Toothy Subject

A grown woman with a demanding job, two small children, a house and mortgage, two dogs and a cat plus a psycho Polish extended family stays up to ungodly morning hours reading novels about a teenager's taboo romance with her vampire lover.

Having devoured all four books within a matter of days, and watched the movie several times including all the special features on the double DVD (unheard of, right? no one ever watches that crap, especially with director's and cast commentary) she settles for re-reading her favourite passages to while away spare seconds of life while waiting for the release of the second movie installment in the saga.

Discuss.

This Is Living

A lot of stuff has been going on, and in amongst it, I didn't feel like blogging about it. Nothing bad happened, I'm still mulling over the last couple of posts, wondering how to follow them up. Should I continue to chew your ears off with the continuing story, or just move on and pretend it doesn't matter? I've decided to move on, not because it doesn't matter, but because it is unresolved.



We've made a couple of decisions at management level, without advising all of the stakeholders. Basically, we're conducting further research, and will make recommendations accordingly.

Can you tell I've been working a lot? Anyway, we're all good, and as much as I haven't felt like blogging, this weekend was just too good not to tell the world about it.



After a nice day spent at home with the kids, yesterday evening, post-dinner, Mr M and I sat and watched TV together. We watched Anne of Green Gables. I was positively stunned that he didn't walk away or hang serious shit on poor Anne who happens to be one of my favourite childhood characters from much-loved books, and therefore; sacred. If possible though, I was more shocked than if I had been slapped with a dead fish when he asked me what happened in the time he was away in the toilet. I won't go on about it, but let's just say that last night was a revelation.

This morning, we got up, the Ratbag and I, as is our custom at around 6.30am. That's just the way his cookie crumbles, and 'one of us' has to get up to make sure he doesn't wander out the front door or burn the house down. That 'one of us' is me, because it appears that I'm the morning person. I've tried to deny it, but the crux is that actually, I don't mind. I hope Mr M never reads this post, or I will never get a sleep-in again. So anyhoo, we watched cartoons, we ate our weetbix, and had a lovely morning together. The other two eventually got up, and we decided to head out and about, to prevent a buildup of stir-crazy-bored-banshee-children who break things and scream for no reason. We looked at furniture at Hardly Normal that we had no mind to buy, we ate dinosaur lollies in the car, and had home-made hotdogs for lunch, followed by the girls settling down for a little nap.

Incredulous that I had gotten away with this so far, my olfactories picked up The Smell emanating from Peanut's room, and heard her chatting to herself, heralding that our nap was over. After the fumigation, and a quick discussion about the lack of engine shows at this time of year, we had a snack, rustled up the men, and trundled off to an amazing place; the A.R.H.S Railway Museum, at Champion Road, Williamstown. Although Mr M had taken the Ratbag there before, we had never been as a family.
Traipsing around vintage machinery is apparently our thing, but I think that even if it isn't yours, anyone would enjoy the history of the place and the fascinating era that it harks back to. The kids thought it was pretty amazing, and we easily whiled away a couple of hours before dinner. All of the photos in this post were taken there this afternoon.

Following our expedition, we drove home, starving and starting to fray around the edges, the kids cracking up under the strain of a happily busy weekend. We made it home just in time for the Ratbag to take a tumble running up the driveway, making sure that we walked back in the house in a flurry of tears (the only way to end an excursion), and then, with mutual consent and still sobbing, the kids agreed to take a shower, while Mr M made dinner. *Love That Man* With a promise of mashed potato, they were putty in my hands, and were showered and pyjamaed before you could say 'I hate carrots and there's a spider in the toilet Mum'. We had our lamb cutlets with gravy, the promised mash and sauteed mushrooms, and the staple green peas, followed by a no-fuss story and bed for the kids, Matt Damon kicking some arse on TV, and me, relishing this wonderful weekend, and sealing it with a session with Photoshop's crop tool.

The End.

.. just thinking out loud

Just a quick post, to thank all of you who commented on my previous post, and also those who emailed me directly with your words of support and advice.

