All I need to know, I learned in kindergarten (or through kindergarten-ers)

A lot of people have asked how I managed to get myself into the situation of having to finish my doctorate while being pregnant with and then having the Little Miss Snoopy, all while the twins were going through their terrible two's (which were more like terrible one-and-a-half's to terrible three's).  All I can say is that you cannot assume forethought or planning for what mere stupidity and naivety can explain.


I began my doctorate sans children, in the sunny land of South Africa, and, always liking a challenge in those days (as well as being a serial student), thought it would be a fun thing to do.  There seems to be a certain amount of misogynistic pleasure to be gained from working so hard for five years for a piece of paper.  To say nothing of the sadistic pleasure that can be gained through making first your professor, and then three other world-class examiners painstakingly read through your tome of six hundred pages all devoted to the subject of violence (sadly, yes, that was my topic).  So, footloose and fancy-free, with only the Sweetpea in tow, it was the most natural thing in the world to start writing, using my background in the South African Police to aid and provide material for this very weighty subject.

I was unprepared for what a move to a new country, and the subsequent birth of all my kiddies, would do to me.    In a polar opposite, I changed careers to work with children instead, and the writing of a thesis on violence became suddenly very far-removed from me and everything I was now involved in.  Thank God for the amazing professor that I had acquired (though sheer luck on my part), who managed to get me through the whole thing!  But looking back, it is probably not advisable to take a project of this magnitude on when also trying to have three children at the same time.  The boys were two, and Little Miss Snoopy just born, when I decided that five years was long enough and I had to get it finished while I was on "Maternity leave" (which I turned into "study leave").  

I feverishly wrote long into the nights, and during the day while the little ones were having their sleeps, and Little Miss Snoopy, who is a really terrible sleeper at the best of times, spent her days lying across my lap, suckling a boob and sleeping on and off, while I typed on the laptop which was also balanced precariously on my lap.  The Sweetpea gave me what time he could, and I got a chance to write when he took everyone out for an hour or two every so often.  Slowly the chapters mounted up, and before I knew it, it was time for a final run through and sending the massive document off to the printers and binders.  It was done!


 

Not quite sure what those examiners were thinking, but somehow I managed to make it through, and was amazingly awarded the degree.  


And the funniest thing was that, the first time someone called me by my new title, or I had to put it on a form or something, I felt like a big fraud, and like I hadn't really earned it at all!  


I still feel like that now!

The Young and the Restless

We've had one of those "stir-crazy" days - I am sure you know what I am talking about:  the kids have been a bit off (not sick exactly, but with runny noses and looking a bit peaky) and so we made the decision not to let them outside in order to stave off any sickness that might be developing.  Three small kids ill is no joke - we try to avoid it where ever possible!

The old folks got it right when they said idle hands are the devil's playground.  Also, that necessity is the mother of invention.  The result of being trapped inside for a whole day is three small whirlwinds of boredom wandering around aimlessly with destruction on their minds.  So far, they have got hold of a full bag of potato crisps and discovered that if you smack it really hard, it bursts with a satisfying confetti-like shower of small chips all over the carpet and couches.  They have made a convalescence bay for a patient who they "pulled out of a fire" with all of the lounge cushions and a few blankets, pillows off the beds and a few toys (which for some unknown reason are placed over the eyes of the patient in order to cure them).  They have been into the garage and discovered a huge piece of polystyrene from an old box (it is no longer a huge piece - when I opened the garage door and the wind swept in, there were so many tiny pieces of polystyrene floating in the air that for a bizarre moment I thought it was snowing).  They put all three trikes and a dump truck on the trampoline and rode them around and around in circles until they fell off dizzy.  They got hold of a couple of credit cards out of my purse and bent each of them neatly in the middle.  In an attempt to find something interesting to do, they emptied out three huge containers of toys all over the playroom floor and then moved off to play with the toys that had been out all the time.  Someone found a highlighter pen (neon pink) somewhere and found that if you draw on the balustrades or the stair walls, it does not come off, even with meths or acetone.  They have been in more time-out today than time in.

