I think if I sat and wrote for a million years, I would never finish recounting the events of the past ten days.

But I can always make a start: this past weekend I donated my SUV to the Salvation Army.

Here it is, being led away by a tow truck.

After almost two years of urging by The Daddy, I had to give it up. Because, although I was sentimentally attached to it, housed it, hand washed it and bought it anything it wanted (new battery and cables! new cooling system! sticky tires! new rear end! - and by that I mean a double hip replacement, not some sort of cheap fancy plastic surgery…) , it did not repay my love.

The sad and sudden end to our relationship began Tuesday afternoon outside Walgreens, when the T-Bot, The Wictor and I got back into the car only for it not to start.

Again.

My first thought? “This is a sign that I must stop visiting drugstores”. Because last time the car wouldn’t start it was parked outside CVS. And my mind works like that. I can make the connection between an emergency 9-pack of toilet tissue and $879 worth of repairs in the time it takes to click your fingers.

And clicking his fingers was no doubt what the Ford service advisor was doing as he processed my car. Clicking his fingers as he sang gaily “We’re in the money! We’re in the money! We gotta lotta whaddit takes to get along!” Although it took him precisely 30 hours to get to the point of gay abandon, at least over my particular car. Due to the fact that they had work “backed up” like nobody’s business.  Or like a clogged toilet. Choose the metaphor you prefer. Personally I choose the latter where my local Ford dealership is concerned, and yes I do consider it everybody’s business that you have sh*tty service, Ford. Actually I do.

(I would like to stop here to mention specifically the day I took my car in to Ford for an oil change appointment at 9am, informed the service advisor that I needed it back for the school run, was told it was no problem, heaved my 1 year old in his car seat into the courtesy bus, sat at home car less all morning, started calling at noon to be told each time that my car had “just gone into the shop” , requested the courtesy bus at 1.30, got into it at 2, and arrived to see my car parked out front. And then they told me there was nothing to pay - because they had not gotten around to doing the oil change yet.

I am not even going to go into the rear window hinge repair they did under a recall, during which they broke the hydraulic seal on the hinge and then refused to repair it because it was not covered under the recall. OK. I just went into it. Because I am mad.)

So, putting all rancor aside, before I could actually get my car to the service advisor I had to call some people I am very very familiar with. The AAA. I get on well with the AAA. We have been seeing each other quite regularly for over a year now. We are friends. They tow me. They don’t charge me (well, apart from my yearly membership fee) and we part company on good terms.

Then I went to see some other good friends of mine, Entreprise Rent a Car. Their office is on the Ford compound, you see. Which makes it very very convenient to rent a substitute car, at vast expense, every time my main ride refuses to start.

Only, not any more! This is how desperate I was to get rid of Ford, in fact, to never set foot on their premises again:

I took my family on vacation!

We spent two whole evenings at Disneyland! the Toyota Salesroom!

And we emerged with this:

(A stock photo! Because I am such an awesome Mom that I forgot to take a photo of my kids with the new car - until 10 minutes ago. At which point I discovered it was dark. And snowing.)

And yes, it may possibly take us hurtling down the highway with the throttle jammed open, who knows. I don’t take the hype all that seriously, considering the fact that for almost 5 years, until about 6 weeks ago actually, I was unknowingly driving a car which could have spontaneously combusted at any moment.

Or just randomly broken down.

So, here we are all happy happy happy, the car is quiet, just the right size and the seats are clean. I got free this and free that and even free oil changes. And it doesn’t guzzle gas.

It feels good - apart  from that big bruise on my shin where I keep kicking myself for not doing this earlier.

Can you say “Good Riddance to Bad Rubbish” here? Or does that sound like Hugh Grant should be mumbling it through his fringe?

Maybe, this being the USA, I have to say “Good Riddance to Bad Trash”?

I saw a photo of myself the other day and the last time I had seen myself looking so puffy in the face was when I was 9 1/2 months pregnant. It was no surprise - The Daddy and I have been pointing and laughing at each other for months now, usually as we meet on the way to the kitchen for another cookie or bowl of ice cream. We know all about da fat. And it’s not really an issue.

