Only A Little Bit Fat!

Now that summer is here, Junior Accountant has decided to lose some excess weight.

As Junior Accountant set up the Wii Active, Boywonder, Tomboy and Miss Flora crowded around her asking questions about what sort of game she was going to play.

Junior Accountant – ‘It’s an exercise program to help make me thinner.’

Tomboy – ‘But you’re only a little bit fat.’

Junior Accountant – ‘Gee, thanks for that.’

Tomboy – ‘What? I’m only commentating.’

Tomboy’s commentary was soon forgotten as the three little ones busied themselves with some humorous attempts at imitating Junior Accountant’s exercises.

Fifteen minutes later Tomboy tilted her head to the side, looked Junior Accountant up and down, and declared, ‘I don’t think it’s working, you’re still not thin!’

When I Grow Up

On our way to school earlier this week, the kids started discussing what they wanted to be when they grew up.

Boywonder said that since he was so good at pulling his seatbelt out and across him to do it up that he would be good at making car seats and belts for cars.

Tomboy said that she was good at drawing so she would be an artist when she grew up.

I asked who was going to be a doctor.

With their professions already chosen, Tomboy and Boywonder nominated Miss Flora, to which Miss Flora responded with, ‘Nooo, I’m going to be a dog!’

It brought back memories of when The Apprentice was little and declared she was going to be a tree when she grew up. The interesting thing is that she’s studying conservation land management and horticulture…

Dumb and Dumber on Holiday

Mr T and I had a couple of “moments” during our last weekend in Traralgon. We stayed in a lovely spacious apartment that included a deep spa bath, a remote-controlled heating and cooling system in the lounge area, and a walk-in wardrobe in the main bedroom.

After sussing out each room and cupboard in the apartment we unpacked and Mr T hung his shirts so they didn’t get creased. Unfortunately, the more Mr T tried to keep his shirts from creasing, the more his forehead creased.

I found him having a great deal of trouble as he attempted to hang his shirts' coat hangers on the door handle of the walk-in wardrobe. The door handle was too close to the doorframe, thus preventing him from getting the hangers to sit over the handle properly.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked, rather confused as to why he was persisting with the door handle when he had a whole wardrobe on the other side of the door.

As he opened the door to the wardrobe in an attempt to hang the shirts and then close the door, he remembered what was on the other side of the door. ‘I could just hang them in there, couldn’t I,’ he said rather sheepishly.

It wasn’t long until Mr T decided to check out the spa bath. After a while I too went in the direction of the kids’ bedroom and the bathroom that contained the spa bath, only to be met by a loud rumbling sound.

‘What is that horrid noise?’ I asked.

‘It’s the spa bath, don’t worry, it’ll turn itself off soon,’ replied Mr T, thinking that it worked on a timer.

After ten minutes the sound didn’t stop and I went into the bathroom to where the “empty” spa bath sat, still desperately trying to circulate air and water through an empty bath tub. I became a little worried when I noticed a slight burning smell. I looked at the button Mr T had pushed to turn it on and went back to where he was in the bedroom and asked if he had tried to turn it off by pushing the button again.

‘No,’ said Mr T slowly as he thought about the merits of my suggestion, so I returned to the bathroom and pushed the button. The spa bath stopped.

Both are understandable gaffs when one is unfamiliar with the abode or its amenities, but there is no excuse for the dumb moment we shared on the first night.

We decided to turn the heating on when it became quite chilly during the evening. The instructions above the remote control on the wall said, ‘Pick up remote, turn it on, set temperature. There will be a delay before the system starts’.  It sounds pretty simple doesn’t it, and even more so when it was the standard wall-mounted system, like the one in this picture, which you can hear and feel when it’s on and working. Not for us!

We pushed the on button and the remote beeped. We set the temp and the remote beeped each time we went up or down a degree. We sat back down in front of the television and waited for the heating system on the farthest wall to start warming the place. After twenty minutes, I increased the temperature on the remote to 29C (84F) because the room temperature hadn’t changed at all.

After discussing how useless the heating system was, we concluded it must be because it was trying to heat a very large room. After another fifteen minutes, by which time I was wearing my large overcoat over my pyjamas and had a blanket wrapped around my legs and feet, I went to the remote and picked it up and increased the temperature by another five degrees. I moved closer to the heating system and noted how quiet it was – too quiet!

