you know, THAT girl

The one who just can't say No. That's me.

Not about stuff like begging for sweets in the supermarket, or wanting one more cupcake, or Happy Feet for the brazillionth time that week - oh no, I'm cold as ice on that stuff, doling out No's with a firm, decided (and sometimes even smug) tone. Holding my resolve in the face of tears and entreaties and sticky-outy bottom lips.

But it's the requests to play which I struggle with. Being begged to read one more book, getting unwittingly cast as the mother/baby/monster/etc in one of the endless imaginary games, being asked to review the anatomical legitimacy of a play-dough snake.
Often it's just my presence that's required.
'Please Mum can you sit with me?' (while she happily builds a puzzle alone)
'Gnh Gnh GNH!!!' (as I try to sidle out the playroom)

I feel a huge amount of guilt turning these requests down. I feel like denying them the presence and attention of their mother is a big parenting fail.
I tell myself this is because my primary role is as stay-at-home-mum to them, my main job as it were is to be their companion, their playmate, to just ... hang out and be there.
But this is the same reason I often resent them for it.

I am here for them so much of the time. Shouldn't I be like that TV that's always on, you know, the one which theoretically is eventually completely ignored? I envy that TV.
Bet that TV doesn't feel bad about feeling resentful that it's always on.

I know kids have to 'learn' to play by themselves, to create their own entertainment. My girls don't have any problems with that, they just want me to be part of the games they create.
I should feel flattered right?

So why do I feel guilty saying no? And then exasperated when I don't? And then guilty for feeling exasperated?

Oh riiiiight, because I'm a p-a-r-e-n-t. It all goes with the territory.
Joy.

pinspiration: holiday survival tactics activities

Friday finishes school on Wednesday, and then the loooooong summer holidays stretches before us ....

I (like lots of parents I guess) approach the holidays with a fair amount of dread apprehension - we love the little darlings obviously but all those days to fill ... Past experience has however taught me that the longer the holiday the better they often are.
Fairly quickly our rhythms shift and adapt, the girls start sleeping in a bit later. Not starting our days with a mad dash to get out the door sets an easier tone for the rest of the day and most noticeably, the girls slip more easily into home-play; self-generated games and activities which don't require as much input from me as I feared thought.

Here's hoping at least!

That said, it doesn't hurt to have some activities up my sleeve. Here's a few I've got planned.
All from Pinterest of course!

1. Bath Paint
I've totally been known to put my girls in the bath at all times of the day. BEST way to grab half an hour. This would work as well in a paddling pool I guess but what better canvas than a white bath tub?

2. Rainbow Rice
Find the How-To here and then browse around - she's got lots of other fun ideas too.

3. Frozen Sensory Tub
Dudes, what a totally FAB idea for a hot afternoon? Go here to learn how, then check out ALL the other a-m-a-z-i-n-g sensory tub ideas she got going on and then dangnabit just go follow her on Pinterest yourself. [Bows to true genius.]

 4. And for snack time ... watermelon stars.
How pretty?

Just writing this post has gotten me excited about hot afternoons and summer fun, I'll post some more ideas as I find them and by all means, please share your holiday survival plans!

gangsta child: 10 ways a toddler's like a mobster

She has a predilection for weapons.

She'll steal your ride when you ain't looking.

She looks at you funny and you feel afraid, very afraid.

She likes pasta.

She has a tag.

She likes to party.

She has anger-management issues.

She's always plotting her next move.

She sleeps with naked chicks.

Capisce?

yoga with kids

Friday's always been a bit of a yoga fan. I credit the amount of yoga I did while pregnant with her.

Learning The Sphinx from one who knows  ~Aug 2008

Doing The Child with me, on a trampoline ~ Feb 2009

And these days, with the help of these clever bilingual Yoga Cards we printed out and laminated, she likes to 'teach' her sister. And learn some Italian too!

The all important 'Laying Out the Cards' ~ my little Montessori girl

Um ... The Plow?

The Big (wobbly) Tree

The Cat Child Afternoon Prayer?

Which one next?

Free-style yoga!

La Casa nella Prateria is a fabulous site for all kinds of things - yoga, Montessori, parenting stuff, crafting with kids.
And the site name translates into Little House on the Prairie - what's not to love?

