Why Exercise, Housework and Childcare Should be Banned

I have long been a crusader against exercise, believing it leads to all sorts of injury and humiliation.

Take my husband for example, in the course of exercise he has sustained a stress fracture during a gym class (which he finished before going to get an x-ray, typical male).

He's come off his bike, tearing his arms down to the bone, and had the worst case of blisters known to mankind after the City to Surf.

Disgusting.

Clearly, sport and exercise are bad for you.

Now I am going to add housework to the list of things that must be stopped in the interest of personal safety.

Yesterday I broke my toe while putting the washing away. I walked into a door frame. Three toes went one way, two went the other.

I heard it snap. It was surprisingly loud.

It bloody hurts but you can't do anything except take prophylactic wine and sit down and watch ANTM.

I may also add childcare to my list of dangerous occupations.

To add insult to injury (literally), this morning the baby threw a book at me from her change table, and it landed squarely on my newly broken toe.

It's highly likely her next new word is going to start with an 'F'.

The Worst Parents in the World

It was a game of parental one-upmanship, the one where we try and outdo each other with how crazy the kids have been. Except we can play this game with the antics of just with one child: Number Three, Baldy.

My husband started: she threw the rice-bubbles everywhere. They were on the wall. I even found them in my shoes!

I followed with: she was climbing on the chairs at the dentist. She tried to climb up the vertical blinds.

Him: She ate food out of the bin.

Me: She insisted on having her teeth checked by the dentist like her sisters, but then she just stuck her tongue out.

Him: She belted the Mop in the face and was trying to ride the Bombshell like a horse.

Me: I found her sucking water out of a face-washer she had dipped in the toilet.

Him: She was sitting on the top of the toilet. Not the seat – the cistern!

We both looked over to the toilet, visualising the 18 month old sitting on top, merrily swinging her legs, smiling cunningly.

We must be such bad parents.

And to prove the point, I found Baldy 'cleaning' the toilet, and took the photo for posterity
before taking the toilet brush off her

 

Preaching to the Convoluted

I was loitering with intent.

I needed a key cut and was hanging around the key-cutting place at a nearby shopping centre, but the woman hadn’t noticed me yet. I was child-free but my head was pounding. I’d had way too much coffee and not enough water, and being woken at 5am by Baldy hadn’t helped.

Nor were the screaming kids at the little indoor playground right next to me.

Hang on, you may say. You have kids. You can’t complain about kids that scream.

Well, actually – I can.

My kids scream. A lot. Almost as much as I do.  However I like to do it in the privacy of my own home, or occasionally in the car on the way to school, where passing motorists can see by my purple face that I’m yelling but they don’t know what about.

These kids were screaming in the middle of a very public space. Not just happy-kids-yelling-and-laughing type screaming. Not even she-pushed-me-over-and-I’m-upset screaming. This was I’m-going-to-shriek-because-I-want-to-see-if-I-shatter-those-windows screaming.

The mums were sitting watching and having a nice chat. Maybe they were chatting, maybe they were lip-reading because their kids were quite loud, who knows.

Finally the key-cutting lady noticed me and she came to cut my key. She noticed me rubbing my temples.

‘They do that all day,’ she said. ‘Shrieking like that, and the mums never stop them. They don’t seem to care that we have to listen to that all day.’

Fair point. Those particular kids and their parents might be there for five or ten minutes and then move on. The people working in the shops nearby, like this lady in her pop-up shop less than three metres away have to listen to it all day.

And they’re trying to work.

She clearly hadn’t noticed my key-ring with a picture of my own three daughters at prime shrieking age. I don’t think she would have been so chatty if she knew I could well be one of the culprits.

Or maybe she had, because she had very clearly – and politely – made her point.

I had never stopped to think that people are trying to work in the shops next to this play area.

I will next time.

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?