With the remote still in my hand I pushed the power button on the remote again – maybe turning it off and on again would help – and instead of the remote control beeping, this time the heating system beeped as well – and a light came on! It was at that point that we realised the heating system hadn’t been on at all because we hadn’t picked the remote up and pointed it in the direction of the heating system.

We took comfort in the fact that we were as dumb as each other when it came to figuring out the heating – or lack of it.

Why Do I Have White Hair?

I was sitting on the steps, watching Boywonder at Auskick while Tomboy stood on the step behind me, playing with my hair.

It was very relaxing until Tomboy said, ‘Why have you got white in your hair?’

I ignored her question, hoping she’d find something else back there – nits, fleas, ticks…

But it wasn’t to be.

Slightly louder this time: ‘Mummy, why is there white hair on your head?’

I was still hoping something – anything – would distract her when she asked with a shout, ‘Mummy, why do you have white hair?!’

Tomboy’s loud vocalisation about my grey roots in desperate need of some hair dye, not only confirmed I was going grey (not to mention deaf), but brought it to the attention of everyone within a ten-metre radius.

My reply: ‘Because I have too many kids!’

A couple of weeks later while seated at the computer waiting for the hair dye on my head to do its job, Tomboy asked me why I was dying my hair.

‘To get rid of the white hair,’ I replied.

‘Oh, you didn’t tell me you had white hair,’ she said before trotting off to play.

At least I’m not suffering memory problems!

Tomboy Takes Over the World!

While Mr T and Boywonder have been home sick with the flu this week, Tomboy and Miss Flora have been busy trying to take over the world.

When Mr T came downstairs after trying to have a nap, Tomboy asked, ‘Did you have a good sleep, Daddy?’

Mr T said, ‘I was until I heard a lot of banging downstairs.’

‘Ah, yes,’ replied Tomboy, ‘we were trying to take over the world.’

‘Well you woke me.’

‘Sorry about that,’ said Tomboy before running off to continue her appropriation of the world from the safety of our lounge room.

The Apprentice Quotes…

The Apprentice amuses us regularly with her unusual views and interesting comments.

When planning their trip to Port Douglas, The Apprentice’s Boyfriend (TAB) suggested that they do some snorkelling. The Apprentice responded with, ‘I don’t know, what if I get the bends?’

****

While play fighting with Tomboy one evening, The Apprentice exclaimed, ‘You’re so strong; every muscle is muscle!’

As opposed to…?

****

We were all sad to hear that one of TAB’s racehorses fell ill, resulting in it going blind, but The Apprentice was optimistic when she asked, ‘Don’t they have like a Paralympics for horses?’

Uni Student has a New Name

It’s official! Uni Student has passed the last couple of subjects in her Bachelor of Commerce and has secured a full-time position as a Junior Accountant.

So it’s only natural that she moves up in status on the blog. From this day forward she will be known as Junior Accountant and Uni Student’s Boyfriend (USB) is now Junior Accountant’s Boyfriend (JAB).

One would think that having an accountant in the family meant I no longer had to do everyone’s tax returns, but the first thing Junior Accountant gave me when she came home from work last week was her group certificate from the accounting firm she works for, so I can do her tax return!

Kneepits and Flattered Sausages!

Boywonder has now completed six months of his first year in school. As he learnt new and exciting things at school each day, his attempts to apply his newly acquired knowledge to his everyday life often had humorous results.

Anatomy –

When encouraging the kids to wash themselves in the bath one night, I reminded Boywonder to wash under his armpits. A short while later he started to wash his legs and as he washed behind his knees, he said to me, ‘Don’t forget my kneepits!’

Geography –

We were on our way back to Melbourne (capital of Victoria in Australia) after spending a weekend in Traralgon (rural Victoria), when Boywonder woke from a short nap and asked, ‘Are we back in Australia yet?’

Food –

Boywonder must think he’s not the only one that enjoys a battered sausage from the local fish and chip shop. When we asked what he’d like to order for dinner, he replied, ‘A flattered sausage.’

Unfortunately, the last week of this exciting first six months wasn’t as amusing. As the novelty wore off, the work became harder and Boywonder realised school is not always about fun and games with his mates. He became extremely distressed when we arrived at school each day. Needing two teachers to prise my son’s hands from my arm was as distressing for me as it was for him. I was glad I had my sunnies on, so he couldn’t see my tears.

