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.

Don't mind the mess...

"Come in" she said, "don't mind the mess", as I step over the threshold to her home, drawing my attention to the suggestingly unkempt surroundings. My eyes flick over every surface as we proceed deeper into the house.

Though I'm not exactly sure what mess she is pertaining too. The haphazardly arranged toys that are within the confines of the baby mat, or the two mugs on the bench next to the kettle - clean & ready for expected company. Even the beds were made in the bedrooms we drifted past.

No piles of washing all over the couch with not-so-fifty-shades underwear & holey socks flauntingly visible, forgotten to be tucked deep into the mountain. Kitchen sink empty of breakfast bowls, no dried weet-bix or puffed up rice bubbles lingering on the table - or under the chairs. Either her children slept in their clothes the night before, or it is their pyjama's I can hear in the washing machine quietly swishing away.

The floors look clean enough to follow the three second rule {for dropped food}, curtains open & windows barely visible - not a smeared hand print or dried up cascading dribble to be seen. 

I think to myself, if this is classed as messy then my house belongs on 'Hoarding - Buried Alive'. Knowing that as I closed the front door to take the minions to school, I was closing the door on pyjama's left on bedroom floors, breakfast bowls un-rinsed & stacked next to the sink, with the dishwasher clean but not yet emptied from the night before. Wet bed sheets & quilts stripped & fermenting in the dirty laundry basket, the washing machine silent. The evidence of packing lunches on the kitchen bench remains & while the dining table is wiped of any solid food matter, cloudy streaks are easily seen & rice bubbles litter Will & Blake's chairs. Our floors, not fit for the three second rule, but clean enough for Clay to escape my hip on.

With that one careless statement, perhaps meant to clear her of any responsibility for a missed mirror streak or mote of dust I may see, but not notice - evaporating from my mind faster than a shopping list. The standard is set. The precedent of expectation which goes both ways.

Weeks later I open our front door to welcome her into our home. With a smile I say "Hi! Come in, don't mind the mess, we've been so busy the last few days I've not had a chance to clean properly." A partial truth. 

We walk down the hallway, past bedrooms & lounge rooms - doors wide open to welcome inspection. Small talk is made while we make our way to the kitchen, where two mugs await next to the kettle & a plate of {store bought} goodies already set out.

What she doesn't know is that I ran around like a blue arsed fly the night before - cleaning toilets, wiping toothpaste off mirrors & polishing windows until I could see my reflection. Washing piles thrown hastily into cupboards, floors swept & quickly mopped. That morning the kids were dropped off at school looking irritated & harassed - because I spent the previous two hours acting like a Drill Sargent. Make your bed! Put your pyjamas in the wash! Whose breakfast bowl is on the table still? Put it in the sink! Rooms tidy! Brush your teeth, make sure you rinse the bathroom sink after! 

Instead of walking each minion to their class, I kiss them good bye & head back to the car before the morning bell has even rung. Eager to gain an extra ten minutes to ensure everything is looking as clean & display home'esque as possible. Not a rice bubble in sight. Super House Wife badge on. 

This became the norm. Doug always knew when I had plans to catch up with someone the next day because the night before instead of sitting next to him on the couch, I would be mopping & folding as much of our Mount Washmore as I could before tiredness set in. 

Then a few months ago I called enough. Our house is our home, not an open door display house. I was sick of the falseness, the illusion, the expectation. I wanted to look forward to catching up with friends, not feeling annoyed that I had to sacrifice my quiet evening to make sure every surface was free of minion prints & milk spots. If a friend knocked unexpectedly on our door I didn't want to chat at the front door to hide the lunch dishes in the sink, the unfolded washing dominating the couch, unmade beds & the dozens of shoes almost certainly to be scattered through various rooms.

I also do not want other women to feel the same way. 

Now I'll still say "come in, don't mind the mess." But you will know see exactly what mess I am excusing. Whether it be the crumbs on the bench, the dining table I'm wiping down before we sit, the glass door opaque with hundreds of hand prints or the baby toys & action figurines that lay abandoned on the floor. The real mess. 

Pop over for a cuppa, come for the company. You're welcome any time, just mind the washing.

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.

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.

 

   

S.O.S - Send Out Search (party)

The boys rooms are a mess. 

