Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Balloon animal protocol

I promised I would write this down one day. A tid bit if you will.
Balloon animals... seemingly harmless... seemingly.

Oh how I wish I had been given the low down on this before I had a second child. It's very simple really and allows you to avoid the possibility of  a scene that makes the first ten minutes of Saving Private Ryan look like Milo and Otis frolicking through a meadow. Although I probably should say that I'm pretty sure the filming of Milo and Otis involved some priiiitty questionable goings on... animal welfare wise. There's a definite lack of a "no animals were harmed in the making of this movie" disclaimer in the credits. I've checked. A lot. Anyways, I digress...

So here it is. When purchasing balloon animals for children, always, ALWAYS, let the older child choose their balloon first. I know it's tempting to appease the little one who's clawing at your thigh and eyeballing the balloon dude like a junky waiting for their next hit from a crack cocaine dealer, but please, resist. Once the older child has their hands on their pirate sword balloon, THEN, and only then, allow the 3 foot maniac to choose their balloon. They WILL change their mind from the butterfly to the sword, and they will not be swayed to change it back. Easy. Crisis averted. Scene avoided. No need to carry a screaming child sideways on your hip, balloon butterfly in mouth, whilst getting kicked in the stomach, back to the car park. No need to cut short your foolishly envisaged idyllic romp through the Botanical Gardens in the sunshine (fool). Nope.

You're welcome.

Wednesday, January 9, 2013

Some stuff happened.

It's been an eventful period in the land O' Fran. The little mite had a birthday, a hair cut and Christmas to contend with.

Her third birthday was fairly low key. I'm afraid the little lady is always going to have that mental "Christmas rush" thing surrounding her big day, but that's what you get when your ridiculously fertile parents have poorly timed sex. Sorry Annie. Anyway, we spent the day at the local pool with her accomplice, Miss Clara, having a picnic and generally getting all razzed up on sugar and sunshine. 'Twas a good day.

I was kind of looking forward to the "terrible two's" being behind us. I wasn't expecting a miracle mind you. It's not as if I thought she might wake up the next day and suddenly resemble one of the children from Little House on the Prairie, but I thought perhaps my small but emotionally volatile house mate might have chilled out just a smidge. No such luck I'm afraid. If anything she has been spurred on by the craziness of the last few weeks, and all the sugary, over-tiredness it has bestowed upon her 3 foot frame.

The first hair cut could have been a disaster but actually turned out to be one of those moments you think you're going to have (but rarely do) when you envisage having children one day, where you gaze down upon the smiley, unfathomably cute little miracle you have created, through tears of pride and love. Unfortunately all sentimentality came crashing down in steaming pile of horse crap though when I tempted fate and tried to squeeze the grocery shopping in after. It wasn't pretty.
I fear "imposter Annie" and I may be inadvertently responsible for motivating the creation of future offspring for the 20 something year old hairdresser lassy, who was witness to this rare display of sweetness from my little psychopath. The presently perky and well rested young woman will no doubt be cursing me amidst her own Coles toddler meltdown one day for having given her a false impression of "the joys of motherhood" and instead into the harrowing experience that is shopping with a semi wild animal.

Christmas was, as it always will be from now on, a mixture of sweet moments where you remember the magic of being a child on Christmas morning and are stirred by the looks on your own children's faces as they experience this wonderment for themselves, contradicted with bitter resentment toward corporate greed as people seem to spew money into wealthy department stores in some sort of frantic display of psychotic spending.
It's easier if I do a list.

What I really hate about Christmas (I probably shouldn't start with the negative but it's much easier)
  • Over spending. I refuse to spend $18 on a tin of short bread biscuits shaped like a Scotty dog. Go away.
  • Christmas shopping. People seem to be at their very crappest when shopping at Christmas. I have so little patience for "the peoples" at the best of times, but overcrowded shops full of mentally deranged consumers with trolleys piled high with plastic crap really makes me freaks me out. I have a permanent scowl when I am Christmas shopping.
  • Slutty Mrs Clause costumes advertised in the junk mail.
  • Mariah Carey in my face (wearing a slutty Mrs Clause costume probably).
  • The inevitable religious associations that come with celebrating a Christian holiday... and yes, I know that makes me a massive hypocrite because I am, for all means and purposes agnostic and my partner a militant atheist, but I celebrate Christmas for my kids because I don't want them to "miss out". It's very complicated.
  • Car travel in the heat. I have a 5 degree comfort zone (18-23 degrees), anything outside of that requires some method of heating/cooling. I don't engage well with the heat. Hot seat belts, sweaty legs, shade blinds that spring up. I don't like it.
  • Hot weather. Don't even. 
What I really like about Christmas:
  • Putting up the Christmas tree with my kidlets while listening to Christmas carols. It reminds me of my childhood. Of complete and utter blissful ignorance of  anything outside of my own little world. Sigh. 
  • Cherries
  • Prawns
  • Michael Buble in my face. He is the Christmas whore (as Sash eloquently put it) but that's okay. He's a hot guy that can sing. C'mon!
  • Seeing friends and family that I rarely get to see.
  • School holidays. I have to admit I love having my boy at home with me. He is such a darling and it's nice not to have to contend with the school run everyday. 
 Also I really hate the beach. I know it's not directly linked to Christmas but it's worth a mention because I hate it so very much. 

Right, so, rant over. I'm glad things are starting to slow down a bit and return to normal. However that is providing that normal includes rinsing skid marks from tiny, fairy adorned knickers.


I took this photo earlier today. It captures perfectly the moment between being told she wasn't allowed to watch Peppa Pig on my phone and deciding whether or not to burst into tears (she went with the tears).
I call it the "hover cry". In the event of the hover cry there is an ever so brief moment in which to distract a toddler with something shiny or loud, high pitched sounds. I wasn't on the ball.