Except when it is, like the threat of having to buy whole new wardrobes when the ones we have are not even halfway to being worn out.

The Daddy, trying to be helpful, found a diet for me in a French magazine which promised to have me looking like a young Kate Moss, in just 30 days! It involved, well, mostly not eating. I could probably fast for a month and it would be easier than following all the complicated routines laid out in the magazine article, like spinach and broccoli are OK for lunch but no green beans or tomatoes.

In any case, I have never been able to diet. My metabolism just doesn’t allow it. Plus my children do not enjoy being shouted at and the The Daddy hates the crying fits. (And that’s just when I miss my afternoon snack). So right now I am following a modified eating plan involving lots of protein throughout the day and just a little bit in the evening. I have had to reduce the sugar and carbs for this one, people and OMG this is difficult.

(Sugar in tea doesn’t really count. Honestly it doesn’t. Once it has dissolved it is not sugar any more, right? It becomes part of the tea! And yes, I am suddenly drinking a lot of tea, so what? Did you notice the weather is cold???)

After only two days I am starting to wonder if it is really worth it. It’s slightly less painful than planned exercise though. Exercise is The Daddy’s weight control method of choice, which is why he has decided to stay fat until it gets warm enough to start running again. Don’t laugh - he will run every day for a week during spring, after which he will have lost about 20lbs, following which he will run for an extra week to get a six pack.

It’s just not funny, having to live with him. It’s enough to drive me to cookies.

In my experience, it’s hard to differentiate between temperatures below freezing.

They should give up counting at that point and just call it miserable.

Of course, my experience of freezing is in past. Or was in the past, until this week.

I have been updated.

(Oh! Don’t freak out, North American friends! These temperatures are in Celcius… Our low was -7 degrees C which is just under 20 degrees F)

Last night my friend in Seattle told me I should detach all the hoses from the outdoor faucets or something drastic would happen to our pipes, but by the time I got out to do that the hose was frozen to the faucet. The Daddy told me to get back out there with some warm water, but wouldn’t do it himself. Oh, how I laughed at the futility of his request. And if a pipe bursts as a result, it will be his fault for refusing to complete a manly chore. There are times when all feminism needs to go out the window, and one of those times is when I am freezing my butt off.

So. I know some of you up North and abouts are reading this and then looking outside to the driving snow and laughing a bitter, hollow laugh.

I understand, I really do.

But it is all relative.

Exhibit 1: Furry Boots.

Have been in storage for the last 5 years, since we came to this hot and sweaty state. I pulled them out in the hopes of keeping my tootsies warm, only to remember that they can only be worn with mini skirts or skinny jeans. Hmm. Skinny jeans and mini skirts, I remember you fondly from another life. A life to which I can now only aspire  ;-)

Exhibit 2: Protesting Tropical Plants:

One thing I did manage to do was cover some of our many tropical outdoor plants with plastic so they wouldn’t get frostbite. But I had my Mom brain in at the time, and only looked after the children. All my teeny tiny little cheap-to-replace plants have been protected, thank you very much. Why did I think the more expensive mature plants would be able to protect themselves? Maybe find themselves a warm nook to crawl into?

(Yes, this is a very bad long distance shot. Due to my reluctance to step more than one foot out of my semi-warm house).

Exhibit 3: There is no exhibit 3. I just want you to know that I get very very cold very very easily. And now I am off to wrap myself up  in a blanket and sulk.

Like many families, we are having a couple of weeks of “downtime” Inzaburbs. I know you are thinking vacation and family time and doing stuff! but actually this downtime really means the kids are off school, Mommy looks after them and tries to think up fun! activities! during the day, and then when the Daddy gets home in the evening both parents give themselves permission to drink the good wine and watch bad TV. Or movies. Or bad movies, if The Daddy has chosen them. Ah-em.

So, it’s been a long time since I watched Supernanny. I am not much of a fan. I mean, we all love Supernanny don’t we, with her suits and her cheeky english ways, but for me her tried and true formulas are getting a little…. Oops, sorry, I think I dozed off there.