#blacktuesday

I had another post scheduled for Wednesday (now that I'm doing more regular non-blog writing I'll only be posting here 3 times a week for a while), but I couldn't let today go by unmarked.

Was I the only person who spent this historic day at home with a sick and very cranky toddler, my all black protest garb steadily getting covered in snail-trail stains of snot and tears?
It really felt like it.
Thank goodness for social media. By 12:40 it was clear I wasn't going to make it to Parliament but I got Sunday to sleep just in time to watch the disturbing outcome of the vote on the Protection of State Information Bill 'live' on Twitter.

I know I wasn't the only person who put my kids to bed this evening with a distracted and heavy heart, a bit too much snappiness and impatience, and a real concern for their future.

I spent some time yesterday evening writing an email to a friend who has been really struggling with the 'should we stay or should we go' dilemma lately. I wasn't trying to influence her decision, but I have (as all of us have I imagine) been in that space myself at times so I shared with her some of thoughts I keep in the 'dossier' in my head filed under Open When Despondent About the Future of SA.
This afternoon I almost wanted to mail her again to say 'I take it all back! Flee! Flee!'

But I didn't. Because I don't yet believe that's the only option. Times are bleak but this is our home.

Here's something from my dossier:
My parents brought my brothers and I up as one of few liberal families in a small and very conservative community. My mother tells of having moments of thinking they were insane to be raising kids in the uncertainty and (albeit invisible to our small white village) horror of 1970's South Africa. My father, an intellectual and extremely optimistic man, really didn't think he'd see a peaceful end to apartheid in his life time.
40 bizarre and miraculous years later we're doing more than okay.

There's something else I take from this today - we grew up feeling happy and secure. Whatever my parents doubts and fears, we didn't know about them until we were old enough to understand and process them.
I won't, as I fear I may have done this evening, let my girls suffer from my stress about this again.

Call me naive, no really do - because I'm choosing to be. At the end of Black Tuesday I'm choosing to be naively optimistic, with a healthy sprinkling of bitch-fight angry.
At the end of a day where I was too concerned about the future to be truly present in the now, I'm pledging to try and not make that mistake again.

I'm doing it for my girls.

in ancient times

As any parent will warn you, it's not recommended to spend too much time post-kids reminiscing about life pre-kids.
If for no other reason than after all the hormones and emotions and sleep-deprivation you can't really rely on your memory any more, even once your kids are a manageable age.

I had a series of scary anxiety attacks while pregnant with Friday. My doctor very wisely took them quite seriously and urged me to get treatment while I still had time to make it all about me. One of the issues which came up in my 2 and a half therapy sessions (yes folks, it seems I'm so shallow and my psyche so rose-tinted that not even a paid therapist could eke more material from me. Halfway through my 3rd session she basically told me we were done and showed me the door. I still think given a bit more time I could have dredged up some more dirt to talk about ...), was a genuine concern that having a baby would be like having a permanent house-guest.
Like having someone to stay who you liked very much and got on well with, but around whom you still felt you needed to get dressed at a decent time and serve 3 balanced meals a day and not belch too loudly.
My therapist (can I call her 'mine' after so few sessions?) kind of guffawed (are they allowed to do that?) and asked me what my husband thought of this theory. I confessed I'd not discussed it with him and she sent me home to do just that.
He laughed long and loud.
'Hell no,' he said, 'this is our kid. She will fit into our lifestyle, she will do/dress/eat/live how we choose.'

Okay so he was wrong in a lot of ways. But right in that becoming a parent doesn't feel like one day you were living one life and then the next another. It's all part of the same life, your life, it just gets more interesting ...

But naturally sometimes you can't help but hanker back to those ancient times. And never is this more tempting then on weekend mornings.
What did we do with our long Saturday mornings we asked ourselves at 7.00 am?

We used to lie in 'til shamefully late. Now we lie in between two little girls 'til latest 9 am and then someone needs to wee, or be fed or get changed into dry pants.
We used to read books, novels. Now we read Mog goes to the V-E-T, Winnie the Witch and, if we're lucky, How the Elephant Got His Trunk.
We used to doze off again. Now we only close our eyes to play peek-a-boo.
We used to cuddle. Now we tickle and roll and squish-like-a-bug and try to shield our tender parts from various flailing limbs.
We used to finally drag ourselves up and into the quiet house and bumble around filling our day.