You can learn a lot from your children:  the most important thing you learn is how much patience you have.  Needless to say, as I surveyed the havoc and destruction in my house today, I was not pleased.  Normally, at the end of a Sunday, my house looks marginally tidier than normal because we have tried so hard during the weekend to catch up with housework and washing.  Now it resembles nothing so much as those dreadful houses they show on Oprah where the people hoard stuff for years until it covers every available bit of floor.

My nerves were frazzled and I just wanted to get dinner on and get everyone in bed where I know where they are and what they are doing.  As I was trying to create some semblance of order in the kitchen, I heard a small voice behind me "Here, Mama, I have brought all the cups and bowls from the lounge".  Balancing them all carefully, Fireman Paddy had collected up some of the havoc strewn around and brought it to me in the kitchen.  

"You know," he said conversationally, "I love you so much.  One day I am going to marry you, Mama."

And in that instant, the whole day snapped into perspective.  Instead of bemoaning the mess, I am thankful for the ones who made it.  The piles of dirty clothing, toys strewn around, cushions on the floor are all evidence that I am surrounded by the ones I love the most.  

So I left everything and went and played on the trampoline with the kids until bedtime.  After all, I reasoned, if the mess they have made doesn't multiply, smell too much, catch fire or block the access to the food cupboard or fridge, it can safely stay as it is until tomorrow...

A cat could very well be Man's best friend, but it would never stoop to admitting it...

We live in a countrified area in the middle of a city, and we have always liked the idea of being close to nature.  The great outdoors, the wild, the little creatures of the forest running around, etc.  It was lovely until one of those "little creatures of the forest" got into the house one night.  I was fast asleep when I felt something moving on the bed.  Now, I am a light sleeper at the best of times, and my transition from asleep to wide awake in this case took less than a millisecond.  I flung the whatever it was off the bed and heard it land with a huge thump on the other side of the room.  When I turned on the lights, it had gone out of the open window.  But not without leaving the evidence - a huge rat poo and wee on the pillow next to where I had been sleeping!   Obviously my quick reaction had startled the wretch and he had got a fright of a more physical nature.

I could not sleep in that room again, even with the windows firmly shut.  The Sweetpea was hysterically commissioned to "Do something!" although what exactly I expected at two in the morning I could not say.  I started entertaining the thought of getting a cat.  I have never been a cat person - we have always had dogs, so there didn't seem to be much point, but now, I could think of all sorts of reasons why owning a cat would be a Good Idea.  When I mentioned the plan to the Sweetpea, he was reluctant to say the least.  He pointed out that in addition to three children, we also have two large dogs, 37 fish and a fairly busy set of lives.  It was time to increase the pressure on him.  I researched how owning a small animal is good for children, as they learn compassion and responsibility from an early age.  Armed as I was with this ammunition, there was pretty little the Sweetpea could do but give in graciously, although he made it clear he was agreeing only by duress.

I started the cat hunt.  We had a couple of false starts where we went to see highly-pedigreed (and just as highly priced) moggies described as "good with children" who turned out to be breeder-raised and almost feral as a result.  Then I turned my attention to people who wanted to move away and did not want to take their pets with them, but these turned out to be mostly fat and over-pampered lumps doing nothing more interesting than waking up to eat and go back to sleep again.  Following my reasoning that we were looking for a cat that would be good for the boys and Little Miss Snoopy, it was a definite no on both counts.

Finally, I made a trip to the local Animal Rescue Center, and there found our perfect kitty.  When he was let out of his cramped little cage to meet me, it seemed as though he thought his saviour had finally arrived.  He twined himself around my ankles so fast it was like I was wearing a pair of furry ankle-boots.  Asking them to keep him for me, I went home to tell the family the good news.  The Sweetpea, muttering about "crazy woman", and "we don't need a cat", was duly dispatched to pick up the new addition to the family.  The Cat took up residence in our home.  

He bonded instantly with the family, and being relatively young, was soon playing with the boys and chasing bits of string.  

However, when everyone was in bed asleep that night, I came down the stairs to find the     Sweetpea lying fast asleep on the couch. With the cat on his chest.  And that is how it has been every night since.

As for the rat?  Never been seen since.

Flying the coop...

