Posts Tagged ‘trippy things the Pixie says’

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.”


“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’ve heard tell of buddy systems in place linking first time parents with more experienced parents. I kinda wish I’d been teamed up with a buddy when Mr Justice was first born, except I suspect my buddy would have said stuff like “Oh, quit your bitching. Your kid isn’t even eating meat yet. You have no freaking idea how bad poo can get!” or “You think one child waking up at night is bad? Try three taking turns waiting. With vomit and diarrhea. Then tell me you’re exhausted”. And yes, okay, that’s just what I would have told myself. Had I known. Had I known.

When Mr Justice was in his first year of school, he was given a buddy.

“What’s his name?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Mr Justice answered.

“What does he looks like?” I asked.

“Um, he was wearing a green hat…” Which, since it was part of the school uniform, only eliminated the teaching staff and the lollipop lady. Needless to say, we never heard of Mr Justice’s buddy again.

The Pixie, in stark contrast, has been working the school’s buddy system to her advantage.

Her “boyfriend” Master J (and yes, I had to put “boyfriend” in inverted commas just then to stop myself from immediately throwing her over my shoulder and running to the nearest convent. I mean, what kind of a five year old already has a boyfriend?) has been spreading his wings a bit in the playground and “playing with other kids”. It appears he thinks they have “that kind of relationship”.

According to The Pixie’s teacher, the Pixie was very upset one day during the class’s post-lunchtime “catch-up”.

“My…my… my boyfriend didn’t want to play with me at lunch time!” she apparently blurted out to the class. She was about to break down and sob uncontrollably but somehow managed to break through the Tear Barrier with her usual Polyanna-style optimism. “But… but.. I said ‘I don’t care! I’ll play with… with… MY BUDDY instead’!”

I was very proud of my little girl and just a bit envious that I’d never had access to personal resources such as hers – particularly when I was 25 and had been “seeing” a boy for six months when I realised his ex-girlfriend was actually still his current and, indeed, live-in girlfriend. Which, now I think about it, explained a lot of his strange behaviour such as having to leave my house at two o’clock in the morning because he had to go home “to do the dishes”. And yes, I really do think I sat for six months with my hands over my ears going “LA-LA-LA-LA-LA!” to have missed all that.

ANYWAY, I asked The Pixie recently if she still played with her buddy. She said that her buddy’s friend [S] didn’t want The Pixie to play with them. She seemed surprisingly cheerful about it because, as it turns out, she’d already come up with a strategy.

“I’m going to invite My Buddy to one of my five birthday parties. And I’ll invite [S] too. I think, perhaps, she will really like Mr Justice,” she said, before adding with greater conviction: “Yes, she really will like Mr Justice. And she’ll want to play with him. And then I’ll be able to play with My Buddy!”

As impressed as I was with her strategy, I had to get her to rewind a little to find out about these so-called “five birthday parties”. I mean, who did she think she was? The Queen of England??

“Oh, I’m having one party for my family, one party for my class. Then one for my friends, one for mother’s group and then a special morning tea. That makes five!” was her chirpy reply.

It would seem I have a lot to learn from my little girl about love, relationships and the planning of birthday celebrations. Why, for my fortieth, I’m now thinking of having a party for my friends and family at home, a two-day opium den party in Shanghai, a three month cruise through the Bahamas and a party on the Moon by way of Sir Richard Branson’s planned Virgin Spaceship Airliner… Yes, that should about do it.

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People often say to me “NDM, are you willing and able to substantiate all the events and conversations that appear in your blog?” And, believe it or not, they don’t just ask me this in a court of law. They also ask me when they’re trying to get through my front door with their TV crews. Stupid TV crews.

The truthful answer is “Yes, it’s all true… if just ever-so-slightly exaggerated.” I look upon in like pumping up the bass on the beginning bit of The Breeders’ “Cannonball”: accentuating the groove. I mean, for one thing, I definitely make my husband far funnier than he actually is. Far far funnier.

However, nothing The Pixie says is ever exaggerated. I write down what she says ad verbatum. Man, that kid is trippy.

For example, recently she drew the following picture for her friend Master X.

It was such a very complex picture with so much obviously going on, I asked her to explain it to me.

“Oh,” she said. “This is Master X with his mum and his little sister talking to his teacher at the school. He is thinking that his mother is a monster.”

Master X looks genuinely thrilled his mother is a monster.


“And this is Master X’s sister, Baby A, at home in her cot,” The Pixie continued. “Her daddy is looking after her. But he’s put on X’s mother’s clothes so that Baby A doesn’t know her mummy has gone out. See? This is a skirt. And he’s wearing her underwater top, too.”

Is that a closet that Master X's daddy (left) has just climbed out of?