None of you were out of line, or overstepping the mark, or unwelcome in commenting. Thank you all for giving a crap really.

We know what we have to do, but talking to people who know us is too close to home. You guys on the other hand, aren't going to form opinions about us or our child, and your comments all rely on your own personal experience, which is invaluable.

Thank you all.

My Mind. The Skids. Meeting in 5 minutes.

I've been wrestling with something.
Not trivial brain litter, but something really important that should take precedence over Mafia Wars on Facebook and what underpants to wear today. Something's been making me angsty.


Sit back, if you will, and imagine that..
Your kid's Little Kinder teacher takes you aside one day and asks is everything is alright with your son. They don't know each other that well yet, it's not even half way through first term. She clarifies her question, explaining that your son just doesn't seem with it today, not answering when spoken to, looking a bit blank, a bit lost.
Yes, you assert, he might be coming down with a cold; the whole family's had it, it's his turn.
All the time, thinking; should you confide in this woman about your own mild fears?
Hmm.


This short conversation is followed up by a phone call, at the teacher's request. She explains that while today's 'absence' might well be due to an oncoming headcold, there are behavioural 'things' that she has noticed, and wonders if you've noticed them too.
At that point, it would be stupid to lie. 'Yes', you say, 'his father and I have discussed certain behaviours.' Such as?
Well, such as obsessing over something. The boy has a tendency to go on, and on, and on, and on. Not really 'about' something either. He repeats lines of shows that he watches, or one comment he heard, or just something that's knocking around in his head, and won't leave. Things like lines of conversations that can be interjected into another conversation, seemingly with no relevance.
'Aaah', she says.


Apparently, she thinks that this might be a sign of a possible problem. You mention that you've spoken about your observations to the Maternal & Child Health Nurse, and been reassured that kids learn that way, and by repeating, and testing, and practicing, over and over. Nothing to worry about. Perfectly normal kid. Let him be. The dreaded 'A' word is mentioned. In the back of your mind you're firmly committed to denial and won't even say 'autism'. At least the teacher confirms that she isn't qualified to say it either, which strangely fails to impress you or make you feel any better.
You hope that puts an end to it. Kid continues to be himself, your worries evaporate, life continues as usual.


But the teacher won't let it be. She continues to ask about the kid, about any course of action you're taking. Then, one day, she gives you a form.
It's a Referral Form, for observation by a Preschool Field Officer.
Just like that, it becomes serious.
You read the form, and in it are reasons for the teacher's concern. You brace yourself for the home truths in the form.


The reasons for concern, as stated on the form, are:
1. Mostly solitary play.
2. Copying what Teacher and peers say.
3. Limited concentration time at activities (2-3 minutes).
4. Distracts other kids during mat-time (makes trumpeting noises).
5. Anticipating verses of songs, books, etc.

WTF.

Did I just read the school report of any friggin' 4 year old kid? Mr Mangroves' reaction was: "Is this for real? Makes trumpeting noises? For fark's sake, HE'S BORED!"


Seriously, I almost expected 'does not make eye contact' or 'bulldozes other kids to the ground' or 'swears as one in a road-rage situation', or even 'has committed several burglaries'. Trumpeting noises suddenly didn't seem like the symptom of anything starting with 'A', except perhaps 'Anarchy'.


Did you notice how suddenly it's changed from a third person projection into me? It's too tiring to keep it up!


Anyhoo, tell me what you think! Am I dismissing what could be a larger problem, or is my 'Relax, he's a kid' attitude appropriate? Because having spoken to the Ratbag's Dad, we've decided not to fill in that form. It all seems a bit too full-on. I think I would prefer a private meeting with a paediatrician, if anything, rather than having my child observed in Little Kinder, and results of the observation available to Services and Agencies, School Staff, Therapists and Psychologists (no kidding, it says that on the form, asking for permission to notify all those people, if relevant).