I was in two minds whether to share this one or not.  After all, I have worked hard to cultivate an aura of being in control and knowing what is going on (not!).  But having spoken to several of my friends, who have all said "That happened to me too!"  I feel a bit better and will share it anyway, even though my sense of competence as a mom has taken a hefty knock!  So here goes:


It's a bit of a cliche to have a nightmare happen on Halloween.  I mean - how cheesy can you get, right?  Far better for any plot of interest to happen on another day of the year - Valentine's Day, for example, or perhaps Labour Day Weekend.


Life is not like movie plots however.  My own personal worst nightmare happened on Halloween this year.  As in all good tales, it happened when I least expected it.  The two boys asked (innocently enough, I thought) if they could go and play outside with the dogs, as they often do.  I was feeding Little Miss Snoopy at the time, so said they could go ahead, and if they needed me they could just call.  We have a fully-fenced garden - what could happen, right?  Wrong!  A few minutes after they had disappeared outside, I became aware that it was very quiet out there - you guessed it - too quiet.  I immediately put Little Miss Snoopy down and went to investigate.  What had seemed like a perfectly safe garden was obviously not - the boys were nowhere in sight.  Inevitably, denial was the first emotion - I spent quite a few minutes running around frantically in what is actually quite a small garden, looking under plants that are obviously too small to hide two very large three-year-olds.  All the while, I was screeching their names like a banshee and sounding more hysterical with each passing moment.  They were nowhere to be seen.


I searched for about five minutes before making a wild call to the Sweetpea.  Then I grabbed the little girl and started running up and down our road looking for them.  Its funny, but normally I find it really difficult to even walk up from the post box to our front door after fetching the mail (yes, I am that unfit).  However, adrenalin lent wings to my feet and I managed to run up and down the road, carrying a ten kilogram baby, as though I was strolling through a mall, and scarcely even breathed harder.


On my second trip down the road, surrounded by ghosts, goblins and ghouls all out for a bit of Halloween fun, who should I meet coming calmly up the path, as though nothing was wrong? The boys, of course.  they didn't even have the grace to look shamefaced as I grabbed hold of them, crying hysterically.  They merely looked at each other somewhat confusedly as if to say, "Now what's wrong with her?"

When the story finally emerged, it turns out that they had boosted each other over the very large wall, and, seeing all of the interesting people in costume walking past, followed them down the road to a house three doors down where a Halloween party was in full swing.  No one even appeared to notice the two extras wandering around.  After a while, the boys got bored and came home.  The Sweetpea, when he arrived home, was left to deal with the situation, while I tried to get control of my shattered nerves.  Needless to say, the boys are not going to go out into the garden again anytime soon.


Not my proudest moment as a mother!  I have come to the conclusion that:
One child, playing quietly = relatively innocent.
Twins, playing quietly together = hatching a plot of diabolical proportions.


Do you have things like this happen to you?  Or is it just your worst nightmare come true?  Let me know!

It's all in the bag...

There is a saying that you can tell a lot about a woman from the size of her handbag.   Apparently, the larger the bag, the more extroverted a woman's personality. My theory is that it obviously has more to do with necessity than personality - after all, I have gone from carrying no bag in my youth, to carrying one now under which boy scouts could comfortably make camp with no fear of getting wet in the rain.  I doubt that my personality has changed that much.

Not only that, the contents of a bag are supposed to say a lot about a woman.  I once won a prize for being the only woman at a ladies meeting to have a socket wrench in her handbag (don't ask!). The Sweetpea meanly refers to my present handbag as the Bermuda Triangle because he swears things go in there that never have a hope of coming out of there alive.  When sorting out my handbag the other day, I found (amongst other miscellaneous and unidentifiable half-sucked and discarded objects covered in bag fluff) a fleet of six vehicles, three bags of no-MSG-added chips, a half-eaten stale biscuit (it was still quite good - give me a break: I am a breast-feeding mom and pretty much starving all the time), three odd socks, four pairs of sunglasses (only two of which actually have lenses in them), my cell-phone, someone else's cell-phone (lovingly packed up by one of my kids on a visit somewhere), some rocks and dried flowers, a lipstick tube with no lipstick in it (industrious fingers have scratched it all out), various scribbled works of art that I have thought worth saving, and a dried chicken bone (Why? Why?).  Not sure what this says about me as a person, other than perhaps I am a mom of three busy and creative children who think nothing of using my handbag as a dumping ground.


