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Posts Tagged ‘The Pixie’

It’s not enough these days to simply have Harry Potter books, movies and merchandise. They have to be cross-bred with Lego so there’s Harry Potter Lego and then they get in bed with Nintendo so there can be a Harry Potter Lego Wii game. It’s like one big cross-promotional orgy.

And then there are the “brand extensions” where marketing people push brands in new (and often unexpected) directions.

Just the other day, when we were stuck in a Canberra motel with nothing but the Disney Channel for the kids to watch, we saw an ad for My Little Pony Mermaids. Yes, My Little Pony Mermaids. Apparently (according to the ad) whenever the My Little Ponies visit the sea, they magically turn into beautiful mermaids – or rather, pony mermaids. I mean, I was still getting over the Barbie film The Pixie made me watch, where the Barbie character found out she was half-human half-mermaid. What that actually meant in reproductive terms was disturbing enough, but a stallion getting it on with a trout’? That’s more ‘sick-as-fuck’ than “magical”, people.

“Who comes up with this sh…” I started to say, but then I saw the look of wonder on my daughter’s face. It was like that commercial had spoken directly to her soul.

“…imply fantashtic shtuff!” I concluded, brightly.

“Oh, I want a My Little Pony Mermaid Castle for my birthday, Mama,” The Pixie said. “Oh, please can I have one. Please??”

So I did what any parent would do. And no, I didn’t refuse to buy it. That’s what an ‘ethical’ or perhaps even ‘sane’ parent would do. Instead, I delegated the purchase of said My Little Pony Mermaid Castle to my father.

A few days later, my dad rang me from Target. He sounded in shock. A seasoned-father of three daughters, there was nothing in his nearly 40 years of parenting that had prepared him for the My Little Pony Mermaid range.

“There’s a My Little Mermaid Pony dolphin carriage here,” he said. “But no castle…”

Of course, there is a My Little Pony Dolphin Carriage, I thought to myself. Because if a mermaid pony wanted to get around under the sea, they’d totally make the dolphins their bitches rather than do any actual swimming themselves. You know it makes sense.

I considered for a moment letting him off the hook and telling him to get her the dolphin carriage but I knew, in my heart of hearts, that it was the My Little Pony Mermaid Castle she wanted.

Sure enough, a few days later, my decision to bully my father into searching until he’d found the castle was vindicated. After her party, I asked The Pixie if she’d liked the presents she’d received.

“They’re great!” she said, and then her bottom lip started to tremble. “But I’m a little sad because… because… I didn’t get the present of my dreams!”

And she burst into tears.

“Nobody gave me the My Little Mermaid Pony Castle!” she wailed. “And… and… nobody gave me the Dora Mermaid that [Baby C] got for Christmas!”

Dora the Mermaid Explorer? Oh. My. Sweet. Fuck. Is there no end to this madness?

Apparently not.

 

Just waiting for Lego to come to the party...

 

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Darling Pixie: Happy 6th Birthday for yesterday. Remember, your mummy loves you so much that she bought you a Dora The Mermaid Explorer (after she worked out that it wasn’t a talking or singing toy, that is. Small mercies, people. SMALL MERCIES.)

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The Pixie once developed a remarkable bond with a broken and rusty scooter I picked up from the hard rubbish and let her ride a short distance to see if it was worth buying her a new one of her own. A few months later, my husband found it down the side of the house and asked if he could use it to fashion a spare part for his motorbike (he’s a regular MacGyver, that one). The Pixie was outraged.

“Not Sparkly!!” she howled and proceeded to cry for half an hour. Yes, half an hour. Over a piece of scrap metal she’d only met for five minutes. And apparently given a name to.

So you can imagine we had to be very careful whenever we spoke in her presence about selling The Love Bus. In the end, we told her it had been “borrowed”. Which, when you think about it, is how the Love Bus’s new owner might like to think of our transaction if it ends up giving him half the trouble it gave us.

Anyway, I realised the other day that I hadn’t blogged about the Love Bus since January’s ‘Trouble‘ post – mostly because it had cast a long dark shadow on my very soul (and the front lawn). And, indeed, I realised that there are many things that I blog about and then never mention again.

