Need a laugh?

There is some side-splitting stuff written about parenting these days. If you come across something amusing, even if it only elicits a smile, send it to me to share on this site.

Karma got me back

When I first saw one of my closest friends with her new born baby in hospital, I was happy for her. I knew she had wanted a baby and had been in the married-baby-home mindset for a hardcore period of about two years.

But how I actually felt was ambivalent.

Ambivalent about how soon or how late I would venture down the baby highway. I was one of the earliest to have married in my early 20s for love and commitment – not to immediately set up house, have a baby and be a mama as well as a wife. I actually forbade anyone using the terms ‘husband’, ‘hubby’, or ‘wife’ and ‘the Missus’. For me they conjured up a ball and chain – derogatory, unwilling positions people had been given at gunpoint and not something they willingly signed up for.

Five years later, I was in full bloom – all things baby and no things sexy.

And when the time came for my first daughter to be born, I remembered my friend’s story of her first time – the emotional rollercoaster of the birth, being a mum at home, being tired, being domestically obsessed about drawers and weeds and cupboards. By then I had forgotten any unwanted advice I may have dished out.

My comments or thoughts probably included the following:

• Why is she always sleeping?
• Why is there always laundry and things to do at her home when I visit?
• Why at three in the afternoon has she not yet had a shower or breakfast or a cup of tea?
• Why is she was never able to talk between 6.00 and 8.00pm – only after 9.00pm?
• Why is dinner never cooked until the last minute?

So when we had our first daughter and our second baby I got to thinking that I must have been owed some karma from any insensitive comments I might have made.

Below are my two lists of what not to do – some things really happened or were said by family members.

Top five things to advise a new parent (when you’re not a parent)

1. A baby crying = “They’re hungry”
2. A baby crying = “They’re tired”
3. A baby crying = “They’re grumpy”
4. A baby crying = “They need a burp”
5. A baby smiling = “They’re farting!”

Top five things to say or do to new parents

1. “I just can’t fit into my bikinis this summer!”
2. Screaming or shouting in your mobile when a baby has just gone to sleep
3. “The dog next door’s barking kept me up all night!”
4. “I just don’t have the time to socialise after work, fitness and partner commitments.”
5. “You’re so lucky you don’t have to work.”

And this is my list of what I’d really like to see:

Our top five promises to the new parents

1. “We will visit at a time suitable to you.”
2. “We will arrive with our arms overflowing with homemade dinners!”
3. “We will turn up with the energy and spirit to do an odd mop, sweep and make YOU a cuppa!”
4. “We will accept our tiredness and busyness as NOTHING compared with your exhaustion and endless lists of things to do.”
5. “We will still see the real YOU under all that baby and parent craziness.”

© Trisha Moore

 

© Pauline O’Brien www.paulineobrien.com

 

The next Survivor series?

Six married men will be dropped on an island with one car and three kids each for six weeks.

Each kid will play two sports and either take music or dance classes.

There is no fast food.

Each man must take care of his three kids, keep his assigned house clean, correct all homework, and complete science projects, cook, do laundry, and pay a list of ‘pretend’ bills with not enough money.

In addition, each man will have to budget in money for groceries each week.

Each man must remember the birthdays of all their friends and relatives, and send cards out on time – no emailing.

Each man must also take each child to a doctor’s appointment, a dentist appointment and a hair cut appointment.

He must make one unscheduled and inconvenient visit per child to the doctor or hospital.

He must also make biscuits or cakes for a social function.

Each man will be responsible for decorating his own assigned house, planting flowers outside and keeping it presentable at all times.

The men will only have access to television when the kids are asleep and all chores are done.

The men must shave their legs, wear makeup daily, adorn himself with jewellery, wear uncomfortable yet stylish shoes, keep fingernails polished and eyebrows groomed.

During one of the six weeks, the men will have to endure severe abdominal cramps, back aches, and have extreme, unexplained mood swings but never once complain or slow down from other duties.

They must attend weekly school meetings, church, and find time at least once to spend the afternoon at the park or a similar setting.

They will need to read a book to the kids each night and in the morning, feed them, dress them, brush their teeth and comb their hair by 8:30 am.

A test will be given at the end of the six weeks, and each father will be required to know all of the following information: each child's birthday, height, weight, shoe size, clothes size and doctor’s name. Also the child’s weight at birth, length, time of birth, and length of labour, favourite colour, middle name, favourite snack, favourite song, favourite drink, favourite toy, biggest fear and what they want to be when they grow up.

All the above must be completed whilst working in either full-time (preferably) or part-time employment.

The kids vote them off the island based on performance. The last man wins only if... he still has enough energy to be intimate with his spouse at a moment’s notice.

If the last man does win, he can play the game over and over and over again for the next 18-25 years, eventually earning the right to be called Mum!

 

The way children see things part II - Marriage

HOW DO YOU DECIDE WHO TO MARRY?

You got to find somebody who likes the same stuff. If you like sports, she should like it that you like sports, and she should keep the chips and dip coming.
 - Alan, age 10

No person really decides before they grow up who they’re going to marry. God decides it all way before, and you get to find out later who you’re stuck with.
 - Kristen, age 10

WHAT IS THE RIGHT AGE TO GET MARRIED?

Twenty-three is the best age because you know the person FOREVER by then.
 - Camille, age 10

No age is good to get married at. You got to be a fool to get married.
 - Freddie, age 6

HOW CAN A STRANGER TELL IF TWO PEOPLE ARE MARRIED?

You might have to guess, based on whether they seem to be yelling at the same kids.
 - Derrick, age 8

WHAT DO YOU THINK YOUR MUM AND DAD HAVE IN COMMON?

Both don’t want any more kids.
 - Lori, age 8

WHAT DO MOST PEOPLE DO ON A DATE?

Dates are for having fun, and people should use them to get to know each other. Even boys have something to say if you listen long enough.
 - Lynnette, age 8

On the first date, they just tell each other lies and that usually gets them interested enough to go for a second date.
 - Martin, age 10 (who says boys do not have brains)

WHAT WOULD YOU DO ON A FIRST DATE THAT WAS TURNING SOUR?

I’d run home and play dead. The next day I would call all the newspapers and make sure they wrote about me in all the dead columns.
 -Craig, age 9

WHEN IS IT OKAY TO KISS SOMEONE?

When they’re rich.
 - Pam, age 7

The law says you have to be 18, so I wouldn’t want to mess with that.
 - Curt, age 7

The rule goes like this: If you kiss someone, then you should marry them and have kids with them. It’s the right thing to do.
 - Howard, age 8

IS IT BETTER TO BE SINGLE OR MARRIED?

It’s better for girls to be single but not for boys. Boys need someone to clean up after them.
 - Anita, age 9

HOW WOULD THE WORLD BE DIFFERENT IF PEOPLE DIDN’T GET MARRIED?

There sure would be a lot of kids to explain, wouldn’t there?
 - Kelvin, age 8

HOW WOULD YOU MAKE A MARRIAGE WORK?

Tell your wife that she looks pretty, even if she looks like a truck.
 - Ricky, age 10

 

It wasn’t long ago…

It wasn’t long ago. I know that for certain, because I can still remember what I was wearing; white pants, navy and white T-shirt, new sandals. I looked crisp and efficient. I wanted to – I was meeting his new teacher for the first time, and since it was his first day of big school, I wanted to send a message that I was one of those competent, all-together mothers who was always dressed reasonably well, didn’t lose school notes, always had money and forms handed in time.

Navy and white does that. Navy and white is organised and together and in control and all very Brady bunch.  I would help with reading, I thought, and math and art as well.  I’d front up in the mornings, greet the teacher by name each day and we’d smile and share a conspiratorial wink.

I knew all this, because I’d planned it all out well in my head.

I knew that as the years progressed and as I’d meet more teachers and the grade numbers became higher, I’d spend less time in the classroom and more time assisting with homework, but I was ready for that. I’d even sharpened my pencil and set aside the diary space for the next seven years. My navy and whites were at the ready.

