Being an adult is like looking both ways for cars...then getting hit by an aeroplane

After getting the itch to start blogging again late last year I intended to get this post up within a week or two, definitely before the end of January. Then January rolled in...& rolled out with February hot on it's tail. Each week I told myself I must to find the time to get re-acqainted back here. Then the days all blended into a blurry haze of summer heat, school holidays, back to school shopping & soaking up every drop of toilet training fails from Clay. 

In the end life just kept on spinning by while we kept up with each day - much like the last 18 months really.

Since that last post (was it really back in 2015!?!) There have been a few changes for us here at House of many Minions. 

- We bought our home. 

- Expanded our family by 4 furry feet. 

- Made plans for the future...then found out lucky number seven was on the way a little earlier than we planned.

- Started homeschooling Jack.

- Welcomed lucky number seven into our family. 

- Bought a camper trailer large enough to accomodate all nine of us (plus the two dogs) for many adventures & spontaneous weekends away.

- Seen Will off to his first year of school. 

- Realised life in the coming future with numerous teens & pre-teens is going to be much like raising over grown toddlers with a talent for food consumption of epic proportions.

It's a bit like when you catch up with a friend you haven't seen in ages & you're asked what has happened since we last caught up...everything & nothing. There's all these big life events thrown in with the spinning of day to day life. You quickly float over the mundane threads to try pick up the strands of glittery sparkle. 

The brightest sparkly thread that has woven into our lives is Kade, our seventh little minion.

After buying our first home 6 months earlier, Doug & I had this great big discussion on long term goals, achievements & where we wanted to be in the next three to four years time. This included having another baby, maybe late 2017 or during 2018...Seems this discussion was all the universe needed - just a few short weeks later two pretty pink lines threw all our well made plans into the air & changed our course to collect another passenger.

Thirty eight weeks & a car upgrade later, the newest member for the blue team declared his intention to join us earthside with a small pop of waters after dinner. Baby sitters were called, bags were thrown in the car, contractions were mild...until they weren't. My back felt like it was going to explode, my belly was having the mother of all period cramps, my mind was struggling to let go of inconveniencing all these people who had been called out of their homes so late in the evening. Then just after midnight our wriggly, cranky, serious faced boy arrived. 

Our little passenger is now fast approaching five months old & an absolute sleep depriving, time wasting, delight. He feeds like a sumo wrestler & can out-stare even the most seasoned pro in a staring competition. He thinks our bed is a hell of a lot better than his own & I'm too tired to disagree. Which means our nights consist of me creeping into bed a lot closer to midnight than conducive for optimal sleep, only to stumble out within the hour to collect Kade from his cradle (still in our room - these apron strings are a lot harder to sever this time round.) He'll latch on like starving man in front of an all you can eat buffet, before passing out in a warm, milky stupor minutes later. 

If I'm still semi conscious I'll put him back in his cradle...only to be summoned again within the hour. Rinse & repeat until the sun rises & the alarm declares the day must begin. The other alternative is to remain immobile all night long, as only a mother can, while the little bundle contentedly dozes the night through.

Right now I prefer some sleep over no sleep, so I'll continue to push Doug near out the bed while I play sleeping statues in the middle, with Kade taking prime position on my side of the bed.

We're surviving, I'm functioning - though that is up for debate some days, my coffee consumption is keeping the coffee bean business thriving & this too shall pass.

Some days you just have to dance it out

Some days after school are easy. 

Everyone piles in the front door, bags are unpacked, food is devoured & homework is finished. Then more food is devoured before they all scatter off to fill the time void between snack two & dinner time. Minimal bickering & maximum amusement. Will & Blake scamper off outside to ride their bikes or jump around like lunatics all over the back yard. Ben, Rianan & Jack pull out the UNO cards & see how many rounds they can each win before it's discovered that Rianan has been cheating by sliding a few extra cards under the couch so she can declare "uno!" first.

Other days are not so easy. 

When everyone pushes their way through the front door like a herd of stampeding elephants, bags are dumped in bedroom doorways or along the hallway. The kitchen is filled with too many kids all vying to find the best after school snack, then stomping away when there is only the usual's on offer still. When getting their homework started, let alone finished is harder than trying to devour a bar of chocolate undetected in this house filled with minions. What would normally take ten minutes to complete, will instead span over an hour painfully filled with moans, complaints, messy & spaced out writing or staring at the same pages in the same chapter of their book. And that is just the older three.

Then there's Blake, Will & Clay, who will spend their time either a) running, screaming, jumping their way through the house until someone gets knocked over & trampled on the unforgiving floor tiles. Proceeding to burst my ear drums with their screams, before turning to retaliate against whoever they think is guilty of sending them sprawling to the floor.

Or b) Blake & Will spend the next hour or so annoying each other until I can't stand it any longer. While Blake & Will have me distracted with their arguing, Clay will quietly walk through each bedroom, opening drawers & pulling out every shred of nicely folded clothes he can reach. 