So it’s time to do a kind of ‘end of the (Australian) tax year inventory’ – an NDM ‘State Of The Union’, if you will.

For the record:

My hair hasn’t faded, despite multiple washes in anti-dandruff shampoo, and my beige skunk stripe is coming along nicely, thank you very much. Many of my friends have said they like the new colour on me but my husband has never – and will never – speak of it. It’s like my hair is dead to him. I suspect that in his heart of hearts, he just wants me to have long blonde hair – which might come as a huge surprise to anyone who actually knows me. I’m just not a ‘long blonde hair’ kind of girl…

My husband still has a beard and, quite possibly, will continue to have one until I have grown my hair long and blonde.

Thanks to Madame Zap’s enlightening comment on my post ‘My Husband Vs. The State Revenue Office‘, we received a refund cheque for $605 a couple of weeks ago. Interestingly enough they made the cheque out to my husband, even though it had been I (in my capacity as equal owner of the property in question) who had written all the correspondence and made all the phone calls to precipitate that cheque’s sweet arrival. Either they had read my post and been a’feared of my husband’s litigatious wrath, or they’re still stuck in the 1950s. I’ll let you be the judge.

After a very shaky start, Tiddles is now fully toilet trained. He still likes to ‘paint the town yellow’ from time to time but as far as I’m concerned, we’re out of nappies forever and I flip the BABY aisle in the supermarket the finger every time I pass it.

I put notes in my daughter’s lunchbox for the first two months of school before slowly and ever-so-gently weaning her off them – i.e. I forgot one day, she didn’t mention it and I never put another note in her lunchbox again.

Telstra didn’t fuck with me again after I wrote “A Telstra Of A Mess” but nor did anyone give me a free iPhone. With each passing day, I grow angrier and angrier that I am (seemingly) the only person on the planet without one. My lack of iPhone physically hurts me. I think this is what is called ‘A First World Problem’.

Finally, to update you on the opening paragraph of this post, ‘Sparkly’ is now officially ‘in storage’ and (unofficially) has been used to create (in my husband’s words) “a bracket to hold an electrical socket into which I can insert a standard ‘cigarette lighter’-type plug to connect my motorbike battery to a solar charger on the carport roof” which (in my words) “doesn’t actually work and was a waste of good scrap metal”. Oh, Sparkly!

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Wherever my daughter and I go these days, we are always accompanied by a baby doll called Abby.

People love to see little girls with baby dolls. They always smile at The Pixie and say “Is that your little baby you’ve got there?”

The Pixie tends to frown when asked this question. After all, it’s a bit obvious she’s too young to have a baby of her own.

“No, she’s not my baby. She’s my little sister,” she replies solemnly.

“Which makes her my baby!” I then exclaim, perhaps a little too brightly because the people’s smiles tend to fade at this point of the conversation and, more often than not, they take a little step backwards.

Yes, I am now officially – or at least according to The Pixie – a mother of four.

Luckily, Abby sleeps a lot. Like a lot a lot. And she never cries. Not even a little bit. After having had three babies who did lots of crying and precious little sleeping, the universe owes me an easy one, even if it is a plastic doll.

The Pixie is growing suspicious about my parenting skills, however. When she gets home from school, the first thing she usually asks is “Where’s Abby?”

“Uh, Abby’s still in the pram…” I had to admit one day.

“Still? Didn’t you get her out all day?” she asked, outraged.

“No,” I replied. “She was, uh, sleeping soundly. Very very soundly. I didn’t want to disturb her.”

“Well, aren’t you going to get her up?” she demanded .

“Could you do it, sweetheart? I’m cooking dinner for my other (real) children,” I said, careful to swallow the word “real” so as not to upset her (see below).

“She’s your baby!” she replied, her finger no doubt poised over the speed dial button for the Department of Health and Services.

“She’s not a baby, she’s a doll!” Mr Justice suddenly weighed in from nowhere.