All a bit serious for trumpeting noises if you ask me. And apparently the upshot of the observations is that he might be declared 'not ready' to go to Kinder next year. NOT READY FOR KINDER. So he'd get to repeat Little Kinder. At the age of 5. GIMME A BREAK..

Happiness is pilfering last night's left-over prawn crackers.

That'd go down well with prospective girlfriends.

He's toilet trained, he can spell and write his own name, he knows the alphabet and can count to 100 consecutively or in 10s, he knows some of his many books off by heart. These things and so many others that are his achievements on their own don't mean squat, but coupled with my loving, beautiful son's sunny disposition and playful nature, with this sense of humour and his love for his family, make him the most perfect, intelligent, age-appropriately ego-centric, wonderful human being that he is. I love him so much that sometimes it hurts to breathe. I know his smell, his laugh, his eyes, more than my own. None of this has anything to do with the post, except to say that if there is something wrong, none of those things will change. He will still be my joy and my life.


All the photos in today's post are from this afternoon's trip to the newly-constructed playground at the local school's footy ground. Who'd have thunk that there'd be any cash left over after the new council buildings went up! Hooray for beaurocrats, they have children too, you know.

Washing Gallore Tomorrow

"You are second in the queue. This message will be repeated in Vietnamese, Cantonese, Turkish and Arabic. Press 7 now if you do not wish to hear these options."

Not very comforting.

Especially as Peanut hacks up another lot of spew-smelling foam into a towel in the background. Her Dad is with her, rubbing her back and giving her drinks of water.

It is almost 1am, and she's been at it for a couple of hours. She's exhausted, and now to top it off, we're both feeling gripey in the guts too.

The Ratbag is sleeping soundly through all the hubbab, which is a blessing, although my mind is already picturing him vomiting 'round the clock tomorrow night. I can't imagine he'll escape unscathed.

I'm on the phone, on hold to the Maternal Child Health Nurse hotline, waiting to find out if I can give an 18month old Maxolon.

Bloody Shit Bastard Bloody Farkety Fark Fark.

No photos, funnily enough.

I just thought of this; I could have added some recent pics to liven this post up a bit (all so dramatic and all, but our computer shat itself a couple of weeks ago - for the second time in as many months - and we lost all recent images and home movies that we made. This is also the reason I haven't been online much to post, I've been using computer at work and my mobile.

When it rains it pisses down.

Making Mountains out of Toadstools

It's been another jam-packed week, wall to wall with watching TV, playing games on the computer, making meals in cauldrons so they last a few days and trying to hold back the urge to do more washing. I resisted the urge to a point, which I'm very proud of. There are only 4 garments hanging on clothes hangers off the hallway door frame, instead of the 12 that were there last week when I succumbed to overwashing.

Also, I went to the Quack, hoping for a quick-fix (you can hear the naivety, right?) to a recurring annoying problem that has recurred recurrently since I've had the kids. Prior to kids, it didn't happen, so I can certainly blame them. I got a quick-fix alright, and it involves eating no carbohydrates for a week. As a Pole, I don't really understand food without potatos. This could be a problem, I thought. Following this stinging slap, the Doctor hit me with a cricket bat; No sugar. Of any kind. You understand what this means, right? No chocolate. I really was just hoping for a pill. I may have been willing to have minor surgery instead of this. And it follows that I've just brought home a box of Fundraising chocolates home from Kinder last week. RIPPED OFF.

And the worst part is, if this fixes my problem, then I obviously have to stay away from sugar. Like, forever. F O R E V E R.

Oh yeah, that and also a referral for an ultrasound to make sure that my benign ovary lump friends haven't returned, just in case. Oh, the fun.

I'm really only worried about the chocolate.

Here are some pics from a Mushrooming expedition to Macedon on Thursday; I forgot my camera and had to make do with Dad's point'n'shoot, which is a great little camera but I didn't know how to use it properly to get the best out of it, and I find that the images aren't the best.

Mushrooming is an annual event in my family, and Dad knows all the plantation forests where the pine trees make a perfect habitat for the kids of European mushrooms that he uses in all the traditional cooking.