I guess we still bumble, but now at rapid speed. And although our days are that much longer the hours seem to fly by and there's certainly very little time to wonder how we're going to fill them.

But we're still very likely to be in our pajamas 'til shamefully late in the day, we're still the same people after all.

dear (food) diary

We were doing so well, you and I.

So honest, so well-maintained. I was even confessing to the half biscuit that I couldn't help but eat after Friday licked the yoghurt coating off and discarded it.
No more than 3 caffeine units, enough fruit to flatulate a small village, lots and lots of water.

And then ... Ouma's pumpkin fritters.

It was the only thing I really had in the house for their dinner you see. And the only way the girls will eat butternut. I was only going to have one ...

But then I had 6. With brown sugar.

And I dutifully wrote them up, although it hurt. And I know that I'm not Catholic and it's not like if I confessed to them then they never happened or anything.
And I acknowledge that they marred that perfect page.

I'm sorry for that.

But they were gooooooooood.

are you sitting comfortably?

Then I'll begin ...

The kind Cupcake Mummy bestowed upon me this lil' blog award [blush] and according to the Rules (which I may or may not obey) I'm to divulge 7 things you may not have known about me. Hmmm.

I quite like doing these meme's. They tap into my fantasies from (and not limited to) my childhood in which I'm asked to reveal my Top 10 favourite things, or what I always have in my fridge, or who my dream date would be or my greatest wish (duh, world peace) - you know, all those questions schlebs get asked.
And in the spirit of keeping it real this week, here goes ...


1. If you'd asked me before I started doing this I would never have thought I'd be a (mainly) stay-at-home Mum for as long as I have been. Still not sure quite how it happened ... and often still not sure exactly how I feel about it ...

2. I have bufunophobia, a fear of toads. Don't laugh! It's a real thing. I don't think I could ever live in Tokai cos of all those Leopard Toad signs they have up there. In fact, I've had a couple of nasty moments while driving after spotting Protect the Toad bumper stickers. In fact, having just typed the word a couple of times I'm feeling a bit shaky and ill.

3. I can't touch cheese with wet hands. This is actually quite a tough one to admit to as I'm a bit mean and scathing about people's hang ups. Can't touch cotton wool? Oh come on. Don't like corduroy? Puh-lees. But ja, cheese and wet hands - can't do it.

4. I'm 36 and I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up.

5. I lack the basic motor skill which determines the order in which to pick up multiple items. Faced with having to carry more than 4 things I'm a mess - dropping stuff and/or spraining fingers or wrists. This is particularly unhelpful when one of those items is a small child.

6. I'd still like to grow dreadlocks one day. Crusty hey? Maybe when I'm over 60, I reckon grey dreadlocks can be pretty cool and no one would dare say anything to me then right?

7. And just because I've always wanted to answer this question: anchovies, Greek yoghurt, beer, eye drops and eggs.

Now I'm supposed to tag other bloggers on this one, but as I've just finished a day of sick kids and plumber cracks (in my walls and alas, in my face) and am looking forward to more of the same tomorrow, I'm going to rain-check on that, schedule this to publish in the morning and get myself into bed.

Happy Thursday!

parenting & Cape Town

I mentioned a while back that I did a guest post at Bod-for-Tea. She's hosting such a cool series of guest posts on Parenting Around the Planet - I highly recommend popping over to browse through them.

Anyhoo, as I've two sickly small girls on my hands and my bathroom is about to ripped up to (hopefully) find and repair a major water leak, I'm re-using that post here.
I think it sums up a lot of how I feel about where I live, and about what I'm doing right now!

My blog is about parenting and Cape Town, not so much parenting IN Cape Town, but parenting AND Cape Town.

Reason being that I kind of feel the same about both: continual dichotomy.

The Beauty.

Looking at my girls, hearing their belly laughs, seeing them interact with each other, with their Dad, their family, feeling their small bodies against mine, smelling their skin.

Staring at our mountain, hearing the hadeda birds, the call to mosque, seeing the colour in our city, feeling the vibe of many cultures, the grass underfoot, smelling the sea, the food, the salty fogs which roll in at dawn.