(Please note: the jury’s still out on whether “underwater top” means bikini or tshirt favoured for wet tshirt competitions.)

On the other side of the piece of paper, the picture continued.


“Now it’s night time. Everybody is in their beds,” The Pixie explained. “Here is Master X dreaming of that monster.”

He has a few things to say to that monster, wouldn't you say, Mr Freud?



“And this is Baby A dreaming that somebody is stealing her milk.”


The identity of the milk thief is unknown but I'm guessing it's Master X's daddy


“And here is Master X’s mummy dreaming of marrying somebody else.”

Sweet, sweet dreams...


Which begged the question: “Where is Master X’s daddy?

“Oh, he’s already gone off and married someone else,” The Pixie replied, matter-of-factedly. Of course he’s done that. You know it’s true.

When I presented this picture to Master X’s mummy, she took this rather bleak depiction of her family life with the good humour I’ve come to expect from her.

“I feel honoured that we were worth so much texta” was her official response, before rushing home to no doubt check her collection of “underwater tops” hadn’t been stretched too much.

I told my husband about the picture. “Where on earth does she get this stuff?” and then looked at him sideways as if to suggest he might occasionally wear some of my clothing or, from time to time, take on additional wives.

My husband just wryly laughed in a way that suggested I should write him a suitably witty response to make him look far funnier in this blog post than he actually is and not at all guilty of any of those things.

Which I haven’t.

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The Pixie has two questions she likes to ask me a lot at the moment. She alternates them, perhaps in the hope that asking one might change the answer for the other. It’s like she’s conducting some kind of crazy social experiment.

The first question is: How old are you?

The second question is: How many more sleeps until I start school?

For the record, there’s nothing that ages an NDM faster than being constantly reminded that there are still Twenty-Nine More Sleeps until school goes back.

It must be said that here in Australia, the summer holidays can really sneak up on a parent. You’re so busy doing the whole Christmas thing that you’ve barely got time to register those clues heralding the holidays’ imminent arrival, such as the subtly named “Last Day of School”.

And then suddenly, BAM! You wake up on New Year’s Day and there they are, stretching out ahead of you like the Nullarbor Desert must have done for those early explorers who’d managed to get over the Great Dividing Range.

[NB: For non-Australian readers, the Nullarbor Desert, which is the non-liquid centre of Australia, means “No Trees” in Latin. Or, when used as part of a metaphor for school holidays, “Endless days of children saying ‘I’m bored'”.]

I mean, shit-a-brick, people: why did I not see these school holidays coming?

It’s all a bit like my first pregnancy. I was a stickler for only reading Caz Cook’s “Up the Duff” one week at a time in line with my own pregnancy. It was like I couldn’t allow myself to see past my current trimester and it wasn’t until I actually had the baby in my arms that I found myself speed-reading about how to establish breastfeeding and double-checking that ‘colostrum’ wasn’t actually some kind of frickin’ Roman Stadium about to pop out my already screaming nipples.

I think nature makes us like that deliberately. Because if we knew the full scale of it, we would never have children at all. And I challenge anyone to find a pregnancy book that mentions you’re suffering indigestion, pelvic unstability and stress incontinence all so that you can spend the first 33 days of a future New Year having conversations like this:

PIXIE: Mummy, how long until I go to school?

ME: Thirty-three more sleeps.

PIXIE: How old are you?

ME: You know how old I am.

PIXIE: But how old are you?

ME: I’m as old as I was the last time you asked me five minutes ago. Perhaps a little bit older but the number remains the same.

PIXIE: And what’s the number?

ME: 39.

PIXIE: And what’s the number until I return to school?

ME: 33. Now, shussh for a moment, sweetheart. I’m trying to do something. 

PIXIE: What are you…

ME: Shussshhh.

PIXIE: (whispers) Why are you saying “Shussshhhh”?

ME: Shussssssh. No more questions. 

PIXIE: (brightly) Okay! No more questions. I like to ask questions. Because I’m interested in things. Like Spanish… And nose rings…

ME: And my age, apparently.

PIXIE: Yes! (PAUSE) How old are you? 

At this rate, by the start of February, I will quite possibly be 94.

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Camping with small children is all about Togetherness.

There is no television or computers or telephones to distract you, no walls to separate you, no toilet trip to be taken unaccompanied.  You go to bed at the same time as the kids, you rise together at first birdcall, you eat together, you shower together, you laugh together, you cry inconsolably together. 

And when you camp along a major route at Christmas time, you share a lot of togetherness time with a lot of other campers as well. For the record, I take no great pleasure in parading in front of a group of 20-something revelers in my floral pyjamas at 7 o’clock at night. Nor do I enjoy brushing my teeth less than a metre from a fellow camper taking a dump. Still, it’s all part of the communal camping experience and my internal hippy embraces that. No, really. 

