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.

Defining the perfect mother

There is a woman that exists, though no one has ever found her or met her. Mothers everywhere strive to be her. They follow her examples, strive to achieve all this woman accomplishes. We measure our own successes & failures against the precedent of this infamous idol of perfection.

The Perfect Mum.

Last week I wrote a post My foray with postnatal depression & one common thread kept repeating itself from almost everyone who messaged, commented or spoke with me. 

I wanted to be the perfect mum.

So I pose the question here, what makes a perfect mum?

Is it the mum who stays home to raise her children - or is it the mum who returns to work to build a better future for her children?

Is it the mum who spends hours in the kitchen cooking every meal from bare scratch, with organic everything - or is it the mum who cooks quick nutritious meals in fifteen minutes flat?

Is it the mum who home schools her children - or the mum who drops her children off to school every weekday?

Is it the mum who bounced back to her former pre-baby svelte self - or is it the mum who still has her pregnancy weight five years on?

Is it the mum who breastfeeds her toddler - or the mum who lovingly gazes at her baby while he drinks formula from a bottle?  

Is it the mum who puts her own dreams & aspirations on hold as she dedicates her whole self to raising her children - or the mum who regularly takes time away from her children to do things by herself that make her happy?

Is it the mum who keeps her house clean & tidy what seems every minute of every day - or the mum who has a sink full of dishes & a thick layer of dust coating most surfaces?

Is it the mum with the perfect hair style & immaculately applied make up - or the mum with a hastily tied pony tail & baby vomit on her shoulder. In public.

Is it the mum who regularly sits down to do craft time with her children - or the mum who has an aversion to all things glitter & paint?

Is it the mum who always looks calm & serene - or the mum with the deep frown lines & stressed look upon her face?

Is it the mum who feeds & rocks her eleven month old baby to sleep - or the mum who follows a controlled crying routine?

I could go on. The helicopter parent, the attached parent, the free range parent, the authoritarian parent. All these labels confirm there is no perfect, ideal way to parent. At the end of the day every child, every baby, every tweenager & teenager need the same bone deep conviction - they are loved without reserve. Everything always comes back to that - a soul deep, universe wide love. 

So this perfect mum, this mythical creature that debilitates us, as she inspires us to reach further. I've never met her. 

I see her though. I recognise her, in every mum I know. 

Every mum I see holding her back straight as she pushes her screaming, tantrum throwing toddler through the shop.

I see her as she puts jars of baby food & cans of formula in her trolley. 

I see her in the mum who home schools her children. 

I see her on my way to school when she's driving to work. 

I see her in the mums taking their child to playgroup. 

I recognise her in the lone woman sitting quietly in a cafe.

I see her when she's pushing her child on the swings, kicking the ball at the park, building sandcastles at the beach. 

I see her when she's trying to reason with a defiant three year old, creating boundaries with a freedom seeking twelve year old, grasping for more patience with a sulky eight year old.

I spot her in waiting rooms when she is trying to stop her children from jumping on the chairs.

I see her doing the best she can, as she can, in that moment.

My definition a perfect mum - it's every one of us. 

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.

Curious minds

"Hello emergency services, what do you require, Police, Fire or Ambulance?"

We all know the saying "Curiosity killed the cat, satisfaction brought it back." Ben is now also familiar with this adage. He also recently discovered what happens when you dial 000. 

For no other reason than childhood inquisitiveness. 

I'm glad he knows the number, I think I'm glad he has now done a one time only 'trial run'. What I do wish is if he had timed his call a little better, maybe during an hour of day when it wasn't bedlam & didn't sound like there were dying chimpanzee's in the house. 

It was nearly 5pm, time to cook dinner, organize baths & showers, tidy up from the afternoons events & invite chaos to reign supreme. On this day it was also the time motivation hit to vacuum the floors quickly. 

The concept of vacuuming quickly in our house is like mixing oil with water. It just doesn't happen. 

