Barbie 1 (because they don’t have names, they are all called Barbie): “Oooh I love your dress! It looks just like Cinderella’s!” 

Barbie 2: Yes, it is Cinderella’s. She lent it to me to go to the ball.”

Barbie 1: “It’s very pretty. And I love your hair!”

Barbie 2: “Thank you! It’s very long and gets knots in it. Sometimes I cry when my Mommy combs it. I love your hair too, it is nice and curly.” 

Barbie 1: “Thank you. Sometimes I show people my backside.”

Barbie 2: “(WTF??????????????)”

(Relax, she isn’t actually an exhibitionist. We have big windows looking out onto the street, and if she takes too long putting her pajamas on, we just tell her everybody is looking at her naked. And yes, we do expect her to pay her own therapy bills.) 

I was cleaning out my refrigerator and pantry the other day and look what I found! 

Guess what we’re having for dinner? 

For a child who hardly ever injures himself badly, the T-Bot sure is sporting a lot of Band Aids these days.  

It all really began when he started Kindergarten. He had a lot of trouble adjusting to the big school routine and I found it very stressful to the point of blubbing. My baby was out there in that big big world and he wasn’t having a good time and there was nothing I could do-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-! 

And almost from Day One at Kindergarten, he came home with knees and hands full of bandages. I weeped and I wailed to anyone who would listen. I was sure he was being bullied, because boo-boos bad enough for medical treatment are usually a rarity in this house. In fact, my kids think Band Aids are a toy or a treat, like funny stickers which don’t stick in the middle. 

But every time I asked him he would tell me he fell over at recess. 

It wasn’t until months into the school year, when things were going much better, that I discovered the truth. The kindergarteners have free reign of the Band Aid box! They are encouraged to tape themselves up whenever they feel like it! And to my son, any excuse is a good excuse. 

Last night he was sporting 3 fingers full, plus one behind his knee. Why the Band-Aid behind his knee? Because: 

“Mommy, I was walking at recess and I was tired and my leg hurt so-o-o-o-o much, so I said to myself, I will have to put on a Band Aid”. 

All was quiet Inzaburbs. The Daddy had already prepared and placed the chicken in the oven, with the enthusiastic help of The T-Bot (enthusiastic! with a pepper pot!). The Mommy’s job was to peel an enormous sweet potato. When the T-Bot asked to help, she didn’t say no. Because she is a neglectful mother who would do anything to get out of helping with dinner and anyhow, a potato peeler is hardly dangerous. Is it? 

Under supervision, I will have you know. The peeling was strictly under supervision. And this is a 6 year old we are talking about. Do you sense a little defensiveness creeping into my tone here? 

You guessed it. Suddenly a horrendous shrieking rends the air. A series of anguished, high pitched screeches which goes on and on.  

I look at the end of the T-Bot’s thumb, with its bubbling fountain of blood. I never saw it coming. That blade moved faster than the eye to wreak its terrible havoc. 

“Aiiii eeeee argh eeeeeeeeeeeee eee eee eee eee aa eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee aaaaaaa iiiii eeeeee iiiiiiiiiii Mommy! Mommy I peeled myself! I peeled myself and red is coming ouuuuuuut! ”

If the phrase “like a stuck pig” wasn’t such a cliche I would use the phrase “like a stuck pig”. Applicable in this case to both the bleeding and the squealing. 

The T-Bot, so unaccustomed to the sight of his own blood that he doesn’t actually have a name for it, is sent into a panic. I have to admit that I too am moving fast to prevent his precious life force draining out of his body. I bustle for the kitchen roll. I hustle for the Band-Aids. 

The moaning and shrieking continues, along with frequent loud reminders that he peeled himself. By now the whole situation is getting a little over dramatic. The Daddy has politely left the room to indulge in some quiet cackling in a corner, and I am very tempted to join him. Because we are very bad parents like that, who find it hysterical when our son has injured himself and is making the absolute most of the situation, in such a cute, childish way. 

Instead:

“You know sweetheart,” I say, “that’s what Band Aids are for. ”

Soon a double application of tie-dyed bandages has done its job and The T-bot is ensconsed in a chair, watching me peel the sweet potato.

“Mommy I will sit here and if you peel yourself you will tell me and I will get you a Band Aid,” he states importantly, “because if I don’t help you all the red will drip out of your body and on the floor”. 

My sister came to visit a couple of years ago.  

My sister lives on the other side of the world. She looks sort of like me but different. Mostly because she has that fresh, wrinkle-free complexion that comes from being childless.

My sister, as you will imagine, has a wardrobe full of clothes and none of them ever have food stains or dribble on them (unless, presumably, she had an extra specially rowdy night out). She wears heels whenever she feels like it. She has a lie in on Sundays, except when she has planned to go horse-riding. My sister does exotic-sounding things I vaguely remember through the distant mists of time, things like “brunch” and “day at the spa”. I think she may even do “manicure”. 