Before I know it, 5pm has ticked over, dinner isn't even thought of yet let alone cooking away. The house looks like an abandoned clothes warehouse after a cyclone has torn through & we've all given up on any legitimate attempt on the homework front. Forget about baths, at this stage the kids will be lucky to get anything more than spaghetti on toast before being shipped off to bed at my soonest possible convenience...after tidying from the storm that wiped me out flat.

Half an hour into yesterday's after school gauntlet & I could see the sides beginning to crumble. While the bags were put away, empty stomachs were filled & homework was done (because there was hardly any required) the disagreements & arguments were starting to come thick & fast. Add in several emails & phone calls that demanded my attention & could not wait, meant that everything going on out of my little bubble had to wait. By the time I put the phone down & decided the rest could be done after the crazy had passed, there were shoes everywhere, clean & dirty clothes littered the house mimicking behind the scenes of a fashion runway show, Clay was cranky, Ben, Jack & Blake were filthy from the waist down after playing soccer together & a lone empty fry pan was still waiting on the cold stove top.

I issued orders like a drill sergeant - "pick up those shoes"

"dirty clothes in the laundry now"

"put the clean clothes on the couch with the rest of the washing"

"bags in rooms"
"balls outside!"
The minions responded like a class of hyped four year old's coming down from an intense sugar rush.   

There was only one way to rescue what was shaping up to be an evening from hell & the breaker to demolish the last whispers of sanity that were stopping me from going all exorcist mummy.

Ignore the time & turn the music up.

You can't hear the petty little arguments, whinging & dobbing if they are drowned out with only the best playlist selections from the iPod on a volume level just bordering too loud.

It was the best decision made all day. It didn't take long before the boys turned the Xbox off, Rianan came out of her room (after escaping in there for some peace & quiet) & the younger three channeled their destructive energy into dancing like maniacs. While I was chopping up chicken, dancing & singing my heart out to Clay who had joined me in the kitchen, the other five had set up the coloring in gear on the table & were all happily getting along, talking, encouraging & laughing together, with the occasion dance off thrown in for good laughs.

Before we were even a quarter of the way through the playlist, dinner was cooked & the table was swiftly cleared & then set, on my first request, ready for the plates & bowls to be distributed. Knock knock jokes were told & the best things about our days were shared as we slowly finished eating. The tension & frustration that was flooding us all not forty minutes earlier had completely evaporated. Baths & showers were done, with the older minions doing a quick but thorough {enough} tidy around the house while the younger three were bathed & prepared for bed, not that much later than their usual bedtime either.

By the end of the night everyone went to bed in a good mood & I didn't feel like crap for spending the last three hours nagging & yelling while serving up a less than substantial dinner. I'm fairly certain that I'm not alone when I say I would much rather listen to the likes of Paramore, The Smiths, Ed Sheeran & Pink {to name a few}, than give myself a headache & everyone else immunity towards the nagging tones in my voice, topping off with foul moods all round.  

Next time our evening - or morning, is beginning to morph into a train wreck I'm going straight to that magic button, play.

Boys & their toys

Have boys, they said. 

It'll be fun, they said.

{ok, we didn't get a say in the whole boy:girl ratio, but work with me here}

Boys are awesome. Our boys are awesome. They are loud. They are hilarious. They are adventurous & cute as puppies when they are up to no good. You know that saying 'silence is golden'? Nuh-uh. If the house is quiet it's a telling sign they are up to no good...True. ALL true.

Another truth about boys - they make your toilet smell like an alley behind the local pub. No lie. 

We do toilet checks on the hour every hour - or after each pit stop, to comply with standard OH&S recommendations. A wet toilet floor is a slippery toilet floor, & no one wants to land in someone else's pee. Or even your own pee.

I was aware that the younger (& not so younger) male species may need reminding to refine their aim. I was prepared for drips on the toilet seat & few a strays on the floor. What I was not prepared for was the proverbial showers that would dry in yellow droplets all over the seat & lid. Neither was I expecting to regularly find Lake Bonney on our toilet floor. I kid you not. I had no idea that so much wee could come from such a small person in one trip.

With four boys taking regular jaunts to the lavatory, one of whom has a low capacity, hyperactive bladder meaning he is nearly always busting straight off the mark. Some days I clean the toilet floor more than I load the washing machine.

Over the last four months or so it seemed to exacerbate, likely due to the school holidays & with now four boys using the commode on a rotating door basis. Fed up with having to resort to a towel to clean up the initial mess, going through rolls of toilet paper & bottles of disinfectant on a weekly basis I called all the boys to a toilet door meeting. Mum was serious.

Rule #1
When you go to the toilet, hold your penis! 
Many times I had busted Jack just thrusting his hips forward & then refining his aim as he went. Which was never successful, & often by the time his aim was on target he'd run out steam, so to speak. By then it was too late.