I’d choose everything with careful deliberation. I’d cover books in advance, always have spare packets of pencils and erasers at the ready. Afternoons would be a breeze of milk and cookies when we arrived home followed by homework, which would be a simple task, and then free time for both of us. I made sure he had a homework desk and a place to read and drawers to keep everything in and a place to display the merit awards and certificates he would earn over years.

Yep, I was ready.

So how did I end up with: lost property and misplaced hats, mouldy school lunches, notes from the teacher that never made it home, notes TO the teachers that never made it to school. And how did  items that should have come home from school that not come home like lunch boxes, drink bottles, pens, pencils and homework; items that did come home from school that I’d rather did not, such as nits, lice, scabies, someone else’s lunch, envelopes with red letters on the front and even an extra child or two happen?  

Or the stupid things done: like fronting up with my child for school on pupil free days, not supplying fancy dress on fancy dress days, wearing fancy dress on uniform days,  not knowing about the two dollars for the sausage sizzle (again!), missing the bus for  chess comps, forgetting parent teacher interviews, forgetting to bake a cake for the take a plate days that I didn’t know about. 

Or him: losing 435 hats, hiding homework, needing remedial writing lessons,  throwing a chopstick at his Chinese teacher because he misunderstood her words and a Year 5 teacher so influential we caved in and bought a Nintendo DS. 

Or: doling out money after money after money for fetes and cakes and pizza days and lamington days and market days and choir practice breakfast every Thursday for seven years and violin lessons and a recorder and ‘I-don’t-actually-really-like-violin-mum-but-I’d-like-to-learn-piano lessons ’and Mrs V says  should have a keyboard at home to practice on’ so let’s buy a Yamaha then.   

Or things not prepared for, and things not fair: like  the day I was called to the headmaster’s office because he had  punched someone in the eye – and having to take him home even though he was actually standing up for some girls who were being bullied by someone else.

And while I was still trying to figure out how to manage the Year 1 tuck shop system: I would not have time to catch my breath before someone would he to remind me that it was now Year 7 so managing that task was all a bit redundant at this stage.

Just hang on a minute, my white pants and navy shirt are still at the bottom of the ironing pile, last seen in 2002.

It wasn’t long ago. I know this because he’d chosen the clothes he wanted to wear. I had no say in it, no say at all. After seven years, primary school was over, complete, finito. The graduation dinner – the 12 year old’s equivalent to a formal – dinner and a dance. 
And so, we begin the venture into High School.

If I could just catch my breath, I am sure I still have the white pants and navy t-shirt somewhere here…

© Shirley Harring

 

Who’s listening?

It started out as a pleasant journey to procure for Grandma the perfect birthday gift. The day had the markings of a Disney backdrop. Unspoiled blue sky. Brilliant sunshine. And then Annouk lobbed a bombshell that almost caused me to hit the brakes and send the three of us sailing through the windscreen: “When I’m a big girl, I’ll be able to smoke, just like Daddy.”

Britta spun to face me with an expression of outrage and drama that only a big sister can muster.

“No you can’t!” she scolded, “Smoking’s very, very bad!”
“When I’m a big girl,” chuckled Annouk, as if to clarify a misunderstanding on her sister’s part. “Not now.”
“No, never!” corrected Britt, “smoking makes you...”
“...really, really sick,” I intervened, before making eyes at Britt that requested she protect her sister from the unpleasant truth for just a little while longer.
“Smoking is very naughty, Noo. It’s bad for your body and you shouldn’t do it,” I said evenly, attempting to put the issue to rest.
Taking this as a challenge, she shot back, “But I want to!” in her especially defiant, four-year-old way.

While we left Annouk to battle it out with herself in the back, Britt and I workshopped her Dad’s addiction. As a lifelong abstainer, I’m not one to offer any light on the subject.

No pun intended.

My beloved has more or less smoked on and off for the whole 20 years we’ve been together. During the times he’s been off the rollies, I’d describe him more of a non-practicing smoker than a non-smoker.

Fortunately, my love for him has always outweighed my hatred of his habit, and so I’ve tolerated it. Just.

“Maybe we could get that gum,” suggested Britt, “and hide small pieces in his dinner. Just like Aunty Dondon hides heartworm tablets in Poppy’s food. Dad wouldn’t notice.”

While her proposal was tempting and mildly hilarious, the thought of hiding nicotine in her father’s curries and casseroles was a little too KGB for my liking. And right at the moment, a manslaughter charge and associated legal appointments would be just another thing to fit into our over-crowded schedule.

“Maybe we could just encourage him to try and give up again,” I said, rather diplomatically, “the patches have worked before.”

And it’s not like I have grounds to saddle up my dependency moral high horse, either. If the Australian government launched an advertising campaign warning about the dangers of daily cappuccino quaffing, I’d be copping Britta’s disapproving looks too. Sure, Annouk may look cuter sitting beside me sipping her baby-cino than if she were out with Anthony, her tiny pouch of baby-bacco peeking out of her Hi-5 shirt pocket.

But let’s not split hairs. A bad habit’s a bad habit. And mine is coffee. And Shiraz. Oh alright, and the occasional outburst of traffic-induced potty-mouth. As Britta so eagerly reminded me, during a recent mother/daughter conference on staying out of playground politics at school.

“It’s good to be neutral, Britt. You know, don’t get involved and be nice to everyone.”
“You’re not always nice to everyone,” she said frankly. “You called that man who was driving fast this morning a bloody idiot.” 
Indeed I had.

And then a short time later at a family dinner, Annouk inadvertently dobbed me in for yet another misdemeanor.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” she blasphemed at her insubordinate sister during a game of hide and seek.

After expressing the appropriate amount of maternal shock, and as noise and movement had started to return to the room, I turned back to the table and asked, rhetorically at first, “Who even says that?”
Half a dozen incredulous eyes turned on me.
“No I don’t! Do I?”
My loving family confirmed that indeed I do.

It seems as a role model I am, at times, seriously lacking. The best I can hope for is that my girls see me as a fallible human being who adores them with every flawed inch of her body.

And the worst? A stimulant-dependant potty-mouth who benefits from the odd glass of red.

Oh, for Christ’s sake.

© Kate Wattus

 

The nativity play

Mikey had wanted to be Mary, but he had to make do with being a shepherd. Miss Camilleri had pointed out that Mary was a lady and was therefore usually a girl, so stupid Amanda got to be Jesus” mum. It wasn”t fair. Mary got to ride the donkey. Well – it was going to be a pony, but she still got to ride it.

“You can give Baby Jesus a lamb,” Mrs Camillieri consoled. “And you get to say something. Mary only gets to say thank you.” It turned out that Mikey got to say and we have come, which didn’t sound like a lot, but Mrs Camilleri pointed out that if no-one said this, the whole shepherd bit would be spoilt.

Mikey warmed to the idea of being a shepherd; especially when Mrs C told him that they would all have a turn on the pony after the play.

“I’ve got to practice,” he told his mother when he got in the car. “Mrs Camilleri said we have to say the words very loud so the audience can hear us.” He wasn’t quite sure what an audience was, but Mrs C seemed pretty sure that they’d want to hear.

As soon as he got home, he hurried down his snack and positioned himself at the back fence.

“AND WE HAVE COME,” he shouted at the top of his lungs and ran back to the house to consult with his mother.

“Mum, am I loud enough?” he asked anxiously.

“Just a bit more practice,” his mother advised. She had nearly finished feeding Sophie. “You go back and I’ll listen again.”

Mikey could hardly wait. He was dressed in his dressing gown and tea-towel nearly an hour before they were needed to leave. Nana and Poppy were coming and they were going to the Pizza Hut afterwards. His mum wasn’t sure if Jesus liked pizza but said he probably did.

“AND WE HAVE COME.” He practised several more time until his dad said he’d better save his voice.

When they arrived, Mikey slipped some chewing gum into his mouth. It was his dad’s, but Mikey was sure he wouldn’t mind. Dad said it calmed him down. So it was probably a good idea. By the time he joined the other shepherds, he was feeling quite sick.

Children milled around like frenzied sheep and Miss Camillieri had to ring her bell to quieten them down. The adults were seated on tiny chairs. Daddy looked funny with his knees under his chin. They were all talking, but when Mrs Thomas started to play Away in a Manger, everyone became very quiet.

