All in good fun, of course

I shouldn’t be here. I’m supposed to be somewhere else shortly. I’m supposed to be cleaning up the kitchen. I’m supposed to be vacuuming up all the hundreds & thousands sprinkles that got spilled over our bedroom*

(*NO, not a ‘ sex-thing’. It was the kids. Promise)

There’s the washing, over there. I suppose I should be sorting them into colours and whites. My son has a runny nose {Insert candlestick metaphor}.

I don’t even need to ask if their teeth has been brushed. Of course they haven’t.

I haven’t packed snacks for the  ’somewhere else’ that just drifted a few minutes closer. I haven’t checked to see if my mobile is charged, if I have spare change.

My daughter has shoes on; the wrong shoes. Sandals. IN WINTER. Now I’ll have to spend five minutes trying to convince why it’s in her best interest to take them off and put boots as I convince my son not to change back into his Elmo pyjamas.

All this while I sit here when I shouldn’t be. Checking Twitter. Checking emails. Getting angry at myself for not getting work done, and being jealous of people who are, and even if they aren’t and just saying they are, then that’s okay too.

My book re-writes have stalled. I have a good night and then four bad ones. I’m tired. The rats have re-entered our roof and frolic all night behind our headboard. I hate the fuckers. HATE THEM.

Almost as much as I hate being unproductive.

That’s why I shouldn’t be here. So I’m going now.

I’m still ploughing through Bel Canto, so my library borrowing was pretty light this week. The last three issues of Australian Book Review, the Ian Fleming because I want to see what he’s like, and Tender Morsels because the title seems vaguely familar.

There was a television special on Saturday night, as I’m sure there will be more to come, about the life and music of Michael Jackson. I put it on out of respect, more than anything, to the talent I don’t think anyone could doubt he had. We sat the kids down to watch, but Keira wasn’t interested, not in the slightest, and soon walked off.

Riley, however, sat transfixed. More for the dancing than the music, I think. Only by the 1990’s era did I truly feel some sort of hardened memories of the man. I remembered I bought ‘Dangerous’ from a second-hand CD shop and later pawned it back in one of the few times I’ve needed quick money. Suddenly, I felt quite disappointed. Just in case I was wrong I went to our neglected CD cabinet (who honestly uses them anymore?) and there on the fourth bottom shelf, there was ‘Dangerous’! I must’ve hocked some others.

So all Sunday I had ‘Dangerous’ playing on a loop, as I chuckled to myself that I was able to recall all of the words to “Give Into Me”, his version of a chest-thumping power ballad, with Lots Of Guitar.

And ever since my Feed Reader has been chock full of testimonials and essays to the man. Words, words words spilled. Words able to be said, words that’ve come so fluidly, so eloquently, as people express their grief.

I have not yet done the same for my father.

This hurts.

And I’m so sorry.

I’ve been asked a few times lately to give my thoughts on the rise of mummyblogging / parenting blogs in Australia and the power and attention these are starting to get from marketing and PR companies. In all honesty, I’ve not been much help as this subject does not rate high up in my list of blogging priorities, and I doubt it ever will, so haven’t given it much thought.

Though once I sit down to ponder it, I realise it already consumes some of my time, and might do yours, too: you ask yourself what do I do about all these emails that keep pouring into my inbox, more and more often?  Do I ignore them? Do I respond? Should I expect compensation?

Or - and this is also asked - how is it you get them and I don’t? I might want these in order to develop my contacts list &/or scope for blogging potential?

The following is an assortment of ideas (and hopefully tips) that I have put together.

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Keira: Mum, is this your new book?

{She points to the open manuscript as I type its revisions into the computer.}

Me: It is.

Keira: Is it also going to be in a bookshop one day?

Me: I sincerely hope so.

{Pause}

Me: Yes? What else?

Keira: Can you wipe off my boogers, please?

It’s now the season for my cherry to be in full blossom - well, it would be in full blossom if the top leaves weren’t still there, charred and angry-looking. I’ve been waiting for them to drop, but I won’t think they will. It’s like they’re soldered to the branch.

Here’s an azalea that I thought was gone, dead. I was about to dig it up. Now its sprouting again and even though it still looks pretty ugly, my hand’s been stayed. I want to give the bugger a chance.

I read ‘The Spare Room’ in two hours last Friday night, a loan from the much loved Gen. I borrowed ‘Bel Canto’ because a friend of mine has been begging me to read it and ‘Stardust’ because I’m on a bit of a Neil Gaiman binge. The books behind are what we’ve got on our bookshelf at the moment. Peruse at your will, if you wish.

This was our birthday present to Keira, the “Children’s Map of Europe” which you can get for $24.95 at such places like these. I do have one slight quibble, and that is the borderlines between countries are quite hard to find/follow.

However, the reason I do like it - the reason I bought it - is for the detail in the illustrations, all the minuscule pictures of animals, places of interest, foods, cultural spots, to be found in each region. Sometimes Keira asks about a particular place, and then we go look it up on the computer.

For example, the other day she asked after the caption of the abbey/island of Mont Saint-Michel* and so we went and looked it up together on my laptop, thanks to the wonders of wireless.

Its dimensions are 130 x 94cms, so it’s not a little thing. But worth it.

* Fabulous place I’d love to go to, incidentally! She has good taste.

Yes, really. Damn you.

You’ve gotten my kids interested in cooking. Do you know how many nights I’ve contemptuously thrown the dinner plates down in front of them? I’ve gone through dusters before a cookbook has left its musty place on the shelf. Then you come along, with little bantam George Calombaris and that degustantional goliath Matt Preston, to teach them the importance of presentation, tastes and textures?

Thanks to you I recently entered a home supplies store voluntarily to purchase my first ever thermometer for non-human use. You’ve offered me what I suspect is a false sense of capability. When the saleswoman asked if the thermometer was for making jam, I said, “It just might!” I forgot in that moment that heating sugar, for me, is best left to stirring a spoonful into my coffee. Anyone who watches the show may have already guessed why I decided I needed that tool – to make the perfect hot chip. The ever bankable potato is a saviour for the parents of picky eaters, who can always count on that vegetable to add to the daily tally. Sometimes it’s the only one.

You’re a clever one, aren’t you? I thought I was over cooking shows. I really don’t want to see how many ways you can use a fennel or any other vegetable my husband will lift his nose at. My father was the same – I remember when he once turned to me and asked, “What’s a broccolini?” No, for a while I wished for a show to show me how to easily scour dried egg of the egg ring or petrified weetbix out of the breakfast bowl. Or how best to tell a tantruming three-year old that one biscuit really is enough, it really, really is.

I see you, don’t forget Masterchef. I know underneath it all you’re a creature of reality television. Your contestants are well aware of the Darwinian principles that only the strongest and best will survive. The trouble is as each person leaves, my children feel the loss more, as they become characters to a show they create parallel narratives for.

Finally, why did you have to be on in winter? The season of comfort foods and the mantra ‘just one more won’t hurt’? I guess I’ll just have to wait for The Biggest Loser to come on in the summer to lose all the weight I’ve gained.

Yes, thanks a bunch.