So, it was pretty close to pandemonium here. I was vacuuming, Rianan was either in her room tidying or playing with some friends down the road (I honestly cannot remember if she was here or not at a time that I'm certain will be seared into Ben's memory for life.) Will was watching 'Wreck it Ralph' {again} with the volume turned right up to 90, ten percent below full roar. Jack & Blake were in their bedroom under the instruction to put away the toys. In reality they were wrestling each other in a game that was yet to turn violent.

I'm over half way through my ridiculous idea to vacuum during crazy hour when the phone rings. Knowing Doug has recently finished work I presume it is him calling & let Ben answer the phone. All good, it was Doug who had a quick chat with Ben, who then relayed the conversation back to me after hanging up.

Our little bubble of disorder continues on. I look up to see Ben gazing intently at the phone that is still in his hands. I think little of it beyond he is investigating & familiarizing himself with the handset. Turns out I was somewhat correct in this assumption.

Two or three minutes pass since Doug's call when the phone rings again. I let Ben answer the phone again predicting it is Doug calling back, having forgotten something from the earlier call & continue on with the vacuuming while Jack & Blake are still shrieking in the background & the television is blaring.

Ben comes up eyes all wide, handing me the phone & says "It is the police."

"The police?" I question, thinking he is tricking me, or perhaps it is one of my Brother in law's who is a police officer. Why would the police be calling us?

"Hello?"

"Hello, this is the police, do you require emergency assistance?"

"No. No we don't. I'm sorry, I think my ten year old son may have called you & hung up", I reply apologetically, while looking at Ben standing in front of me.

"Are you certain?" The stern voice asks me. "Who is screaming in the background?" she firmly questions.

Oh God. I'm embarrassed, rueful & slightly amused at the predictament all at once. Mostly embarrassed, & if I'm honest, feeling like a crappy mum. I should be cooking dinner, kids all settled quietly, as the older three taking their turns to have a shower. Instead I have let the minions mostly roam free within our four walls, loud as they want because they can't hear me telling them to quieten down over the deafening racket that results from the tv, the vacuum & their own shrieks. 

"That is my seven year old Son & four year old Son, playing in their room. Which they are meant to be cleaning." I confess while walking to Blake & Jack's room, as if being in their presence would allow the operator on the other end of the line to see for herself no one is being hacked to death. Which probably didn't allay her concerns any because they were still rolling around on the floor shrieking & screaming. 

I know, I know, Jack isn't seven years old yet he is still six for another two or so months. Neither has Ben had his double digit birthday, though we are in the countdown. Turns out that under pressure & interrogation I can't remember how old our minions are. All I can manage to drum up is their nearest birthday age. Another black strike. Especially when Jack pipes up loud enough for all to hear "I'm not seven, I'm six." Great, now she has caught out a lie, an inadvertent one, but a lie none the less in what is to her a serious situation. Thanks Jack for your helpful information there.

Still on the phone to the emergency services operator, standing in the middle boys' bedroom doorway & glaring at them, mimicking to be quiet, she still questions "So there is no emergency? You do not require police assistance?"

"No." I confirm, walking back into the kitchen where Ben is hovering. "We do not require police assistance. There is no emergency." Stating this clearly & firmly in case they need it distinctly stated for their records.

Obviously she is not yet convinced that all is indeed legit, because she questions what is going on again. "There is a lot of noise there, what is going on?" (or something to that effect.)

"I'm in the middle of vacuuming, our three year old son is watching a movie so the tv is turned up extremely loud. The other boys were in their bedroom which they were meant to be cleaning but were playing instead." I admit, trying to explain why an ordinary evening here is so loud it has the emergency services questioning the authenticity of my explanations. I also don't admit that Clay is asleep in our room. I figure it is useless information at this stage. 

"How many children do you have there?" she inquires. Well there goes that idea.

"We have six children."

Yep. This was a bit of a 'large family defining moment' for me. Perhaps I should not have been vacuuming at a time when I would normally be cooking dinner. But to be honest, it is not uncommon for the rest of the house to be that loud while the vacuum is going regardless the time of day.