Rule #2
Put the toilet seat UP!
You can't drip wee on the toilet seat if it isn't in your way. {I didn't bother asking them to put it back down once finished. I learnt long ago to pick my battles & right now putting the seat down is very low on the list of parenting warfare.}

Rule #3
Watch where you are weeing.
How do you know if you are meeting water with water when you are staring at the ceiling or looking over your shoulder? 
To reiterate - hold & watch, from beginning to end.

Rule #4
If you make a mess, clean it up. If you need help, ask.


We went back to basics, even though we had covered all of these back at the beginning when they first began running around in jocks. With these rules {verbally back in place} I was hopeful. 
Hopeful my days of soggy socks from stepping in some one's wee were over. Wiping seats, behind lids, walls & floors with disinfectant could be done less than five times a day. Minimum.
For a few days it helped. Lake Bonney never returned & but for a few splashes here & there, it seemed they were taking their responsibilities as boys seriously. Then every now & again I would find a puddle returned, or the beginnings of a yellow shower over a seat that hadn't been lifted. I was able to rule out Ben from the offending list. That still left Jack, Blake & Will. It appeared each of them were guilty, in random order, of breaking one {or all of} the toilet commandments.

Through constant reminding & follow up checks, we're slowly getting to a clean & visitor safe lavatory. Most of the time anyway. If they make a mess they do clean it up - to the best of their ability. The seat & lid now both stay down, so if they need to pee they lift both instead of aiming over the seat. Every boy is holding their hose & watching where they are aiming - a big win.

Seriously, I never imagined getting boys to use & leave the toilet in a clean state would be such an on going drama. We were not lazy with their toilet training or have low standards of personal care & hygiene. It just seems that they are too busy & find the need to vacate their bladder a time consuming interruption to their days. So it was done as quickly & as haphazardly as possible. After all there are soccer balls to kick, bikes to jump & scooters to ride. Who has time to go to the toilet anyways.

In a predominantly XY gene'd large family two toilets are not a luxury.

They are a necessity.

What does a Mum do with forty eight hours of minion free time?

Last week five of the minions went to Grandma's house for a big sleepover. 

Two nights. 

Three days. Almost. 

Oh em gee. 

My hypothetical "What I would do if I had two whole days of no kids" became a reality. I could have wet my pants I was that excited. The only times Doug & I have had more than twenty four hours minus our minions have been when we were welcoming another little one into our tribe & a few years ago when we celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary with a two night get away. Though Will wasn't yet a year old, so our packing list included a porta-cot & a baby.

Back to last week though. 

With a kick in my step & a tear in my eye I kissed Ben, Rianan, Jack, Blake & Will good bye, squeezing little bodies tight enough to last us all until Friday afternoon, before driving Clay & I back home to our quiet, empty house.

I had planned to sap every last minute out of my {mostly} minion free days. The to-do list was nearly as long enough to rival our weekly shopping list. Furniture to sand back & re-paint, toy rooms to set up & bedrooms to change around, endless uninterrupted hours curled up on the couch reading with a hot chocolate in hand, walk in robes to de-clutter & drawers to sort through, cafes to visit & movies to watch during the day.

So what did I do with my first three hours? Be prepared to be vastly disappointed...

Dishes & Facebook.

What is wrong with me. 

Without my little anchors I was lost. Adrift in the sea of freedom. 

Even Clay was misplaced by the stillness of quiet & solitude. No brothers around building wooden block towers for Clay to swipe with his chubby little hands & his doting sister no where to be found despite how extensive he searched & how loud he tried to call out. The one on one time with Clay was precious, but it was not the same playing peek a boo with just Mummy. Kisses goodnight for only two people instead of making our way around the couches to receive seven goodnight kisses. There was no one to chase around the house or to laugh when he flashed his cheeky, toothy grin.

But oh my, the house stayed clean. No need to enter the laundry or hear the chiming end to another load of washing. The dishwasher was run only once.  The broom stood idle & the vacuum gathered cobwebs & dust instead of sucking them up. The mop even had a chance to dry before the next use.

When Doug came home from work we were able to carry through uninterrupted conversations. This is unheard of. We went out to dinner {with Clay} two nights in a row. Two nights. Consecutively. 

Friday morning Clay & I didn't get out of bed until ten in the morning. While it didn't erase the duffel bags under my eyes, rolling out of bed when the sun was already high & shining bright certainly felt luxurious & indulgent.

The old buffet cabinet I planned to re paint is still sitting in the shed awaiting it's restoration, there were no barista made latte's, bedroom doors remained tightly shut, walk in robes looked exactly the same as they had Wednesday morning & no movies were watched, day or night.

However I did manage a few uninterrupted hours of reading before the change of pace kicked back into V8 Supercar speed.

It seems forty eight hours wasn't long enough. Then again, maybe it was. Our lives were never meant to be that quiet.