After much discussion, we discovered that he loved socialising with his many friends and wasn’t subjected to bullying. He loved playing with the noisy instruments in music, but didn’t like the dance that he couldn’t master. He loved picking a library book to bring home, but didn’t like creating the picture that one of his classmates always so kindly pointed out to him was wrong. He loved group reading with the other three kids that were on the same reading level as him, but hated the large group activity that he had trouble comprehending.

We soon realised that his confidence needed a boost. We also discovered that Boywonder believed that once you got something wrong, that was it, end of the line – a big, fat FAIL.

A week after his distress began, we managed to boost his confidence and help him understand that mistakes and practice are a major part of learning for everyone – young and old.  You can imagine my dismay when I collected him from school this afternoon and asked him if he was excited about it being school holidays and he replied with, ‘Ohhh, I want to go to school tomorrow!’

The Love Bug

A resurgence of the tummy bug in our home has reminded us that words are not the only way to say ‘I love you’.

This time The Apprentice was one of the hardest hit by the bug, experiencing projectile expulsion of noxious matter from both ends. Her insides were so twisted in pain and her woeful moaning so loud during the night that Mr T wasn’t sure if she was in pain or the throws of passion. Unfortunately for TAB (The Apprentice’s Boyfriend), he was staying at our place, so he became The Apprentice’s nurse for the night.

While Mr T and I spent the night changing Tomboy’s bed sheets and holding her hair back while she vomited, TAB did the same for The Apprentice. When The Apprentice was stuck on the toilet and a bucket didn’t arrive in time, TAB didn’t hesitate to mop up the resultant mess. He helped her to the shower, cleaned her up and then sought new sheets for their bed. Not once did I hear him complain.

He was even chivalrous about The Apprentice’s mishaps. When I saw him changing the bed sheets, I said, ‘Oh no, did she get the bed too?’

TAB said nothing. He just gave me a sad, but knowing look. Then The Apprentice said, ‘It just shot out my bum before I knew it was even coming.’

‘You shit the bed?!’ I exclaimed.

TAB continued to change the sheets, and then helped The Apprentice back into bed before climbing in next to her. If getting back into bed with someone after they’ve shit in it doesn’t say ‘I love you’, I don’t know what does.

Noodles

Edited 2 June 2011: Cooking instructions have been added for those who didn’t get the joke…

So, we’ve established that Mr T knows more about the vacuum than I do, but the kitchen is still my domain.

After placing two packets of Maggi 2 Minute Noodles into a saucepan, Mr T asked me, ‘If I put two packets in, do I boil it for two or four minutes?’

‘Are you serious?’ I asked.

He didn’t smile or laugh; he patiently (and very seriously) waited for my answer.

When I started laughing instead of answering, he sheepishly said, ‘It’s two minutes isn’t it?’

And for those who have never cooked Maggi 2 Minute Noodles or have never cooked more than one packet at a time – whether you’re cooking 1, 2 or even 10 packets of noodles, the most common way of cooking them is to place the noodles in a saucepan, cover them with water and then bring it to the boil. 

Regardless of how many packets of noodles are in the saucepan, after bringing it to the boil, you only boil it for a further 2 minutes.

Sorry if this ruins the punch line, but I’ve found myself explaining the cooking method for noodles to several people. Thank Christ Mr T wasn't attempting a soufflé…

I Don't Do Housework

I am often asked how I cope with all that I do. Working and studying part-time from home and taking care of a house, husband and five children, of which three are aged five and under, is time-consuming and often exhausting.

My usual answer is, ‘I don’t do the housework.’

Many don’t believe me, so my reply is usually met with laughter. Sure, I do the washing, the cooking and the hundred other daily tasks that we don’t think about as we take care of a family, usually all completed with a clingy two-year-old constantly attached to me. This is part of the reason I’m unable to get stuck into the joyous chore of cleaning the toilets and bathrooms. Miss Flora’s penchant for sniffing and tasting things doesn’t stop just because the label says it’s poisonous. It doesn’t matter where you spray it, she’ll try to lick it!

But the main reason that I escape so many housework hours is that I am blessed with a wonderful husband, who understands how important my writing is to me, realises that a fifteen-minute chore can take two hours to complete when I have a toddler attached to me and…he loves doing the vacuuming!