"Would you like to talk to the ten year old who called you?" I ask her, thinking that by now she realizes it was a prank call, not an emergency after all & that she would like to have a quick firm word with Ben about the seriousness of calling triple zero when there is no cause or concern.

"Yes please."

I pass the phone over to Ben, who looks hesitantly between me & the phone. 

"Hello?" He says into the phone. A few seconds pass, "No." Then he passes the phone back to me. 

I later realize, that perhaps she didn't want to reprimand him at all, but wanted further assurances that neither himself or the other kids were in any danger or feeling scared for any reason. 

With the phone back in my possession, the operator & I round the call up with me stating I would be talking to Ben about this call & the seriousness of what he has done. Hanging up, I look at Ben & quietly tell him to go wait in his room, I will talk to him about this later.

Doug gets home shortly after our eventful conversation & I inform him of what has just happened. I'm fairly adamant that Ben will be grounded for life. No sleep overs, no electronics, no special privileges, no going to friends houses or birthday parties. A little over dramatic perhaps, luckily Doug took front point from here. 

Ben's curiosity has been sated & now understands while we are glad he knows how to call for help, it needs to be for a genuine reason next time. He is not grounded for life. But he did have to do three big jobs around the house & also has to do Rianan's daily chores for the next two weeks.

As for the rest of the evening, I spent it waiting for a police patrol to knock on our front door. Even now nearly a week on I still don't know whether to laugh or cry about the whole debacle. 

Oh & Clay slept through the entire house crashing noise. 

Six sanity sapping suckers

I am certain we had a real life alien experience last night. I'm expecting another visit tonight too. When our own minions are returned to us & then to collect these hair pulling imposters that were left in their place. 

Unfortunately I don't believe in UFO's & the like. In consideration a conclusion has been drawn. I must be bat shit crazy to have convinced Doug to breed six of the little life draining, sanity sapping, energy sucking creatures.

Well, two of them at least, maybe three.

By the end of today I couldn't even get their names straight. Not that it really mattered. Jack, Blake & Ben were all behaving like a pack of wild orangutan's so names were irrelevant really. Lucky they weren't listening to hear me call them the wrong name. Every time.

The thought of plucking out my winter long leg hairs one by one was quickly becoming more & more appealing the longer the afternoon wore on. If someone had said that for a miracle to occur & our three boys to stop arguing with each other, all I had to do was pull out each toe nail...Pass me the pliers already. After all toe nails grow back over time. However, frown line wrinkles are permanent. Botox not withstanding. 

Today I am completely over hearing my own voice, over their shrieks, the words 'time out' & 'grounded' have lost all concept & meaning. Grounded, grounded, grounded, grounded, grounded, grounded...Semantic satiation in action. The sound of a dentist drill grinding against my teeth is more appealing to my ears at this moment.

In the aftermath of an attitude stand off between Ben & Jack I devoured an entire twelve pack of fun size mars bars. Three minutes flat the bag was empty & my food remorse was high. I needed the sugar high more than they did.

In light of the fact listing children to the highest bidder on Ebay is both frowned upon & illegal, my next best course of action was putting the main offenders to bed ninety minutes early. Not that this bolstered any parenting strong hold. 

The little turds are still awake. 

Two hours later. 

I'm sure I'll love them again tomorrow. In the mean time I'm off to have a bath. These legs are in need of some serious attention with summer pending & I need some intense relaxation. A hot bath with a good book I can lose myself in is just what the quack ordered.  

Waking with the birds

Ugh. I really do not like mornings. I am by no definition a morning person. I wish I was, it might make life a little easier. To rise with the sun, enjoy breakfast & a morning cuppa in solitude before any of the minions wake for the day.

 Ha, who am I trying to kid. Even if I was a morning person who woke when the birds did, solitude would never happen. Because our minions are morning people. Ugh, again. 

