Posts Tagged ‘Ideas Person’

My husband and I spent our honeymoon treading water outside a swim-up bar in a resort. Fact.

We’d never had a holiday like it and we’ve never had one since. It was pure R&R – we ambled lazily between bed, buffet, beach, bar and back to bed and were left wanting for nothing. It was the perfect way to de-stress after our wedding – at least for me, that is. My husband had himself a bad case of scabies and spent all day and night itching like fuck, but that’s neither here or there. *I* had a great time and, as we all know, it’s All About Me.

At the time, I remember thinking the resort would be the perfect place to come for a family holiday. But now that I’ve been initiated into the Parent Hood, I’m not so sure.

For one thing, while I haven’t seen anything formally in writing, I expect Social Services frowns upon tying your children’s swimming rings in a row behind you (like so many ducklings) at the swim-up bar, while you knock back absinthe-based cocktails with names like ‘Monkey Gland’ and ‘Sweaty Bollocks’.

For another thing, something like the ‘Kids Club’ might seem an ideal way of claiming some ‘Me Time’, but the cost of sending three kids for the day? You might as well be sending them to a Swiss Finishing School. Although I have to say that I’ve long-since been planning to sew a special suit for my kids so that they look like conjoined triplets and get in for the cost of one child. The age differences would take some explaining but I could probably say I was in labour for over six years and squeezed them out in two year intervals… which, now that I really think about it, might garner me some sympathy over at the Sunset Bar in the form of a complimentary cocktail served in an ice bucket with an extra long swirly straw and half a pineapple stuck on the side. Yes, I’m an Ideas Person.

Look, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking “A family holiday isn’t about the selfish pursuit of relaxation (i.e. drinking) but about creating special family ‘together time’ away from the stresses and strains of everyday living.”

Sure, I love spending time with my family without living in the shadow of the undone dishes, dirty washing and cooking. But as a notorious tight-arse who smuggles her own home-made popcorn into the cinema, I balk at the idea of buying three meals out a day as you invariably do on holiday. When you’re an adult, you can always substitute real food with more alcohol,  but kids need feeding – especially when you have a teenage boy-in-training  like Mr Justice who can work a buffet better than his mother can work a free bar. Of course, if we only paid for one meal a day at the resort buffet, I could get turn all Fagen-esque and train the kids to stuff bread, cold meats and salads into their Conjoined Triplet Suit… Ideas. Always with the ideas…

In any case, the bottom line is this: almost every family holiday we have ever taken has ended with severe car failure, acute vomiting and/or friction burns from swiping our credit card too much. It hardly seems worth it.

Which is why my holiday of choice is getting all three kids asleep in their beds before 9PM and beating a clear path to my arm chair with a large box of Cadbury’s Roses tucked under my arm.

Of course, I’m happy to be proved wrong…

This post is my submission to the Kidspot’s Top 50 Blog Your Way To Dunk Island competition (which you might have guessed by its title). You can vote for me here and help me win a family holiday where I’ll get to jump up and down on a beach in a crocheted bikini, punching the air and alarming innocent onlookers.

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I don’t lie very often. I’d like to say it’s because I have strong internal moral compass and a keen sense of Right and Wrong. But no, I generally don’t lie because, like a lot of people, I’m worried I’ll get caught.

The other day, Mother of Master L asked me to pass on her apologies at the kindergarten committee meeting. Turns out she’d got free passes to see a film in Gold Class with her husband. (If you don’t know what Gold Class is, some people look upon it as mainstream cinema with comfy seats and alcohol. I personally look upon it as a chance to drink copious amounts of alcohol in an almost fully reclined position in a place where a movie also happens to be playing).

Anyway, in the words of my high school diary: I was shocked! Gold Class instead of the kindergarten committee meeting? Where was Mother of Master L’s sense of community spirit? I, in stark contrast, am always the very embodiment of such spirit when I sit through those meetings, perched on one of the kindergarten chairs, my knees around my ears and my eyes fixed firmly on the Secretary’s watch in an attempt to stay awake. And before you start thinking ill of me (well, more ill of me), it’s not because I don’t care about the kindergarten or its community. I do. Very much. It’s just that I don’t have a head for the details. I’m an ideas person remember! IDEAS! NOT DETAILS! Now, what were we talking about again?

