THERE was a time when we loved the way our little ones could spot the big golden McDonald's ``M'' a mile off.
The whingeing when we usually ignored their pleas to stop grated, but it was sweet watching them start their literacy journey.
``There's a big M,'' they would say. Invariably, they would clobber each other over who spotted the Golden Arches first.
But that's nothing on the challenges we face when we pile into the car now the two eldest can read. There's danger at every turn.
Driving along the freeway, the eldest asked what the billboard declaring ``JOIN FOR FOX SAKE'' meant. ``Ummm, not sure,'' I muttered.
Then her brother, 8, and sister, 5, started repeating it, emphasising the FOX SAKE.
It's part of a campaign for women to join Fernwood gyms to become foxy.
I guess it was a change on the controversial Longer Lasting Sex campaign. Who would have thought on a trip from Werribee Zoo there would be so many of those signs? On one outing my daughter, now 10, and her mate were in hysterics. We were nearly home when I cracked on to the cause of their heightened amusement.
``Does that mean you smooch for a long time?'' my son asked.
A friend says if they are old enough to ask the question they are old enough to get an explanation.
But how do you explain sexual dysfunction - thrust at us in billboards and radio ads - to kids?
And what about the preppie who can't read but hears it all? Recently, as we stopped at a traffic light my son asked me what a ``sty'' was.
``It's where pigs live,'' I said. ``No, Mum, it's STI and it's something to do with sex,'' he countered.
In my day they were STDs but now, the billboard says, they are STIs.
Looking straight ahead, I told them it is what you get if you aren't careful about who you have sex with.
``Mum, stop, too much information we don't want to know about that,'' my daughter countered. ``We are getting sex education at the end of Grade 5.''
If that's not bad enough there are the billboards for Sexyland and the ``World's Thinnest Condom''.
I employed the distraction method when handling the question as to why people would want thin condoms, changing the topic to the bangers and mash we were having for tea.
So, news yesterday that the State Government has sanctioned the use of ``d..khead'' in a Don't be a D..khead advertising campaign to make people wear seatbelts and turn off their mobiles while they are driving made me shudder.
While we're told it's largely a viral campaign on the internet, there will be little escaping it.
Granted ``d..khead'' is often used as a term of endearment, but do we really need to normalise it in the same way as the word ``bloody''?
Between ``Don't be a bloody idiot'' road campaigns, ``Where the bloody hell are you?'' tourist campaigns and the use of ``bloody hell'' by Ron Weasley in Harry Potter books, it's everywhere.
Too smart by half advertising agencies should spare a thought for us mums, ferrying kids around.
Don't they know we're flat out trying to figure out what we're having for tea, without being turned into mobile sex education instructors.
Some days, when the questions are flying thick and fast, I feel like saying `` Not today kids, Mum's got a headache''.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
Head Lice in kids
Lice, damn lice - and statistics
IT'S the letter from school that sends chills down your spine.
Forget detentions and suspensions, when the head-lice notice lobbed recently, we knew the kids were well and truly back at school.
Three weeks in and the dreaded head-lice scourge is back.
There's something about the green-tinged note that makes me start twitching.
If only the answer was as simple as applying cheap conditioner and combing through with a fine-toothed comb.
Sure, we did get off lightly for a very long time. While friends were, well, tearing their hair out, we were largely unaffected.
But last year was a turning point. It did not matter what natural or toxic lotions and potions - adding up to hundreds of dollars - we threw at them, we did not seem able to get rid them for any length of time.
At one point we all had them, thanks to a very bad episode of musical beds triggered by claims of nightmares.
We even shelled out top dollar for an electronic comb that was supposed to blow them to smithereens.
A friend, who has six kids, told me about a surefire way that her vet said worked wonders with dogs.
So, there I was, rubbing baking soda through our hair and dousing it with vinegar. The chemical reaction of the two ingredients was supposed to kill them.
But it had little impact, my hair was powdery for days and I smelled like salad dressing.
It was so bad that they even followed us to the US. One day, instead of our planned adventure exploring the Golden Gate Bridge, our youngest child was itching so much
that we headed for the drug store.
Our expat Aussie host, with no kids, could barely hide her horror.
Oddly, my husband, who uses reading glasses, can never see them. I, on the other hand, with such bad eyesight that I need a cornea graft some time soon, can't miss them.
After one outbreak I headed to the hairdresser and ordered three buzz cuts. But she baulked and I guess she was right. They wouldn't really have looked all that good on the two girls.
As a schoolkid I never had them but I was aware of them. These days, they seem to be made of tougher stuff.
Of course there is no stigma attached to them. That is, unless you actually happen to have them.
When you tell people that your kids have been treated they 'fess up that their kids have had them, too. My kids get really annoyed when I tell people. But I reassure them by pointing out it's not bad to have them, it's just bad not to treat the condition.
And that's the point of it all. While some parents view them as a rite of passage, others are too busy to do anything about the problem, which negates the efforts of families who try immediately to eradicate them.
Another friend says it all comes back to the lack of authority parents have over their kids, if they can't actually get them to sit still for half an hour to be thoroughly checked.
There might be something in that theory because the turning point for us was when our youngest, who was clearly picking them up at creche and kinder, was mature enough to sit down long enough to be treated. The bribes didn't hurt, either.
The other night, I tossed up going to the parent information night or checking the kids for nits. I opted for the latter.
I've got little idea what is planned for their school year, but we're clear of nits -for the moment anyway.