Mikey waited in the wings with the other shepherds. He his tummy was feeling worse and his head felt like it wanted to fly off. Mary, Joseph and the doll were settled in the stable. It was time for the shepherds and angels who were ushered in by Brian’s mum.  

“ANGELS WE HAVE HEARD,” bellowed Peter.

“ON HIGH,” shouted Tina.

Everyone looked at Mikey. His mother nodded encouragement. Mrs Camillieri whispered, Go on, Mikey. That was when Mikey vomited over his lamb. Nicorettes will have that effect on a five-year-old.

© Tess Evans

 

JOKE – language warning

A group of kindergartners were trying very hard to become accustomed to the first grade.

The biggest hurdle they faced was that the teacher insisted on NO baby talk! “You need to use Big People words,” she was always reminding them.

She asked Chris what he had done over the weekend. “I went to visit my Nana.”

“No, you went to visit your GRANDMOTHER. Use Big People words.”

She then asked Mitchell what he had done. “I took a ride on a choo choo.”

She said “No, you took a ride on a TRAIN. You must remember to use Big People words.”

She then asked little Alec what he had done. “I read a book,” he replied.

“That's WONDERFUL!” the teacher said. “What book did you read?”

Alec thought hard about it, then puffed out his chest with great pride, and said, “Winnie the Shit.”

 

Tea for Daddy

One day my mother was out and my dad was in charge of me.

I was maybe 2½ years old and had just recovered from an accident. Someone had given me a little tea set as a get-well gift and it was one of my favourite toys.

Daddy was in the living room engrossed in the evening news when I brought Daddy a little cup of ‘tea’, which was just water. After several cups of tea and lots of praise for such yummy tea, my Mom came home.

My Dad made her wait in the living room to watch me bring him a cup of tea, because it was “just the cutest thing!” My Mom waited, and sure enough, here I come down the hall with a cup of tea for Daddy and she watches him drink it up.

Then she says (as only a mother would know) – “Did it ever occur to you that the only place she can reach to get water is the toilet?”

 

 

© Pauline O’Brien www.paulineobrien.com

 

Game, Set and Match

Today I got to wear my ‘worst mother in the world’ hat.

My son, 11, has been chosen as part of a tem to represent his school in chess competition. It is today. The bus left school at 8.00 to transport the team across Brisbane. (How did I miss this information?) I dropped him off at 8.15, as usual, with a kiss and a wave.

I am home less than 30 seconds (and it’s a 15 minute drive) when the mobile chirps. It seems there is a very distraught boy in the office who missed the bus.

Righto, since I am already in the running for mother of the year, I’ll head back and collect him and drive him to other side of Brisbane to the High School where the tournament is taking place. Guilt pangs as I hoon head back to the school.

Now let me interject here for a minute.

I abhor lateness and am always upping my family for tardiness. This morning, after my shower, I put on my oldest daggies and thongs. I never leave the house in thongs, unless I know I am to be one of the great unseen.

When I unlock the car and park my rear, I am met with a warm wetness and a distinct smell of mushrooms. Oh look, the sunroof was left open on my CRV. And it stormed here last night. Intensely. So I am in my daggy house pants, oldest pool singlet, wet hair lathered in conditioning treatment combed through and no make-up, never-leave-the house thongs – but that’s all OK, because it’s not late and I have time to drop him off at school and have a leisurely cup of tea, open up the car in the sun, take out the floor mats and then do something with self to face the world proper.

Back to the matter. Still looking like someone who would not dare go out in public, I hoon back to the school in my wet car and race to the office, where reception eye me dubiously. She tells me that geek boy is down in the library with two other boys who have missed the bus. If parental permission is attained, would I consider taking the other boys as well?

Seeing this as an opportunity to redeem myself in front of my son, I am graciously quick to affirm that indeed, I would be happy to do so. So by 9.45 , I have three 11 year old boys in wet car smelling like mushrooms (the boys and the car, I think) and I am zooming across town.

An hour later, the repercussions of being a bad mother come to haunt.

I have no choice but to walk through a hall and yard full of high-schoolers, my wet hair now dried, plastered to my scalp on the crown and frizzy ends, thongs on housewife feet, house clothes and all. Only the profuse thanks and looks of gratitude and appreciation on the face of my three charges stop me from slinking red faced back out the way I came.

The whole procedure ate three hours out of my morning. The rest of my day will be spent finishing the celebration guilt chess cake.

© Shirley (an unnamed Australian mother!)

 

A tongue-in-cheek guide to surviving toddlers

I have one, you may have one and frankly we both need a laugh. I’m talking about our beloved toddlers. The ones we can’t imagine life without and yet spend significant time dreaming up ways to escape. After surviving three toddler earaches in less than 10 weeks and general teething grumps and temper tantrums, I am ready to either list my little one on eBay, or have a bit of a laugh.

My top ten tips to surviving the toddler years with your sanity mostly intact

1. No, meeting friends at a coffee shop is not going to work. The sooner you admit that meeting your friends (especially if they don’t have toddlers) in the local café is not EVER a good idea, the sooner you will re-grow some of that hair you are currently pulling out. What is ‘little people friendly’ about being strapped in a high chair or pram while the adults around you drone on for hours? They don’t understand what’s dangerous about running around while waiters walk the gauntlet with hot drinks and elegant cheesecakes in hand.
You have two options; meet at the park or go without toddler.

2. Yes you do need the nappy bag. Toilet training is for home, nappies are for shopping centres. Enough said.

3. Sure, your toddler can walk holding your hand. As long as you are happy to play ‘chasey’ through the department store or walk slower than the ants scurrying by you. Or maybe you have nowhere to go and no time you need to be there, then definitely, let you toddler walk holding your hand. You might discover a use for the bit of shiny paper they just picked up off the floor.

4. Don’t freak out about the germs. I am pretty sure no toddler has died from eating sand, half a cockroach or partial contents of their nappies. I know, it’s gross, but just wipe them and try to serve fruits and veggies. Not that they are going to eat the fruits and veggies, but you’ll feel better for having offered.

5. Kiss your mother-in-law and ignore the advice. Unless it’s good advice of course. She’s probably still so traumatised by his toddler years that she has completely forgotten the episode involving the puppy, her son, the highway and her banshee screaming. He was no sweeter than your child and she didn’t cope any better.
She just has a permanent state of amnesia.

6. Teething sucks. They should be born with teeth. It’s a design fault really. Eventually they get a full set of pearly whites and you¹ll forget the grumpy bundle currently squirming in your arms.

7. Naptime is for the strong only. So is bedtime and any time that you require your darling to sleep for longer than the twenty-minute catnap in the back of the car. Similar battles are raging across your state, so chill.
One day you¹ll have a teenager that you can’t get out of bed on Saturday morning. Then you can have your revenge.

8. Sharing is for the weak. They learnt the words ‘no’ and ‘mine’ just after mumbling ‘dada’, and they mean it. Everything belongs to them; especially what the other child has in their mouth. That sucked on toy just became their favourite, must have, need-it-yesterday fixation and no, they don¹t want to share. Hold the faith. Most adults (though not all) have learnt the art of sharing, so most mothers did succeed in the end.

9. Crackers are a whole food group. As is yoghurt, cheese sticks or whatever other food obsession your toddler has at this point. No, they don’t want the pumpkin they happily ate yesterday. Today is a new day and the feeding rules have changed. Try to keep up with it mum! Eventually you discover that whatever you’ve lovingly cooked will be thrown at the family dog or mashed through their hair so, once again, just breathe. They somehow eat enough of the right stuff to sustain their temper tantrums, general growth and well-being.

10. Lastly, remember; toilet training, eating, sleeping, bedtime, bath time, and outings are all eventually conquered. You’ve read the end of the book. You know you win. Try to enjoy that dimply chubby currently throwing himself of the floor, because every age has its ups and downs. And remember, they will probably have children of their own one-day. And you get to watch! See, there is justice!

© Tabitha Bird

 

 

© Pauline O’Brien www.paulineobrien.com

 

© Pauline O’Brien www.paulineobrien.com

 

© Pauline O’Brien www.paulineobrien.com

 

To all the great mums

I was out walking with my four year old daughter. She picked up something off the ground and started to put it in her mouth. I took the item away from her and I asked her not to do that.

