Just A Little Story About Magic

Sometimes things happen so perfectly you wonder whether maybe if there is a little magic in the world.

The Bombshell and I were home alone.

A reminder on my mobile phone buzzed. I had it randomly set to a small chime. I heard it but didn’t acknowledge it: it was a reminder to me to get the spring decorations ready for the fairy garden. I wasn’t going to ruin the surprise for the Bombshell who was colouring at the table.

Her head popped up.

‘Mum, did you hear that?’ she asked.

‘Hear what,’ I asked innocently.

She turned to me, eyes wide.

‘I think a fairy just talked in my ear,’ she said conspiratorially.

‘I didn’t hear anything,’ I said.

‘It WAS! A fairy just spoke to me, it sounded like bells,’ she said sighing.

‘I wonder what she said?’ I asked.

She bounded up from her chair. ‘I think she wants me to look at the Fairy Garden,’ she said.

My heart sank a little, the Fairy Garden was a bit of a mess. The ribbons and garlands we had hung a few months ago were bedraggled and broken. I had new ones to put out tomorrow, but today it was a bit sad.

The Bombshell stood in front of the window, staring at the Fairy Garden.

‘Mum,’ she whispered in a low voice. ‘You have to see this. It definitely was a message from the fairies.’

I stood behind her, and sitting on top of the Fairy ‘bedroom’ was a little bird.

 

Picture perfect, a message from the fairies.

It made me believe in magic.

Dad Jokes (by a 6 year old)

On the way to school today the Bombshell was regaling us with typical six year old humour. She was making stuff up as she went along and it was reminiscent of what you might call a ‘Dad joke’.

At least it was less embarrassing than her last joke attempt.

‘Mum,’ she started. ‘Why did the crocodile paint his toenails purple?’

I racked my brain because even though it sounded vaguely familiar, I couldn’t remember the punch line. I guess that would have spoiled it anyway.

‘I don’t know, why did the crocodile paint his toenails purple?’

‘Because he wanted to hide in the raspberry bush.’

Before I could point out that raspberries were red she had launched into her next joke.

‘Why did the elephant paint his toenails red?’

I was ready this time.

‘Because he wanted to hide in the strawberry patch?’ I answered glibly.

‘No, because he wanted to climb the apple tree without the policeman seeing him.’

She cackled uproariously which set the other two off, and I had to join in.

Whether or not it made any sense, the image of an elephant with red toenails hiding up a tree from the law was good enough for me, and at least she wasn't joking about the baby being dead.

 

Happy Fathers’ Day guys.


 

The Prize for the Most Inappropriate Conversation Goes to...

I was cuddled up in bed with the Bombshell and it struck me that these days were numbered.

'You know,' I told her, 'one day you will be too old for me to snuggle in bed and you won't want to be my friend anymore.'

'Don't be silly,' she told me stroking my hair. 'I will always want you to be my friend. You're the best mum ever.'

How I wish that were true, I thought.

'One day you will suddenly grow up and you will bring home some deadbeat boys and I will tell you "No, don't marry these deadbeats". She started laughing.

'But then one day you will bring home a really lovely boy, and I will tell you how wonderful he is, but you will then dump him immediately because if Mum likes him, then there must be something wrong with him,' I continued.

She was watching me, utterly transfixed.

'But then you will bring home a nice boy who you will really like and I will really like, but I will stay quiet, and you will get married.'

She sat up in the bed. 'Tell me about the deadbeats again.'

'What? Why?' I said, suddenly wondering what on earth I was doing. Being inappropriate as usual.

'Because it's so funny, me going out with the deadbeats. Tell it again.'

And so I did. I told her about the deadbeats, and the nice boys she will dump because her parents like him too much, and then finally, meeting the right guy. She laughed and laughed. We both did, but all the time I was thinking that this was a woefully inappropriate conversation to have with a six year old, and that I really need SuperNanny or Nanny McPhee or someone to step in and stop me before I said something really dumb.

When she finally stopped laughing and we caught our breath, she peered into my face and said 'Mum, why are you telling me all this?'

I don't know, I said. I really don't know.


What inappropriate things have you told your kids?