Claire Heaney is a Herald Sun business writer
Comments on this story
Petar of Noble Park Posted at 9:27 AM February 23, 2010
It is so easy and cheap to get rid of lice. 1. buy the cheapest hair conditioner. 2. Bottle of tea tree oil. 3. A shower cap. Put hair conditioner in the hair and rub some tea tree oil in at the same time. Make sure it is nice and thick, and really smells of tea tree. put some tea tree oil on the inside of the shower cap. Place the shower cap on the the head, and the best time to do this would be befor bed. Then, in the morning, all the lice will sufficate and die. You will see all the dead ones trying to escape on the inside of the shower cap. Then, comb the hair out with a nit comb. Use several combs, so you dont put the eggs that you have taken out, back in. Wash hair, and check the hair for any eggs. Pick them out with your finger nails if you have to. You can prevent you kids getting lice by using a spray bottle with water and a little bit of tea tree oil. And wearing a cap will reduce it. Too easy !
Lice Magic Posted at 7:37 AM February 23, 2010
I have 4 kids, 3 girls and a boy... and I HATE LICE !! Just thinking about it makes my head itchy !! My boy has never had nits, but for a while we had to deal with just trying to keep it under control with the girls. Speaking from experience, you MUST keep hair short or tied back, they must NOT share brushes, hats etc... and the only effective cure - an age old 'country' remedy. 1 part Metho to 2 parts baby oil. Kills the blighters on contact (I've seen it) and kills the eggs too - but just in case follow up twice at 7 day intervals. Obviously you need to use a fair bit of shampoo to get rid of the oil, but the oil acts as a guard saving the scalp from damage from the metho. I imagine there will be others commenting with 'soft' options but the question you need to ask is do you want to get rid of them or not ???
Malanie Smith Posted at 5:42 AM February 23, 2010
I'm a school teacher with 23 years experience. In the first 20 years, I had only one case of head lice. However, when my own daughter started Kindergarten, we had NINE months of hell. Both she and I had it constantly in that time. Like Claire, the reporter, we tried everything and nothing worked. In desperation I searched the internet and found a site which talked about covering the children's hair with olive oil, leaving it on overnight and then combing and washing in the morning (she slept all night in a shower cap so that it didn't get on the bedding). It worked. Apparently the oil smothers the lice and does not allow them to breathe. You have to repeat 3 times over 21 days, but we have not had a case since. As a side effect it seems to have a lovely conditioning effect on my daughter's hair. It does take a few washes to get the oiliness out of her hair though.
IT'S the letter from school that sends chills down your spine.
Forget detentions and suspensions, when the head-lice notice lobbed recently, we knew the kids were well and truly back at school.
Three weeks in and the dreaded head-lice scourge is back.
There's something about the green-tinged note that makes me start twitching.
If only the answer was as simple as applying cheap conditioner and combing through with a fine-toothed comb.
Sure, we did get off lightly for a very long time. While friends were, well, tearing their hair out, we were largely unaffected.
But last year was a turning point. It did not matter what natural or toxic lotions and potions - adding up to hundreds of dollars - we threw at them, we did not seem able to get rid them for any length of time.
At one point we all had them, thanks to a very bad episode of musical beds triggered by claims of nightmares.
We even shelled out top dollar for an electronic comb that was supposed to blow them to smithereens.
A friend, who has six kids, told me about a surefire way that her vet said worked wonders with dogs.
So, there I was, rubbing baking soda through our hair and dousing it with vinegar. The chemical reaction of the two ingredients was supposed to kill them.
But it had little impact, my hair was powdery for days and I smelled like salad dressing.
It was so bad that they even followed us to the US. One day, instead of our planned adventure exploring the Golden Gate Bridge, our youngest child was itching so much
that we headed for the drug store.
Our expat Aussie host, with no kids, could barely hide her horror.
Oddly, my husband, who uses reading glasses, can never see them. I, on the other hand, with such bad eyesight that I need a cornea graft some time soon, can't miss them.
After one outbreak I headed to the hairdresser and ordered three buzz cuts. But she baulked and I guess she was right. They wouldn't really have looked all that good on the two girls.
As a schoolkid I never had them but I was aware of them. These days, they seem to be made of tougher stuff.
Of course there is no stigma attached to them. That is, unless you actually happen to have them.
When you tell people that your kids have been treated they 'fess up that their kids have had them, too. My kids get really annoyed when I tell people. But I reassure them by pointing out it's not bad to have them, it's just bad not to treat the condition.
And that's the point of it all. While some parents view them as a rite of passage, others are too busy to do anything about the problem, which negates the efforts of families who try immediately to eradicate them.
Another friend says it all comes back to the lack of authority parents have over their kids, if they can't actually get them to sit still for half an hour to be thoroughly checked.
There might be something in that theory because the turning point for us was when our youngest, who was clearly picking them up at creche and kinder, was mature enough to sit down long enough to be treated. The bribes didn't hurt, either.
The other night, I tossed up going to the parent information night or checking the kids for nits. I opted for the latter.
I've got little idea what is planned for their school year, but we're clear of nits -for the moment anyway.
Claire Heaney is a Herald Sun business writer
Comments on this story
Petar of Noble Park Posted at 9:27 AM February 23, 2010
It is so easy and cheap to get rid of lice. 1. buy the cheapest hair conditioner. 2. Bottle of tea tree oil. 3. A shower cap. Put hair conditioner in the hair and rub some tea tree oil in at the same time. Make sure it is nice and thick, and really smells of tea tree. put some tea tree oil on the inside of the shower cap. Place the shower cap on the the head, and the best time to do this would be befor bed. Then, in the morning, all the lice will sufficate and die. You will see all the dead ones trying to escape on the inside of the shower cap. Then, comb the hair out with a nit comb. Use several combs, so you dont put the eggs that you have taken out, back in. Wash hair, and check the hair for any eggs. Pick them out with your finger nails if you have to. You can prevent you kids getting lice by using a spray bottle with water and a little bit of tea tree oil. And wearing a cap will reduce it. Too easy !