Six reasons why six is better than seven

The problem with letting the cobwebs come take residence here, when you notice the days on the calender flicking by, it gets harder to open the next post up...

Where in my washing basket have the last twenty two days gone?! Apologies for the unintended hiatus. 

Twenty two days & not a word, no "Merry Christmas", no "Happy New Year". Just dust & cobwebs. 

**Ten minutes later...

How do you start a post after falling off the face of the cyber world for three weeks? With an explanation for why the desertion? {Christmas, school holidays, procrastination, too many kids to hear myself think} 

Or should I mindlessly type about our Christmas & New Years? {both were good, kids were spoilt & deliriously happy with their gifts, the days were blessedly uneventful & filled with smiles & memories}.

Maybe I should pose the question to you - how was your Christmas & New Years celebrations? 

Perhaps it's best to just close my eyes, pinch my nose & dive straight in.

Why six children is better than seven

- Six is an even number. This is the golden rule, always finish on an even number. Supposedly so no one is left out. I can attest that is a load of soggy weet-bix. Even or odd, someone is left out. Not always, but still often enough to hear "Muuuum, Ben & Jack aren't letting me watch" or "Muuuuum, Rianan & Ben aren't letting me play" every ten minutes for the last four weeks. Even numbers do not bestow miraculous sibling contentment. But I'm meant to be presenting the positives here, not arguing against myself. So, Six is awesome because it's not odd.

- There is still a {teeny tiny} range of normal cars to choose from. By normal I mean not a child care bus & still has eight seats. Hyundai Imax, Kia Grand Carnival, Toyota Tarago, Mitsubish Prado, Toyota Landcruiser, plus a few imported cars like the Elgrand & Delica. After this it is a mini bus for you & your small army.

- Packets of muesli bars, chips, muffins, even picnic dinner sets all come as a set of half a dozen. One for each little person. The picnic sets can even be color assigned for each minion. Perfect. 

- When holding hands to cross a road or walking through a busy event, everyone pairs off nicely. {There's that even number thing again}. Leaving one or both parents with two arms free...To carry all the extra bags full of food, drinks, hats, sunscreen, spare socks, undies, clothes, a random shoe & a token teddy, plus all the other useless paraphernalia that you need to drag along everywhere you go. 

- Dining tables. A variety of choices for eight seater dining tables. Long ones, square ones, round ones. Seats, benches, seat & benches. Same for couches, eight people will fit on a big modular couch, or two long couches. That seventh kid would just have to sit on the arm rest. (Joke. The floor is just as comfortable I'm sure.)

- In a four bedroom house six children with two to a room is a perfect fit. Who could argue with that logic?

Did it work, have I convinced you that six is the new seven? 

No?

Me neither. 

Even though on paper six children fits into our life {& house} nicely, my maternal body clock driving all these crazy baby growing urges apparently can't read or listen to logic. These ovary clenching, love filled sighs for one more little minion have me packing away the outgrown newborn clothes & toys to the back of the cupboard instead of selling them or passing on to someone else who could use them. Because I'm still hoping {against all hope, reason & logic} that we'll use them...just one more time.

*This is not a pregnancy announcement. Before you all start rubbing my Christmas belly & high fiving Doug. 

48 hours out of sync

I've doggone done it again. It's horrible to see you again Murphy, I wish you hadn't came.

Last week, in a quiet peaceful moment of reflection {yes sometimes they do occur here in the home base of House of many minions} I was taking a moment to be grateful for our smooth, drama lacking lives. Oh the kids certainly keep us on our toes, but drama from outside sources, stress causing situations, dread in the pit of your stomach anxiety...we had been flying under the radar.

Up until I went and acknowledged it. It was not said out loud, but still was heard by somebody, something, somewhere. God. Universe. Deity of smugness. 'I am so grateful we haven't had any drama for a couple of years' was my undoing. It was said with gratitude, with empathy for a few friends who haven't had a great time of late with situations largely out of their direct control.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Sunday afternoon we had some news that changes our five year plan. It's not bad, it's not good, it just is. While it's still at least a year away (no, not #7) it unsettled the rest of our evening as we mulled over all the what if's, what to do's, & every potential scenerio that could develop over the next few years. Discussing plans & emergency back up plans.
Right now it doesn't affect us immediately so we're putting it to the back of our minds, I'm sure everything will be just fine, but it was unsettling while the news was digesting.

Monday, which should have been Doug's day off but he had to go in to work - though only for the morning, was going smoothly. Up until Doug's car wouldn't start. A quiet coffee before leaving in the wee dark hours of the morning...with the ignition off & the car headlights left on.
Not so bad in the scheme of things, we altered our plans for the remainder of the day but this in itself, if it had been the only speed bump, would have been forgotten days ago. Instead, it would come back into play within the next twelve hours.

Why does everything go up shits creek at dinner time? 