The Fear.

Of nurturing two lives, forming two personalities, equipping them with all that they’ll need to tackle the complexities of life in this world.

Of living in a volatile society, forming the right opinions and acting on them. The fear of seen and unseen threats, fear for the future.

The Freedom.

Of having so much time with my children. So many unscheduled afternoons, so many moments free to play, to cuddle, to chat.

Of open spaces – beaches, forest, mountain. The proximity to so many beautiful places, so many free and easy cultural experiences.

The Guilt.

Of being distracted when they want me all to themselves. Of burdening them with my frustrations, or the by-products of those frustrations.  The guilt of the privilege of having all this time with them, and that not always being enough to make me happy.

Of being privileged. White. Middle-class. Belly full. Supported. The guilt of that not always being enough to make me happy living here.

The Humour.

Of raising two girls who laugh easily. Who don’t take themselves too seriously and teach me not to do the same.

Of a city, a country, which has learned to laugh at itself, at each other. Laugh with a fond recognition of our differences, our challenges.

The Sadness.

Of my girls not having the freedom of movement I had as a child. The naivety I had. That they are, too young I think, exposed to homelessness, poverty, crime, desperation.

That the homeless, the poor, the victims, the desperate live so close to all this beauty, yet feel so little of it in their lives. That there is only so much we can do to help.

Living in Cape Town, a city, exposes me every day to the dichotomies of life, the joys and the heartbreak.
One moment I’m buoyed by morning light on the mountain, the good news story in our local paper, the flower-seller singing as he rides his bike down our road.
The next I’m broken by the news of an armed-mugging in our neighbourhood, by the small boys asking for bread at the gate, by the next big corruption scandal hitting the headlines.

Parenting, raising children, takes me on the same roller-coaster.  
One moment my heart is singing watching my eldest ‘read’ a story to her little sister, making a play-dough zoo, dancing in the living room to the Black-Eyed Peas.
The next they’re both crying, hanging on to my legs, they won’t eat the supper I’ve raced around to prepare, one’s got a stinky nappy and the other a stinky attitude and I just want to die.

Who knew a happy medium would ever sound so attractive? And, I guess, so boring.

eye to eye

We walked into Checkers and I spotted her just before Friday did.

This, is going to be interesting, I thought.

Friday stopped dead with an intent look of studied interest and puzzlement. I racked my brains for the current politically correct way to explain dwarfism.
Then I decided to let things run their course.

'Mum, why is that lady so small?'
The lady moved closer, selecting her veggies.
She smiled at Friday, eye to eye.
'Hello, what's your name?' she said.

Friday answered and then the lady said.
'I'm quite small aren't I?'
To which Friday responded, 'I've got an eye infection.'

The lady smiled, and took a step back.
'Are you looking forward to Christmas?' she asked. 'By Christmas you'll have grown a bit, ' she continued, 'but I've finished growing. By Christmas you'll be taller than me.'
She put a punnet of strawberries in her basket, smiled goodbye and moved off.

On the way home I explained that the small lady's bones had stopped growing when she was a child and so she stayed small. And later when I got a moment I went online to gauge how well I'd responded to the situation. There's not much out there, but from this I think I did okay.
Except for the poor character part! Staring is a family failing I'm afraid, though I prefer to call it 'noticing intently'.

Any of you been in a similar situation? How did you handle it?

keeping it real

I've been reading some great blog posts this weekend about keeping it real in the blogosphere - the writers having healthy critical things to say about those bloggers who make out like their lives and families are delightfully blessed, creatively fulfilled, well-balanced organic eating never-squabbling homespun wearing 5 a day munching clean linen cut toenail sock matching no TV watching flop-free baking bubbles of 'hello cloud hello sky' pollyannaesque perfection.
You know the ones?

I do. And I admit to quite enjoying reading them for pure escapism, choosing to put from my mind that they are real people and instead regard them as fictional characters in a favourite TV show maybe, a chance to dip into someones life and hide for a moment from my own.
Other blogs I read for a healthy dose of realism, for the inspiration which comes from learning how others tackle their challenges, to share a laugh or an empathetic virtual hug about someones no good very bad horrible day.
My favourite blogs are honest enough to have a little bit of both.