Lice Magic Posted at 7:37 AM February 23, 2010
I have 4 kids, 3 girls and a boy... and I HATE LICE !! Just thinking about it makes my head itchy !! My boy has never had nits, but for a while we had to deal with just trying to keep it under control with the girls. Speaking from experience, you MUST keep hair short or tied back, they must NOT share brushes, hats etc... and the only effective cure - an age old 'country' remedy. 1 part Metho to 2 parts baby oil. Kills the blighters on contact (I've seen it) and kills the eggs too - but just in case follow up twice at 7 day intervals. Obviously you need to use a fair bit of shampoo to get rid of the oil, but the oil acts as a guard saving the scalp from damage from the metho. I imagine there will be others commenting with 'soft' options but the question you need to ask is do you want to get rid of them or not ???
Malanie Smith Posted at 5:42 AM February 23, 2010
I'm a school teacher with 23 years experience. In the first 20 years, I had only one case of head lice. However, when my own daughter started Kindergarten, we had NINE months of hell. Both she and I had it constantly in that time. Like Claire, the reporter, we tried everything and nothing worked. In desperation I searched the internet and found a site which talked about covering the children's hair with olive oil, leaving it on overnight and then combing and washing in the morning (she slept all night in a shower cap so that it didn't get on the bedding). It worked. Apparently the oil smothers the lice and does not allow them to breathe. You have to repeat 3 times over 21 days, but we have not had a case since. As a side effect it seems to have a lovely conditioning effect on my daughter's hair. It does take a few washes to get the oiliness out of her hair though.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Back to school
THERE'S not too many more sleeps until the youngest starts school.
I'm threatening to break open the bottle of Veuve Clicquot that has been gathering dust, waiting for an extra special event.
But how early is too early to pop the celebratory cork?
Parents have been told to leave the preppie room by 9.15am to avoid teary scenes - which on past performances are more likely to come from mums than kids.
It's not that I am eager to get rid of her. But after 10 years of juggling childcare and kinder with part-time and shift work, it's going to be bliss to have three children in one spot for two years.
I'm not going to miss the constant challenge of keeping a busy preschooler occupied. I'm done with beading. collage, montage, playdough, painting, bubbles, playing Barbies and watching Playschool - and that's just one afternoon.
I'm looking forward to having some ``me'' time and, given the thousands I've spent on their swimming lessons, to learn how to swim.
When my eldest started school I spent up big at the uniform shop. This time it's bare basics.
A near new bag and bomber jacket are hand-me-downs, and a new skort and two polo shirts, and a dress pretty much complete the outfit. The size 8 dress is a bit tent-like but the hem's been taken up and she's not looking so swamped by all that blue check material.
The two hats were bought at the supermarket.
But the big expense has been the school lunches - that's before we even think about the food.
The school has a long-standing ``rubbish-free'' lunch policy. Grades compete to see who has the least amount of rubbish and any rubbish goes back into the lunch box and home.
My son gets stroppy when I use cling wrap. But have you ever tried to keep a pita bread wrap in place without it?
Magazine stylists might come up with pictures of dinky sandwiches and wraps, held together by wax paper tied with string, but have they got kids?
We use zip lock bags which are washed and hung on the line for re-use but after a few uses they get a bit grotty.
But the real bugbear has been the plastic containers that just don't come home. Or make that the lids. Somewhere there is a graveyard of lids, alongside all those lost socks.
Early on I discovered that it wasn't wise to send Tupperware because it wasn't going to come home. Last week, on a shopping expedition the eldest spotted a cylinder that looked like a pencil case. Three parts stacked on top of each other - one for chopped fruit, one for sultanas and one for a treat. We bought three of them and three sandwich keepers.
I'm wondering how the Cheesestiks I agreed the preppie could have as a one-off for her first week, fit into the picture.
Do I have to unwrap them and chop them to go into the containers?
I've warned her that once they are gone we can use the tiny star shaped cutter to make our own cheese shapes.
Then it was on to ordering vinyl and fabric labels to name the booty. But don't get me started on that. I am just hoping I remember to put the Post-it note on the fridge to remind me to chill the champers.
Either way, there's likely to be tears when the baby goes off to school.
I'm threatening to break open the bottle of Veuve Clicquot that has been gathering dust, waiting for an extra special event.
But how early is too early to pop the celebratory cork?
Parents have been told to leave the preppie room by 9.15am to avoid teary scenes - which on past performances are more likely to come from mums than kids.
It's not that I am eager to get rid of her. But after 10 years of juggling childcare and kinder with part-time and shift work, it's going to be bliss to have three children in one spot for two years.
I'm not going to miss the constant challenge of keeping a busy preschooler occupied. I'm done with beading. collage, montage, playdough, painting, bubbles, playing Barbies and watching Playschool - and that's just one afternoon.
I'm looking forward to having some ``me'' time and, given the thousands I've spent on their swimming lessons, to learn how to swim.
When my eldest started school I spent up big at the uniform shop. This time it's bare basics.
A near new bag and bomber jacket are hand-me-downs, and a new skort and two polo shirts, and a dress pretty much complete the outfit. The size 8 dress is a bit tent-like but the hem's been taken up and she's not looking so swamped by all that blue check material.
The two hats were bought at the supermarket.
But the big expense has been the school lunches - that's before we even think about the food.
The school has a long-standing ``rubbish-free'' lunch policy. Grades compete to see who has the least amount of rubbish and any rubbish goes back into the lunch box and home.
My son gets stroppy when I use cling wrap. But have you ever tried to keep a pita bread wrap in place without it?
Magazine stylists might come up with pictures of dinky sandwiches and wraps, held together by wax paper tied with string, but have they got kids?