How much more vacuuming he does than I do was highlighted when we passed the shop where we usually buy our vacuum bags.

‘Oh no! Our vacuum bag shop’s gone. Where will we get vacuum bags now?’ I asked.

‘Lucky we bought a bagless vacuum in the Boxing Day sales!’ replied Mr T.

Before I could reply, Mr T asked, ‘Shouldn’t I – the husband – be the one that knows nothing about the vacuum?’

Internal Organs

Once again we are under attack as another tummy bug barges into our home. (More on that in a later post.) It doesn’t seem to matter how many dirty nappies the children watch me change or how much vomit they ogle when one of their siblings heaves into a bucket, they have an obscene fascination for the waste products that leave our bodies.

Sometimes this fascination extends to our internal organs as well. While waiting to pay the bill after having a renal ultrasound one morning, Boywonder asked me why we were at a different doctor to where we usually go. I explained that the doctor needed to look at my kidneys and bladder.

‘Did he take them out and have a look? Can I look too?’ asked Boywonder as he grabbed my shirt, ready to lift it and look for himself.

After I explained that the doctor uses a special machine to see my kidneys and bladder, and it certainly doesn’t involve taking them out, Boywonder then asked,

‘What’s a bladder? Can I look at your bladder?’

I enlightened my budding anatomist by placing a little pressure on his bladder and asking him if it made him want to wee.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘That’s your bladder!’

He was finally happy with these explanations. That was until I had to pick up another four-litre bottle so I could perform the 24-hour urine test again.

After we arrived home, Boywonder picked the bottle up and asked, ‘Do you have to wee in the bottle again, Mummy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I wee in it too?’

‘NO!’ I replied as I took the bottle from him.

‘But I have a bladder too!’ was Boywonder’s argument.

‘Everyone has a bladder, but they are not all going to be contributing to my bottle!’ I replied, hugging the bottle to my chest. I then hurried to the toilet with my bottle before Boywonder gave me the lecture on sharing that he’d heard so often from me.

Whose Shoes?

Getting anything done with three children, five years old and under can be a challenge, so we usually do things like bath time or getting out the door punctually as a production line. Unfortunately, even the most efficient production lines have their glitches.

To save time when going out, I change Miss Flora’s nappy while Tomboy and Boywonder go to the toilet. I then help put eight feet into four pairs of shoes (including mine).

All was going well one morning until Boywonder brought me the last pair of shoes. I undid the laces, placed them on the desk and waited for the right pair of feet to come to me. After a minute I looked at the shoes and realised that no one was coming to get their shoes on – because they were my shoes.

Everyone else was already shod and waiting for me.

I suppose it’s not as bad as the time I dressed Boywonder in Tomboy’s pyjamas after their bath one night. If you think my not noticing that I was putting bright pink pyjamas on my five-year-old son is bad – he didn’t notice until after I’d pointed out my mistake!

Psychopathic…

The Apprentice and Uni Student took Tomboy and Boywonder to the shops in Uni Student’s car. They connected Uni Student’s iPod to the car stereo via bluetooth, thus enabling The Apprentice to change songs without touching the iPod.

After watching The Apprentice fast-forward to the songs that Tomboy requested, Boywonder asked The Apprentice how she was doing it. 

‘I’m psychopathic,’ she replied.

We assumed she was trying to say she was psychic and/or telepathic, but after this morning’s events we’ve since added psychotic to the meaning.

The Apprentice broke down on the way to TAFE during peak hour traffic. Her boyfriend (TAB – The Apprentice’s Boyfriend) was at work.

My first question was, of course, ‘Do you have roadside assistance?’

‘No, I'm not paying for that! TAB’s my roadside assistance.’

‘Have you called him?’

‘Yes, but he can’t make it!’

(She’s obviously not heard the saying – You get what you pay for!)

After dropping Boywonder at school I go and pick her up. In the meantime, Uni Student goes online and gets The Apprentice some roadside assistance. All the way home The Apprentice tells me that she didn’t want to join RACV roadside assistance, as she doesn’t like that they have a monopoly on it.

Hmmm, a company having a multitude of cars out on the road to quickly get to those who have broken down is a monopoly and, apparently, a bad thing.