Anyway, we sat down in front of “Naughty Kids” as my kids like to call it (we are very into Naughty and Nice right now and no I did not teach them this but a favorite game is playing Santa, making up a naughty list and a nice list, then giving somebody… coal. Which usually involves the Wictor coming downstairs wet with tears wailing “Baby Sisa say I nawy but I not nawy!”). And I don’t normally do this but I have to comment. I mean on this Supernanny episode not on the Santa game. I know I can be hard to follow.

It looked like it should have been a juicy episode. Four children under 5! Three of them are triplets! but, apart from feeling really really really bad for this woman - only three children under 5 had me crying in frustration at times and one of those was a baby, and honestly, nobody should be forced to look after more than one 2 year old at a time - the whole show left me puzzled. Why did they choose this family? Are there no real families in crisis left in America? My goodness, has Supernanny worked her way through them all?

As far as I could see the mother in this case was doing an amazing job. Especially when you consider she worked full time and came home to two year old triplets. I mean puh-lease. Even she said herself that what she needed really was a clone of her. Her kids didn’t seem to be running wild, they were just normal kids, multiplied by lots. Which kind of left the producers scrabbling for something else, I guess.

If I had been the producers I would have said “strap em in the stroller for outings and here’s Anymommy’s number for any other questions. Now go away. You are not worthy. Or rather, too worthy for our show.” But maybe they were committed by then. So they came up with:

1. Put more authority in your voice .

2. Use naptime to lie on the couch with your feet raised. The duplo blocks will clear themselves off the floor.

3. Make Daddy do more chores and plant flowers with the 4 year old.

4. Confront your father about why you feel you always need to clean up those duplo blocks.

5. Force your kids to eat their dinner.

That doesn’t sound really interesting does it? Really, it wasn’t. Not like that episode way back where the toddlers refused to sit at table so they were eating dinner squatting on the kitchen floor and counters… Now that was worth watching!

You know what was the most unintentionally hilarious part of the show? The advice snippet just before the commercial break. According to Supernanny not only must you make your kids stay at table until they have finished their meal, they also need to stay at table until they have finished their sippy cup. I agree hydration is important but honestly, Supernanny? Do you not know that is why the sippy cup was invented? SO YOU CAN CARRY IT AROUND.

Some good has come of this show. I have Supernanny to thank for introducing a new game to our house to supplant the awful Santa game. It’s called “Stay at Table Until you Finish Your Sippy Cup!”. And usually involves the Wictor coming downstairs wailing and wet with tears…

Thanks, Supernanny! For nothing.

Uncool: I realised I have forgotten my 7 times table.

Cool: I have a calculator on my laptop and one on my phone. Plus ten fingers to count on if I really get stuck.

Uncool: At a meetup of moms in the park, Mom1 started yelling at the Mom2, in front of all the other moms and our children, for a decision she had made, one which didn’t actually affect her at all, using words like “you can’t do that!” and “that’s disgusting!”. (For the record, disgusting didn’t actually have anything to do with the issue).

Uncool: Although I thought Mom1’s behavior was atrocious and her stance ridiculous,  and I totally sided with Mom2, I didn’t speak up in public. I didn’t do this because I had just been through a 10 minute grilling by Mom2 which involved phrases like “if he doesn’t go back to school now he will fall so far behind he will never be able to go back” and “he should be getting specialist help”. I was feeling rather bitter and unhelpful.

Uncool: Mom3 managed to add her voice wherever it would be the most unconstructive. As in helping criticize Mom 2 and me.

Cool: All this made me take stock of my situation and have some constructive talks with The Daddy, and I emerged from the process realizing that I am totally satisfied with the decisions we have made and the way we live our life, and am in fact the happiest and most fulfilled I have ever been. So there is absolutely no reason to look outside the family for any guidance.

Cool: It might be fun to find myself some new friends.

Cool: On Friday afternoon The Daddy came home early and I managed to get to the hairdressers.

Uncool: I think she gave me a Rachel.

Cool: At least I don’t have so much hair now. And it will eventually grow out.

Cool: I went to a friend’s art exhibition on Friday and saw lots of awesome new canvases.

Uncool: I met a friend of a friend who is no longer a friend because she is so apparently so appalled by homeschooling. She was desperate to get away and used the excuse “I just have to …um… see the paintings in the other room”.