But I do have standards, and those are to be always entertained, educated or informed. I don't just want to read someones moan about how hard life is, or how unrewarding parenting can be or how annoying people in general are. I feel all those things myself on occasion sure, but I save that moan for my husband (lucky guy hey?) or good friends who know me well enough to know I'm just having a grump and I'll get out of it soon enough. And know they can reciprocate with their own quibbles and quirks.

However, lest I ever be accused of being a 'perfect life' blogger (which you could be forgiven for thinking after reading this, but I hope you'll quickly counter-balance with this), allow me to tell you about ...

... the homemade granola I made recently. Sounds very homespun of me doesn't it? Until I tell you how I radically over-salted it, felt ill after the first bowl, had a big sulk about how nothing I cook ever works out properly and husband managed to save the day by picking out all the cranberries, rinsing the whole batch repeatedly and re-roasting it. We now eat homemade muesli for breakfast, not over-salted anymore, delicious in fact, but a little tainted by the foul language which was sprinkled over it.
... making paper-plate bats and blowing up balloons for what I thought was an inspired indoor game yesterday in the unseasonal foul weather which blew through Cape Town. I could tell you I didn't take photos because the light was so bad but the truth is I didn't because the house was SUCH a mess and both girls (and possibly some adults) were still in their pajamas at 3pm. I could tell you it was a roaring success and kept the kids entertained for hours but the truth is after two of the (very cheap) balloons popped in Sunday's face she was too freaked out to go anywhere near them again and after Friday melted down 'cos there was only one pink one (which popped, OBVIOUSLY) I was so over the whole game I let them watch TV for the rest of the afternoon.
... how exasperated I felt that Sunday's not interested in TV at all and preferred to follow me around begging me to read to her (how annoying)
... the play-dough we made (because OBVIOUSLY I voldermorted the last batch, which went dry and crumbly within hours of my writing poetry to its wonderfulness) which I didn't cook for long enough so it was all sticky and impossible to mould until I finally returned it to the (already cleaned) pot to cook it some more, burning my fingers while testing for the right elasticity ... I could tell you that pink is not the best choice of colour for play-dough, especially with my girls love of making long dough 'snakes' ...
... or I could tell you that I'm currently wearing the same clothes I've been in since early afternoon Saturday, the last time I got a chance to shower. I've even slept in them for TWO nights.

Ok, think I've done proving myself not to be one of those bloggers?
Can I go and have a shower now?
Ta.

anonymous beautification

I've been seeing, and photographing, these prettily painted telephone boxes all over Observatory for the last couple of months.
Someone's been painting local street scenes and landscapes on them - usually all four sides - for some time now.

Who is it and when do they paint them?

I'd like to know so I could thank them.

Random urban beautification? Yes please.

Has anyone seen any others in Cape Town? Keep your eyes open this weekend and let me know.

In other news, it seems Baby Voldermort works both ways. Ever since I wrote that post I've had the most divine, chatty, cooperative, funny, reasonable, helpful, affectionate little four yr old. It's been lovely.
Oh crap, I hope I haven't reverse-flipped BV right back at myself! Ack.

open letter to my brother

Dude. I get it now.

The whole, being the second-born thing.

After 30+ years of being the firstborn, it's taken actually spawning a second-born to really get what you've been moaning about all this time.
Jeez guy, you got a raw deal!

Or did you ... ?

There is no question the second-born:
- is woefully neglected in comparison to the smothering attention bestowed upon the FB
- is allowed to sleep on its tummy, eat grapes, suck on the dog blanket and countless other 'life-threatening' things the FB would never have done
- receives far less tolerance of his/her moods, likes & dislikes and basic opinion in general
- is often rudely woken from his/her nap to accommodate the rest of the family's plans
- wears lots of hand-me-downs
- always gets the smaller 'half'

BUT ... in my experience the second-born also:
- is continually defended, stuck up for, sided with and is very seldom the first one punished for sibling nastiness, all because he/she is physically smaller, not less guilty
- is allowed to sleep on its tummy, eat grapes, suck on the dog blanket and countless other 'life-threatening' fun things the FB would never have done
- has a huge amount of toys and books at his/her disposal, not all of them necessarily age-appropriate but all available to be explored and dismantled and tasted and trashed
- has the love of a whole additional person
- gets lots of new stuff due to the guilt of it always wearing hand-me-downs
- has the opportunity to grow and explore his/her world in peace, without the continual scrutiny of two enraptured parents

So while I finally get why you've made accusations of persecution and neglect these last 30 odd years, it also makes sense to me how you've grown into the confident, practical and big-hearted guy you are. I may even need to take some credit here.