However, when it comes to finding things, the shoe is on the other foot.  Invariably, as we prepare to go anywhere, I gather up my receptacle for all that I will ever need (i.e. my handbag) while I smugly wait for the Sweetpea to say "I can't find my......" (wallet, keys, cell-phone - you fill in the blank), and then rush around frantically trying to remember where he used it/saw it/saw the children playing with it last.  At that point, just as tempers are fraying and ire is running high, I calmly interject "We could always buy you a man-bag?"  Nothing is guaranteed to cause more consternation in a red-blooded, testosterone-flooded male than the mention of a man-bag.  It is like kryptonite to Superman.  All his power drains away at the thought of that ball-busting object.  For the next few days, keys are hung on hooks, wallets placed carefully in cupboard, cell-phones left on the loudest setting so that an emergency phone-call from the land-line will be able to locate them without fuss.  Until he grows sloppy and the cycle starts all over again.  

It appears that the eternally-raging battle of the sexes can be summed up in this one illustration (probably stemming from the days of the caveman): the woman, the gatherer of the tribe, carries all she needs with her; the man of the tribe, powerful hunter that he is, does not want to be weighed down by carrying unnecessary objects.  Yet while out and about, even Neanderthal man was likely to come up to his counterpart at some stage of the evening and say "Please could you just put my club in your bag?"

Addendum: Fireman Sam and Fireman Paddy on a mission

It never fails to amaze me what a young, impressionable mind can take in.   Having been either pregnant or breastfeeding for the best part of four years now, I have found that the existence of "baby brain" is not only conjecture, but is a provable fact.  I have become one of those moms who sits like a blob in front of the box (on those very rare occasions when I want to watch something) and falls instantly asleep.  


Little minds are not like that.  They are full of questions (in Autumn - "Why are the trees naked?"), comments ("You have a fat tummy, mama.  Mine is thin."), astute observations ("If I eat chicken, it goes straight to my muscles and I can be strong like a superhero") and nothing seems to escape them.  In all situations, this is great, though I can't help but wonder at the wisdom of partnering sleep-deprived mothers plagued by baby brain with inquiring young minds like these.


In all situations an inquiring mind is great: save possibly this one:  My two sat transfixed watching how the firemen pumped water to spray on the fires on the Fireman Sam video (forget the fact that not much makes sense in Fireman Sam, kids take it as gospel anyway.  Like why, when someone falls off the dock, wearing a full belt of tools, do they call the fire-station to come and rescue him instead of throwing him the life preserver clearly pictured on the dock not 10 feet away? But I digress.).  
After my two watched the fire being put out, action around the home for the next few days consisted of putting out imaginary fires all over the place. One or the other would suddenly, and without warning, screech "There's a fire in the playroom!" and true to form, they would both run to find their helmets, get on the bed with the brass headboard in order to slide down the "pole", and make their way to the fire singing the lyrics of the Fireman Sam song.  In most instances, this resulted in a harmless bit of fantasy play and lots of shushing noises as the fire was quelled.


However, that was before they discovered the pump.  On a camping trip, we used a person-operated pump (like a large bicycle pump with a long hose) to blow up the air mattresses for the tent, and the boys' eyes gleamed at this heretofore undiscovered piece of "fire-fighting equipment".  I should have taken more note of those gleaming little eyes.  The very next opportunity, the firemen sought out this valuable commodity, digging it out of the cupboard in the garage with ease and stealth.  But where to find a ready source of water to pump?  They were both too short to reach the basins or sinks.  One source sprang easily to mind.  With great ingenuity, they inserted the long hose of the pump down the bowl of the toilet and into the subterranean depths of the inner workings of the loo.  Then they stepped back, and proceeded to pump with great determination, dedication and energy....


It does not take much intellect to imagine what happened after that.  It would have been fine, apart from the fact that, having three kiddies, I always make sure that there is a nicely-coloured loo block in the cistern for those non-flush emergencies.  This block turns the water bright (and I mean bright) blue.  Which is fine as long as the water remains in the loo. When it is splashed over the walls, floor, miscellaneous bath mats, and parts of the ceiling, as well as over two not-so-thrilled and yelling firemen, it is not as attractive. An innocent firefighting maneuver resulted in about two hours of post-operation cleanup.