{Mummy, I can hear the beach.}

This morning I did not wake with the birds, I was woken by Blake who woke with Doug as he got ready for work. After Doug had left for work, Blake then woke Will, who woke Jack, Ben & Rianan before coming into our room to wake Clay as well.

Fighting against the inevitable, I stayed in bed with Clay to keep me company (while he had his morning feed). As the minutes ticked by the noise levels slowly crept up.

 What started out as some quiet chattering, soon turned into giggles, then shrieks, before evolving into screams. Of both joy & sibling torture. 

With a big sigh, I get out of bed, hoping it is only their behaviour that has disintegrated & not the house too. 

{Seeing the kids running back, Blake turned around half way to dash back & managed to win the race.}

All that hoping was futile.

Blankets (at least ten, a combination of quilts & big fleece blankets) pillows, pyjama shirts, Clay's toys, pencils & textas, drawings half finished, unwanted drawings screwed up & dropped around the table. 

 {Rianan was the only one who managed not to turn into a drowned rat.}

Attitudes were running riot, angry words thrown about between Ben & Jack. Blake & Will running around & screeching at the top of their lungs. Clay just took in the hullabaloo, clinging to the safety of my arms. 

{Clay in the sling, camera strap wound multiple times around my wrist, every one & every thing is safe.}

Painfully & strenuously order was gained inch by inch. Blankets were put into bedrooms (right in the doorway but at least they were in the relevant rooms. A small win) pyjama shirts were put back on & toys put away.

Will lost it at breakfast time. He asked for nutri-grain for breakfast, & he was served nutri-grain for breakfast. He's three & entitled to change his mind as his whim takes him. As far as I could tell I think that is what caused the end of his world, if his cries were anything to go by.

 Blake lost it when I served him nutri-grain too, when he had asked for cornflakes. I had nutri-grain on the brain. What evs. It is far to early for this crap.

Fast approaching brain oozing levels, the unwanted nutri-grain I served Blake was dumped & his bowl refilled with cornflakes. 

{Jack's 'baby jellyfish' he named "Squishy".}

By this stage Ben, Rianan & Jack were on to their second bowls & in their rush to beat one another sugar was spilt, milk was splashed & weet bix crumbled all over the floor.

I finally get my own bowl filled & sit down at the table next to Blake...who is making an earth & moon image with his spoon...in his milk...on the table.

Getting dressed meant running around with (clean) underwear on top of their head. Brushing their teeth entailed painting the shower door with (used) toothpaste, the toothbrushes their tools. Putting dirty pyjama's into the dirty washing basket was interpretted to throwing them around the bedrooms. 

It was time to get them out the house before I went bald & the day, along with my mood, deteriorated any further.

 Mornings {usually} run smoother when we have a place to be, a schedule to stick to. Required to be in a specific place within a certain time. 

I may love the idea of a lazy morning, but it doesn't love me back. 

{Jack was so excited to find a dinosaur bone, I didn't have the heart to wipe out his elation.}

A quick detour to pick up a vanilla mocha for me, some biscuits & water for the kids, then we were on our way. 

Feet on the sand, wind in our hair & sun on our faces.  

Shells in our hands & seaweed around our ankles.

"Don't get wet" I said.

"Yes Mum" they replied.

 But it's ok, the beach saved our day.   

We went home with a boot full of wet & sandy clothes.

Barely clothed boys in their seats. 

With smiles on our faces & moods back to their

 normal optimum optimistic levels.

{A bit wet there Jack?}

I don't love mornings, but I do love our minions.

Hopefully they all sleep in tomorrow morning...

A futile hope. 

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Breaking the fairytale

Four days ago Ben lost another tooth, one of his premolars. While he was excited to lose another tooth, especially as it was a simple & near bloodless self extraction, he wasn't as excited after the event as he has been in the past. In point, one crucial childhood folklore wasn't even mentioned once the tooth was put safely away so it could be easily scooped up & put under his pillow come bedtime.