Blake & Will are crawling around & playing in the second lounge room, while Ben & Jack sit on the couch in there strategically building their clans on clash of clans. We pulled the homemade pizza's out the oven the same moment Will lets out a blood curdling scream. Dropping the pizza on the stove top I dash into the lounge to see Will leaning against the couch howling dramatically...not bearing any weight on his left leg. Possible bone breaking scenarios flash through my mind as I reach Will & scoop him in my arms. Ben says, without looking up from his tab, Blake did it. Problem is, Ben didn't look up from his tab a minute earlier either to see it happen. So Blake unfairly gets told off for rough play. (Shortly after I apologised to Blake for telling him off for something he didn't do & wasn't his fault. Just another mark against me in the tally of parenting fails)

Looking down to assess the potential damage to Will's leg & there is blood trialing down towards his ankle from his shin. How on earth....Oh god how bad....bugger, this definitely needs stitches. There is a small but decent sized gash near his shin bone, with a fair chunk of skin missing (to reveal the deeper fatty flesh. Vom.) A week or so earlier, a picture frame fell off the cabinet, breaking the glass. Obviously it was cleaned up. All shards of glass were collected & a thorough vacuuming to top it off. Well, I thought all shards were found.

Will, Clay & I go down to the Emergency department (in Doug's car) - where the staff were excellent. With Will's leg all cleaned up & both sides of his skin merging back together, we bundle back in the car ready to go home, excited show Daddy & the other minions his battle wound patch up {& have our dinner}. Brmmm, brmmm, brmmm, brmmm. Try again. Brmmm, brmmm, brmmm, brmmm. The dashboard display flashes check alternator with a picture of the battery. Don't have to be a mechanical goddess to know what that means. 

But wait, it gets better.

I phone Doug, who gathers the remaining four minions at home into my car to come rescue us. Not quite half an hour later, while still waiting for our knight in a Mitsubishi to arrive, I flick the ignition over again, just in case the car would start this time. I really wasn't expecting it to start. 

But it does. Stupid car couldn't have done that half an hour ago though could it. 

At this point Murphy was sniggering his dirty little ass off at us. Because Doug arrives not one minute later. After pulling Blake out of bed. Getting them all in the car instead of into bed.

I laugh. Doug rolls his eyes. We finally all get home.

I vow, for the second time, to never think how smooth, for the most part, our life normally is. Murphy's Law is listening just a little to closely to take any chances, regardless of whether my {slightly complacent} thoughts are whispered through my mind or uttered from my lips. 

Go away Murphy, it was not nice to see you.

A moment...Interrupted

After school, once everyone is inside, food has been devoured at an alarming rate, bags have been unpacked & the kids have all excitedly given me a blow by blow account of their school lunch time, I sit down with a coffee & have fifteen minutes of down time. A blast of energy to get me through the next few hours, a subconscious perk.

A moment to press pause, a few minutes to breathe, stop spreading myself rice paper thin between six minions all immediately needing me switched on & present. 

A moment that did not happen easily yesterday.

The kettle was boiled, my mug was ready...& waiting. 

Waiting. 

Waiting.

I guess the first delay was my own doing - I heard the washing machine finish the current load, so I pulled out the two light blankets & set them up on the indoor airer by the window. Inadvertently making an instant cubby house.

Bringing us to the next setback. Once the boys saw their new fortress immediately beds were stripped down to their sheets & four monkeys were haphazardly throwing & placing with precision - depending on their age & reach, blankets, throws, sheets, even a pillowcase was spotted in the mix. Depending on who you asked, the corner of our dining area was now a castle/bunker/spy base/dinosaur.

After successfully ensuring every slither of daylight was blocked without the entire structure collapsing, Clay, who had been happily bashing a Xylophone on his mat nearby, decided it was his turn to waylay any movements made towards the kettle & became cranky. Screaming, wriggling, pinching, grabby hands cranky. So he was bundled up & off to bed he went. 

Back in the kitchen & waiting for the kettle to boil, the remaining five minions descend upon the kitchen like a pack of vultures, taking up floor space looking for something else to eat. During the process of rectifying their pleas of starvation, I notice a spot of mold on the loaf of bread only bought the night before. Out of the four loaves bought not twenty fours ago - one of which is two thirds gone from lunch time earlier, two of them have mold on the first crust. Instantly nausea floods me. I imagine the entire family coming down with food poisoning & immediately begin mentally calculating how many towels & spew bowls we have. I also resolve to go back to baking our own bread. Then we know exactly how fresh it is.  

This drama eats up a further seven minutes. 