Love you dude!

And PS. No, I'm not going to have a 3rd just to understand the whole 'middle child' thing. Sorry.

we're talking about ... the black widow spider

Black. Widow. Spider.

She must've said it no less than 48 times on the drive home from Hout Bay last week.

Black. Widow. Spider.

Say it out loud, it definitely feels good in the mouth.

She told me everything she'd 'read' about them in a book at school. She declared that 'widow' means 'white'.
Not an unintelligent deduction but I did have to correct her, explain what a widow is and talk about why the spider would be thus named.
She then summarised, 'So the Lady Black Widow Spider ate the Daddy Black Widow Spider making herself a Widow Black Widow Spider. Black. Widow. Spider.'

'They're nice words to say aren't they?' I say.

'Yes they are.' she answered.

Then, 'They're clear words.'

Go on, say them. Black. Widow. Spider. The words are as clear as they are frightening. To us.

To her they are merely comfortable words to say, intriguing creatures to read about, and a gentle introduction to some pretty hefty concepts.

What are your kids talking about?

elgin open gardens: beaumont wines

This Saturday we had (a long) lunch at Beaumont Wines in Botriver as part of the 2011 Elgin Open Gardens.

I really wish I'd caught on to the event sooner, there were 23 participating gardens this year over two weekends, and I can imagine drifting slowly from estate to estate - lunch here, a walk there, tea here, drinks there. Needing nothing more but lots of baby-sitting, an unlimited budget, a designated driver, 4 or 5 different stomachs and an unlimited capacity for wine.
Is that too much to ask?

I've got such a nostalgic soft spot for the Beaumont's beautiful Compagnes Drift farm, having spent many, many childhood afternoons running around there (mostly bare-bummed according to our parents), and so I may be totally biased but it really is the most exquisite place.

With none of the pretension and grandeur of some (many) wine farms around Cape Town, Beaumont Wines is a family-run winery and the whole farm exudes warmth and relaxed charm.

It's home to one of the only working water mills in the Overberg area, we were given a tour by the dedicated and engaging Andy Selfe, an engineer who has restored the mill back to its current glorious working state.
Friday was intrigued by all the cogs and wheels and totally taken with watching the grain being milled. We bought a bag of flour and followed the simple recipe on the back to bake a delicious loaf for the next morning's breakfast.
A fun way to show a little girl from the city the whole process from grain to her tummy.

Lunch was on the lawns in front of the historic farm house overlooking the farm dam, home to an enormous 23 year old barbel aptly named Hoover.

Friday got to feed him 'cat food' off the jetty and marvel at his enormousness - just when she'd thought the mill was the highlight of the day.

Oh and on the subject of food ...

Zest Catering. More Beaumonts, more magnificence.

And then there was nothing really left to do except roll around on the lawn all afternoon, drinking wine and hanging out with old dear friends.
I mean ...

Life is really hard sometimes you know.

And just when you'd think I couldn't have any more gushing to do, I have to add that this was also one of those rare and magic family outings where everything just ... worked.
Sunday had her morning nap perfectly on schedule for us to leave on time. Friday was an angelic delight. No one fell in the dam. No one pee'd on the front seat of the car (although this only thanks to my superior nappy-changing skillz). There was no spitting, no fighting, no threats.
There was only fun, and laughter, and good times.
And wine.

Do you all hate me now?

ode to play-dough

Who knew one big green glob of goo
could give so much joy to me and you?
Who knew that from a friend's bread-maker to our play-table
this happy goo would become the glue
which held together many mornings of me and you?
Who knew that you would master the goo,
and the opening of the goo's container too,
to find a sensory meditation,
not unlike a very gentle sedation,
which would give me the gap, with a million things to do,
to ignore it all and photograph you
as you endlessly play with your beloved goo.