“Why?” my daughter asked. 

“Because it’s been on the ground and you don’t know where it’s been, it’s dirty and probably has germs,” I replied.

At this point, my daughter looked at me with total admiration and asked, “Mummy, how do you know all this stuff? You are so smart.”

I was thinking quickly. “All mums know this stuff. It’s on the Mummy Test. You have to know it, or they don’t let you be a Mummy.”

We walked along in silence for two or three minutes, but she was evidently pondering this new information. “OH... I get it!” she beamed, “So if you don’t pass the test you have to be the daddy.”

“Exactly,” I replied back with a big smile on my face. 

Food wars

I’d like to share with you a story.

A true story of a boy who could foresee the future, and with it, a crisis that would one day confront his own parenting skills in order to save his son from the clutches of a fast-food phenomenon.

However, to share this story with you, we first must travel back to a time long ago, to a galaxy far, far away…

Melbourne, Australia, 1976.

Cholesterol didn’t exist, chocolate was an essential life-giving nutrient, and an eight-year-old boy named Kenny, whose world, like his primary school tuck-shop, overflowed with sugary treats, hamburgers and hot chips.
But little Kenny foresaw a problem – a health crisis loomed. 

Kenny tried to warn folks that a clown, yes a clown, with floppy yellow shoes and a bright orange wig, along with an old man concealing a mysterious bag of eleven herbs and spices, were planning to build an evil Empire. (No, really, it’s true)

He envisioned a fast food phenomenon that would completely sweep the nation, and one day force corner-store fish and chip retailers to charge upwards of five bucks for a piece of flake and minimum of chips. And, most frightening of all, would convert a once proud and energetic nation of healthy children abound in a land of sweeping planes, to sit in front of their TVs, PCs, DVDs, and PSs gobbling down cheese burgers by the dozens.

Naturally, nobody believed his tall stories – five bucks for fish and chips, as if? And he was told to lay off the sherbet bombs for a while. (I miss those things, do they still make them?) Anyway…

Time passed. Before you could say Michael J Fox, or thin leather ties, it was the 1980s.

Australia, distracted by a new craze called Video, MTV, and Richard Wilkins’ hair style, had not noticed the increasing might of the Empire.

Meanwhile, Kenny trained as a chef, studied nutrition, and armed himself against the fast-food phenomenon he so knew was coming.

He was all set for battle, when he met a beautiful girl and fell madly and deeply in love. Sadly, she left him for someone better looking, and he spent years crushed and alone tramping through every seedy, low life bar in the country until, at last, Cupid’s arrow of true-love struck and reignited his soul (Bit much?). Anyway, by now it was the dawn of a whole new Millennium, and the Empire was out of control.

It’s here that Kenny bore a son, well, he held his true-love’s hand during the 18-hour long delivery – almost had his hand ripped off at the wrist, was yelled at, whacked, repeatedly sworn at, told to “Get out,” and then, “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” And, because it was completely his fault, he promised to have the bathroom renovated and a landscaped garden to match – Oh, the pain of child birth.

When his son, Max, turned five, Kenny sent him off to primary school, equipped with the most bizarre lunch: a salad of Cos lettuce, mint leaves, coriander, tomato, cucumber and capsicum, along with a wholegrain sandwich of tuna and cheese, and a piece of fruit.

Unfortunately Max’s healthy lunch returned home untouched, and the next day the same thing. For days Max’s lunch was untouched, and people everywhere were saying, “What’s that smell?”

It was soon brought to Kenny’s attention that his nemesis, Pizza the Hut, and others of the Empire had captured his son’s imagination. Of course, they did throw in a free Pepsi with every small pizza, as was the promotion at the time. 

Max wasn’t the only one either. Here in the dawn of this New Millennium, many children had not seen a capsicum, or tasted a banana. I kid you not! Such foods, real foods, were fast becoming foreign to many children. Frightening.  

The time had come for action. Kenny’s mission, if he chose to accept it, was to bring forth exciting and fresh ideas to rescue his son from the clutches of the fast-food Empire.

A voice echoed over and over in Kenny’s head. “Look to the Force, Kenny. Look to the Force…”

But Kenny had no idea what that meant, so he tried a few ideas of his own.

First, he tried a bribe, but that bribe failed.
He tried more bribes, and larger bribes, but those bribes failed.
He then flat-out demanded his son eat the food prepared for him or be sent to his room with no television.
Low and behold, that also failed – Darn that Game Boy.

Kenny, sensing the magnitude of the task, and despite his psychiatrist’s warnings, began listening to the voices inside his head, “Look to the Force, Kenny…”

Kenny asked around and discovered that this ‘Force’ was indeed a powerful and mystical force that once lay at the heart of an ancient civilization (Frankston).

Over the coming days, Kenny felt the Force moving within him, though that could have been due to an over consumption of sprouts. He closed his eyes and meditated, but mostly he slept, and with that a brilliant idea emerged. Kenny, sensing this idea was the answer to every parent’s prayers, and so simple an idea, he would put it into place immediately. Then, pending its undoubted success, would share it with the world.

Want to hear his idea?
Are you sure you’re ready? It’s a biggie.
Well, here it is:
Hide all the green vegetables under the mashed potatoes.
Yes. Brilliant!

Surprisingly, Kenny’s mission failed miserably.
Kenny was ridiculed and told never to bother the Force again.

Moral to this story, apart from don’t eat too many sprouts, is Kenny discovered that you can’t force or trick kids into eating healthy foods consistently.

(Wow, and yes I hear what you’re saying. All that story for so crappy a moral)

However, the story doesn’t finish here. Kenny learned a valuable lesson.

He learned that children are people, (Get outa here), no they are, and like all people deserve the respect to be consulted in their dietary requirements. A revelation.

So he began offering Max an outlet for attaining knowledge of what real food is; where to find it, how to eat it, and how to prepare it. And amazingly, his son actually became interested, albeit slightly interested. Well, he listened long enough to keep his headphones unplugged from his ipod. And they spent several Saturday mornings wandering through the many food stalls at the local market, drinking down freshly squeezed juices and discovering all the delicious fresh produce on offer.

Kenny spent the coming weeks showing Max the benefits of a nutritious diet. How fresh ingredients with vitamins and minerals can boost the immune system, increase memory, create endless energy, offer protection, help attain peak physical fitness, and thus help transform him into a Rock Star, a Sporting Superstar, a Science genius, an Adventurer, an Astronaut, an Accountant, or an Acrobat.

Amazingly, Max’s interest levels registered higher again. He actually put down the ipod. (Impossible, I know)

Finally, he introduced Max to the variety of colours, flavours, and textures available in real foods; and together they conjured up various creations, and a very messy kitchen. They were yelled at and told they couldn’t go out and kick the football until the entire mess was cleaned up. Total bummer! Astonishingly, these crazy food combinations sent a whole new sensation up Max’s tongue to his brain and his head totally freaked-out. Way Cool!

Today, Max, armed with his own sense of culinary adventure, and no noticeable footy skills, enjoys a variety of foods, some of which I’m very happy to announce are fruits and vegetables, I kid you not.

Kenny now knows that healthy foods are not to be hidden away. Along with a healthy dose of fresh air and exercise, they are an adventure to be embarked upon, and to be shared with those you love.

But, anyway, that’s Kenny’s story. You’ll need to find one of your own. (Okay, it’s actually George Lucas’s story, Kenny stole the theme)

May the Force be with you!  But, please, stay away from the sprouts.

© Ken Williams

 

The shopping trip

The names in this story have been changed to protect me from my daughters. The story I am about to tell you happened last weekend and according to my daughters was totally humiliating and totally unnecessary. Such drama queens!

My girls are 12 and 13 and they have grown heaps over the last six months and we needed to go shopping.  When Cate and Emma were little they wore cute little crop top bras but it was now time to buy their first ‘proper’ bra. I was so excited.

I remember mine and I once again told the girls about my first bra.  