Still in the kitchen & just about ready to re boil the kettle I notice Blake has taken his boots off...& emptied half the sandpit from kindy in the middle of the living area. Dammit. I debate whether to sweep it up immediately or can it wait until after my coffee. How urgent is my need to just sit in {relative} peace compared with how much I hate stepping on sand with bare feet & the way it manages to spread everywhere. Like playdough - once you have it in the house you will never get rid of it. In the end my desire not to have sand grit spread through every square inch wins out. Then my neurotic tendencies kick in compelling me to quickly vacuum the whole house too. Fyi I'm blaming the lack of caffeine for the idiotic idea. You all remember the last time I decided to vacuum the house quickly at an inconvenient time. Notably there were no phone calls made or received this time.

Of course it was a Murphy's Law kind of afternoon, because Clay woke up after only thirty minutes. Possibly because of the vacuum. Possibly because babies seem to have an innate sense when Mum is about to do anything that begins with R - repose, recline, rest...relax. Never!

By now it's fast approaching five o'clock. My coffee mug has been sitting, un-touched, for nearly an hour. But I'm determined to get even ten minutes of bubble time*. It's not about the caffeine hit - any hot beverage will do. It's about the suspension of time where there are minimal demands, I can stop spinning in one hundred different directions. Just chill.

Within a few minutes of packing away the sand sucker I spot another miniature sand castle. Stuff it, I think to myself as I flick the kettle back on again, it can stay there for ten minutes. Then I see the boys going up & down the hallway & my despise for feeling gritty sand under my feet wins out. 

Sand gone, kettle on.

Just as I'm about to pour in the hot water, the phone starts to ring. You are kidding me. 
The Gods of NesCafe must be feeling gracious, because it's Doug letting me know he is going to be home a little late - which buys me another half hour before I have to get serious about cooking dinner. Thank you very much. I may just get this cup of hot bliss after all.

Finally the chaos storm seems to have passed & I get to sit my tush down with a hot mug full of all things good. For nearly five whole minutes no one approaches me, no calls of "Muuuuuummmmmm". No shrieking, no pestering, no superhero games that got a little carried away. I lose myself, flicking through Facebook, quietly sipping my much anticipated cuppa. It was all to brief, but it was enough.

It was everything I was hanging for, all that much sweeter for the constant delays that lead up to that precious escape. 

All I wanted was my moment of solitude in the frenzy. Life is cray cray. You take your moments when you can get them. Even if I've got to be as stubborn as getting vomit smell out of a car.


*Bubble time - A brief moment in time where I can sit, mostly minion free, & somewhat shut out the world around me. It feels like a hiatus in time, a moment of respite - without the respite.

Dirty seven letter words

So, there was meant to be five more posts preceding this one. NaBloPoMo & all that. What can I say? My days all just filled up with stuff & any spare time was not spent here. 

I believe I left off with a post on the destruction of boys bedrooms & whether to leave it to the little stinkers to clean up their own trial of toy carnage & desecration, or had it exceeded their attention span limits. For the carpet to ever see daylight again was it up to me to rectify the minions mayhem mess monstrosity.   

That post kicked off the motivation I needed & the next day life was breathed into those nylon fibers. No search party was needed, however if one was launched they would have had better luck digging through our Mount Washmore searching for my bodily remains. 

It's been mentioned here & there that our washing is of epic proportions. Epic. Monstrous. Colossal. Incessant. Infinite.

Infinite. 

Shoot me now. 

Or employee a personal full time laundress. 

Neither are feasible options, so instead you get to read about it. It's been a long time coming, this post. I've held off as long as I could. Much like the folding. 

To think I used to complain when we had three children. Man those days ain't got nothing on us now. 

I would rather change another dirty, butt covering, stinker than fold {& put away} another basket of clean clothes. That is just how over folding clothes I am. Desperate. Dirty nappy changing desperate.

Keeping up with the dirty washing that our laundry attracts faster than iron fillings to a magnet isn't the issue. Sort & separate, chuck in the machine, scoop of washing powder, turn it on, press start. Done. 

The epitome of laziness, our drier is used just as frequently as the washing machine. Once those warm, clean, minion covering clothes are smelling fresher than Clay just out the bath, is when the massive aversion & antipathy kicks in & all of a sudden the small task of folding that one basket is just too much. So begins the pattern of wash, dry, dump. Dump zone being the couch (by day three, plural) in the rarely occupied second lounge room. Of course, once more than three loads - one or two days worth, piles up the task is now impossible. 

Dishes I can do on a never ending cycle, making sandwiches, cleaning floors, making beds, changing nappies, keeping little people in optimum health, all in a days work. 

But that washing. 

Every seven to fourteen days, three hours are sucked into that multi-colored, cotton blend, floral breeze scented, time warp known as folding.

Clearly this pattern isn't ideal. I was going to say it isn't working for us, but somehow it is, given this has been the modus operandi for the last year or so...okay three years might be more accurate. Minor details aside, it must be working on some impractical level. 

In a stepford wives world the washing would be folded & put away before it ever had a chance to cool down after its hasty exit from the dryer. Scratch that, the washing would have been folded immediately upon it's removal from the washing line. Their dining table would never double as a folding table. 