I totally forgot to mention the incident to the Sweetpea until relatively recently.  He looked at me with horror on his face. "Do you know how many times I have had the end of that pump in my mouth?" he exclaimed.  Turns out that since that toilet operation, the pump has been a bit faulty and has required the use of teeth (namely those of the Sweetpea) to hold the end on.  Oh well... what doesn't kill us, etc., etc.

Fireman Sam and Fireman Paddy get down to the business of fighting fires

Some people are great gardeners.  They only have to look at a plant to have it flourishing and bearing much fruit in no time at all.  I, on the other hand, am not like that.  I am pretty much bad news for any plant under my care. Last year, when I decided to grow carrots in order to feed my family some healthy, organic fare, the best I could do was a few sorry and somewhat rude-looking specimens (I later sold these on the local auction site as aphrodisiacs due to their somewhat raunchy shapes, but that is another story).

However, one plant I can grow without seemingly trying at all, is gorse.  That prickly, ineradicable weed seems to blossom all over our property without a care in the world.  No amount of poisons, bush-cutters or the earnest attentions of the Sweetpea seem to do it any harm at all; in fact, it rather seems to thrive on negative attention (some children are like this too).


The result of this is an extremely steep section, almost straight down, sparsely covered with a sprinkling of grass and a dense, luxurious Amazon-forest like expanse of gorse.


 It was in this expanse of sharp-tipped, evil plant that Firemen Sam and Paddy discovered Something that needed Rescuing.  I was never privileged to know what that Something was, but suffice it to say that the rescue was performed at great speed and I only got to see the last part of the operation.  Fireman Sam took advantage of my attention being momentarily distracted by getting his baby sister out of the car.  He ran into the garage, grabbed his tricycle, and, while humming the theme tune to Fireman Sam, launched the trike over the edge of the driveway and down the not only incredibly steep hill, but the incredibly steep, gorse-infested hill.  He got a surprisingly long way down the hill before running aground in an especially stubborn gorse bush, and like Pooh Bear before him, discovered that gorse is not a particularly friendly plant.


That was all very well, but now I had a small and very forlorn fireman stuck in a gorse bush, halfway down a very steep hill, and no one to do the rescuing but me (his brother fireman had very sensibly not followed his brother's example and had stayed at the top of the hill).  The result of all this is that the "Hero next door" became none other than yours truly, who had to clamber down the steep hill through the jungle of gorse bushes not once, but twice (the first time to rescue the fireman, and the second time to rescue the bike, whilst also coincidentally carrying the baby sister who refused to be left alone at the top of the hill a second time around).  Like Pooh, I too discovered that gorse prickles in one's butt are not as exciting as one might think.

The Sweetpea insists that I add a post-script to this tale:  he asserts that he is in full control of the gorse infestation, lest "people out there think I am an incompetent husband".  In truth, since this incident, his slash and poison technique has worked wonders for the gorse and we are starting to reap the results of his hard work.  At last - Sweetpea: One; Gorse: Nil (so far).

Present tense: The dark origins of Fireman Sam and Fireman Paddy

I don’t like my kids watching television.  I will be the first to admit that it makes a really great babysitter when you are rushing to get something into the oven, or just need a bit of breathing space, but there is something about those little impressionable minds sitting staring blankly at a box that gives me the heebie jeebies.  Call me traditional, but there it is.  And so, in my wisdom, I decided that they could watch DVDs instead (in a very limited number and for a very limited time).  That way, I reasoned, I could know exactly what they were watching and would not be surprised by an advert selling a feminine hygiene product or a condom (questions I don’t need to answer at this stage of life!). 

Fireman Sam seemed relatively harmless – the good-looking boy-next-door, who is a hero that saves people from burning buildings.  What could go wrong there?  And in essence, the hero lived up to his hype.  Perhaps too much. 

“Come boys, we’re getting in the car,” I called out the next day.