It's the end of the mushroom season, and Dad's already been a number of times, and has a massive haul of mushrooms at home, all drying on their little ropes in front of the heater, making their place smell divine. We really went so that the kids could have an adventure, and that they certainly did. The Ratbag traipsed around that forest for over 3 hours with Dad, he was red-cheeked and bright eyed, and had a wonderful time stomping around in his gumboots. Coupled with the fact that he was allowed to rip his pants off and wee ANYWHERE, he was the happiest he'd been for ages. Peanut was the quietest I've ever known her to be, she was completely enthralled with the silence in the woods, and her eyes were huge, drinking in the experience. We only ran into one other set of persons, and of course, they were Polish, looking for the same mushrooms. Damn Poles, we run into them every year, though not the actual same ones. That would be creepy. We eventually got back to the car, had a picnic on the grass (where THESE were a major hit, as they always are),

and both of the kids were so buggered that they crashed the moment that the car started moving again on the way home.

I spent the whole evening peeling the skins off the Mushrooms that we'd picked, cleaning and chopping them into pieces for drying, so I too could come home to that smell I remember from my childhood. However, the wind was taken out of my sails a bit when Mr M came over to the kitchen and asked me why I brought home all the Toadstools. Seriously.

I know they're not toadstools, and I've been picking and eating them since I was a girl, but what the hell are they? In Polish, they are maslaki, but can anyone identify them in English?

I took great pleasure in pointing out that he'd actually been eating them for years, in every friggin' meal that Dad's ever prepared. And he's not even dead or anything.

Unexpected Return

Bloody hell, she's posting twice in one month!

Well, you're right to be shocked and dismayed; what could it mean!

Digging

Normally it would take me weeks to recover from the rants of the previous post, but being fired on Wednesday has invigorated me in strange ways. I definitely feel that it was for the best, much like falling out of a bird's nest and landing softly in a cat's lap; the adrenalin has kept me running. I've been busier than a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest.

This is my digging hand.

Putt Putt Bang

I've done about 40 loads of washing, and will have to re-wash most of it, as it done gone sour before space became available on the drying rack.

Mr M, kicking 'er in the guts

I've washed both of my dogs. Trust me, that's a big deal.

Oldtimers, waiting for lunch

I finally watched Twilight. Seriously, I felt like I was 16 years old, sneaking fags and asking my friend to ask his friend if he'll go out with me. I knew it was cheesy, but I brought the crackers and dug that cheese baby. I immediately went over to my sister's house and borrowed all the books.

Artistic shot of old tin full of fusty old oil. Sorry.

There's an Emu on the other side of this fence.

I followed this by Let The Right One In. It wouldn't play on my DVD properly. There were no subtitles. I watched it in Swedish. It was one of the best movies I've ever seen. I couldn't understand a word. I never got to watch the end though as it crashed my player, so I reserve the right to change my mind upon watching the whole thing, but I have a good feeling. What I did see, rocked my vampire world. Not like Blade or The Hunger, but in it's own freaky Swedish way.

Eyeing off some spanners while the big boys aren't looking.

I've laid rows of bricks around the garden beds which had an annoying habit of spreading onto the path. This meant that the dogs thought it was garden, and dropped nuggets all over it, so we were constantly traipsing around in dog turds and washing it out of our shoes. ANNOYING.

YYYEEEEAAAAWWWWAAAAARRRRRRRR

Happiness is a Chocolate Muffin

And on Sunday we packed up the kids, the snags and the camera and loped up to Bundoora Park, where Mr M belongs to the Eltham Steam and Stationary Engine Preservation Society (their clubhouse is on the grounds - all the above photos were taken there on Sunday). It was a last minute decision to ease our cabin fever, and I took one for the team, knowing that Mr M and the kids would love it. It turned out that the price was fair; I did have to watch putt-putt-bangs being started up, but I also got to eat sausages in bread with old men, so... win / win, right?