Alas my life is not perfect & our dining table has probably had just as many folded clothes piles as hot dinners graced upon it's scratched surface. 

I'm certain that maintaining a habit of immediately folding & putting away the clean clothes would make the whole washing debacle less torturous, but it's just so monotonous. I have better things to do with my time than stand there & fold washing several times a day. 

So people, I need your tips. Or just a fair old shaming for airing my lazy laundry habits. How can I kick the dump n ignore habit - do I just go cold turkey, suck it up & fold those darn clothes before they touch another surface?

   

Are you in category A: wash, dry, fold, put away. Or do you join me in the naughty corner over at category B: wash, dry{er}, dump. Only to commence the folding process once the clothes pile becomes a serious OH&S issue. (Note the omitted mention of putting the folded clothes piles away.)  

Category A or category B? Swimming or drowning?

Oh & those dirty seven letter words I was referring to they are of course - washing, folding, sorting, put-away. 

As an added bonus here's a nine letter word for you - groundhog day.

 

   

Half a dozen facts from a Mum of half a dozen

You know how sometimes you imagine how something will be, but then it is completely different to what you expected or thought.

Like the other day when I was eyeing off the corner of Blake's banana toast. It was all thick & perfectly toasted with a melting glob of butter right on the edge. I imagined how nice that little piece would taste, how the butter would melt in my mouth as my teeth sank into the crunchy edge. I gave in & put that tempting little morsel in my mouth. Then remembered I don't like banana bread. It tasted nothing like I imagined.

Raising a large family is a little like this. Sometimes it is absolutely nothing like you thought it would be. So I thought I'd compile six fast facts.

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1. Richie Rich

Minions are money sponges but they don't soak up every last cent. The perception that because there is an astronomical number of kids, the bank account must be astronomically low as well is not how it really is. We watch our pennies (dollars?), but with a budget in place everyone gets everything they need {& then some}.

Alternatively, the presumption that we must have a lot of money to be able to have a large family is about as accurate as the articles in an OK! magazine. Once someone said to me "Oh your husband must earn a lot of money, to have so many children & be able to stay home with them." Again, to afford big ticket items we plan ahead. Or use the credit card & pay it off. 
Though a spare money tree growing in the backyard wouldn't go amiss. 

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2. Resentment, Schentment

The kids don't resent having a big family. They love having many brothers & sister(s) - even when it doesn't sound like it some days. 
When they play stuck in the mud & more than two get stuck there is still another sibling or two to un-stick them. Twister gets really twisty. Friday nights are like a bonafide slumber party with five kids in the same room all whispering & giggling. Backyard cricket means having a full team, with a bowler, batter, wickie plus fielders.
They don't know it to be any different, sharing a room with another sibling is normal, moving over to make room on the couch for another body is habitual. Sharing is just a given with most things. 
The sibling bonds between them are distinct & far stronger than any sibling rivalry.
I hope when they are adults & look back on these days of their childhood, they are still grateful for one another.

3. It's as easy as it looks...kinda

Raising six children is not as hard as it seems. The bigger minions can dress themselves, put on their own shoes, get their own drinks, brush their own teeth. The smaller ones all want to do this for themselves too, which if you play your cards right can work for you without tantrums. Encouraging the little ones to find their own shoes, put on their own pants (after laying them out straight) they brush their own teeth, though I do a quick all over brush either to begin or finish up. 

Our family size did not morph into epic proportions overnight, we've had several years to adjust & refine our routines. There is a lot of organization behind the scenes to make sure everything run smoother though & gets us out the door without running ridiculously late.
If I can do it, you could do it.

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4. Supermum is about as real as Superman. She only exists in the movies.

By no definition are Mum's of large families Supermum's. We are no better than any other Mum, just as no Mum is any better than the next. We're all just doing what we must to get through each day, with the house still standing & every one alive, healthy & hopefully happy. There is nothing special about Mums to many. Our patience is not infinite. We are not saints. We lose our cool & get our shriek on. We are not immune to Mummy guilt either - but I'll cover that another day.

5. It is as noisy as you imagine

I'm not about to tell you otherwise, there is no argument here. Lots of people equal lots noise. When Doug gets home from work, when we're just about to sit down for dinner, or when someone comes over, it gets loud. Really loud.
Our meal times can look a little something like this.

Five kids all talking at once, plus a couple of adults (potentially with one trying to get the minions to quite down - without adding to the ear bleeding decibel levels by yelling to garner their attention & be heard). I've mentioned once or twice before that living large also means living loud. 

6. Loving them is as amazing as you think

Life with so many kids is as magical, chaotic, entertaining, constant & unending, crazy & eventful, amazing & awe inspiring as you believe.

Loving them is the easy bit. It's the dirty clothes & dirty dishes that's hard.

Do your ovaries scream loud, do they ache & cry for more? Should you tie the tubes in a knot, should you tie them in a bow?