We use zip lock bags which are washed and hung on the line for re-use but after a few uses they get a bit grotty.
But the real bugbear has been the plastic containers that just don't come home. Or make that the lids. Somewhere there is a graveyard of lids, alongside all those lost socks.
Early on I discovered that it wasn't wise to send Tupperware because it wasn't going to come home. Last week, on a shopping expedition the eldest spotted a cylinder that looked like a pencil case. Three parts stacked on top of each other - one for chopped fruit, one for sultanas and one for a treat. We bought three of them and three sandwich keepers.
I'm wondering how the Cheesestiks I agreed the preppie could have as a one-off for her first week, fit into the picture.
Do I have to unwrap them and chop them to go into the containers?
I've warned her that once they are gone we can use the tiny star shaped cutter to make our own cheese shapes.
Then it was on to ordering vinyl and fabric labels to name the booty. But don't get me started on that. I am just hoping I remember to put the Post-it note on the fridge to remind me to chill the champers.
Either way, there's likely to be tears when the baby goes off to school.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Boxing Day
EARLIER in the week I was walking around the supermarket in a trance, looking for inspiration for a dish to take to yet another festive gathering.
Spotted by a friend, I admitted I had run out of ideas. ``Me, too," she confessed.
We workshopped the dilemma in the biscuit aisle. She reached for the Marie biscuits to make some golf balls. I opted for a Chocolate Ripple cake. Problem solved.
If only all the anxiety wrapped up with Christmas could be so easily resolved.
Roll on Boxing Day, I thought to myself as the week progressed.
True, Christmas is a magical time of year.
But after weeks of emotional kinder and creche farewells, carol singing and social gatherings, not to mention trying to pick a little something for everyone from the Lollipop man to the choirmaster, my brain's in overdrive.
Then there's Christmas Day with its simmering tensions. Omissions that would be overlooked 364 days of the year take on mammoth proportions.
People arriving late and holding up the proceedings. Strained relations and overtired kids. And that's before the champagne corks start popping.
While Boxing Day might owe its origins to a time when servants got a day off, armed with boxes of goodies courtesy of their rich bosses, there'll be little respite for most of us.
I might be on holiday for the next few weeks but there's going to be days when I feel like I have knocked off work to carry bricks.
There are five whole weeks of school holidays stretching before us and no plans for an extended break.
While it's great not to be running against the clock all day and ferrying kids to out-of-school activities, I love packing school lunches.
I am not around so I don't hear them whinging about what's on offer. If they are hungry enough they will eat it.
But during the holidays, feeding the kids healthy food is one of the greatest challenges.
After weeks of sausage sizzles we've had our fill of snags. While there has been plenty of lovely seasonal fruit, nary a vegetable has passed their lips. Unless you count tomato sauce, that is, and it's technically a fruit.
Those without children, will say we should enjoy them while they are happy to be seen within a metre of us.
But many of us noughties parents have created a rod for our own backs. We get out and about with our kids too much. They can't play on the streets like we did.
Most mornings we are met with a chorus of ``what are we going to do today?''
It doesn't have to cost a lot of money, but it means we are on the go the whole time.
The upside is that they are not sitting in front of a computer or a TV all holidays.
Us multi-tasking Mums, who claim to have pulled off the whole Christmas extravaganza without any assistance from our husbands, will be looking for a break to chew on our burnt chops.
The menfolk will be desperate to get to the MCG today for the Boxing Day Test.
My husband spent the first three days of the school holidays child wrangling, taking them to movies, the pool and Christmas shopping. Only a man could think you could get anything done at a crowded shopping centre with three kids in tow. But that's another story.
In a moment of weakness I suggested he might like to go to the cricket.
He was hesitant because he knows that for the duration of the holidays, whenever things go pear-shaped, I will be reminding him that he went to the cricket while I finished off the Christmas visits.
Many of us, employing the skills of a high level diplomat so we didn't have to traipse around the country to see all our family and friends yesterday, will be piling into the car and heading off to sit down in front of another heaving Christmas spread. Another round of turkey, pork, pud and trifle to keep the family peace, but what about my waistline?
While the doorbuster Boxing Day sales of recent years have been scaled back, there will be some of us who feel we didn't give our credit card a good enough workout in the lead-up to Christmas. Too many bargains is never enough. And it doesn't matter that the present cupboard is already bulging.
Then there will be tears. The faulty toys that don't work and have to be brought back and snaking return queues that will make Mum and Dad feel like crying.
Worse still will be the recognition that you have to fork out $15 in batteries to get the $10 Tinkerbell walkie talkies given to the five-year-old to work.
Then there are hours spent wrestling with the instructions for a toy that have apparently been written by a nuclear scientist.
Having painfully constructed a scale-model replica of the Statue of Liberty, you find the torch is missing.
Or, as a friend learned, the money gifted to her in a card was thrown out with the wrapping paper. At least that's what her famously tight-wad aunt claimed must have happened.
Then there are the plain bad taste presents. Best not to even give them a home. Box them up and send them off to the op shop.
A friend reminded me of the set of awful towels she received which included a lovely note - to the intended recipient who had then given them to her.
Re-gifting is great if its going to a charity or a school fundraiser.
By tomorrow we'll have put a big dent in the turkey, ham and pudding leftovers. But then we'll turn out attention to New Year's Eve.
Oh, and another dish to think about preparing.
And then there's the New Year's resolutions.
Learning to say ``no'' might be a good one.
``No'' to a second slice of Chocolate Ripple cake. ``No'' to another glass of wine.
And, importantly, NOwhere when the kids ask where they are going today.
Spotted by a friend, I admitted I had run out of ideas. ``Me, too," she confessed.