Weetbix, No Shame and the Teenaged Boy

Today was my first day back at uni. Naturally, just as I stepped out of the car it had poured down with rain. Naturally, as a mother and a mature-aged student I was the only person with an umbrella.

Everyone else was too cool for umbrellas.

 

As this story will show, I am not too cool for anything.

Before long the tutor asked us to get into groups to discuss the readings. Very few of us had actually done the readings, and even fewer understood them. I had good intentions and certainly eyeballed them, but when faced with this:

Few Platonic moments are better known in literary studies today, but copious

deconstructive attention to its metaphysical thematics registers little of the ethical

force of Plato’s argument, nor does it unearth the questions of signature which implicitly

 guide the equation of discursive responsibility with the presence of the subject.

I must admit I felt my eyes begin to wander, just a little…

Bleugh.

But because I had technically done the readings, I was moved to sit with a group of young guys, possibly in their early twenties but more likely in their late teens.

The angle I was sitting at meant I needed to use my peripheral vision, but there was something obstructing my view. So I took off my glasses to rub my eyes. Nope, the blur was still there.

So I looked inside my glasses.

And plastered in a chunk the size of a five cent piece, was solidified Weetbix, obscuring the lens and caked like concrete around the rim.

What else should I do –I began to chip it out with my fingernail.

Then I realised that one of the guys was watching me with a look that nicely blended disgust and incredulity.

‘Weetbix,’ I whispered. ‘My baby put it there.’

He nodded weakly and nudged his chair away from me.

I remember exactly when Baldy did it. She had been eating with her hands as usual, and as I crouched down near her high chair to clean the larger chunks of the floor she had reached over and grabbed a bunch of my hair, then pulled off my glasses. I ran shrieking to the Bombshell, handing her a brush and asking her to brush it out of my hair.

‘I’ll do my best,’ she said gamely.

I later went to get dressed, and changed my glasses - rather vainly - to match the dress I was planning on wearing. No one would have even noticed the switch in glasses, but it did give the Weetbix ample time to solidify nicely before I changed glasses again a few days later.

Later that night, after I had been to the art gallery and dinner with friends (and school drop off and pick up and playgroup and the shops), I came home, had a quick shower and got ready for bed. When my brush got stuck in my hair I attempted to look at the top of my head in the mirror.

Weetbix!

 

The Bombshell hadn’t brushed it all out and I had been walking around all day with a chunk of chewed up cereal in my hair.

Three days later, and the Weetbix was still haunting me.

So this was how I began my first day back at uni: encrusted, unashamed and with wet feet.

I wonder what will happen next week?

Six or Sixteen, I Keep Getting Them Mixed Up

Lately my daughter has been threatening to leave the house.

If she was sixteen I would probably just consult the parenting books, assume it’s normal teenage angst, and ignore her. But she’s not sixteen. She’s six. Barely.

Despite living in a 1930s house with all the door handles located mere inches from the ceiling (sidenote: I thought people were shorter in the olden days), the only two doors which have average height handles are the two front doors. (Yes, we have two. One for each of my personalities).

This means, it is very easy for my alarmingly tall six year old to let herself out whenever she chooses. Like in the middle of the family BBQ on the weekend.

Distressed that her three year old sister - whose single brief in life is to irritate her – was annoying her, she left in a huff and stood just outside the front door, where she could be seen, huddled against the Perth winter rain, barefoot and wearing a very sparkly party dress.

When I went to see her, and try and coax her inside, she told me she wanted to leave the house. I kindly pointed out she had already done so. She then upped the ante and began moving around the verandah, down the front steps and into the garden. The last I saw of her (as I was called back inside to sort out a rabid one year old who was upset she wasn’t allowed to help Daddy with the BBQ) was of the Bombshell, standing at the very edge of the carport. One foot on our land, one foot ‘out there.’

Out there.

In her eyes, the world outside our house has no annoying sister, no Mum telling her to pick up her toys, no set bedtime, no forced consumption of weird foods like mayonnaise, a room to herself and an endless supply of TV. As far as I can tell, the only place like this is jail, but they probably have mayonnaise there.