M.E.S.S.

Despite sending the boys in their rooms for what is meant to be a ten minute quick tidy up - which won't bring miracles but will help their rooms look less like a toy catalog has vomited up everywhere. 

{Kaylee Clean Your Room by Diane McAffee}

Dress ups are on the floor, stripped off clothes hanging all over the dress up tub, puzzle pieces tipped out with the boards discarded randomly on every surface. Cars, trucks, diggers (front end loaders to be specific), Lego, super heroes & their web shooting accessories litter the floor just waiting for the next unobservant, tender footed casualty to walk in & fall victim to their small painful tactics.

Robe doors left open, shoes flung to the floor - not a matching pair in sight. Coat hangers dropped to the bottom of the robe, pillows shoved on the shelves from a previous two minute clean up during the ten minute room clean. At least something was done, other than sitting down playing in the scene of destruction. 

That right there is the source of my dilemma. Playing. 

Their bedrooms is the one place they can claim as their own. I try not to enforce too many restrictions - I don't expect them their bedrooms to be Pinterest worthy every minute, if rarely at all. But I think I do have the expectation that I should be able to walk in, without first needing to cautiously clear a path with my feet before proceeding any further.

It is the first area they can go to & let their imagination carry them away. Or anywhere in the house, because it's a pigs might fly kind of day when there isn't a primary colored something-or-other along with several super hero emblem toting figurines & a collection of anything transport based found in every room. Including our en suite. Not that I have a problem with this, I'm merely just stating a fact.

Often they are asked to clean up after themselves. Specifically, say, if they were playing with Lego, only to abandon it minutes after dumping the entire tub out {to find one wheel} then dashing off to play superheroes/shops/hide & seek...or party crash the kitchen for more food. But sometimes when they are all playing nicely or I can see they are in wrapped up in their play based world I leave them. Play is the most important aspect of childhood - who am I to interrupt.

But it's all gotten a little out of hand. What started out as a few bits n pieces left out has morphed into something bigger than any four or six year old could handle. Now when they are asked to tidy their rooms it's more of a 'damage control' scenario. We're working off a triage based system - just make it safe to enter.

So my spur of the moment decision to sign up to NaBloPoMo - National Blog Posting Month, & take on the challenge of blogging every day for the month of November with BlogHer is really ill timed on my part. With the clean washing piled up on the couch waiting to be folded, two bedrooms suffering in the aftermath of Hurricane Blake & Cyclone Will (plus a Jack induced toy Tsunami), toilet floors to be cleaned up & moped after every visit from Will, who believes he is now big enough now to bypass the potty & use the toilet. Even though his legs are still a little to short to enable him to reach the intended destination, requiring the utmost caution & vigilance when approaching the loo. We've also been organizing kindergarten fundraising events & birthday parties, plus plain ol' tiredness & can't be effed procrastination disease, which have also put me behind the eight ball. 

So I don't know, do I keep the responsibility to clean up their rooms on their shoulders, even though it has reached cataclysmic proportions. At least for the next month while the to-do list is longer than our grocery shopping list. Or do I make it a priority, spend a whole (school) day bringing everything back to Mother in Law visiting conditions, then put the onus back on the minions to not let their rooms reach devastation status again.

I guess if you don't hear from me for a period exceeding forty eight hours then you could hazard a guess that I ventured into the danger zone & a search party is required.

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. 

</script>

In no particular order...

Even though it's not yet 'officially' the school holidays, I felt my next post still needed to be a photo-mentary - especially following on from the last post warning you all of the visual overload that was imminent. 

I wasn't quite prepared with having the camera handy all the time, especially for some of the 'busier' moments, so a few parts of our weekend are left out. I'm considering this weekend that leads into the school holidays a trial run. 

I present to you our last 48 hours... 

Sneaky banana thief forgot to remove the evidence.

Big brothers = 24/7 entertainment.

Love.

 3:45pm Friday afternoon - The first coffee of the (unofficial) school holidays.

The aftermath of Rianan's indoor hopscotch.

Torture objects. 

Lunch

 minus two who had already abandoned the table. 

(& unfolded washing)

Sunday morning.

Saturday night.

Will aka Mr Threenager

It doesn't fly, but that's probably a good thing.