“NO! SHE’S NOT A DOLL. SHE’S MY SISTTTTTEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!” The Pixie wailed, running from the room with her fist held dramatically to her mouth.

We have had many variations on this conversation over the past couple of months, inevitably ending in The Pixie’s tears.

For example:

PIXIE: How many people in our family?

NDM: (distracted) Five…

PIXIE: No! There’s six! You forgot Abby!

MR JUSTICE: Yes, [Pixie] there are six in our family. Five people and one stupid doll.

PIXIE: SHE’S NOT A DOLL! SHE’S MY SISSSSTTTERRRRRRRRRRR!

Or:

PIXIE: Abby’s enjoying her water soup, Mummy!

NDM: (distracted) That’s nice, dear.

MR JUSTICE: Water soup isn’t soup, it’s just water and Abby can’t even swallow it because she’s a doll.

PIXIE: SHE’S NOT A DOLL! SHE’S MY SISSSSTTTERRRRRRRRRRR!

And even:

PIXIE: Abby!

MR JUSTICE: Doll!

PIXIE: SISSSSSTTTTTTTTTTERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

But I have to hand it to The Pixie. She’s obviously spending a lot of time wondering how she can argue against Mr Justice’s claims that Abby is “just a doll”.

“Human beings aren’t real,” she announced in the car the other day. “We are all dolls.”

Mr Justice didn’t even pause for breath with his rebuttal. “Well, [Pixie], since you are always telling us Abby is not a doll, you’re only proving that she is not One Of Us.”

“You’re a doll! YOU’RE! A! DOLL!” The Pixie screamed back at him.

Although technically correct, Mr Justice should probably be careful at this point. His sister may well end up like Joy from Psychoville or Abby is going to go all Bride of Chucky. Either way, it’s not going to end well.

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The Pixie is sandwiched between two brothers, and it shows in her choice of toys. Her mainstays are four plastic Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (aka “Inja Turtles”). There is Daddy Inja, Brother and Sister, and some other lesser, unnamed turtle who just tags along with the others.  

The Injas like to mix it up with the cars from the Car Box from time to time. Here is a small sample of their conversation as they cruise the loungeroom in their hot pink Barbie roadster :

DADDY INJA: Let’s play ring-a-ring-a-rosie!

ALL: Yaaaayyyyyy!

DADDY INJA: Sister, that blue car wants to kill you.

SISTER: (cheerfully) Okay!

It’s not surprising, therefore, that The Pixie has come up with the concept of the “Boy-Girl”. She will often declare someone to be a Boy-Girl and then qualify it with a reason such as “because they like cheese” or, even more intriguingly, when talking about the girliest-girly-girl that ever walked the planet, “them have a penis”. 

I’ve yet to ascertain a clear definition of the Boy-Girl from The Pixie. For someone who’s always going on about it, she’s remarkably cagey about its exact meaning. Perhaps she’s trying to protect the intellectual property rights,  no doubt under the advice of Mr Justice (also known, upon occasion, as “The Pixie’s Lawyer”).

In any case, having a certified Boy-Girl assessor in the house can certainly keep things interesting. One morning I went from just a girl, to a  Boy-Girl and back to a girl again – and all I had done was change my shoes.

And then in waltzes TIddles McGee, wearing a glittery headband and some pretty pink beads and carrying a large plastic weapon, walking that fine fine line between Paris Hilton in Who Weekly and Sty Stallone in “First Blood”. Perhaps, I hesitantly suggest to The One Who Knows, Tiddles – in his current acouterment – is the perfect example of the Boy-Girl?

The Pixie solemnly shakes her head. “He’s not a Boy-Girl, mummy…. He’s a poo-poo pants”.

And indeed he is. As I engage in the usual pitched hand-to-hand battle with Tiddles that is our nappy-changing routine, I reflect that this will not the be the last time that The Pixie will be in the “Know” and I’ll be in the “Don’t Have a Frigging Clue”. My children will be my navigators in an increasingly alien world of popular culture and I’ll just have to tag along for the ride, much like that unnamed Inja.

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