Anyway, when I passed on MoML’s apologies that evening, the President of the Committee noted her absence without question. I was surprised. I thought that you’d need to give a reason to miss a committee meeting such as “I’m really very sick indeed”. Because that’s what I’d probably say if I were skipping off to Gold Class instead of the meeting.

But then, thinking about it, if I did say I was sick, the President of the Kindergarten Committee (a kindly person) would probably swing past my house after the meeting bearing freshly baked goods. And then the door’d be answered by the babysitter and the Chain of Deceit would continue because the babysitter would have to make something up on the spot, like “Sick? Oh, yes, [The NDM] is sick…. in fact SO sick her husband had to her to hospital!! Yeah, she’s sooo in hospital right now”.  And then, when the babysitter grew reluctant to provide any further details, the President of the Kindergarten Committee would be left with no choice but to Assume The Very Worst. And she’d go straight home to do a quick ring around and form an emergency Prayer Circle for me. And then one of the Circle would suggest the group convene in front of my house in an all-night candlelit vigil and, before you know it, word would whip around the neighbourhood and a steady stream of people would be joining them in the power of Front Yard Prayer. And then, in one corner, someone would start a quilting bee to make a patchwork eiderdown to nurse me back to good health, with “OUR THOUGHTS AND PRAYERS ARE WITH YOU, NDM” carefully hand-stitched in the centre by someone’s grandmother with ailing eyesight and arthritic fingers, painstakingly working by candlelight. And then a hat would be past around and people would dig very deep, even into their own personal savings, and a sizeable amount would be raised in a very short time. And somewhere, someone would start singing a rousing hymn and slowly, one by one, everyone would join in, tears streaming down their faces as they thought of how full of life I’d been just that very afternoon.

At which point, my husband and I would arrive home drunk in a taxi, with tell-tale signs of Choc Tops smeared across the front of our shirts.

So no, I don’t tell lies. I don’t “do” Gold Class. In fact, I rarely leave my house at night, except to go to Kindergarten Committee Meetings, of course. After this post, I ain’t missing any of those ever again, that’s for damn sure.

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Before I know it, it will be upon me: the inevitable return to more “gainful” employment. With two out of three children potentially at school next year and Mr McGee starting kindergarten, it is only a matter of time…

Of course, mostly I’m relying on an anonymous but incredibly wealthy patron offering to pay me to write about my children’s amusing vomiting escapades. As far as planning for the future goes, I think this is entirely realistic

ANYWAY, of my local mothers’ group, MW will be the first cab out of the ranks next year with both her kids at school. Everyone keeps telling her she won’t know herself. I suspect that she will still know herself but will probably advise her to have her name and Tax File Number tattooed on the back of her hand. Just in case. 

So there MW was the other day, talking to me about how she’d been trying to think of a business plan that could utilise all of the various skills we have in our mothers’ group. Perhaps an idea for a business in an area where we weren’t necessarily experts but where we might had some untapped talents that could be developed and earn us a bit of money.

I leant forward, slightly incredulous and yet excited at the same time: “Are you thinking of starting a brothel??”

MW laughed. “Nooooo!” she said. “I was thinking more along the lines of a catering business!”

But it was too late. In my mind her business plan was set. We were going to start the Best Little Whorehouse in West Blah-Blah-Blah. Although possibly without actual sex on the menu – I mean, c’mon! Who’s got the energy for that shit? Maybe men could pay to watch us nap. Or watch us hang out the washing, empty the compost bin or rearrange the plastic containers cupboard. You know, all the things that seem to drive our poor neglected husbands crazy with desire.

Or, if we wanted to get really racy, we could stand around licking cake mix off our fingers, Nigella Lawson-style. Or iron and fold the patron’s underwear for them. Or even count to three and then put them on the Naughty Spot for hours at a time…

But then something happened which pushed this Business Plan into a whole new exciting direction… At a mothers’ group gathering the following evening, I made a special point of telling everyone – including the menfolk in attendance – about MW’s Business Plan. As the mothers started excitedly bandying about ideas, I became aware of my husband and a fellow dad standing quietly in the corner, “Just Listening”.

And I realised then and there, that men might even pay us just to talk about starting a whorehouse. Which, when you think about it, is exactly my kind of Business Plan: all talk, no action. Sorted.

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