Loftily, the eldest regarded me.  “Our names are Fireman Sam and Fireman Paddy,” he informed me.  Paddy?  Where on earth is that from?  I made a mental note to re-watch Fireman Sam at earliest convenience.  From then on, Firemen Sam and Paddy refused to answer to any other names.  Driving in the car at any time was punctuated by loud siren noises coming from the backseat – without letting up for intake of breath.  You see, with twins, there is one to take over from the other when he needs to breathe – intermittent siren problem solved! 

I would be standing talking to a friend, or unsuspectingly doing the shopping, when one or the other would slide down my leg – like a fireman on a pole!   I in fact lost my pants (held up only by baggy elastic – I am a mom of three after all) in this way on several occasions.  All the while, the Fireman Sam theme song was being sung loudly and tunelessly (or the lyrics they thought they heard):

So moosa maquay (move aside make way)

Fireman Sam

Gog sav deday (Gonna save the Day)

Fireman Sam

Looks like the alter egos are here to stay!  They don’t drop their poses for a second for me to catch them out.  One or the other will often come to me and ask “Where’s Sam?”  And my pointed response gets not a moment’s attention.

Look out for the next instalment in this saga!

Present Tense: The curious incident of the toothpaste in the moonlight

There is that special time that every mother knows, when her kids are off playing quietly somewhere and she has a few moments to herself to do what she wants.  The first 20 seconds of that time are wonderful, relaxing and filled with feelings like "Wow, they can actually cope without me for a while," and "This isn't so hard after all," and "They are such great kids," and "It's so peaceful and quiet".  But, like in any good western movie, there comes a time when some suspicious, nagging little voice pipes up "Yeah - too quiet."  Normally this results in super human, lightning-quick reaction times to get to the scene of the crime before too much damage is done.

In my case, not quick enough, as it turns out.

I had been doing my thing, getting beds ready, lulled into a false sense of security by the prevailing peace and calm of the evening.  The twins were off playing quietly in their room and anyone with even a hint of prescience would have realised that Something was Up.  I cottoned on to this a little late in the proceedings.

By the time I arrived, it was too late.  I opened the half-shut door to their bedroom, and caught myself thinking "I don't remember the walls being that particular shade of blue?"  That was when I caught sight of the boys.  In good James Dean tradition, they had slicked back their hair into fantastic styles with the aid of the Colgate Total minty fresh blue gel toothpaste (two jumbo size tubes) that they had rustled up in the bathroom cupboard.  They had obtained these precious items by boosting each other up onto the basin and from there it was a hop, skip and a jump to where the extras were kept.

As far as I can make out, their story went like this:  Captain Mac (a local superhero) wears a very fetching silvery-blue helmet, one which was greatly admired and coveted by the boys.  What better way to show admiration than by emulation?  They had helped each other to "put on" the helmets they so greatly admired.  Yet this was clearly not enough!  Each had to have the accessories to go with the helmet:  blue gloves (hence a sock drawer full of toothpaste), blue henchmen (likewise many miscellaneous animals caught unsuspecting in the firing line), blue capes (toothpaste-covered duvets and pillow cases), and finally, a blue rocket ship (the walls of their room).

At first I was at a loss as to how two relatively small people could have caused such chaos in such a short period of time.  I have since developed a theory that I now feel able to share with the world.  It goes like this:

One child = Mess
Two children (unrelated or siblings) = double Mess or (2 x Mess)
Twins = {Mess}squared

Of course the corollary to this theorem involves time:

If one child can achieve a certain amount of mess in a certain amount of time, then two kids can do it twice as fast.  So, if one child takes 25 minutes to make an appreciable amount of mess, two should do it in 12 minutes and 30 seconds. Following this to its logical conclusion, a set of twins, running at full capacity, should be able to cover the same amount of ground in roughly five minutes!

Let me know what you think!

As a post-script to the curious incident of the toothpaste in the moonlight, I have discovered an interesting fact about the nature of most cleaning products:  they are not (surprisingly!) self-cleansing by nature.  Two tubes of toothpaste required the following to remove:
1 500ml bottle of shampoo
2 boxes of laundry detergent
1 almost full bottle of Jif (the concentrated sort)
1 bottle of carpet cleaner
About 2 hours of elbow grease.

A word of caution - what are your kids doing at this moment?