Shocked by the power

One of the things I am growing to dislike about Grizzlewick's long and winding road to "big-kidhood" is his ever-growing independence.

Don't get me wrong, I would love nothing more than for him to wake up, make his own breakfast, slouch out of the house for the day with nary a grunt behind him, and leave me to a blissful morning of, well, let's be honest, housework*.

But at this age (4) his independence is nothing short of terrifying.

Last weekend, I was doing a bit of, erhum, housework, and he decided to help. As I was heading out the backyard to hang out the washing, he noted that the floor needed vacuuming.

"Yes it does," I agreed. "Just wait until I hang this washing out and then we will do it together".

When I returned inside, he was sitting on the kitchen bench with a sopping wet vacuum cleaner plug (he'd tipped over a vase getting on the bench), holding it out towards the power socket.

I shrieked.

I knocked it out of his hand.

He started crying.

Then Mr Fix and I spent about thirty minutes telling him in a variety of ways how scared we were by what he had done, and how accidents with electricity could mean you "have to go to hospital". However, given his advanced state of howling, it's fair to say we weren't getting through to him.

Our usual response in these situations is to call in the "big guns". And that means Pa. You see, Mr Fix and I can say anything we want. But in place of a higher being, my son has his grandfather. And what he says, although he is often very accommodating of the little tyke, carries a weight that I couldn't have foreseen.

Luckily we were headed out to my folks for dinner. So when we arrived, I said to Grizzlewick,

"Hey, you should have a talk to Pa about electricity".

So he very solemnly walked up to my father, looked up at him with saucer-sized eyes and said solemnly,

"Pa. Electricity is dangerous. You really shouldn't play with it. And never never vacuum without Mummy"





* But in my mind it's not housework. No. In my mind, it's a long sleep in, lazy breakfast, reading the paper from cover to cover and possibly watching 'Insiders' without interuption. Pah! Like that will ever happen.

In the Blood

Proof I must be doing a Relatively Good Job (or How Indoctrination is Working For Me):

Last night I was presented with

~ 3 Scholastic Book Club order forms

and

~ Permission Notes for 'Sport for Life' gym and contemporary dance classes at school.

Now, being in the same boat as pretty much anyone else out there with school age children and a mortgage, money is short supply at Chez B. And therefore the weekly school newsletter bearing yet more chirpy paragraphs requesting funds for this, that and the other, is a thing to be dreaded. I pay my taxes, I pay the 'voluntary' contribution to the school (So voluntary that we were sent an invoice this year! And then a statement saying we were outside terms (wtf?!)), but the constant 'extras' we're being asked to pay for really gets my goat. And dressing it up in terms of how these classes contribute to different aspects of the curriculum actually just contribute to my rising blood pressure.

Sorry, will control my ranting on this here blog...

Anyhowdles, this morning I was going through the book club pamphlet and picked out a number of books. They're not the ones the kids want (Design your Own Paper Fashions!), but instead include 'Scholastic Dictionary of Antonyms, Synonyms and Homonyms', 'My Australian Story: Refugee' and 'My Australian Story: Stolen Generation' (yes, we're happy to spend our money on ensuring we raise Happy Little Lefties)(Happy Little Christian Lefties - oh the conflicting ideologies!). Then I realised that I was about to spend $70 on books. The 'Sport for Life' classes were going to cost $70. I decided to give my children the choice - (Non-Compulsory) sport classes or books?


They both chose the books.

I am so proud of them!

Law & Order: WDTAOK

It is not that easy to explain to a two year old why someone, who is presumably someone a bit older, feels the need to write his name and postcode all over the equipment at one of the local parks. However, Bundle has certainly grasped the concept that such behaviour is not to be encouraged. Our last conversation on the topic went something like this:

Bundle: Someone put paint on here too. That’s naughty.

INC: Yes. He will be in trouble when his parents find out.

Bundle: Hmmm. Someone will say “No” very loudly.


Two important things here. Firstly, at least now I know that my son has made the link between his parents saying “no” really loudly and him being in trouble. Secondly, I’m impressed that at the age of two my son has basically grasped the concept of how the Children’s Court is likely to deal with a teenager charged with criminal damage.

We like tractors

We visited Chesterfield Farm again on the weekend. We picked the wrong day to do this, as it was so windy that Cherub’s attempts to walk did remind me irresistibly of a very small and not entirely successful mime artist. In fairness, he’s 12 months old so the fact that he’s walking around a farm is not unimpressive.

Anyway, you can read about a previous and rather more successful visit here.

Also, the alpacas are particularly cute.

Give me some place to go, don't give me train rides

There are a few things that I find hard to figure out. Here's one now.

Many suburban shopping centres/collections of factory outlets feature a dinky little Thomas the Tank Engine with coaches which runs around a tiny part of the shopping centre for about three minutes and then one's son gets cross because it's over already.

This costs $3.00. Per child.

Alternatively, on any Sunday of the year, the same parent can drive/walk to his or her local train station, and for $2.50, buy a ticket enabling one to travel anywhere on the entire metropolitan rail network with as many children as one can reasonably manage.

Last weekend, while Cherub was having an unusually lengthy afternoon sleep, Bundle and I caught the train to Flinders Street, walked over to Federation Square to admire the ferris wheel, looked for boats on the Yarra, admired the view from the bridge, got on the next train, which included a not unexciting (for a two year old) trip through the loop, and happily headed home again.

Bundle was thrilled every single time we went through a level crossing, and excited almost beyond belief when we saw some diggers on a building site near the train line. More importantly, the trip was long enough that he was saying 'are we there yet' with three stations to go and he was perfectly happy to get off the train when we finally found our station.

And he was still telling people about this the next day.

Let me just mention again that this was all for the bargain basement price of $2.50. Mysteriously, however, in the middle of a perfectly pleasant Sunday afternoon, the trains were less than one fifth full, but had we been at one of those shopping centres we probably would have had to queue up to get on the dinky little three minute train ride.

I can not figure this out.

I also cannot figure out how we ran a party at home for eight children aged 6 months to nearly five years for two whole hours and I cannot come up with enough decent anecdotes for even a fairly brief post. So, without further ado...

HAPPY FIRST BIRTHDAY CHERUB!