Getting home from seeing my shrink and not being medicated.
Chef home and cooking dinner.
Dinner being Felix’s request – spaghetti and meatballs. (I surrended to the evil empire power of PayTV American indoctrination of our future generations years ago)
Feeling like (and having) a divine glass of Four Sisters Semillon Savignon Blanc.
Sitting next to my Oscar (and helping him w/ his dinner – sometimes it is nice having a 7 year old who happily lets you still feed them. I said sometimes.) and having him rest his head on my m.a.s.s.i.v.e. belly.
Watching a video with the whole family, and loving it. Elf. Highly recommended (disclaimer: I LOVE anything with Owen Wilson, Luke Wilson, Will Farrell, Ben Stiller and Vince Vaughan).
Children just ‘going to bed’ with no fuss, no fanfare, no hassle.
All being home together.
(Although now I’m enduring channel flicking between the AFL and the Ashes…)
Our orange tree is blossoming and the scent is divine. Plus, Shirley-next-door’s jasmine has twined an extra couple of feet through our orange tree and I swear it’s shooting out pheremones through the branches.
As I stood outside this morning, sucking it all in and trying to ignore how badly the deck and furniture need new oil, my gorgeous boy came to the door:
GB: Tan I come outside?
ME: Of course you can, honey.
GB: Tan I come out dere now wit you?
ME: Yes, baby, come out.
GB: Tan I really come out dere right now?
ME: Yep, absolutely, right now, not a problem, is there something bothering you babe?
GB: pointing and looking worried. When I come outside, does dis door stay open?
Now, since he’s only three years old, this past winter is the same length to him as four years of my life. No wonder he’s forgotten what the back door is for.
Other proofs of spring include that I don’t have to turn the lamp on to read my monitoring reports at 6am and the kids suddenly look too pale for summer clothes.
But the real clincher is that the Professor has announced he’s going to bed three times, but is still sitting on the lounge mesmerised by the live telecast of the final cricket match in the current Ashes series. (For the record, as I type England’s 154/4 and that fuckwit Shane Warne has taken all four wickets. Amazing what he can do with his hands when they’re not occupied with yet another woman WHO IS NOT HIS WIFE.)
– turning on the stove, wondering why the element isn’t coming on as a teatowel goes up in flames on the burner next to it.
– burning so many slices of toast I lost count months ago
– loading cat food into the washing machine
– When Felix asked “what’s the boy’s name?” in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and I replied, “I’m not sure Felix, maybe its Billy.”
When you hear (and see) your child reading whole sentences in a whole story (not just the five word, one line kinda readers).
Even moreso when two weeks ago ‘the’ note came home – the one along the lines of “it has been recognised that your child is failing to recognise basic first stage sight words. Please practice these daily to assist your child’s literacy”.
How to strike blind determination into Kim = send a note home saying your child can’t read. If it’s not a daily enough challenge for me to accept I, ME, KIM THE TALK UNDERWATERER, has produced a child with a profound speech disability, there is no.way.in.hell. I’ve produced one that can’t read. So yes, while we all know Flix has done this because he was good and ready, it is really because in the last two weeks “we’ve” practiced innumerable sheets of sight words, practiced with laminated, magnetised sight word cards on the fridge, and ‘played’ and picking words out in the newspaper that we know. That’s right. It’s all me me me. The child is still a genius though. In his own right. Although he did come from me. Not that I’m stealing any of his glory. I’m NOT!
I love nothing more than the ‘oh fuck’ moment when you realise you’ve done something really really bad (to a help desk person that means ‘stupid’) with technology.
Bec – missed your call as I was at my desk for a sum total of 1hr42mins today – God Bless meeting days I say – not every day, but some days, it is nice to not really do work… if you get my drift (as we all know a day of meetings equals a bazillion hours of resultant work)
We have been completely stuck in a pasta glut of late – your cumin adventures/revelation make me feel a bit embarrassed about our lack of creativity in the meal department of late. Then Chef bought the CSIRO diet book – dare I say it, it is very good – in that there are recipes – no, real recipes, not something like Weight Watchers in which every recipe involves spray oil – something I have a near religious objection to.
Food is still not really doing it for me and you know, after 34 weeks of not cutting it I am a little cranky about it. I reckon I’m incubating a girl because a boy just wouldn’t give this sort of grief (I ate like a HORSE with both the boys pregnancies) over such an extended period of time.
I had a midwife checkup tonight – you can rest assured there was no discussion of the VVs or pelvic congestion. Wheyhey. I could venture into the delights of raging antibiotic induced thrush but will save that for Obgynorama. But as that seems to be on the wane there is someone who was obviously out of practice walking around with shaggers back today and for once, it wasn’t me!