I’d loved my first white bra with pink flowers. I don’t remember going out to buy it but I do remember I was late to the bra thing and was the only girl at school who was still wearing white Bonds singlets when I was 15. I was so jealous of my friends who actually had something to put into their pretty new bras and I wanted one too.

According to my girls – too much information!

We headed to the shops and Dad went off to do the grocery shopping.  

Cate and Emma wanted to go with him and skip this whole exercise but no, I dragged them off TO BE MEASURED!!

We found a helpful sales assistant and she took them and her tape measure into the fitting rooms. Each retreated to a separate change room as they weren’t going to share this experience. Unfortunately for them there were quite a few ladies trying on garments and they had to share. Once they were measured they started trying on bras. They wouldn’t even let me in until I demanded to have a look and made sure the bras fitted and looked nice. I couldn't believe my babies were so grown up.

To make matter worse the lady next door popped her head out and asked, “Is this first time shopping?”

This started a conversation amongst the ladies in the fitting rooms about our first bras and just added to the humiliation as the girls had no choice but to listen to a bunch of middle aged women discussing trainer bras!

Forty five minutes later and after trying on all the bras the sales assistant and I dragged in to show them, they made their choices and we left the lingerie department. I was feeling very warm and fuzzy about the experience I had just shared with my daughters. They couldn’t wait to get out of there.

It was made perfectly clear to me that this day would never be spoken about and I was never ever to put them through this experience again.

I can’t wait until next time!

© Kerry Malone

 

 

© Pauline O’Brien www.paulineobrien.com

 

© Pauline O’Brien www.paulineobrien.com

 

© Pauline O’Brien www.paulineobrien.com

 

© Pauline O’Brien www.paulineobrien.com

 

© Pauline O’Brien www.paulineobrien.com

 

10 things not to say or do to a pregnant woman

1. It’s just a myth that you eat for two.
2. I never had to wear maternity clothes.
3. Is what you are eating good for the baby?
4. My sister’s/roommate/cousin/friend went through 72 hours of labor. No drugs helped.
5. Why are you so sick and tired? I went jogging for five miles every day till I was 9 months.
6. Its OK honey, I like big butts.
7. Better get your sleep now!
8. Oh, you are pregnant. I thought you were just gaining weight.
9. You are so huge!
10. I left the hospital in my pre-pregnancy clothes. (LIAR!!)

Seasonal: It must suck to be pregnant in this heat!

PS – Don’t touch the pregnant belly unless I can touch your belly!

10 things to say to a pregnant woman

1. You look beautiful!
2. You are glowing.
3. You don’t look pregnant.
4. Your baby is lucky to have you as a mom.
5. Think of all the shopping.
6. You have to eat a little more each day.
7. You get to be on the receiving end of good manners (at least temporarily).
8. Nine months to pamper yourself.
9. You get to be part of a whole new world.
10. You are so lucky!

© Danielle Christopher

 

Trapped

I barricaded the stairs. I’d be safe upstairs. It couldn’t get to me there. I could hear it though. I could always hear it. It had a voice that screeched; it couldn’t be ignored. It made my heart race and entered my whole being though my stomach until I felt sick.

Where had it come from; this parasite? How had it managed to steal its way into my life? I turned my head for a moment and there it was. Nothing was the same any more. Now I lived in fear.

Two years ago my life was sweet. I had moved to a beautiful seaside town. My children were happy, my husband was happy and I was happy, at least I thought I was. But something sinister was lurking. Something lay hidden just waiting for the right opportunity, the right person to invite it in. I was that person. New to the town I trusted everyone, everything. I suspected nothing. To be honest though, I was happy for the distraction. My husband was working, the children were at school and I admit I was a bit lonely and I was curious but you know what they say about curiosity. And then it began to change. No longer happy with our symbiotic existence it detached itself and stole its way into our lives. I was responsible and now I felt helpless. There was no escape. I was trapped.

It’s not like it was violent although sometimes it would smash things on the tiles and the walls. It never seriously hurt any of us, just a slap in the face now and then. It seemed to find this pass time amusing and we all felt that it was important to keep it amused. We didn’t want it upset. We didn’t know its capabilities.

Earlier, as I tried to go to the bathroom it caught sight of me and with a voice that could wake the dead; it demanded that I come downstairs. It was hungry. It was always hungry. Panic rose in my throat. It howled. What did it want this time? Its preferences were always changing. Sometimes bananas, then only yoghurt or cheese or fish. What did it want today? I gave it a banana and waited. Its face was big and red and swollen. Its sparse teeth looked like tombstones pushing their way out of a deserted graveyard. Its hair was thin and unkempt.

And it smelled. It smelled really bad. I had to hold my breath to keep from dry retching. It bit into the banana and tiny bits of drool ran down its chin. It sneered at me and pushed more into its gaping mouth. I was nearly sick. Still it jammed the banana in and never once did it take its eyes off me. I didn’t move, then it swallowed and grinned its evil grin; banana filled the gaps between his teeth. It burped and clapped its starfish shaped hands.

Thank God, it was over. It let me go. I ran. I ran as fast I could barricading the stairs behind me. I cowered in the corner of my room and tried to block out the memory or its huge red head.

What was that? The stairs! What was that noise on the stairs? There was no doubt. It was coming up. It had broken through the barrier and it was coming up the stairs. I could smell it, my stomach heaved. I looked widely for a place to hide, in the wardrobe – too obvious, under the bed – no room. I froze. It pushed the door open, rushed at me and slapped me in the face. It did it again and again laughing hysterically. I held my hands up trying to protect myself but it kept coming slapping, scratching, pinching, biting and all the while laughing.

Then as suddenly as it had began it stopped and left leaving its stench behind. I could hardly breathe. I thought I was going mad as I rocked in the corner. It was looking for my children it had heard them come in from school and I could do nothing to protect them. I was paralysed with fear. A muted sound escaped my throat, I couldn’t swallow. I felt light headed and when I tried to stand everything went black. I awoke to the sound of my children screaming.

God help me – what was it doing to them?

“Mum!” they wailed. “For God’s sake Mum! Hurry up and change this stinking BABY!”

© Jackie Hosking www.motherbehavingbadly.blogspot.com

 

Raising kids…in recent history

Congratulations to all the kids who were born in the 1930s, 1940s, 1950s, 1960s and 1970s:

First, we survived being born to mothers who smoked and/or drank while they carried us.

They took aspirin, ate blue cheese dressing, tuna from a tin, and didn’t get tested for diabetes.

Then after that trauma, our baby cots were covered with bright colored lead-based paints.

We had no childproof lids on medicine bottles, doors or cabinets and when we rode our bikes, we had no helmets, not to mention, the risks we took hitchhiking.

As children, we would ride in cars with no seat belts or air bags.
 Riding in the back of a van – loose – was always great fun.

We drank water from the garden hose pipe and NOT from a bottle.
We shared one soft drink with four friends, from one bottle and NO ONE actually died from this.

We ate cakes, white bread and real butter and drank pop with sugar in it, but we weren’t overweight because....

WE WERE ALWAYS OUTSIDE PLAYING!

We would leave home in the morning and play all day, as long as we were back when the streetlights came on. No one was able to reach us all day. And we were okay.

We would spend hours building our go-carts out of scraps and then ride down the hill, only to find out we forgot the brakes. After running into the bushes a few times, we learned to solve the problem.

We did not have Playstations, Nintendos, X-boxes, video games or movies, 99 channels on cable, surround sound, mobile phones, text messaging, personal computers, Internet or Internet chat rooms.... WE HAD FRIENDS and we went outside and found them!

We fell out of trees, got cut, broke bones and teeth and there were no lawsuits/legal from these accidents.

We played with worms (well most boys did) and mud pies made from dirt, and the worms did not live in us forever.

Made up games with sticks and tennis balls and although we were told it would happen, we did not poke out any eyes.

We rode bikes or walked to a friend’s house and knocked on the door or rang the bell, or just yelled for them!

Local teams had tryouts and not everyone made the team. Those who didn’t had to learn to deal with disappointment. Imagine that!

The idea of a parent bailing us out if we broke the law was unheard of. They actually sided with the law!

