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Archive for the ‘Philosophising’ Category

You’ve got to hand it to Tiddles McGee. When The Pixie and her little friends recently declared her room to be GIRLS ONLY, he did what any male would do.  He put a pillow case over his head, and patiently sat outside the closed door, hoping to “surprise” them.

Eventually, The Pixie opened the door.

“We all know it’s you, [Tiddles]!” she said, with scarily well-honed teen-style exasperation for a six year old. “Look, you can come in but only if you pretend to be a dog.”

“WOOF!” Tiddles piped up immediately with great enthusiasm.

“Aw, look everyone!!! It’s a really cute puppy!!” The Pixie exclaimed tenderly, as she led her brother, crawling on his hands and knees into the GIRLS ONLY zone – like a whipped cur.

The Pixie, herself, is prone to the odd bit of role play – “odd” being the operative word here. Her latest thing is that she likes to play ‘Robots’ with her friend Little Miss E.

They go around asking questions about the world such as “What is that?” and “Why are you putting it in your mouth and chewing it?” and then even “And what does ‘chewing’ mean?”. I, personally, am waiting for the “What does ‘What does that mean’ mean?” question, at which point I think my head will completely explode.

One day, I found The Pixie completely distraught because Little Miss E had told another little girl a special secret.

“What was the secret?” I asked.

“I can’t tell you,” she said, sadly.

“You can tell me anything…” I told her. “Anything!”

“Okay, I’ll whisper it in your ear,” she said and leaning into me, whispered: “I’m a robot.

“Oh!” I said. “You know, you guys were playing that game and she  might have thought it was just part of the game.”

“It’s not a game,” The Pixie replied solemnly. “I really am a robot.”

“Oh, okay,” I said, unsure of how to react to this rather surprising news. “Uh… how long have you known?”

“I’ve known since I was a baby,” she said simply, before adding reassuringly: “But it’s okay, Mummy! I’m happy being a robot.”

“Well, I love you whether you are a robot or a real girl or some kind of mutant cyborg,” I told her and gave her a big hug. She felt like a real girl, but apparently that’s because her metal bones are covered with soft rubber. Nice.

Anyway, it turns out that having a robot for a daughter is not without its benefits.  For one thing, I’ve discovered there’s a switch to the side of her head which I can turn to get her to sleep. I wish I’d known about that when she was a baby.

Also, apparently I never have to worry about her being lonely.

“Do you know who will be with me until I’m very very old?” she asked my husband. “Little Miss E! She will always be by my side!”

Since this revelation, further intelligence has come in that her friend Little Miss E is a robot, too, and that there is a giant robot spaceship above the clouds which will take them both away when they are “all growned up”. Apparently, Little Miss E’s dad – my Facebook Friend – is guaranteed a place on the spaceship because he’s a cyborg, a fact that quite possibly came as somewhat of a surprise for him.

Now, I don’t know about anybody else, but I’m really hoping to prove my own cyborg credentials and secure a place on that robot spaceship. What with all the flooding and bushfires ’round these parts in recent times, it’d be good to know there was an exit strategy when the shit really goes down…

________________________

Just for the record, I asked The Pixie if I could blog about her being a robot. She nodded sagely and said “But only if you tell everyone that it’s real.”

It’s real.

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The other morning, The Pixie told me about a dream she’d had about Harry Potter. This was markedly different from the dream I’d had about my husband misbehaving himself with a french exchange student. (“We’re never getting a french exchange student now, are we?” my husband said dolefully when I told him about the dream. Listen, he’s only got his Dream Self to blame.)

The Pixie’s dream involved her talking to Harry Potter and then getting ‘ouchies’ all over her foot.

“It wasn’t real – it was just a dream!” The Pixie told me, as she examined her foot. “Is Harry Potter real, Mama?”

“No, sweetheart, he’s just a character,” I replied. I explained about the books and then the movie version of the books. The Pixie thought deeply about this for a while.

“Harry Potter is a boy who just wanted to be in a movie!” she concluded, before jumping onto her next question. “Was Michael Jackson real?”

“Yes,” I replied. Well, bits of him were.

“He’s dead because his doctor gave him the wrong medicine,” she gravely informed me.

