Mabel: ‘Heh, heh. You’ll never find it now!’
I have no idea what she was talking about. But I bet it’s in the pot cupboard.
Tag Archives: parenting
Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This.
Theo: ‘Mama, where do my dreams come from?’
Alice: ‘Well…’
Theo: ‘They come out of the sky, out of the clouds and into my house and into my bed and into my noggin!’
Stop Me If You Think You’ve Heard This One Before.
Children are noisy. You will get used to it. Your life will become an endless cacophony of questions and weeping. Not all of the weeping will be yours.
You will learn to tell the difference between every cry. You will know when to come running to their aid and when to hide in the broom closet until they sort it out amongst themselves. You will learn the difference between every laugh. You will know when their amusement is at the expense of each other or at the expense of your pets dignity. You will be able to tell what chair has been dragged where and for what dastardly means even if you are at the washing line and they are inside. Such is the super-human hearing that comes with parenthood.
So when you hear a noise you do not recognise, it is seldom that you will be pleased with what you discover upon its investigation. Especially if it is coupled with maniacal laughter.
A box of records being thrown down the front steps! What a surprise! Oh, children, what ever will you think of next?
Nevermind. I don’t want to know.
It will always be Permanent Marker.
Funny Bone.
Theo: ‘Mama, what am I made of?’
Alice: ‘Well…’
Theo: ‘I am made of boy and body and strong!’
A Children’s Story from Christchurch.
One sweet Spring morning, the sun woke us up with the promise of adventure.
We filled our bellies with toast and jam, turning our noses up at slices of apple; prefering to feed them to the dog, who ate them greedily.
We fought our way out of our pyjamas, the ruthless adversaries of every morning, and dressed for the new day.
We hunted our shoes; they would always split up when they knew we were coming for them. It could take us a good long while to capture and reunite them. But we do; because Mother says it is too far to walk in gumboots, and no, she won’t carry us.
We walked to the park, excited about what we would do there. First, the swings! We thought. Then, the birds! We agreed. Last, the slide! We could not wait. We had been so good and walked so far and had hardly rowed at all!
But then!
‘Where is the playground?’, asked Theo.
‘WHERE MAE-MAES SLIDE?’, cried Mabel.
‘Fuck’, whispered Mother.
‘They are fixing the playground!’, She told us.
‘Aren’t we lucky!’, She reasoned.
‘Bloody wobbles!’, She concluded.
And we agreed.
Colour Studies: Bic Wite-Out – Quick Dry Correction Fluid in White.
In Father Christmas We Trust.
Theo: ‘The Christmas Man! He wears Christmas shoes and a Christmas Hat! He says ho, ho, ho! He lives in the sky and he sees us all!’.
Flower Fingers.
Morning Ritual
“Mama? Where is my tutu?”
“This one?”
“No! Not that one!”
“…This one?”
“No! Not that one!”
“…What about this one, darling? You love this one!”
“No! Not that one! Mae-Mae no love that one!” (she says as she clutches it to her face, stroking it)
“How about this one?”
“NO! NOT THAT ONE!”
“This? Surely this one?”
“NO! NO! NO! NO! NOT THAT ONE!”
“This one, DARLING? THIS ONE? THIS BLOODY TUTU? THIS TUTU IN THE ENDLESS SEA OF BLOODY TUTUS THAT HAS BECOME MY EVERY MORNING?”
“..hmm?…Um. No.”
We collapse. Overcome by tulle and ennui.
She turns to me, angel-faced. Touches my cheek as if to say; such is life, Mama.
And then she roars ‘NO TUTU, MAMA! I WANT POPCORN!’ and we begin our day.
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