This generation has produced some of the best risk-takers, problem solvers and inventors ever!

The past 50 years have been an explosion of innovation and new ideas.

We had freedom, failure, success and responsibility, and we learned HOW TO DEAL WITH IT ALL!

You might want to share this with others who have had the luck to grow up as kids, before the lawyers and the government regulated our lives for our own good.

… and while you are at it, keep this to show your kids so they will know how brave their parents were.

 

Wibble Wobble Woes

I have never been brave. In fact, I have a morbid fear of needles, blood and gore. Two small boys haven’t diminished this sensitivity. If anything, their continual scrapes and skirmishes have only made it worse.

Recently, an alarming trend began in my son’s preschool class. Gaps started appearing and children developed a fascination for teeth – wobbly teeth!

I have observed that once a tooth wiggles, it must then be picked, poked, prodded and twisted through a sequence of garish manoeuvres. It is rarely let to stand up straight in the mouth, but sits askew, or hangs by a thread of root with jagged bits and fleshy gums exposed. Nothing is left to the imagination, and every gruesome stage must be broadcast far and wide, with visual evidence.

The fact that every child eventually loses a tooth – great gob fulls of them, in fact – doesn’t make the scenario any less disturbing.

Recalling childhood memories brings no comfort either. Slamming doors and fencing pliers were often mentioned, not that I succumbed to those. Catch me if you can! The potential blood, pain and scream factor still stands my hair on end. And I have to wonder at the hygiene of rusty pliers that roll around in dust and grit on the floor of the work ute? Not the cleanest things to go into a child’s mouth – always assuming they fit, of course!

But the real questions remain… What do you do when the dastardly tooth is dangling by a thread, but not falling out? More to the point, what will I do when my son, fingers clasping the offending incisor, blurts out excitedly, “I’f go’ a wobbwy toof!”

It’s enough to set my teeth on edge!

© Kathryn Apel

 

A Mom’s wishlist

Dear Santa,

I've been a good mom all year. I've fed, cleaned and cuddled my children on demand, visited their doctor’s office more than my doctor and sold 62 cases of candy bars to raise money to plant a shade tree on the school playground. I was hoping you could spread my list out over several Christmases, since I had to write this letter with my son’s red crayon, on the back of a receipt in the laundry room between cycles, and who knows when I’ll find anymore free time in the next 18 years.

Here are my Christmas wishes:

• I’d like a pair of legs that don’t ache (in any color, except purple, which I already have) and arms that don’t hurt or flap in the breeze; but are strong enough to pull my screaming child out of the candy aisle in the grocery store.

• I’d also like a waist, since I lost mine somewhere in the third month of my last pregnancy.

• If you’re hauling big ticket items this year I’d like fingerprint resistant windows and a radio that only plays adult music; a television that doesn't broadcast any programs containing talking animals; and a refrigerator with a secret compartment behind the crisper where I can hide to talk on the phone.

• On the practical side, I could use a talking doll that says, “Yes, Mommy” to boost my parental confidence, along with two kids who don’t fight and three pairs of jeans that will zip all the way up without the use of power tools.

• I could also use a recording of Tibetan monks chanting “Don't eat in the living room” and “Take your hands off your brother,” because my voice seems to be just out of my children’s hearing range and can only be heard by the dog.

• If it’s too late to find any of these products, I’d settle for enough time to brush my teeth and comb my hair in the same morning, or the luxury of eating food warmer than room temperature without it being served in a Styrofoam container.

• If you don’t mind, I could also use a few Christmas miracles to brighten the holiday season. Would it be too much trouble to declare ketchup a vegetable?

• It will clear my conscience immensely. It would be helpful if you could coerce my children to help around the house without demanding payment as if they were the bosses of an organized crime family.

Well, Santa, the buzzer on the dryer is ringing and my son saw my feet under the laundry room door. I think he wants his crayon back.

Have a safe trip and remember to leave your wet boots by the door and come in and dry off so you don’t catch cold. Help yourself to cookies on the table but don’t eat too many or leave crumbs on the carpet.

Yours Always, MOM...!

P.S. One more thing...you can cancel all my requests if you can keep my children young enough to believe in Santa.

 

The parenting journey

Clothes:
1st baby: You begin wearing maternity clothes as soon as your pregnancy is confirmed.
2nd baby: You wear your regular clothes for as long as possible.
3rd baby: Your maternity clothes ARE your regular clothes.

Preparing for the birth:
1st baby: You practice your breathing religiously.
2nd baby: You don't bother because you remember that last time, breathing didn’t do a thing.
3rd baby: You ask for an epidural in your eighth month.

The layette:
1st baby: You pre-wash newborn's clothes, colour-coordinate them, and fold them neatly in the baby's little bureau.
2nd baby: You check to make sure that the clothes are clean and discard only the ones with the darkest stains.
3rd baby: Boys can wear pink, can't they?

Dummies:
1st baby: If the dummy falls on the floor, you put it away until you can go home and wash and boil it.
2nd baby: When the dummy falls on the floor, you squirt it off with some juice from the baby's bottle.
3rd baby: You wipe it off on your shirt and pop it back in.

Changing:
1st baby: You change your baby’s nappies every hour, whether they need it or not.
2nd baby: You change their nappy every two to three hours, if needed.
3rd baby: You try to change their nappy before others start to complain about the smell or you see it sagging to their knees.

Activities:
1st baby: You take your infant to Baby Gymnastics, Baby Swing, and Baby Story Hour.
2nd baby: You take your infant to Baby Gymnastics.
3rd baby: You take your infant to the supermarket and the dry cleaner.

Going out:
1st baby: The first time you leave your baby with a sitter, you call home five times.
2nd baby: Just before you walk out the door, you remember to leave a number where you can be reached.
3rd baby: You leave instructions for the sitter to call only if she sees blood.

At home:
1st baby: You spend a good bit of every day just gazing at the baby.
2nd baby: You spend a bit of everyday watching to be sure your older child isn’t squeezing, poking, or hitting the baby.
3rd baby: You spend a little bit of every day hiding from the children.

Swallowing coins (a favourite):
1st child: You rush the child to the hospital and demand x-rays.
2nd child: You carefully watch for the coin to pass.
3rd child: You deduct it from his allowance!!

 

Sometimes a job title helps…

A woman (Emily) renewing her driver’s license at the Transport office was asked by the clerk to state her occupation. She hesitated, uncertain how to classify herself. “What I mean is,” explained the clerk, “do you have a job, or are you just a ......?”

“Of course I have a job,” snapped Emily. “I'm a mum.”

“We don't list ‘Mum’ as an occupation...... ‘housewife’ covers it,” said the clerk emphatically.

I forgot all about her story until one day I found myself in the same situation, this time at our local police station. The clerk was obviously a career woman, poised, efficient, and possessed of a high sounding title like, “Official Interrogator” or “Town Registrar.”

“What is your occupation?” she probed.

What made me say it, I do not know... The words simply popped out.

“I’m a Research Associate in the field of Child Development and Human Relations.”

The clerk paused, pen frozen in midair, and looked up as though she had not heard right. I repeated the title slowly, emphasizing the most significant words. Then I stared with wonder as my pronouncement was written in bold, black ink on the official questionnaire!

“Might I ask,” said the clerk with new interest, “just what you do in your field?”

Coolly, without any trace of fluster in my voice, I heard myself reply, “I have a continuing program of research, (what mother doesn’t?), in the laboratory and in the field, (normally I would have said indoors and out). I’m working for my Masters, (the whole bloody family), and already have four credits, (all daughters). Of course, the job is one of the most demanding in the humanities, (any mother care to disagree?) and I often work 14 hours a day, (24 is more like it). But the job is more challenging than most run-of-the-mill careers and the rewards are more of a satisfaction rather than just money.”

There was an increasing note of respect in the woman’s voice as she completed the form, stood up, and personally ushered me to the door.

When I got home, buoyed up by my glamorous new career, I was greeted by my lab assistants – ages 10, 7, and 3. Upstairs, I could hear our new experimental model, (a 6-month old baby), in the child-development program, testing out a new vocal pattern. I felt I had triumphed over bureaucracy! And I had gone on the official records as someone more distinguished and indispensable to mankind than ‘just another mum’.