She was great with the kids and then left saying that experiencing our family life was “the best contraceptive”.

Yet when she went we were a family of four. All was relatively calm and ordered around our house. Neither of the kids were really talking yet. They did cute things like go out and play in the yard together for half an hour at a stretch without even poking their nose in the door. 

Now we are five. My poor sister had no idea. 

Three children in six years makes for a barrel-load of noise.

All three spend all day Talking. Commenting. Requesting. Stating. Correcting. Pleading. Asking. Whining. Arguing. Yelling. Screaming. Shrieking. Shouting. Banging. Bashing. Tapping. Noisy-button-pushing. Teasing. Throwing. Debating. Laughing. Cackling. Snorting. Stomping. Wailing… 

Ha!

You thought I was going to carry on something like this: …Cuddling. Playing. Kissing. Snuggling. Listening. Venturing. Obliging. Complimenting. Helping… 

But I am not. That would be way too predictable. After all, this is not a womens’ magazine, this is my blog. Mine, geddit? I can do with it as I please. And after living through the chaos that was this afternoon, I am feeling extra-specially curmudgeonly. 

That’s all. 

Last night we performed the Butterfly Release ceremony. In theory we could have kept them confined to their compound for a few days more, but the T-Bot and Baby Sister specifically asked to let them free, worried that the butterflies would miss their Mommy. Secretly I was rather pleased. Gratified that my kids are empathetic enough to care about an insect’s feelings… but also thankful that I would no longer have to live with the frantic beating of tiny wings against the mesh.

So we took the hamper outside (for that is what it is, a very expensively decorated miniature laundry hamper, such as you could probably pick up at a dollar store if you kept your eyes open), and we took turns at letting butterflies sit on our finger before they flew away.

They weren’t with us long enough to acquire names, so Goodbye, Butterflies 1,2,3 and 4.

I hope you found your Mommy.

For the last year I have been wondering about the identity of the mystery plant under the bedroom window. Then, this morning it flowered and it is … a Gardenia! 

I never knew what a gardenia was, but as soon as I saw the flower, the name hit me. So I googled it, and see?

I am quite partial to the smell of Tahitian Gardenia. I know this one is just common-or-garden, but it will do. 

There must have been something magical about last night (was it a full moon? I kept waking up thinking it was morning), because the butterflies in our Butterfly Garden also chose this morning to make their entry into the world. The children have been so excited. It is moments like these that really drive home the wonder of childhood. Remember when you could sit transfixed for half an hour just watching a butterfly stretch its wings? Me neither. 

Two conversations from yesterday: 

Conversation #1: A Chip off the Old Block

T-Bot: “Mommy, I can’t find my Power Ranger”

Mommy: “Oh, I haven’t seen it, do you remember where you left it?” 

T-Bot: “I left it here Mommy! I left it here! You tidied it away! Where did you put it????”

Conversation #2: Where she manages to totally evade the Question

Daddy: ” Baby Sister, do you need to go potty?”

Baby Sister: ” Mmmm? Hey Daddy, your potty is here in the Mommy and Daddy bathroom! And there’s a bathroom in the kitchen too! I don’t wear diapers, the Wictor does because he’s a baby Daddy can I have a kiss? And a cuddle?”

Every time I am in France (which hasn’t been for a mindbogglingly long time, please feel free to send checks), I eat crêpes. French-style pancakes, lots of them. Sweet or savory, in restaurants as part of a 4 course pancake meal or furtively on street corners, crêpes are one of my many weaknesses. Sometimes I dream of crêpes, and for some reason I am always standing in a dark corner near Beaubourg, hurriedly swallowing great chunks of nutella-laden treat, while pigeons rustle and trash blows around my feet. 

Then at home, every 6 months or so, I get a random mental image of crêpes and start drooling uncontrollably. And the frying pan comes out… Ten minutes later I have before me a mixed plate of burnt and soggy pancake pieces. The poor results may be down to not having the correct equipment. But more likely it is just because I am such an awful, awful cook. 

Still, I never learn. Today, since we had time on our hands (no car line to sit in due to the T-Bot being - excuse me while I stifle a sarcastic grunt - sick) I roped the children into production. With great talk of pancakes! with maple syrup! and we’ll make home made lemonade! 

All I can say is, much fun was had by all. And… the lemonade was a success. 

P.S. See the picture? See that measuring cup? I really and truly bought that because I thought it would make me a good cook.

“Mommy?”

“Yes?”

“After the Fairy Game we’ll play the Princess and the Pea?” 

“Um.. oh, OK”

“Good. You’ll be the pea and I’ll be the Princess”