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Posts Tagged ‘parenting’

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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When I was 21, my family doctor asked to bring in a urine sample for my next appointment.

The morning of the appointment, I duly filled up a large vegemite jar and brought it into the surgery, where I sat, awkwardly, in the waiting room, desperately wishing I’d brought along a bag.

When my doctor was ready to see me, I quickly thrust the jar into his hands.

“Good effort, [NDM]!” he said, encouragingly. “But, actually, I only really needed *this much*.”

And he indicated with his fingers an amount of liquid that would probably get a itsy-bitsy-faerie slightly tipsy, but certainly not so drunk she wouldn’t be able to drive home.

What can I say? I always like to exceed expectations.

So too, my husband – or so it turns out. You see, he’s been feeling poorly over the Christmas break and his doctor ended up giving him a specimen jar the size of a small keg to collect his ‘stools’ for three days in a row.

Now, how he went about harvesting his own faeces, he thankfully kept entirely to himself – although he always returned from the task looking a mere shadow of his former self.

“You didn’t fill the jar, did you?” I couldn’t help but ask on the third day, after he’d delivered the samples to the pathologists.

“Oh, no, not at all,” he said. “I only did *this much*.”

And he used both hands to indicate how much.

I shuddered. I mean, I love my husband and all, but I didn’t really need to know that.

Anyway, it turns out I had other shit to deal with.

Later that day, I was at the park with The Pixie and she suddenly announced she needed to do a wee. There being no public toilets within striking distance, I was left with no option than to attempt the Bush Wee.

Now, anyone who has ever attempted the Bush Wee with a little girl knows it generally has a 3.6 degree of difficulty and the only way you can do it without getting wee on her shoes, your shoes and the shoes of anyone standing within a twenty metre radius  is by removing all her clothing and lowering her into position using a hydraulic crane winch.

Having found a bush large enough to conceal us, I took off her undies, trousers, socks and shoes and put them at a safe splash-free distance and then stood back, waiting for the deluge to hit.

But it didn’t.

Instead, the Pixie suddenly started shouting “Ouch! Ouch! OUCH!”  and then thoroughly surprised us both by letting a poo the size of a small loaf  fall to the ground.

“OH SHIT!” I exclaimed. It was one of those occasions when swearing in front of my child seemed entirely appropriate.

Anyhoo, I’ll spare you the details of the clean up, but suffice to say, they involved bottled water and (if you’ll excuse the expression) a shit load of tissues and only left me feeling  frazzled *this much*…

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The other day, I was singing that “cheeky monkeys on the bed” song with Tiddles McGee. You know the one that goes:

Five cheeky monkeys jumping on the bed
One fell off and bumped his head
Called up the doctor and the doctor said
“No more monkeys jumping on the bed!”

And it got me thinking…

The mother in the story is quite fortunate to have such a relationship with her GP. Quite fortunate indeed. I expect that if I were to call my GP at night, rather than just advise the cheeky monkeys against jumping on the bed, he would remind me that our telephone conversation was billable and perhaps inform me of some state laws against keeping monkeys in my house without a proper permit, before finally suggesting I call a vet instead.

Anyway, the truth is that I don’t even have my GP’s private number. So I’d have to call the Nurse-On-Call helpline, wait forty five minutes to talk to someone, only to then have them tell me to take my monkey straight to emergency anyway.

And once I’ve gone through that whole process with five monkeys, that’s the whole night gone. Stupid time-wasting cheeky monkeys.

It then got me thinking about some children’s rhymes that need a real-life rewrite. Off the top of my head:

Little Jack Horner sat in a corner
Eating his christmas pie
He put in his thumb, and pulled out a plum
And his mother said “Please use your spoon and stop eating like a goddamn animal, Jack.”

One, two, three, four, five
Once I caught a fish alive
Six, seven, eight, nine, ten
Then I let it go again
Why did you it it go?
Because it was under-sized.

Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet
Eating her curds and whey
Along came a spider
Who sat down beside her
And bit her and she died.

You put your right hand in,
You put your right hand out,
You put your right hand in and you shake it all about.
You do the hokey-pokey and you turn around
And that’s what it’s all about.
Except that’s not what it’s ALL about. There’s other stuff like sex, religion, finance, global warming and reality TV stars but let’s not sing about all that right now.
Oh, the hokey-pokey… (etc).

Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye
Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie
When the pie was opened, the birds were dead.

Ten green bottles sitting on the wall
Ten green bottles sitting on the wall
And if one green bottle should accidentally fall
Your husband will be really cranky because them there’s his Heineken, bee-otch.

Twinkle twinkle little star
How I wonder what you are
Even though I just stated that you were a star.

Baa baa black sheep
Have you any wool?
“Baaaaaa baaaaaa”.

Anyone else got any others to add? C’mon! Together, we can crack this thing wide open…

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