Motherhood.....What a glorious career! Especially when there’s a title on the door.

 

The way children see things...

NUDITY

I was driving with my three young children one warm summer evening when a woman in the convertible ahead of us stood up and waved. She was stark naked! As I was reeling from the shock, I heard my 5-year-old shout from the back seat, “Mum! that lady isn't wearing a seat belt!”

HONESTY

My son Zachary, 4, came screaming out of the bathroom to tell me he’d dropped his toothbrush in the toilet. So I fished it out and threw it in the garbage. Zachary stood there thinking for a moment, then ran to my bathroom and came out with my toothbrush. He held it up and said with a charming little smile, “We better throw this one out too then, ‘cause it fell in the toilet a few days ago.”

OPINIONS

On the first day of school, a first-grader handed his teacher a note from his mother which read: “The opinions expressed by this child are not necessarily those of his parents.”

KETCHUP

A woman was trying hard to get the ketchup to come out of the bottle. During her struggle the phone rang so she asked her 4-year-old daughter to answer the phone. “It’s the minister, Mummy,” the child said to her mother. Then she added, “Mummy can’t come to the phone to talk to you right now. She’s hitting the bottle.”

MORE NUDITY

A little boy got lost at the YMCA and found himself in the women’s locker room. When he was spotted, the room burst into shrieks, with ladies grabbing towels and running for cover. The little boy watched in amazement and then asked, “What’s the matter, haven’t you ever seen a little boy before?”

ELDERLY

While working for an organisation that delivers lunches to elderly folks, I used to take my 4-year-old daughter on my afternoon rounds. The various appliances of old age, particularly the canes, walkers and wheelchairs, unfailingly intrigued her. One day I found her staring at a pair of false teeth soaking in a glass. As I braced myself for the inevitable barrage of questions, she merely turned and whispered, “The tooth fairy will never believe this!”

DRESS-UP

A little girl was watching her parents dress for a party. When she saw her dad donning his tuxedo, she warned, “Daddy, you shouldn’t wear that suit.” And why not, darling?” “You know that it always gives you a headache the next morning.”

DEATH

While walking along the sidewalk in front of his church, our minister heard the intoning of a prayer that nearly made his collar wilt. Apparently his 5-year-old son and his playmates had found a dead sparrow. Feeling that proper burial should be performed, they had secured a small box, then dug a hole and made ready for the disposal of the deceased. The minister’s son was chosen to say the appropriate prayers and with sonorous dignity intoned his version of what he thought his father always said: “Glory be unto the Faaaather, and unto the Sonnn .and into the hole he gooooes.”

SCHOOL

A little girl had just finished her first week of school. “I’m just wasting my time,” she said to her mother. “I can’t read, I can’t write and they won’t let me talk!”

BIBLE

A little boy opened the big family bible. He was fascinated as he leafed through the old pages. Suddenly something fell out of the Bible. He picked up the object and looked at it. What he saw was an old leaf that had been pressed in between the pages. “Mama, look what I found”, the boy called out. “What have you got there, dear?” With astonishment in the young boy’s voice, he answered, “I think it’s Adam’s underwear!”

Why God made mums

These answers were reportedly given by 2nd-grade school children to the following questions:

Why did God make mothers?

• She's the only one who knows where the scotch tape is.
• Mostly to clean the house.
• To help us out of there when we were getting born.

How did God make mothers?

• He used dirt, just like for the rest of us.
• Magic plus super powers and a lot of stirring.
• God made my Mum just the same like he made me. He Just used bigger parts.

What ingredients are mothers made of?

• God makes mothers out of clouds and angel hair and everything nice in the world and one dab of mean.
• They had to get their start from men's bones. Then they mostly use string, I think.
• Why did God give you your mother & not some other mum?
• We're related.
• God knew she likes me a lot more than other people’s mums like me.

What kind of little girl was your mum?

• My mum has always been my mum and none of that other stuff.
• I don't know because I wasn't there, but my guess would be pretty bossy.
• They say she used to be nice.

What did your mum need to know about your dad before she married him?

• His last name.
• She had to know his background. Like is he a crook? Does he get drunk on beer?
• Does he make at least $800 a year? Did he say NO to drugs and YES to chores?

Why did your mum marry your dad?

• My dad makes the best spaghetti in the world. And my Mum eats a lot.
• She got too old to do anything else with him.
• My grandma says that Mum didn’t have her thinking cap on.

Who’s the boss at your house?

• Mum doesn’t want to be boss, but she has to because dad’s such a goofball.
• Mum. You can tell by room inspection. She sees the stuff under the bed.
• I guess Mum is, but only because she has a lot more to do than Dad.

What’s the difference between mums & dads?

• Mums work at work and work at home & dads just go to work at work.
• Mums know how to talk to teachers without scaring them.
• Dads are taller and stronger, but mums have all the real power cos that’s who you got to ask if you want to sleep over at your friend’s.
• Mums have magic, they make you feel better without medicine.

What does your mum do in her spare time?

• Mothers don't do spare time.
• To hear her tell it, she pays bills all day long.

What would it take to make your mum perfect?

• On the inside she's already perfect. Outside, I think some kind of plastic surgery.
• Diet. You know, her hair. I’d diet, maybe blue.

If you could change one thing about your Mum, what would it be?

• She has this weird thing about me keeping my room clean. I’d get rid of that.
• I’d make my Mum smarter. Then she would know it was my sister who did it and not me.
• I would like for her to get rid of those invisible eyes on the back of her head.

Job description for a parent

by an unknown author

POSITION:
Mum/Mom, Mummy/Mommy, Mama/Ma, Dad/Daddy, Pa/Papa

JOB DESCRIPTION:
Long-term, team players needed, for challenging permanent work in an often chaotic environment. Candidates must possess excellent communication and organisational skills and be willing to work variable
hours, which will include evenings and weekends and frequent 24 hour shifts on call. Some overnight travel required, including trips to primitive camping sites on rainy weekends and endless sports tournaments in far away cities! Travel expenses not reimbursed. Extensive courier duties also required.

RESPONSIBILITIES:
The rest of your life. Must be willing to be hated, at least temporarily, until someone needs $5. Must be willing to bite tongue repeatedly. Also, must possess the physical stamina of a pack mule and be able to go from zero to 60 mph in three seconds flat in case, this time, the screams from the backyard are not someone just crying wolf. Must be willing to face stimulating technical challenges, such as small gadget repair, mysteriously sluggish toilets and stuck zippers. Must screen phone calls, maintain calendars and coordinate production of multiple homework projects.

Must have ability to plan and organise social gatherings for clients of all ages and mental outlooks. Must be willing to be indispensable one minute, an embarrassment the next. Must always hope for the best but be prepared for the worst. Must assume final, complete accountability for the quality of the end product.

Responsibilities also include floor maintenance and cleaning work throughout the facility.

POSSIBILITY FOR ADVANCEMENT & PROMOTION:
None. Your job is to remain in the same position for years, without complaining, constantly retraining and updating your skills, so that those in your charge can ultimately surpass you.

PREVIOUS EXPERIENCE
None required unfortunately. On-the-job training offered on a continually exhausting basis.

WAGES AND COMPENSATION:
Get this! You pay them! When you die, you give them whatever is left. The oddest thing about this reverse-salary scheme is that you actually enjoy it and wish you could only do more.

BENEFITS:
While no health or dental insurance, no pension, no tuition reimbursement, no paid holidays and no stock options are offered; this job supplies limitless opportunities for personal growth and free hugs for life if you play your cards right.

 

Toddlerspeak

by Maria Asther Bascuna-Creo

If you have a toddler, chances are you have your own collection of Toddlerspeak. They range from the shocking to the amusing to the downright get-down-on-your-knees funny.

One scenario: four-year-old boy-next-door Josh loves coming to our house to play with my three-year-old Sanghaya. He’s so considerate and patient with her – the perfect gentleman – that she was prompted to propose one day, “Will you marry me?”
“No!” was the reply, but he was back the next day and held her hand all the way to the library (and back).