This was a little different from her original theory when he first died that “Michael Jackson was just too sad because he had girl hair.” Mr Justice, on the other hand, was quick to say “Why did Michael Jackson die? Because someone told him to ‘Beat It’.” which – at the time – fell into the ‘Too Soon’ joke category. I was so proud.

There’s a whole generation of children who are learning about death through Michael Jackson. Even my friend The Fabulous Miss Jones’ three year old knows who he is (although she calls him “Mikeson Jackson”) and my little friend Cyclone Bella (aged 4) is often heard to exclaim “Michael Jackson is the best boy in the world!” and refuses to accept he is dead. According to her dad Uncle B, however, she was heard to remark “Michael’s face is changing!” while watching his ‘Best Of’ collection on DVD. And no, Uncle B went on to add, it wasn’t when she was watching Thriller.

Anyway, we talked a little while about Michael Jackson and how his kids must have felt very sad when he died. The Pixie went on to explain that he was probably “in Heaven” now – a place that is apparently “on the way to Chloe’s house”.

“You mean the place where all the graves are?” I asked. I mean, she was either referring to the big cemetery or the Hungry Jacks with the cool slide.

“Yes, you go to Heaven when you die so you can become soil. Michael Jackson is soil now.”

Tiddles McGee piped up suddenly with something that sounded like “He wore a pumpkin suit!”

“He wore a pumpkin suit?” I asked.

“No! He drank pumpkin juice,” Tiddles McGee clarified – which, quite frankly – didn’t make much more sense than him wearing a pumpkin suit. “And there was this hand that went all mouldy.”

“Mouldy?”

“No, moley.

“Michael Jackson had a mole hand?” I tried to clarify. It would certainly explain why he wore one glove.

“No! Harry Potter drank the pumpkin juice. And the other one got the moley hand.”

I didn’t want to ask who “the other one” was. I was confused enough as it is.

Need I mention this conversation happened before 7 o’clock in the morning and before I’d even had my first coffee of the day? Hopefully someone will read this post before their first coffee of the day and can share my pain…

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I was cyber-harassing advertising execs from the comfort of my own room the other day when my husband came in, holding one of my jackets.

“Someone must have broken in, taken one of your jackets out of your wardrobe and left it one the back of one of the kitchen chairs,” he said.

“Oh, those people!” I sighed and kept on typing.

Five minutes later, he came in with another jacket.

“I really should change the locks on the back door,” he remarked, as he hung it up in the wardrobe. “Those people are out of control.”

A few minutes after that, he came in holding a grand total of four paper mushroom bags of varying ages and fullness.

“They’ve played that mushroom bag trick again!” he said, waggling the bags at me.

I shook my head and tutted. These were obviously the same people who, according to my husband, poured bucketfuls of water on the bathroom mat and then left it sopping wet on the floor and who left things soaking in a bucket in the laundry long enough to make their own killer swamp water and who always turned the heat up too high when cooking onions.

They were also the same people I suspected of switching the meat at the supermarket when my husband was shopping so that he ended up paying full price for sausages that were due to expire the very next day. And the same ones who never ever put the rice canister or the rice cooker away after using them. And who managed to lose one of Mr Justice’s school shoes somewhere between home and my mother’s house, by letting it roll unnoticed out of the car door at the petrol station.

And when I went on strike and refused to put the used toilet rolls in the recycling, the subsequent mass accumulation of used toilet roll wealth (pictured above) was entirely the fault of The Others because they suggested to my husband that I was collecting them for ‘crafting’.

Honestly! Why don’t these people just leave us alone?

I was thinking about all this when I heard my husband calling me, saying breakfast was ready. But strangely, when I got to the table, no food had been served and, in fact, most of it was still cooking on the stove.

“Sorry, I thought it must have been you calling me to breakfast but it must have been The Others playing tricks again because breakfast is clearly nowhere near ready,” I remarked.

“Actually, it was me who called you early because you always come late,” my husband replied.

“And I always come late because the food is never ready when you call me,” I was quick to retort.

We glared at each other for the briefest of moments before relaxing back into a smile. We knew this was The Others wanted us to do: they wanted us to fight. We weren’t going to fall for another of their tricks. Oh, no. Not us!

Honestly, marriage is much easier when there are other people involved.

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