Cool: I then found lots of very interesting people to talk to while she seemed to be drifting around the room alone. (Insert very immature raspberry here and maybe a casual flip of the bird, or as we Antipodeans would do, The Fingers.)

Uncool: On Sunday the T-Bot’s Sunday sport was cancelled and nobody bothered to tell us.  We were the only ones to turn up with 60lbs of gear to find the field empty.

Cool: So we went as a family to the park instead. We took the bikes and the T-Bot finally mastered the art of 2 wheeled cycling (I know, I know, it has taken a while. We are not big on cycling). He was so determined to do it and so proud of himself afterward.

Cool: Then we went for a walk and found frogspawn. The children were captivated by our stories of raising tadpoles when we were little.

Uncool: The frogspawn disappeared and we realized it was probably just bubbles of pollution.

Cool: We went to get ice cream and sat in the sun and everybody was happy.

The first day of 2009 also marks the first anniversary of this blog.

I believe I might have really started blogging because I had such a depressing New Years Eve in 2007, watching Dick Clark’s Super Banging Rocking Old Time New Years Eve Jam or whatever they call it, while listening to fireworks. And then, at some point, I got online and came across a whole lot of bloggers who were planning awful  evenings also. A whole lot of other losers parents of young children who couldn’t easily get out of the house on the one day of the year you should be out partying. And that made me feel a whole lot better.

Now I have Twitter. So last night I knew I was far from being the only one. Also, I entered the Pioneer Woman’s competition for losers who were not out partying, and I was comment number over-10,000.

Last time we watched the Dick Clark thingy, and also a whole lot of other very very bad TV. But we did have champagne.

This time we downloaded the $1 movie on i-tunes.

Legally Blonde.

Also, instead of champagne we decided to go teetotal, then at the last minute changed our minds.

So we had to drink beer.

For New Years 2009, I don’t think we could sink any lower, unless we drink water and watch old silent Charlie Chaplin movies.

My first New Years Resolution: New Years Eve Party. My House. Be There.

PS:  Yes! This year I did get to see fireworks! At 12.30 when the neighbor started letting them off right in front of our house and woke up Baby Sister. Who was petrified and refused to let me leave her for the rest of the night. Her bed is very uncomfortable. But the fireworks were pretty. So maybe it was worth it.

I am a little frustrated right now. This morning we went to Baby Sister’s appointment at a new pediatric dentist. I wanted to try a new one as an experiment.  I just wanted to see if a pediatric dentist even exists who doesn’t run a tight factory production line operation, with children lined up in chairs and the dentist uttering two words to each, poking around briefly in their mouth and then moving onto the next. Without even a goodbye. 

I wanted to see if this imaginary dentist would have a hygienist who didn’t sound like they were reading their lines from a script. Because my son is six years old and last time even he had enough of the faltering rendition of “This is Squirty Squirter he’s going to squirt water in your mouth see Squirty Squirter’s squirting, it’s just water see. Now let’s meet Bobby Brush he tastes good and he makes a whizzing sound listen to the whizzing sound… ” after the first three minutes and was looking at me like “What has this woman been smoking???” 

And I’m not even going to mention the dental assistant who handed the T-Bot his “sleepy juice” before dental work with the words “Ewww. It tastes yucky!”. 

Anyway. I just thought I would check all this stuff out. So I phoned and made an appointment with Our-New-Dentist and gave them my insurance details and wished I didn’t feel the need to try new medical professionals each time in search of the perfect one. Because what with all the phoning and exchange of details and form filling that goes on, I am losing hours of my life here. Hours which could be spent either productively or in watching Season 3 of Weeds. Take your pick, it’s all good.

But I made the effort and we arrived on time and Baby Sister was even excited about Her Turn at Our-New-Dentists! But we never got past the waiting room. Because when we arrived they informed me that they don’t accept our insurance after all. The lady was very nice about it and gave Baby Sister another free toothbrush to add to her free toothbrush collection, but still … she didn’t offer to pay my gas money or refund my time. Or put my children back in their PJs and arrange them in front of PBS Kids. And then I realised I had a bigger problem. 