In my eyes, the world outside our house is cold and full of cars going very fast around corners and is far, far bigger than a six year old could possibly imagine, and full of things that she doesn’t yet need to know.

With the help of the Awesome Aunties we eventually lured her back in with the promise of Lego. But she assured us she still hated her sister and thought life was much better when there was only one kid.

Later that night, when I was pursing more intellectual pursuits and watching ANTM, she snuck out of bed for a chat. Even though the crisis had been averted, she calmly told me that the following morning she was going to leave the house for a whole month.

And so I did what I will probably do when she says this to me as a sixteen year old.

I said ‘yes’.

I told her that she could probably go and live with the Young Aunty and Uncle, and even though they lived almost 40 minutes away, they worked around the corner from her school, so they’d probably be able to drop her off at Year One every day.

I then told her how much I would miss her, but I was sure she’d be very happy as an only child.

She sat silently for a few minutes after that.

She hasn’t mentioned moving out since.

Which is probably lucky, because if she calls my bluff with the whole living-with-the-aunty-and-uncle thing, I would have some serious explaining to do, as they don’t know a thing about my brilliant plan.

 

(You do now!)

What Happens in the Bathroom, Stays in the Bathroom

‘I’m going to leave this family. I’m going to go out and leave this family because I hate the Mop so much.’

And so it begins.

Six year old Bombshell is sitting on the toilet, wailing about how annoying her sister is. The sister in question, three year old Mop, is in the bath with the baby, either oblivious to what is erupting around her, or just being quietly crafty. I have my money on crafty.

I am sitting on a small plastic stool, eyes on the baby who likes to belt the Mop over the head with toys, eyes on the Mop who likes to dump water on the baby, and eyes on the Bombshell who looks like she is going to implode.

‘I remember when she was born and I was so jealous because I was afraid you were going to love her more than me. And it’s true. You all hate me, so tonight I am going to leave.’

It’s difficult to take her seriously. She is completely nude with a shower cap on, and as she moans and wails dramatically, she is watching her reflection in the shower screen. Every now and then she adjusts her posture or facial expression for maximum impact. Not once has she actually looked at me or the target of her derision.

‘That was three and a half years ago, so I don’t see how you can possibly remember that. Besides, it is obvious I don’t love the Mop more than you. Mum’s can’t love one kid more than another, we’re not allowed to,’ I tell her. ‘Besides, why aren’t you jealous of Baldy then?’

‘Because she is smarter than the Mop.’

We both look at the baby who is trying to wrap a soggy wet face washer around her neck like a scarf. She pokes herself in the tummy, laughs, then pulls the washer off and starts sucking on it.

‘Okaaay,’ I say. Even the Mop rolls her eyes.

The Bombshell is now standing next to me. She is refusing to get in the bath if the Mop is in there. Considering the Mop is capable of staying in the bath until the water evaporates, I can’t see the standoff ending any time soon.

‘Listen, can you go and get me a pen and paper please,’ I ask the Bombshell.

‘Why?’ she asks.

‘So I can write down everything that you say, so I can reflect on it later.’ This isn’t actually untrue.

‘I’m saying I hate my sister!’ and she flounces off.

The Mop looks up. ‘Is she getting a pancake?’

What? ‘No,’ I say. ‘A pen and paper, not a pancake.’

‘Ok.’

Soon she returns with a notepad and pen, and I begin writing down the conversation (see, I don’t make this stuff up). She is fascinated at being the source of Mum’s attention and her attitude momentarily changes. She has stopped moaning and staring at herself in the mirror. She is trying to read over my shoulder, but even I can’t read my own writing.

Suddenly the baby cries out. The Bombshell has tipped a bucket of water from a great height right over her head. Baldy looks stunned, and a little cold – they have been in there for ages and the water is getting a bit on the tepid side, not so great for a 10 degree Perth night.

‘Stop! What did you do that for?’ I cry at her.

‘See, everyone hates me,’ she sobs, fists clenched at her side. ‘I’m outta here,’ she yells in my face and flounces out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

I bundle the baby out of the bath, rubbing her vigorously to dry her wet hair.

Meanwhile, the cause of all the commotion, who hasn’t made a single sound, continues to play quietly in the bath, a small smile just flickering on her face.