We workshopped the dilemma in the biscuit aisle. She reached for the Marie biscuits to make some golf balls. I opted for a Chocolate Ripple cake. Problem solved.
If only all the anxiety wrapped up with Christmas could be so easily resolved.
Roll on Boxing Day, I thought to myself as the week progressed.
True, Christmas is a magical time of year.
But after weeks of emotional kinder and creche farewells, carol singing and social gatherings, not to mention trying to pick a little something for everyone from the Lollipop man to the choirmaster, my brain's in overdrive.
Then there's Christmas Day with its simmering tensions. Omissions that would be overlooked 364 days of the year take on mammoth proportions.
People arriving late and holding up the proceedings. Strained relations and overtired kids. And that's before the champagne corks start popping.
While Boxing Day might owe its origins to a time when servants got a day off, armed with boxes of goodies courtesy of their rich bosses, there'll be little respite for most of us.
I might be on holiday for the next few weeks but there's going to be days when I feel like I have knocked off work to carry bricks.
There are five whole weeks of school holidays stretching before us and no plans for an extended break.
While it's great not to be running against the clock all day and ferrying kids to out-of-school activities, I love packing school lunches.
I am not around so I don't hear them whinging about what's on offer. If they are hungry enough they will eat it.
But during the holidays, feeding the kids healthy food is one of the greatest challenges.
After weeks of sausage sizzles we've had our fill of snags. While there has been plenty of lovely seasonal fruit, nary a vegetable has passed their lips. Unless you count tomato sauce, that is, and it's technically a fruit.
Those without children, will say we should enjoy them while they are happy to be seen within a metre of us.
But many of us noughties parents have created a rod for our own backs. We get out and about with our kids too much. They can't play on the streets like we did.
Most mornings we are met with a chorus of ``what are we going to do today?''
It doesn't have to cost a lot of money, but it means we are on the go the whole time.
The upside is that they are not sitting in front of a computer or a TV all holidays.
Us multi-tasking Mums, who claim to have pulled off the whole Christmas extravaganza without any assistance from our husbands, will be looking for a break to chew on our burnt chops.
The menfolk will be desperate to get to the MCG today for the Boxing Day Test.
My husband spent the first three days of the school holidays child wrangling, taking them to movies, the pool and Christmas shopping. Only a man could think you could get anything done at a crowded shopping centre with three kids in tow. But that's another story.
In a moment of weakness I suggested he might like to go to the cricket.
He was hesitant because he knows that for the duration of the holidays, whenever things go pear-shaped, I will be reminding him that he went to the cricket while I finished off the Christmas visits.
Many of us, employing the skills of a high level diplomat so we didn't have to traipse around the country to see all our family and friends yesterday, will be piling into the car and heading off to sit down in front of another heaving Christmas spread. Another round of turkey, pork, pud and trifle to keep the family peace, but what about my waistline?
While the doorbuster Boxing Day sales of recent years have been scaled back, there will be some of us who feel we didn't give our credit card a good enough workout in the lead-up to Christmas. Too many bargains is never enough. And it doesn't matter that the present cupboard is already bulging.
Then there will be tears. The faulty toys that don't work and have to be brought back and snaking return queues that will make Mum and Dad feel like crying.
Worse still will be the recognition that you have to fork out $15 in batteries to get the $10 Tinkerbell walkie talkies given to the five-year-old to work.
Then there are hours spent wrestling with the instructions for a toy that have apparently been written by a nuclear scientist.
Having painfully constructed a scale-model replica of the Statue of Liberty, you find the torch is missing.
Or, as a friend learned, the money gifted to her in a card was thrown out with the wrapping paper. At least that's what her famously tight-wad aunt claimed must have happened.
Then there are the plain bad taste presents. Best not to even give them a home. Box them up and send them off to the op shop.
A friend reminded me of the set of awful towels she received which included a lovely note - to the intended recipient who had then given them to her.
Re-gifting is great if its going to a charity or a school fundraiser.
By tomorrow we'll have put a big dent in the turkey, ham and pudding leftovers. But then we'll turn out attention to New Year's Eve.
Oh, and another dish to think about preparing.
And then there's the New Year's resolutions.
Learning to say ``no'' might be a good one.
``No'' to a second slice of Chocolate Ripple cake. ``No'' to another glass of wine.
And, importantly, NOwhere when the kids ask where they are going today.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
It's all down hill from here ....
Claire Heaney
THE other night as I lay in bed I felt old age creeping up on me.
As I was ruminating about the advance of middle age, my husband rolled over and began to snore.
Yeah, I know all that stuff about age just being a number but there's been a whole heap of little things that have all added up to make me feel, well, old.
Like deciding how we would mark my husband's looming half century when he insisted there was to be no party.
The kids and I hatched a plan to spend his birthday at Australia Zoo, on the Sunshine Coast, last week.
While some 50-year-olds might be quaffing Penfolds Grange, I figured with three kids aged 5, 8 and 10, he can do that for his 70th.
Luckily, Terri Irwin was having a bash for young Bob's 6th birthday which meant, among other things, free entry for kids and a chance for all of us to get in touch with our inner-child.
That organised, I headed to the letterbox to find there was a letter addressed to him from Australian Pensioners' Insurance Agency inviting him to ring and get a quote now that he was approaching that magic age.
Then, I was doing some online quotes for travel insurance for a holiday next year. When all travellers were 49 years or under the quote was $344. But when I adjusted it to reflect my husband's new age the quote jumped to $463.
Along the way, there have been the Facebook updates from a friend who has just returned from Bangkok where she underwent a face and neck lift.
We had a farewell lunch for her, feeling a bit queasy as she outlined her chosen path to eternal youth.