Fast forward to yesterday when I realized that small, oddly shaped, scrap of eraser was Ben's tooth - still sitting behind the fruit bowl on the bench. Even now it is sitting there. He has not once mentioned the tooth fairy all this time.

I'm a little bit devastated & a whole heap in denial. Surely Ben still believes? 

**Little eyes look away now...
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The Santa talk is more intimidating than the puberty or the birds & the bees talk. (I mean with all the children we've had, our kids know at least the basics for each of their ages.)  But coming clean about who is responsible for all those gold coins, chocolate eggs & over flowing stockings is daunting & mournful. It's also another step towards recognizing & acknowledging Ben is definitely leaving behind his childhood & beginning to enter a new stage of awareness. 

We haven't officially had the 'Talk' yet, holding off because I didn't want to launch into shattering the illusion prematurely, if he (we) had just purely forgotten each night to leave the little bicuspid for the life sized, blonde haired, spectacle wearing tooth fairy. Honestly, I don't even know where to start when breaking the news that it's all a fabrication. All my mind imagines is the resulting broken heart, snuffing out the last sparkles of childhood magic. Because it doesn't just stop with the tooth fairy, no that is just the beginning. After confessing we are her imposter, we stomp on the illusion of the big eared, fluffy, cotton ball tailed, chocolate coma inducing bunny. Before wiping out all wonder & innocence with the declaration that the jolly fellow is all parental fraud. Albeit inspired from Saint Nicholas, which gives us back a little bit of credit. 

Nope, I just can't do it yet.

I can still easily recall all the anticipation & excitement I felt the night before Easter or Christmas. Imagining an over sized bunny jumping silently from house to house, straining to hear the bells of a sleigh before drifting off to sleep, of waking up in the middle of the night to my Christmas stocking resting at the end of my bed, feeling very full & heavy when nudged with my toes. I just can't break that illusion with our own children yet. 

I know it's coming, if it isn't here already. I would much rather our children, when the time comes for each of them individually (& they will be expected to play along with the myth for many years to come yet) that they find out what the deal is from us, rather than by friends, or cousins in my own personal experience. I want them to hold on to the magic of belief just a little bit longer, because it feels like once that is gone their childhood is over. 

Always looking for a silver lining, we still get at least ten more years of creating magic & manifesting the illusion for our younger minions. My days masquerading as the tooth fairy are far from over yet. I have hidden away every single tooth lost so far, though I haven't gone as far as to separate them according to which minion they sprouted from. I have no idea what to do with all these teeth, at the end of it all I'll have a purse full of one hundred & twenty (120!) teeth. Seriously. Multiple Google sources inform me that children loose twenty teeth by the time they reach twelve or thirteen years of age. Multiply that by at least six minions...What on earth am I going to do with one hundred & twenty pearly whites? The first step will be getting a bigger purse - I'm guessing something like a duffel bag should be sufficient. Just another quirk to being a large family, you need an entire wardrobe to hold (& hide) all their baby teeth, the corner of a small draw just won't cut it.

I guess I could make a (plaque) mosaic wall art...a necklace is just to damn grotesque. Or maybe I'll just keep them all hidden away.


**Towards the conclusion of this post, it was confirmed, as best as possible while other siblings were still present, that the tooth fairy is still expected to collect Ben's tooth. She just had a week long holiday, because even the tooth fairy gets a holiday every year. 

Momnesia ~ the barest bones of a memory

It happened again. It's not the first time & I'm sure it won't be the last time either.

I forgot my PIN number, right in the middle of paying for my items. As hard as I tried, I just could not remember those important four digits I've used several times every day for the last seven odd years.