The Not-Our-New-Dentist’s waiting room was amazing. It was enormous. It had trains of every description, and building blocks, and Finding Nemo running on the TV (like actually running, without us having to ask!). While I was discussing our ultimate rejection with the receptionist (who, by the way, was not sitting behind glass!), my three children had settled in and were playing contentedly. You could tell by their faces that I was the Best Mommy Ever for bringing them there. 

So I let them play for another few minutes but we were the only people waiting and I started to feel a little uncomfortable freeloading off Not-Our-New-Dentist, especially as we already had our free toothbrush… so we left. 

And as we left, the Wictor started wailing, “Noooooo! Nooooo! Wanna More Dennis! More Dennis!” 

My sentiments exactly. 

I have entered my own private hell.

The Wictor has learned to use the mouse. And now the kids’ computer, strategically placed in a common area so that older children with self-control may use it when they please, has been taken over by the Terrible Two. 

Actually, that’s not fair, The Wictor doesn’t seem to have entered the Terrible Twos yet. Except where the computer is concerned. The house now resonates with regular wails of “Ah Wan PBS Ki’ !!!!!!” And if another child should so much as glance towards the computer they will be literally bowled over by the screaming. “No! Mah Coh pooter!

This morning I walked upstairs to find him watching a video commercial for wrinkle cream on Yahoo! and quietly whimpering. 

If he is going to have a Metal Mommy I suppose the interaction provided by PBS Kids online is a step above the TV. And if those Dell commercials on the spanish channels are to be believed, he even needs this computer time so that he will not, later, fail horribly in school.

So really, I wouldn’t mind so much, if his new confidence with things digital didn’t extend to the Wii. 

Now, the Wii is my domain. It’s bad enough that I have to share it with the T-Bot and Baby Sister. And last night, when I was just points away from getting us to the next level of Elebits, The Wictor arrived and declared “Mah Tur’! Mah Tur’ !!!!!” 

“No,” I said firmly, “My turn. You go play PBS Kids on the computer” 

Unfortunately he is stronger than I am. Also I have delicate ears. 

As he noisily wrestled the controller out of my hands (and a million Elebits sauntered past, arrogant in the knowledge that they had just become untouchable) I asked helplessly,

“And what are you going to do with that controller anyway?” 

“Ah,” he declared proudly, “Ah gonna click o’  ”A”!” 

I am not a food nazi or organic warrior, although with three small kids I probably should be. 

There is one thing I am firm on though. No food products from China.

A few years ago I watched a documentary on PBS about farming practices in China and the difficulties ensuring quality in their food production. Apparently many fruits and vegetables there come from small farmers who are trying to scratch a living out of infertile or over-farmed land. And many of them resort to banned pesticides and herbicides and other chemicals, and/or concentrations way over safe limits. 

I am too cynical to believe that none of this produce makes its way to the foreign market, especially in the light of the inability of large companies such as Mattel to keep lead paint out of their toy production lines in much the same circumstances (outsourcing to many smaller companies, making inspection of each step of the process very difficult). 

And so, I made the decision to limit food products from China. By limit I mean, we do not knowingly have them in the house. There are, of course, always exceptions - fast food apple juice boxes and Halloween candy for example, and we will never know the source of the ingredients in the little pre-prepared food we eat - but we do what we can. 

My kids drink a lot of apple juice. Mainly because they don’t like many vegetables and this is a good way of ensuring they at least get their full quota of fruit (an aside - did you know that the five servings can be fruit OR vegetables? Not necessarily a mixture of both, as long as they are eaten as part of an otherwise balanced diet. This information is pediatrician approved). 

It used to be fairly easy to eschew juice made with chinese concentrate. It was just a matter of studying the label or those little black words printed on the neck of the bottle. Some companies did. Some companies didn’t. No problem.

However, the grocery shrink ray apparently isn’t weapon enough against inflation. Lately more companies seem to be sourcing their apple concentrate from China. The rot set in slowly.  Not so long ago I was buying Tree Top. Then one day I noticed that ominous “Concentrate from China” mention appear on the bottle and switched to Old Orchard Organic. Not bad, I thought, only 20c more expensive and it’s organic. 

