Author: McPikelets

Soup of the day

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Mid-shower this morning, an officious-looking Amy appears at the glass door. “Mummy, I need a spoon” “Uh, Amy, I’m in the shower” *blank stare and blink* “You can get yourself a spoon” “I can’t, mummy, I’m frightened of the lawnmower.” “Amy, there’s no lawnmower, you’ll be fine.” “Mummy, you HAVE to get it, cos….I’m frightened of a dog.” “Amy, there’s no dog here. Why do you want a spoon, anyway?” “I made a bowl of bum-bum soup and need to feed it to Tilly.” *me leaping from the shower to inspect contents of proffered bowl, whilst imagining the worst possible scenario for the “soup” ingredients, and fearing some sort of new low in sibling-jealousy-defense tactics. Palpable relief upon realising the soup was imaginary.* “Good. You finished your shower, so can you get me a spoon?”

Exchange rates

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Amy sold me a piece of her Duplo for $100. Then when I said “here’s your one hundred dollars” she informed me “actually, it’s one hundred pounds, now”. I baulked at the exchange rate gains, but she says if I don’t have enough money I can pay the rest next time. Did she read the business section over her Weet-Bix this morning? Think I might try to negotiate her down to $USD or $AUD.

Dignified motherhood = oxymoron

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Excellent. Have reached the “going out in public unaware that a boob is out” stage of proceedings. Fortunately said boob was encased in a sturdy-yet-feminine bra, and the look of alarm on the face of my neighbouring car-parker alerted me to my plight before I ventured too far. I laugh in the face of dignity. A sort of hysterical, tearful laugh.

Italian genes run deep with my toddler # 267:

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“Mummy! You got blue sunscreen on the WHITE carpet! Daddy is going to be SO sad. He’s…he’s…he’s gonna CRY, and then he’s going to put you in the RUBBISH BIN! And there’ll be NO MORE MUMMY!” If someone could swing by our place with some of that spray the CSI lads use at murder scences for a cursory check before bin night, that’d be great. (Monday night – it’s just too risky taking it out on Tuesday morning in case the rubbish collection guy comes early, although it is pretty funny watching Jeremy do the house-to-curb-wheelie-bin-sprint in his undies when he forgets).

Drama

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Moment that made me realise the Italian genes course through my toddler’s veins no.247: Frankie (the long-suffering cat) bites toddler during an enthusiastic cuddle session. Toddler cries and lies on floor while wailing “Frankie broke my HEART! He THREW my heart AWAY! Where has it GONE?”

Overlapping weights. A Very Real Threat

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When my husband embarked on his running/healthy eating jaunt, I was super impressed (“Look at my fit, svelte husband! Hasn’t he done WELL?” etc.) However, as he continues to shrink whilst I amble towards a pinnacle of hugeness, the once-vague concept of our weights overlapping is becoming a Very Real Threat. I’ve no choice but to fight back in the only way I know how. I’m reinstating the “if I do the shopping and the cooking, then I get to decide what we’re eating” covenant. Giant mountains of pasta and/or buttery potatoes will be served every night. Cakes will be baked. Squiggle Tops may be crushed up and added to healthy morning smoothies. I feel better already.

The Stern Look

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I always fancied the idea of being one of those mothers who could stop adverse behaviour in its tracks with a Stern Look. My own mother’s Stern Look is so effective that it was named “The Clare Stare”, and is feared and respected by children/teens/errant business-people alike. I tried out my own Stern Look today, and thought I had aced it as my 2.5 year old very suddenly stopped the over-tired grizzle-fest that was approaching fever pitch…but then she put a concerned hand on my arm and said “Mummy!? Are you alright? Why are you making that face? Do you need to do a poo?” It would seem my Stern Look needs work.

Ahh the pearls of wisdom that people feel compelled to share with the Hugely Pregnant.

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When a lady queuing alongside me glanced at my bump today and started with “wow, you’re really pregnant. My friend had a baby last week…” I knew I should dump my intended purchases and waddle away as fast as my puffy feet would carry me. But, oh! the path to finding a suitable button-front nightie that didn’t look like it was destined to be worn by an 80 year old had been a long one, and there was 20% off, so I held my ground (I qualify with “suitable”, because I DID find a nightie with spectacularly easy boob-access in another shop, but it was covered in red sequins and said “Santa’s Saucy Helper”, and I’m just not convinced that will support the Wholesome Mother image I’m hoping to portray whilst staying at Birthcare). Thank you, lady in the queue at Farmers who told me the tale of her friend who laboured for ages, like, days or something, and then the baby came out feet first. I’ll pop that story in my memory bank alongside …