Her alternative, and also her preferred choice, was to try to drive it home, but I wouldn’t let her do it. It involved driving her car, which wouldn’t accelerate faster than 20 km/h as it spluttered and threatened to conk out, across four lanes of the freeway with traffic bearing down on her at 100 km/h. She would then have to drive her car across the boggy grass area to cross another four lanes of the freeway (heading in the other direction), again with traffic bearing down on her at 100 km/h. If she managed the suicidal freeway crossing, she would then attempt to drive her car all the way home in the emergency lane at 20 km/h.

Psychotic…

Whose Poo?

Five nights out of seven, Tomboy gets the urge to evacuate her bowels mid-dinner. I don’t know if she’s making more room in her belly or just wants to escape the dinner table for a while, but it’s a regular occurrence. It wouldn’t be such a problem if she learned to wipe her own bum!

On this occasion she said she needed to ‘go to the toilet’ and left the table. Not long after she disappeared into the toilet (the room, not the actual toilet), she yelled out, ‘I found a poo!’

We thought that she had put off pooing because of her discovery, so I yelled back, ‘Whose poo?’

‘My poo!’ was her reply.

We’re not sure if it was a ‘surprise’ poo (the poo you don’t know about until it’s arrived) or if this was her first ever look in the toilet bowl after doing her business. She gets rather indignant when asked sensitive questions, especially if everyone’s attention is on her, awaiting a reply, so we left that one alone.

And just in case you’re wondering – I got to wipe her bum.

Mother's Day

My Mother’s Day started on Thursday with a special visit to the kindergarten with the other mums. We spent an hour being pampered and making princess things with our children. The mums got to be the princesses!

After Tomboy and I enjoyed decorating a portrait of myself as a princess, making a princess crown and reading a book together, we moved to the table that had fairy pillows on it. They were for me to rest my hands on while Tomboy gave me a hand massage with some hand moisturiser.

I asked Tomboy if she wanted my hands palms up or down and she turned them so they were palms up. She then stuck her finger in the tub of moisturising cream and dropped a big dollop in my right palm. She then got another rather large dollop and dropped it into my left palm.

Tomboy wasted no time spreading the cream about on my hands. Realising that she had quite a bit of cream on her own hands, she stopped spreading it about on mine and proceeded to rub her hands together.

Still sitting there with slathers of cream on each palm (there was enough to do my legs too), I reminded her about my hands.

‘Rub them together like this!’ she said as she continued to rub her hands together in a vain attempt to get rid of it.

And that was the end of my hand massage. 

The rest of our activities were a little hampered after that. Pulling tiny heart stickers off of a sticker sheet to stick on a plastic pot or threading small beads to make a princess bracelet is extremely challenging when performed with slippery hands. (The teacher had to tie my bracelet together!)

At least I have my wonderful portrait, drawn by Tomboy to remind me of how much fun we had together. 

Her talents are exceptional. See how well she’s captured my double chin. And that isn’t a line of pimples, it’s my diamond necklace and, no, she didn’t make me a ‘ranga’ with a mohawk, that’s an orange tiara. The blue eyeshadow was my idea, reminiscent of the eighties.

I’d love to say that Mother’s Day on Sunday was filled with self-indulgence, but I worked all day, while Mr T cleaned the house and kept the kids busy so I could get on with the job. I did, however, spend the day in my pyjamas (the benefits of working from home) and received some wonderful presents.

At least Boywonder didn’t declare the day his five minutes after I opened my presents – like he did last year.

http://becausemumsaid.blogspot.com/2010/05/mothers-day-or-is-that-boys-day.html

 

When Thinking Outside the Square Isn’t the Best Idea

I was doing the dishes when I heard The Apprentice banging about at the kitchen bench and then swear.

A quick investigation of the problem revealed that when she was trying to open a tin of catfood, the metal loop that you hook your finger through and pull had broken off. Well known for thinking ‘outside the square’, The Apprentice was using a teaspoon to try and prise the lid open. This might have worked if the loop had lifted the edge of the lid at all before it broke, but it hadn’t.

Lucky for The Apprentice I happened to have a new invention in the kitchen that would solve her problem within seconds. I pulled it out of the drawer and attached it to the top of the can. I then turned the handle so that it moved around the top of the can, miraculously lifting the top off as it went around.

I told The Apprentice that since this new invention opened the can, the ideal name would be a can opener.