Weeks after the cut-price procedure she sent me a picture with the caption ``still cooking''. Given I can't even chop up meat, her entertaining but vivid descriptions scared the heck out of me.
I was talking to another friend about it and she did remind me that at a certain age a woman has to decide whether she is going to save her face or her body.
Sadly, as I caught sight of myself under what I regard as extremely unforgiving lights at a public toilet I was pretty sure I was losing the battle on that front. Then the next day at my all too infrequent fitness sessions my niggling hammy started playing up so I had to adjourn for coffee and cake.
When my youngest turned five last week I had mixed emotions. At 45 I feel far too old to have a little one about to start school. But, I am reminding myself that there are some upsides.
These kids will keep me young. And, I don't care if I never eat at a top notch restaurant or drink a bottle of wine that costs more than $15 again.
And while my dressing style is on the conservative side, I am not wearing the Osti-style dresses my mum was getting around in at my age.
But, just quietly, I have been talked into an information session outlining the benefits of non-invasive skin product, promising to iron out some of those emerging lines.
In the meantime, my husband's too busy playing with his new toy, an iPod, and organising golf lessons he's been putting off for 18 years that I know of.
So, just maybe, life does begin at 50.
THE other night as I lay in bed I felt old age creeping up on me.
As I was ruminating about the advance of middle age, my husband rolled over and began to snore.
Yeah, I know all that stuff about age just being a number but there's been a whole heap of little things that have all added up to make me feel, well, old.
Like deciding how we would mark my husband's looming half century when he insisted there was to be no party.
The kids and I hatched a plan to spend his birthday at Australia Zoo, on the Sunshine Coast, last week.
While some 50-year-olds might be quaffing Penfolds Grange, I figured with three kids aged 5, 8 and 10, he can do that for his 70th.
Luckily, Terri Irwin was having a bash for young Bob's 6th birthday which meant, among other things, free entry for kids and a chance for all of us to get in touch with our inner-child.
That organised, I headed to the letterbox to find there was a letter addressed to him from Australian Pensioners' Insurance Agency inviting him to ring and get a quote now that he was approaching that magic age.
Then, I was doing some online quotes for travel insurance for a holiday next year. When all travellers were 49 years or under the quote was $344. But when I adjusted it to reflect my husband's new age the quote jumped to $463.
Along the way, there have been the Facebook updates from a friend who has just returned from Bangkok where she underwent a face and neck lift.
We had a farewell lunch for her, feeling a bit queasy as she outlined her chosen path to eternal youth.
Weeks after the cut-price procedure she sent me a picture with the caption ``still cooking''. Given I can't even chop up meat, her entertaining but vivid descriptions scared the heck out of me.
I was talking to another friend about it and she did remind me that at a certain age a woman has to decide whether she is going to save her face or her body.
Sadly, as I caught sight of myself under what I regard as extremely unforgiving lights at a public toilet I was pretty sure I was losing the battle on that front. Then the next day at my all too infrequent fitness sessions my niggling hammy started playing up so I had to adjourn for coffee and cake.
When my youngest turned five last week I had mixed emotions. At 45 I feel far too old to have a little one about to start school. But, I am reminding myself that there are some upsides.
These kids will keep me young. And, I don't care if I never eat at a top notch restaurant or drink a bottle of wine that costs more than $15 again.
And while my dressing style is on the conservative side, I am not wearing the Osti-style dresses my mum was getting around in at my age.
But, just quietly, I have been talked into an information session outlining the benefits of non-invasive skin product, promising to iron out some of those emerging lines.
In the meantime, my husband's too busy playing with his new toy, an iPod, and organising golf lessons he's been putting off for 18 years that I know of.
So, just maybe, life does begin at 50.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Gone camping
LIKE most children mine have their failings.
But consumerism, so pervasive among kids, is not one of them.
They don't own all the electronic gadgetry because, among other things, it would drive me crazy trying to police the use of it.
So, when they ask for something I don't dismiss it out of hand. That was until the eldest, 10, started making noises about a tent.
I'm no snob but camping has not figured in my repertoire and it's not something I want to add now.
People insist if you camped as a kid you have fond memories.
Soon all three kids, at the instruction of the eldest, began a chorus of "can we get a tent for Christmas?".
It was ringing in my ears as I ducked into Kathmandu and did the sums. This tent could pay for itself in a few nights.
The sub-plot was that they could go with their Dad. Afterall, he's the one with the fond childhood memories.
The eldest asked if ``Santa'' brought a tent would it be set up in the loungeroom.
This troubled me. It was too big for inside and probably even our courtyard. There could be tears on Christmas morning when they found Santa had left a canvas bag weighing 24 kg.
Then I heard Big4 was offering a free night of camping. The most convenient was in the Western Suburbs.
My plan was for my husband and I to set it up for the kids as a surprise while they were at school and creche. He knew better than to resist. In any case, he was working that afternoon so wouldn't be there for the animal hour.
The day arrived last Friday and we took the tent from its hiding place and made our way to Braybrook. A dust storm came through and we hung on to the tent for dear life. An English couple, happily ensconced in their van, took pity on us as did a nice bloke from New South Wales down for the Pearl Jam concert.
``It's usually a good idea to have a practice run at home,'' he advised.
Three-quarters through, we realised the porch would hang half way across the road, so we left it dangling.
We raced home and grabbed some basic gear and I picked the kids up, telling them I had some jobs to do.
As we rounded the corner, the children were excited. Then came the big moment. ``Awesome'' they declared as they bumped around as if they were on a jumping castle.
After dinner at a nearby pokies pub, I picked up a slab to give to my Good Samaritans.
"Big night," a Grey Nomad asked as he stepped from his well-appointed caravan. I explained our adventure.