After the EFTPOS machine beeped & informed that there was an incorrect PIN entered, for the second time, I admitted memory defeat. The last thing I needed was to lock myself out of my bankcard at the first of many shops I needed to visit that day. As quietly as possible I muttered to the shop assistant that I had forgotten my PIN & would need to call my husband for him to remind me of those four essential digits that had escaped me. Imaginably, after this confession, she was thinking 'who on earth forgets their PIN number' or, 'it's probably a stolen card', while smiling politely at me as I bumbled my bankcard back into my purse & tried to make a hasty exit - as hasty as one can while supporting a baby in a sling who is squirming around trying to grab anything in reach, including other customers. As I temporarily walked away from the counter maybe she wasn't thinking of anything but her next break time & it is my own embarrassment filling the void of her unheard speculations. Either way I was blushing & flustered.

Sudden thoughts of early onset amnesia plagued me as I walked back to the car for my phone. (Funny how my thinker couldn't recall a simple code, but could easily recall many instances over the last few years where my memory just packed up & left. Ironic.)  Wondering when is baby brain more than a superficial forgetfulness & the beginnings of something more serious. My thought processes can be a tad dramatic sometimes, running away with a worst case scenario before I've even had a chance to think rationally. It's quite common for several possibilities, where there is a tragic end, to flash before my eyes at the beginning of any health related incident. Blake has bruises all over his legs, my mind jumps ten steps ahead & is suddenly convinced he has leukemia. Will develops a persistent & constant cough, this means he must have whopping cough & is going to infect Clay who is not yet fully immunised. Jack screams as though he's dying after falling off his bike, immediately my mind relays all the horrible bone breaking, skin shredded injuries he'll have. I like to think I'm not the only one who does this, that it is a parenthood induced condition. Hands up who else has a mind that fills with numerous potential nightmares when it comes to something horrible happening to your children...Or when they just fall off their bike. I love these little minions something fierce & would do anything to protect them, so if that means my brain is always preparing for the worst possible scenario, then bring on the gray hairs.

I digress, back to the shop assistant. She thoughtfully put my bag of unpaid goods aside & patiently served the next person while I made a hasty walk back to the car, fruitlessly unable to remember those damn four numbers. It seems under pressure I can remember all my past PIN numbers, Doug's PIN numbers, phone numbers from childhood friends twenty years ago & the due dates of our minions (which none of them arrived on, so are essentially useless numbers, only holding a sentimental value.) But I could not recall four numbers I use every day. Even cell memory was no help, my fingers couldn't do the walking (or the recalling) this time.

Getting Doug on the phone, I awkwardly ask him what my PIN number is. He says "Oh what, ****, that one?"
Even as he says the numbers out loud & I repeat them back to him there is no strike of familiarity. No flash of recognition. Clearly there is little hope for me. My memory, or lack there of, is on it's final legs, or on it's final cells. I blame the kids. They are all reasonably smart which they obviously, & figuratively, sucked my brain dry got from me. From Doug they got his sense of humour, which he still has in abundance. Unfair. You need your wits about you in this house & I'm at a clear disadvantage.

The precarious & inconsistent working state of my memory has long been a source of humour (or exasperation) between us, especially since Blake's pregnancy & has only spiralled downward with each positive pregnancy test there after. One of Doug's excuses reasons against having a seventh child is because he fears for the thin strands of cognizance remaining. Apparently the hiatus my memory took during our last pregnancy was at best amusing & at worse perturbing. Sadly I have no argument, even I was aware of just how ditzy & off with the fairies I was. Heck my forgetful state during Clay's pregnancy even exasperated me, at least on the rare occasions where I remembered what it was like not to feel the fuzzy & cotton wool filled haze of pregnancy brain. 

With Clay now six months old, I think this is as good as it's going to get any time soon. Especially with remembering everything going on with the minions. If it doesn't get written on the calendar, who has what excursion, on what day; who needs to be where at what time; doctor appointments for whom & when; what bills are due when, then there is every chance I will forget. Even written down isn't a fail-safe guarantee. Geez they're lucky I can remember their birth dates & most of the time, their names.

Maybe it's time I tattoo my PIN on my palm. It may not be subtle, but my memory needs all the help it can get these days. Plus I'm not sure I could handle admitting I've forgotten my PIN again to Doug & get away without a teasing.