Bad Words

Boywonder came home from school yesterday and told me – quite seriously – that one of his friends said a bad word, so he told the teacher.

‘What did he say?’ I asked.

‘F*cken headen [sic] – and – he said STUPID!’ replied Boywonder wide-eyed as he said stupid.

Boywonder thought ‘stupid’ was the most offending word that came out of his mouth. He knew the ‘F’ word was wrong, but he’d never tried it at home, so he’d only heard lectures from us about how rude it is to call other people stupid. In fact, when he hears us call an inanimate object stupid because it doesn’t work properly, he goes mad at us for saying ‘stupid’.

No doubt he will start using the ‘F’ word more often to get a reaction, since we had to explain to him that any words beginning with f*ck are the worst words and that we don’t ever want to hear him say them.

I’m not looking forward to when he first hears c*nt and we have to explain that it is worse than the ‘F’ word. Kids have an uncanny knack for remembering the parts of your conversations that you don’t want remembered.

‘But you said f*ck was the worst word!’

My Age – According to Tomboy!

Tomboy was standing on the other side of the backyard when she held up a piece of blue string that she’d found in the garden. ‘What’s this, Mummy?’ she asked me.

I am short-sighted, and thus, need glasses to see things clearly when they are far away.

‘I can’t see it properly, bring it here,’ I replied.

‘Can’t you see it because you’re old?’  asked Tomboy.

‘No,’ I replied, ‘it’s because I don’t have my glasses on!’

A few days later, The Apprentice informed me that Tomboy asked her if I had a boyfriend when I was younger. (They'd been discussing boyfriends.) To ensure The Apprentice understood what she meant by ‘when Mummy was younger’, Tomboy added, ‘When there was dinosaurs!’

We Were Under Attack!

The week before before Mr T went into hospital to have his salivary gland removed, we were invaded by tummy bugs. These weren’t your usual tummy bugs that laid you out on the couch for 24 hours with your head in a bucket. They were smart bugs that moved with stealth. They camouflaged themselves well and threw random vomit bombs at the children, so each time a child had finished coating their bed in vomit, they felt well enough to run about and play again…until the next vomit bomb hit.

Boywonder fought well and only succumbed for half a day. Great for him; not so great for us. Our expectations for the girls’ recovery were completely misled by his quick recovery.

The next night Tomboy’s first vomit bomb hit at 11 pm.

Miss Flora woke at 5 am – where she was sleeping next to me in our bed – and vomited on the bed. Later that day she woke from her afternoon nap and climbed onto my lap for a cuddle. Without any warning, I – and my leather office chair – were hit with a decimating vomit bomb. With no one in the room to assist in the defence, I tried to calmly yell for help. Miss Flora was already distressed at this strange substance hurtling itself out of her body, and I knew that she’d misinterpret my call for help as panic if I yelled too loud or too fast. I didn’t want to scare Miss Flora and cause the shrapnel to fall on the carpet. She looked around as I called, so I placed my palm on the side of her face and gently turned her face towards me. ‘Keep looking at Mummy in case anymore comes out.’ I didn’t want her to vomit on the carpet, and since I was already coated in it…

I told her to vomit on me!

In between the vomit bombs they were up and playing like normal, so each time we thought it was safe to pack away the buckets, the attack would start again.

Later that day it was Tomboy’s turn again – on the carpet outside the bathroom – two feet from the tiled bathroom floor. 

A couple of hours after we got all three bedded down for the night, Tomboy was again under attack. We actually had Miss Flora sleeping in her cot (instead of our bed), but after another assault on Tomboy we couldn't sleep. Every time we heard Miss Flora make a noise or move, we thought she was going to vomit, so we'd leap out of bed with bowl in hand ready to catch it. Finally, at around 1 am, she made a wet noise with her mouth, so I leapt out of bed with the bowl, Mr T turned the lamp on and our panic woke her. She hadn't vomited, she was just lip-smacking in her sleep.

So then we had to take her into our bed. Mr T moved to the single mattress on the floor and was soon snoring. I spent the rest of the night lying in our bed next to Miss Flora, who has gone back to sleep on her blanket and towel (to protect our bed), listening to Mr T snore. Great! His charge has vomited, so there's a good chance he won't have to get up again through the night, but I'm lying here next to the other one waiting for the inevitable. Every time Miss Flora made a sound or moved I'd sit up in bed and reach for the bowl. I also had to stay close to her to ensure she stayed on the side of the bed that had the towel and blanket protecting it, so I was constantly in the firing line when she was facing me.