But in a recent camping stop at ‘Seaford’ (not it’s real name), I learnt that there was sharing and then there was sharing. 

As we pulled into Seaford, we were greeted with a sign that said “Seaford says NO to Violence.” I don’t know about you but it was a sight that didn’t exactly fill my heart with confidence. Things must be pretty bad if the council had to advertise the fact they said NO to violence. I mean, it should be assumed that most towns in Australia would say NO to Violence, in the same way as they might say NO to Drink Driving, Wanton Destruction of Property, Excessively-Wide Shoulder Pads and (in a perfect world) Bratz Dolls. But there were no signs advertising any of that

And in any case, who ever took notice of something that was written on a sign anyway? Except maybe “STOP” and “FREE BEER”. 

ANYWAY, as we pulled up to our designated camping spot at the Seaford caravan park, we were understandably a little apprehensive when we saw our two young male neighbours, Jim Beam towel hung out like a flag, drinking beer at 3 o’clock. And they no doubt looked with equal trepidation at both my husband and I shouting at our three screaming children with Dire Straits blaring from the stereo (my husband’s choice, I’ll have you know). It was hard to know who’d got the worse deal. 

In the end, it was The Pixie who swung it. Not only did she treat the entire campground to a “special show” which involved her shouting songs of her own creation from a wall outside the toilet blocks, but when I took her into the toilet, she announced in a very loud voice: “Oh, I don’t need to go to the toilet after all! I thought I did because my bottom was hurting. It must be hurting because I must have a BOTTOM BISEASE! Oh no! I can’t do my Show any more because of my BOTTOM BISEASE!” and crying loudly.

By the time we walked back to our tent past our neighbours, she had recovered enough to cheerfully ask (just as loudly): “Is Baby Jesus growing in my tummy?” and then, a few steps later, “Mummy, have you ever been stabbed? With a knife??”. 

My answer? Certainly not in Seaford, where they say NO to Violence. Apparently. Although try telling that to my children who went on to spend at least an hour jumping around the tent shouting “I’m gonna smack your bum-bum!” before finally collapsing asleep. Sheesh, no wonder the people of Seaford put that sign up. 

As for those two young men? They scurried out of camp with their slab of beer at the first opportunity to do their reveling elsewhere. We were too hardcore for them. Fact. 

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The other day we were all playing a guessing game in the car – you know, the kind of thing you do with the kids to distract them from the fact it’s been five minutes since you last passed them back a biscuit. Five Whole Minutes. Sheesh! A kid could starve to death back there in the Love Bus without even a single milk arrowroot. Apparently.

Anyway, I was describing an armadillo, employing all my finely-honed writerly skills. My potential Pulitzer Prize-winning description went something like this: “I’ve got armour like a knight and I rhyme with ‘pillow’. What am I?” (Like it?).

And the Pixie immediately piped up with “A chicken with love hearts!”

Because of course a chicken has armour and rhymes with pillow, when it comes with love hearts. Those love hearts make all the difference, I find.

Now I love my little girl, but she’s one trippy child, man. When recently asked, as part of one of those facebook “memes”, where her mother liked to go, she responded: “To a party, to the city, to holiday, to sugar.” As my friend JS later pointed out: in her weird way, The Pixie totally summed me up.

And just when we thought we’d heard it all, my Pixie recently revealed herself to be one of the Greatest Minds of her generation, pioneering a new scientific phenomenon known to the world as “Fairy Science”.

Mr Justice was typically scathing, when he heard about it. “Fairy Science doesn’t exist,” he sneered.

“Yes it does,” The Pixie argued back. “You can make a Giant Fairy Wand which makes Magic using Fairy Science.”

“If it’s a giant wand, it will be 100 feet tall and you wouldn’t be able to hold it,” Mr Justice argued back. 

“Then you use Fairy Science to make a Giant Fairy Robot which uses Giant Fairy Robot Batteries and then the Giant Fairy Robot can hold the Giant Wand,” The Pixie replied, as if pointing out the bleeding obvious. Of course you’d do that. You know it makes sense.

There’s apparently been all manner of recent advances in Fairy Science, according to our reputable source. Apparently, if you “make lots of little fairies and press a button to make them go chi-chi-chi“, this makes “fairy snow”. Amazing.

When I asked her who she’d heard about Fairy Science from, she said “Nobody. I thought it all myself.”

That I would believe. This is the little girl who will suddenly announce in the shopping centre “I wish I were an elephant blowing its nose” and, at other times, will shout “Turn off my ears, mum! The wind keeps rushing out of them.”

This is the little girl that I love “mostest” in the world, who snuggles against me each night and covers my face with small, sweet kisses each day.

Keep pioneering, Fairy Scientist. The world needs your magic.

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