"You usually do a practice run at home," he said.
After a swim everyone was asleep at 9pm. Then my husband turned up at midnight looking for a key for the loo. His usual ride home was confused when he said he was off to Braybrook not Richmond. ``Have you split from your missus, Mate?" he asked.
Too early we found ourselves breakfasting at McDonalds early on Saturday.
The two eldest were wearing their school uniforms because in the rush a change of clothes was forgotten.
"It's OK, no one knows us,'' I promised.
Back home, they were buzzing, hoping we may be able to leave Melbourne for our next trip.
It's reinforced my view that they do not need gadgets to have fun. But, I'm making no commitments. I am too consumed with trying to get the tent back into the bag.
But consumerism, so pervasive among kids, is not one of them.
They don't own all the electronic gadgetry because, among other things, it would drive me crazy trying to police the use of it.
So, when they ask for something I don't dismiss it out of hand. That was until the eldest, 10, started making noises about a tent.
I'm no snob but camping has not figured in my repertoire and it's not something I want to add now.
People insist if you camped as a kid you have fond memories.
Soon all three kids, at the instruction of the eldest, began a chorus of "can we get a tent for Christmas?".
It was ringing in my ears as I ducked into Kathmandu and did the sums. This tent could pay for itself in a few nights.
The sub-plot was that they could go with their Dad. Afterall, he's the one with the fond childhood memories.
The eldest asked if ``Santa'' brought a tent would it be set up in the loungeroom.
This troubled me. It was too big for inside and probably even our courtyard. There could be tears on Christmas morning when they found Santa had left a canvas bag weighing 24 kg.
Then I heard Big4 was offering a free night of camping. The most convenient was in the Western Suburbs.
My plan was for my husband and I to set it up for the kids as a surprise while they were at school and creche. He knew better than to resist. In any case, he was working that afternoon so wouldn't be there for the animal hour.
The day arrived last Friday and we took the tent from its hiding place and made our way to Braybrook. A dust storm came through and we hung on to the tent for dear life. An English couple, happily ensconced in their van, took pity on us as did a nice bloke from New South Wales down for the Pearl Jam concert.
``It's usually a good idea to have a practice run at home,'' he advised.
Three-quarters through, we realised the porch would hang half way across the road, so we left it dangling.
We raced home and grabbed some basic gear and I picked the kids up, telling them I had some jobs to do.
As we rounded the corner, the children were excited. Then came the big moment. ``Awesome'' they declared as they bumped around as if they were on a jumping castle.
After dinner at a nearby pokies pub, I picked up a slab to give to my Good Samaritans.
"Big night," a Grey Nomad asked as he stepped from his well-appointed caravan. I explained our adventure.
"You usually do a practice run at home," he said.
After a swim everyone was asleep at 9pm. Then my husband turned up at midnight looking for a key for the loo. His usual ride home was confused when he said he was off to Braybrook not Richmond. ``Have you split from your missus, Mate?" he asked.
Too early we found ourselves breakfasting at McDonalds early on Saturday.
The two eldest were wearing their school uniforms because in the rush a change of clothes was forgotten.
"It's OK, no one knows us,'' I promised.
Back home, they were buzzing, hoping we may be able to leave Melbourne for our next trip.
It's reinforced my view that they do not need gadgets to have fun. But, I'm making no commitments. I am too consumed with trying to get the tent back into the bag.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Overdressed
THIS supermumwannabe has finally run up the white flag.
It's hard to say what particular event in the past week tipped me over the edge.
It may have been the row with the four-year-old last Friday morning about what outfit she would wear to creche for dress-up day.
The kids donated a gold coin to pay for the randy resident rabbits to get ``fixed up'' because they were getting too cranky.
The previous day she had settled on a particular Angelina Ballerina outfit, wisely eschewing the one that had busted seams.
But come 7.40am, as we prepared to take the second child and his friend to the before-school chess session, she had changed her mind.
So, in between wiping sleep from eyes and sponging toothpaste marks off tops, I was doing a shoddy job of mending the dress.
At bedtime the night before the eldest child, who had four weeks to research and answer four simple questions and type them up, realised she had left her draft at school.
That meant after chess drop off we had to pick up the notes and head to the cafe so she could type up her homework on the laptop and put it on a memory stick and print it out at school.
But the seeds were sown earlier in the week when Special Friends Day was staged. The two school aged children were happy to have their Dad go along which was a bonus because that meant we, read me, did not have to hit the phones trying to rope ``special'' people in.
The kids dressed up as book characters with an emphasis on animals.
My son was happy to go as knockabout cat Old Tom from the Leigh Hobbs' series. At the weekend I headed to the Op Shop to buy an orange flannelette sheet for the body. The plan was to sew up some loose fitting pants and top but I ran out of time what with other weekend commitments. We cut a hole in the sheet and draped it around him, fashioned some ears and added the requisite scars and bung eye. He carried a plastic fishbone. My daughter was going as a creature from Where the Wild Things Are. I bought orange wool and wrapped it around cardboard to create tassels that were sown into a pantyhose gusset (minus the legs) to make a wig. She had a furry coat to complete the effect. Sure, it was all simple and unsophisticated but it still took hours.
The next day was another prep transition session for the four-year-old at 2.30pm. I was at work but because my husband was starting work at 4pm he took her.
Then on Thursday, the kids galloped from their classroom with more great news.
The Melbourne Cup was going to make a pitstop at our school and they should dress up in jockey colors!
So, at 3am the next morning during a restless night I found myself thinking about jockey colours and how best we could execute this. All very simply, mind you.