After all that, she didn't vomit again!

The tummy bug attack was over…or was it?

Unfortunately, two days after Mr T’s operation I succumbed to the tummy bug. A few hours later Mr T succumbed to it. Fortunately for me, I hadn’t had a major operation inside my mouth. Unfortunately for Mr T – he had.

Depressed Man Eats His Own Finger and it's Mr T's 40th Birthday!

Did you hear about the depressed man that ate his own finger? (Depressed Man Eats His Own Finger) 

I’d read the story a couple of days ago and had forgotten about it until Mr T’s 40th birthday arrived. I thought it was an interesting way to deal with depression and certainly guaranteed him the attention he needed, but what I really want to know is if anyone asked him what it tasted like and how he ate it. Did he slow-cook it, so the meat fell from the bone, or does he prefer his meat medium-rare?

Thankfully, Mr T isn’t about to start eating himself, but after an operation to remove a salivary gland followed by a bout of gastro, almost two weeks of inactivity, school holidays and now a 40 year milestone, he’s not feeling like the perkiest boob in the strip club.

I tried pointing out some positives: he’s married to a younger woman – he’s in his forties and I’m in my thirties; he may feel old, but a particular part of his anatomy has at least another 40 years left in it. In fact, when he woke and said he was surprised he hadn't passed away in his sleep, I pointed out to him that a part of him was awake and rearing to go a good 5–10 minutes before he was, and if he had passed away it would be waving about screaming, ‘Resuscitate him! I’m not done with this world yet!’

At least he isn’t insisting on buying a sports car, getting hair implants or swapping his wife for a younger model. The latter is certainly not an option; he can’t keep up with the one he has now (that may change when she reaches her forties in six months time).

So, how does Mr T cope with today’s depressing milestone?  He offers to shout everyone (who’s at home) McDonald’s for breakfast.

Some may see this as a typical act of depression – eating unhealthy food. At least it’s not his finger! But I see it as Mr T challenging himself. He’s challenging his cholesterol levels, challenging the kilos he lost over the last couple of weeks and he’s challenging his mouth to withstand the pain of chewing a bacon and egg mcmuffin. (I ordered hotcakes as well, just in case the last challenge was too difficult, but I forgot he had to eat excruciatingly slow and ate them for him.)

We all handle life’s events, good and bad, differently. Lucky for Mr T, he has me to hold him hostage, torture him with woeful jokes and force him to smile through gritted teeth.

Please note: Due to the momentous event of Mr T’s 40th birthday, a recount of the vomit battle has been postponed until next week.

The Mummy Willeh Monster

Every now and then kindergarten children produce something a little more interesting than the standard odd-shaped circle containing three dots and a line to represent a face. After completing the picture with four longer lines pointing in random directions to represent the arms and legs, they incorporate their imagination into the drawings, but the results aren’t always what we expect.

Here’s a picture that Tomboy painted at kindergarten this week. I’m sure that, like me, you’re wondering what the short middle leg is and I have no doubt that, like me, you guessed right – it’s a willeh!

 

Just to be sure, I asked Tomboy and she confirmed it. She called the strange looking creature a willeh monster.

‘So it’s a boy monster,’ I said.

‘No, it’s a mummy monster,’ she replied.

‘But it has a willeh!’

‘Yes, it’s a mummy willeh monster,’ replied Tomboy matter of factly.

I reminded her, ‘I don’t have a willeh.’

‘I know, I was just pretending.’

So last week she told Mr T he had big boobs and this week she’s painting mummy as a monster with a willeh. (Mr T thought he had problems!)

There are many theories that can be tossed about on this one. Maybe she sees me as a monster when I’m angry (and rightly so), but that doesn’t explain the willeh.

She’s always been a bit put out that Mr T and Boywonder have willehs and we don’t. (It doesn’t help that Boywonder says they’re awesome because they have willehs.) Maybe she thinks she’s doing me a favour by giving me a willeh.

My favourite theory is that Mummy wears the pants!

So, Mummy looks like a monster when she’s angry, but she’s an awesome monster because she has a willeh.

Yep, that definitely says that I wear the pants…especially when I’m angry!