It's no secret I still consider my uterus a fully functioning organ I hope to use again in the near future. For the first time it's become a very realistic fact this may never happen...& it's cutting me up.

It's only been eight short months since Clay vacated the oven & already I'm suffering a serious case of belly envy. With several friends up the duff or in the midst of newborn haze, I get both my belly rub & newborn nuzzling hits, along with a good old whack to the ovaries & heart strings, every time I bump into these lovely ladies. 

Reading a pregnancy announcement with a photo of a positive hpt {home pregnancy test} (for those not in the ttc {trying to conceive} lingo), brings goosebumps & a fast trip down memory lane as I flash back to all those minutes spent in the bathroom during my own POAS {pee on a stick} past addiction. The stick being a pregnancy test strip, not a twig from the garden that will do nothing to foretell of any toilet bowl hugging, stretch mark itching, watermelon sized uterus to follow in the next nine months. Exposing the roots of my crazy I still have all our positive pregnancy tests from each of our minions. Including the double ups that were taken just to be certain the first test wasn't a fluke.

Then there is the guilt. With an innumerable amount of individuals, couples & families who are a hundred times more desperate than I am to feel their belly expand & fill with the nudges & stirring kicks of life. I feel like I should just be happy with our car full & ignore the sense that someone is still missing in our troop. I am deliriously grateful for our six crazy monkeys & would never think they are not enough or take our family for granted. Still I can't shake the yearnings for just one more. 

Of course, it takes to two to tango, & to say Doug is hesitant on expanding our tribe of minions any further would be a grossly dramatic understatement. A firm resounding NO can be felt even from here as I type out this post. I understand his thoughts & completely respect his opinion. Which is probably why I am so torn up, because I doubt we will ever have nine seats occupied at our dinner table every evening, despite how fiercely my heart screams for a child.

Last night as Clay was trying to get up onto his knees for the first time my eyes welled up & my chest began aching with pride & happiness. Along with despair & indescribable sadness that this may well be very well will be quite likely (even in written form I still can't put it as a final 'this will be') the last time we get to witness these first moments. Seriously, I am going to be a blubbering mess in the lead up to Clay's first birthday, even more so than with the other minions.  

Looking around our house I can easily imagine another bunk bed, another toothbrush at the bathroom sink, another body to add to the pile on movie nights. Responding with "we have seven children" when asked how many little people we have brought into this world. Seven just fits in my own little make believe world & its consuming far too many thoughts in my real world. 

For now I will just continue on as I have been - living in hope. It seems far kinder to my heart to live in hope for however many years it takes to accept that my Mama status is only applicable to six, than to cut the strings - or Doug's testicular tubes, & live a life dreaming of the what ifs & potential regret floating in the background. So many times I have read or heard first hand of hasty vasectomies or tubal ligations that were regretted three, four, five years down the track. I'm hoping after five years the intensity of my craziness will have dulled enough for me to see reason, or at least accept we won't be anticipating another little person in our family. With Clay off to school, no more nappies in the house, & hopefully enjoying full uninterrupted sleep most nights. Maybe getting out of this baby stage once & for all is what will kick me towards embracing the next stage of life. No more forty week count downs. The baby name books left to gather dust. 

With the age gaps between our kids ranging from seventeen months to two & a half years, I'm working on the theory that a five year age gap will be just what is needed to get used to calling our brood complete at half a dozen. After having less than three years between all the minions so far, to suddenly having a five year gap doesn't sound appealing to me. Especially when I've found the shorter age gaps the most enjoyable, & if I dare say it, easier, than the gaps over two years.

Some days I do wonder if I'm not half nuts & completely irrational, wishing for seven. Mostly in the moments when Will single handedly manages to dump a 750ml pump bottle of baby shampoo into the bath I was running for Clay, & then unravel a near full roll of toilet paper around the house while I was giving Clay the above mentioned bath, all in thirty minutes. With Will reminding me how impulsive three year olds can be, I question if I really want another baby. Because after the morning sickness passes & the belly grows fit to burst, after the newborn squawking cries transition into a normal baby cry, when they find their feet & their independence, they grow up. And there is a lot of growing up to do between the ages of two & twenty. Can we raise another person through that heart bursting, frustrating, awe inspiring, angst ridden, tears of joy & tears of despair, food devouring minefield?

It would be easier if my head said no while my heart said yes, because then I could find reason & agree with Doug. After all, just because I feel like eating chocolate all day long, I know that I can't. It would only cause stomach aches & nausea after the chocolate induced endorphins wear off. It just sucks that both my head & my heart are screaming "pro-create! pro-create!" Even though this would also cause nausea & stomach aches after the endorphins wear off.

I fear that for me (I'm certain Doug is terrified as well) 'just one more' will never reach a final number where the longing finally evaporates. 

If only it was as easy as saying the words "we're done. No more children."