Then there are times when you are on the brink of erupting and they say something to put you back in perspective. A memorable one, as I struggled giving Sanghaya a bath:
(Irritated) “Stop Mummy! When you wash my ears I cannot hear!”

Such ‘cuteness’ though could sometimes be dangerous. Like the time she announced, rather loudly, “A big fat man!” with pointed finger to a man merely a foot away.

Or the embarrassing, “What a hunky guy!” when it was a younger, leaner man.

Good thing they are often forgiven by these people with whom we share footpaths and roads and parks. The reason being that they are “just kids.” Huh, I know better.

Don’t be deceived by their looks. Three-year-olds have very strong opinions on everything. And their take on certain world truths can sometimes be amazing.

Consider this:
“If we don't have boobies we will die.”

Indeed.

 

The Middle Wife

by an anonymous second-grade teacher

I’ve been teaching now for about fifteen years. I have two kids myself, but the best birth story I know is the one I saw in my own second-grade classroom a few years back. When I was a kid, I loved show-and-tell, so I always have a few sessions with my students. It helps them get over shyness and usually, show-and-tell is pretty tame. Kids bring in pet turtles, model airplanes, pictures of fish they catch, stuff like that. And I never, ever place any boundaries or limitations on them. If they want to lug it to school and talk about it, they’re welcome.

Well, one day this little girl, Erica – a very bright, very outgoing kid – takes her turn and waddles up to the front of the class with a pillow stuffed under her sweater. She holds up a snapshot of an infant.

“This is Luke, my baby brother, and I’m going to tell you about his birthday. First, Mom and Dad made him as a symbol of their love, and then Dad put a seed in my Mom’s stomach and Luke grew in there. He ate for nine months through an umbrella cord.”

She's standing there with her hands on the pillow, and I'm trying not to laugh and wishing I had my camcorder with me. The kids are watching her in amazement.

“Then, about two Saturdays ago, my Mom starts saying and going, ‘Oh, oh, oh!’ Erica puts a hand behind her back and groans.

“She walked around the house for, like an hour, ‘Oh, oh, oh!’ Now the kid's doing this hysterical duck walk, holding her back and groaning.

“My Dad called the middle wife. She delivers babies, but she doesn’t have a sign on the car like the Domino’s man. They got my Mom to lie down in bed like this.” Then Erica lies down with her back against the wall.

“And then, pop! My Mom had this bag of water she kept in there in case he got thirsty, and it just blew up and spilled all over the bed, like psshhheew!” This kid has her legs spread and her little hands are miming water flowing away. It was too much!

“Then the middle wife starts saying ‘push, push, and breathe, breathe.’ They started counting, but never even got past ten. Then, all of a sudden, out comes my brother. He was covered in yucky stuff, they all said was from Mom’s play-center, so there must be a lot of stuff inside there.”

Then Erica stood up, took a big theatrical bow and returned to her seat.

I’m sure I applauded the loudest. Ever since then, if it’s show-and-tell day, I bring my camcorder, just in case another Erica comes along.

 

Preparation for children

Author Unknown

Follow these 15 simple tests before you decide to have children.

Test 1
Women: To prepare for maternity, put on a dressing gown and stick a beanbag down the front. Leave it there for 9 months. After 9 months remove 10% of the beans.
Men: To prepare for paternity, go to the local chemist, tip the contents of your wallet onto the counter and tell the pharmacist to help themself. Then go to the supermarket. Arrange to have your salary paid directly to their head office. Go home. Pick up the newspaper and read it for the last time.

Test 2
Find a couple who are already parents and berate them about their methods of discipline, lack of patience, appallingly low tolerance levels and how they have allowed their children to run wild. Suggest ways in which they might improve their child’s sleeping habits, toilet training, table manners and overall behaviour. Enjoy it. It will be the last time in your life that you will have all the answers.

Test 3
To discover how the nights will feel…
1) Walk around the living room from 5pm to 10pm carrying a wet bag
weighing approximately 4-6kg, with a radio tuned to static (or some other obnoxious sound) playing loudly.
2) At 10pm, put the bag down, set the alarm for midnight and go to sleep.
3) Get up at 12pm and walk the bag around the living room until 1am.
4) Set the alarm for 3am.
5) As you can't get back to sleep, get up at 2am and make a cup of tea.
6) Go to bed at 2. 45am.
7) Get up again at 3am when the alarm goes off
8) Sing songs in the dark until 4 am.
9) Put the alarm on for 5am. Get up when it goes off
10) Make breakfast.
Keep this up for five years. Look cheerful.

Test 4
Dressing small children is not as easy at it seems…
1) Buy a live octopus and a string bag .
2) Attempt to put the octopus into the string bag so that none of the arms
hang out. Time allowed for this - all morning.

Test 5
Forget the BMW and buy a practical five-door saloon.
And don't think that you can leave it out on the driveway spotless and
shining. Family cars don't look like that.
1) Buy a chocolate ice cream cone and put it in the glove compartment.
Leave it there.
2) Get a coin. Insert it in the cassette player.
3) Take a family size package of chocolate biscuits, mash them into the
back seat.
4) Run a garden rake along both sides of the car.
There … perfect!

Test 6
Get ready to go out.
1) Wait outside the toilet for half an hour.
2) Go out the front door.
3) Come in again.
4) Go out.
5) Come back in.
6) Go out again.
7) Walk down the front path/driveway.
8) Walk back up it.
9) Walk down it again.
10) Walk very slowly down the road for five minutes.
11) Stop, inspect minutely, and ask at least six questions about every piece of used chewing gum, dirty tissue, and dead insect along the way.
12) Retrace your steps.
13) Scream that you have had as much as you can stand until the neighbours come out and stare at you.
14) Give up and go back into the house.
You are now just about ready to try taking a small child for a walk.

Test 7
Repeat everything you say at least five times.

Test 8
Go to the local supermarket. Take with you the nearest thing you can find to a pre-school child. (A full-grown goat is excellent). If you intend to have more than one child, take more than one goat. Buy your week’s groceries without letting the goat(s) out of your sight. Pay for everything the goat eats or destroys. Until you can easily accomplish this, do not even contemplate having children.

Test 9
1) Hollow out a melon.
2) Make a small hole in the side.
3) Suspend the melon from the ceiling and swing it from side to side.
4) Now get a bowl of soggy cornflakes and attempt to spoon them into the swaying melon by pretending to be a plane.
5) Continue until half the cornflakes are gone.
6) Tip the rest into your lap, making sure that a lot of it falls on the floor.
You are now ready to feed a 12-month-old child.

Test 10
Learn the names of every character from the Fimbles, Barney, Teletubbies and Disney. Watch nothing else on TV for at least five years.

Test 11
Can you stand the mess children make? To find out, smear peanut butter onto the sofa and jam onto the curtains. Hide a fish behind the stereo and leave it there all summer.
Stick your fingers in the flower beds then rub them on the clean walls. Cover the stains with crayon. How does that look?

Test 12
Make a recording of Janet Street-Porter shouting “Mummy” repeatedly. (Important: No more than a four second delay between each “Mummy” – occasional crescendo to the level of a supersonic jet is required). Play this tape in your car, everywhere you go for the next four years. You are now ready to take a long trip with a toddler.

Test 13
Start talking to an adult of your choice. Have someone else continuously tug on your skirt hem/shirt sleeve/elbow while playing the “Mummy” tape made from Test 12 above. You are now ready to have a conversation with an adult while there is a child in the room.

Test 14
Put on your finest work attire. Pick a day on which you have an important meeting. Now:
1) Take a cup of cream, and put 1 cup lemon juice in it.
2) Stir.
3) Dump half of it on your nice silk shirt. Saturate a towel with the other half of the mixture.
4) Attempt to clean your shirt with the saturated towel.
5) Do NOT change. You have no time.
6) Go directly to work.

Test 15
Go for a drive, but first:
1) Find one large tomcat and six pit bulls.
2) Borrow a child safety seat and put it in the back seat of your car.
3) Put the pit bulls in the front seat of your car.
4) While holding something fragile or delicate, strap the cat into the child seat.
5) For the really adventurous… run some errands, remove and replace the cat at each stop.
You are now ready to have kids!