Old Orchard and I have had a good relationship for over a year now. Until yesterday, when I reached for the bottle, did my usual check, and instead of “Concentrate from Chile, Turkey, USA, New Zealand, Argentina” (all countries I sort of trust), the bottle was marked … you guessed it. 

(Yes, I know it’s marked organic, and by definition should be free of nasties. But Mattel has told us time and time again that their toys are free of lead.  Get my point?)

So. I have done extensive research in the Clear, Bottled, Pasteurized, Apple-Juice-From-Concentrate department and it appears that where I shop there is one hold-out. Hansens Organic Apple Juice at a whopping $4.56 a bottle (compare this with Old Orchard at $2.57) still sources its concentrate in Turkey. For now.

I am a big fan of Hansens, I am just not a big fan of their prices.

But in the end, it’s all good. Because, on his first reluctant sip of the new brew, the T-Bot declared “Wow, Mommy, this is really yummy!”. And Baby Sister and The Wictor gulped all theirs down too and asked for more. So I tried it and poured myself a big glass because this stuff is amazing! Light and crisp and just like biting into a fresh apple. Comparing the Hansens juice with Old Orchard is like comparing … I don’t know, Prada with H&M? Bentley with Hyundai? Italian coffee with that weak cup of instant your Grandma makes?

You know - they are sort of the same thing. But they’re not. 

Oh, did I say it’s all good? I’m taking it back. The Hansens juice is so delicious that The Daddy and I just can’t resist stealing glasses of the stuff ( I admonish The Daddy - “Hey, the apple juice is for the kids!” - while holding my glass behind my back). The price of our family consumption has not almost doubled, it has quadrupled. It is costing a fortune.

Somebody send me an press and a ton of first world apples.  Quick. 

Personally, I am not into hothousing children. I am not into private tutors and extra lessons and the like, unless they are already in high school and need some individual attention or a kick on the rear end to get them into the best college or something (I imagine. Because, after all, if and when we get to that point it will be my money at stake. And already I am crossing my fingers and toes for a scholarship or a lottery win or for them to all be running profitable businesses by sixteen. Or a miracle).

And I am not into those awful workbooks you buy at the supermarket with Fun Math! and I Can Read! optimistically emblazoned across the covers. 

Sooooooooooo. At the beginning of this long, hot summer I talked about home schooling, but by that I meant fun projects and sticker books and weekly themes and the like. You know - read about dinosaurs, talk about dinosaurs, visit dinosaur bones at the museum. As it happened we managed to fill most of the last two months with random activities which did not need a theme. 

For example, Farmyard dioramas where animals graze amongst freaky enormous flowers…

…and dinosaur dioramas, notice that T-Rex has become a vegetarian?

And then, I woke up one morning last week and it hit me that there are only three weeks until school starts. And the T-Bot has forgotten how to write his numbers. 

So this week we are following a fun theme called “School at Home!”, where we sit around a table and I fabricate things for The Wictor to do while Baby Sister cuts and glues Things that Begin with A and B and C and the T-Bot works his way through a book called Fun with Math!

Seriously. I cannot think of a worst instrument of torture. I should have checked the book more thoroughly in the supermarket, but I had three children crammed into the cart and I was seduced by the fact that it had stickers. The worst thing is that the T-Bot loves math. He hates this workbook - and rightly so - because every single page involves counting up pictures and then writing the number in a box. But I am not a teacher. And so, for want of a viable alternative I make him do it, four pages a day, followed by a sentence of handwriting, and I will continue to do so until the boy can write the number 5 the right way around without searching for an example to copy. 

I make him do it. And every day I die a little inside. 

But it’s not all bad! His reward? Science. Yesterday we did science with a volcano. It was pretty cool, even if I was mean with the food coloring resulting in lava which flowed out pink. Today we launched lego men off the balcony with different types of parachutes. Kitchen towel? Not so good. Plastic bags - better. 

And Baby Sister? She is bright, quick witted, very sharp. But as far as reading goes she is definitely waiting for her time. Things that begin with B: Cat. Toothbrush. Flowers.