In, fact for the next couple of days I mulled over how this could be done simply. But there was some respite because I then turned my attention to a low-key Halloween celebration on the Saturday night. While people decry it as crass American commercialism, we like to think of it as an Irish festival. My son turned his Old Tom outfit into a pumpkin turban, my older daughter pinned a Batman cape to her black t-shirt and donned a witches hat. The pesky youngest suitably put on a vampire outfit because I often feel she is sucking the lifeblood out of me.
I delivered some goodies to the pre-arranged stop off points for ``trick or treat''. Then we headed off and luckily for us a friend of a friend happened to be related to Olympic medallist Steve Hooker. He answered the door and there was much excitement.
But come Sunday it was back to jockey colors.
I reached for the formguide and the decision was quick. The kids would go as Allez Wonder's jockey. It meant I had to draw a yellow shamrock, cut it out, back it with some cardboard and pin it to their red school tops.
The morning, despite the fact that more than half the school was AWOL on a long weekend, was fantastic.
When my children related the week's activities to their interstate grandmother she was horrified.
``I can't believe all these things, it is just too much,'' she said.
The children had omitted to tell her about their dad doing fruit duty at kinder, a working bee for creche and the myriad of other excursion and incursion forms, raffle selling rosters and the like that all had to be dealt with in that same week.
I know daughters-in-law aren't supposed to agree with their mothers-in-law, but I do on this one.
I don't know what the answer is. Having less children. Ignore all the dress up days and then your kids feel sad and left out. Attend community run creches/kinders but refuse to help out.
Discourage schools from all these extras so they can focus on the basics.
In the meantime, we're bracing for a another few big weeks. The four-year-old gets her Buddy for next year, her older sister becomes a Buddy and then there's Christmas choir practice, excursions to Healesville and Werribee zoos ...
Thankfully, the only one dressing up this week is me - on Oaks Day.
It's hard to say what particular event in the past week tipped me over the edge.
It may have been the row with the four-year-old last Friday morning about what outfit she would wear to creche for dress-up day.
The kids donated a gold coin to pay for the randy resident rabbits to get ``fixed up'' because they were getting too cranky.
The previous day she had settled on a particular Angelina Ballerina outfit, wisely eschewing the one that had busted seams.
But come 7.40am, as we prepared to take the second child and his friend to the before-school chess session, she had changed her mind.
So, in between wiping sleep from eyes and sponging toothpaste marks off tops, I was doing a shoddy job of mending the dress.
At bedtime the night before the eldest child, who had four weeks to research and answer four simple questions and type them up, realised she had left her draft at school.
That meant after chess drop off we had to pick up the notes and head to the cafe so she could type up her homework on the laptop and put it on a memory stick and print it out at school.
But the seeds were sown earlier in the week when Special Friends Day was staged. The two school aged children were happy to have their Dad go along which was a bonus because that meant we, read me, did not have to hit the phones trying to rope ``special'' people in.
The kids dressed up as book characters with an emphasis on animals.
My son was happy to go as knockabout cat Old Tom from the Leigh Hobbs' series. At the weekend I headed to the Op Shop to buy an orange flannelette sheet for the body. The plan was to sew up some loose fitting pants and top but I ran out of time what with other weekend commitments. We cut a hole in the sheet and draped it around him, fashioned some ears and added the requisite scars and bung eye. He carried a plastic fishbone. My daughter was going as a creature from Where the Wild Things Are. I bought orange wool and wrapped it around cardboard to create tassels that were sown into a pantyhose gusset (minus the legs) to make a wig. She had a furry coat to complete the effect. Sure, it was all simple and unsophisticated but it still took hours.
The next day was another prep transition session for the four-year-old at 2.30pm. I was at work but because my husband was starting work at 4pm he took her.
Then on Thursday, the kids galloped from their classroom with more great news.
The Melbourne Cup was going to make a pitstop at our school and they should dress up in jockey colors!
So, at 3am the next morning during a restless night I found myself thinking about jockey colours and how best we could execute this. All very simply, mind you.
In, fact for the next couple of days I mulled over how this could be done simply. But there was some respite because I then turned my attention to a low-key Halloween celebration on the Saturday night. While people decry it as crass American commercialism, we like to think of it as an Irish festival. My son turned his Old Tom outfit into a pumpkin turban, my older daughter pinned a Batman cape to her black t-shirt and donned a witches hat. The pesky youngest suitably put on a vampire outfit because I often feel she is sucking the lifeblood out of me.
I delivered some goodies to the pre-arranged stop off points for ``trick or treat''. Then we headed off and luckily for us a friend of a friend happened to be related to Olympic medallist Steve Hooker. He answered the door and there was much excitement.
But come Sunday it was back to jockey colors.
I reached for the formguide and the decision was quick. The kids would go as Allez Wonder's jockey. It meant I had to draw a yellow shamrock, cut it out, back it with some cardboard and pin it to their red school tops.
The morning, despite the fact that more than half the school was AWOL on a long weekend, was fantastic.
When my children related the week's activities to their interstate grandmother she was horrified.
``I can't believe all these things, it is just too much,'' she said.
The children had omitted to tell her about their dad doing fruit duty at kinder, a working bee for creche and the myriad of other excursion and incursion forms, raffle selling rosters and the like that all had to be dealt with in that same week.
I know daughters-in-law aren't supposed to agree with their mothers-in-law, but I do on this one.
I don't know what the answer is. Having less children. Ignore all the dress up days and then your kids feel sad and left out. Attend community run creches/kinders but refuse to help out.
Discourage schools from all these extras so they can focus on the basics.
In the meantime, we're bracing for a another few big weeks. The four-year-old gets her Buddy for next year, her older sister becomes a Buddy and then there's Christmas choir practice, excursions to Healesville and Werribee zoos ...
Thankfully, the only one dressing up this week is me - on Oaks Day.
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