rather than quality, since the biggest problem most people have with writing novels is that they never finish them. NaNo encourages you to get all those words out so that you've then got something to work with.

When Shannon asked me to write a guest post about NaNoWriMo, she was under the impression I had completed one of my novel drafts since my son was born. Unfortunately, I'm not that amazing. I've "won" NaNo (their expression for reaching 50,000 words by the end of November) just once, the year before my son came along. I've tried since, but not made it.

 

But. BUT! This year is going to be different. I've had NaNo on my to do list (with a bunch of question marks) for a few days but I've decided I'm going to do it. My son is two and a half, he sometimes (okay occasionally) sleeps through the night and on a (very) good day he even sleeps until 6am. I only work half-time so I think I can squeeze the time into the day to get my 1,667 words done. However, I am trying to use lots of the lessons I've learned from previous NaNo fails to help me to another win this time. My strategy is:

• Spend October (oops - well, the rest of October) writing a reasonably detailed outline of the novel I want to write. On my first (and curiously, successful) NaNo attempt, I had no plan at all. I got the 50,000 words done but the incredible amount of rewriting I've had to do on this (including completely restructuring it) is not something I want to do again.
• Aim to write 2,000 words each day. There will always be off days (sick child, anyone?) so you need a buffer to deal with them - there's nothing worse than trying to catch up thousands of words in a day. (Although I did once write 15,000 words in a day for this very reason. You may correctly assume that they were not very good words.)
• Be brave enough to meet up with other NaNo writers. There are groups everywhere who meet up to write together. I'm hoping to persuade Shannon here to take part, which will be a good start (don't tell her, though, that someone with three young kids is even more insane than me to try this).
• Plan a couple of mega-days where I leave the house, head somewhere without the internet, and write for three or four hours.
• Remind myself constantly that this is just a first draft and nobody needs to read it except me - I can make it more "beautiful" in the next draft.

If you're as crazy as me head over to nanowrimo.org and sign up. The website is full of great resources, a forum to meet others, and you can log your word count every day (I love watching the graph go up and up!). And happy writing.

 

 

 

Amanda Kendle is a would-be novelist, mother of one and a blogging and social media consultant; she blogs at notaballerina.com and will report on her NaNoWriMo attempt at facebook.com/amandakendleconsulting