I cannot recommend homemade play-dough strongly enough. In consistency, pliability, usability and all the other -ilities (distractability?) which count it's far superior to the shop-bought stuff.
Find a good recipe here and if you have a bread-maker, or know someone that does, you can whip up a batch in no time. (Also, it's super fun to sink your face into a fresh warm soft batch of dough - try it, you know you want to.)
The high salt content makes it totally unpalatable so even small kiddies can use it (I can't stand the thought of Sunday eating the commercial stuff), plus it's all natural ingredients so even if they do have a little taste, no worries.
There's some fun ideas online for scented and spiced play-dough too, as well as suggestions for 'Doughs of the Month'.
But honestly, this humble hunk of green dough has served us very, very well just as it is.

One more note on this (I could actually carry on all day). Friday is as into play-dough as Sunday, although in the past she's gotten frustrated at not being able to make a cow, or a picnic basket (yes, this really happened), or a fire engine. We had a breakthrough on that though after watching a Sunday evening National Geographic programme on 'Freaks of the Sea' - since then she's happily been making the most imaginative and bizarre 'freaks', with no concerns at the limitations of form or function. Yay imagination!

4 going on 14

Last week I had a moan on facebook about how I thought we were supposed to be in the 'Fabulous 4's' with Friday, and a whole bunch of mum friends commented that sadly I seem to have been misled.
Apparently it is in fact the 'F*cking 4's' we find ourselves in the middle of right now.
Which does seem to make a lot more sense ...

We are having a bit of a tricky time with Friday, and it is disrupting family life somewhat. She's moody and uncooperative, prone to sulks and huge sobbing fits over ... nothing. She's not taking instruction well at all and has developed a hard and defiant little facial expression which instantly makes my palm tingle with an almost uncontrollable urge to unite the two.
Those in the know say kids experience a hormonal surge at this age not unlike those that come with the teenage years, and if you scan the list above I could very well be describing a 14 year old right? Joy.

I think all of her behaviour is rooted in one thing, an admittedly very teenage thing too: she's just loving the sound of her own voice.

She doesn't hear us when we tell her to eat her supper because she's too busy talking to herself inside her head.
Or just too busy talking.
She'll lie sobbing on her bed for 30 minutes because she's quite intrigued by the sounds she's making.
She'll scream at me for the same reason.
She'll argue just to try out her voice and see how much influence she can wield with it.
She barks instructions for the same reason.
She shouts at her sister, she squeals in the bathroom, she 'sings' as loudly as she can so as not to hear us.

She basically cannot stop talking, through the good chats and the bad spats, and I think it wears her out.

I'm a little averse to all this talk of the Terrible 2's, then the F*ck You 3's, and now the F*cking 4's. They feel like handles with which to explain away a whole lot of (trying but normal) growing up behaviour. And they fall into that old trap of focusing on the negative, never a healthy way to view the world.

Growing up is hard, I still feel like I'm struggling with it everyday. But I'm resolved, on this one, to remember that I'm more grown-up than her, I'm the Mum, and just like my long-suffering mother did for me, I'll try and muster the creativity and patience to deal with this.

And possibly invest in some earplugs.

on Tuesday I was ...

... shaking off the aftertaste of a bad dream I had about someone I love. You know when a dream lingers with you, like day-old garlic after an Italian blowout?

... getting back into the swing of things after a long few weeks of battling an asthmatic chest infection. Grumpy + wheezy = no fun me.

... wishing I'd not given most of these to trick or treaters on Monday evening.

they're supposed to be egg & bacon ok? some more dr seuss than others ...

... and wishing they'd looked more like these. We'll simply have to make them again soon. How did they get theirs so shiny?

... visiting a ginormously pregnant friend and feeling oh so grateful to not be wearing her shoes.

... remembering not to let Friday know that Sunday spent an illicit morning alone with Granny. The betrayal!

... trying to buy sturdy but pretty summer sandals for Friday. What is up with girl's shoes? It's actually a rant post all of it's own.

... imagining you all yawning with boredom while reading this less than entertaining list.

Oh and ...

... playing Santa to the lucky winner of our Yummy Mummy Maternity giveaway! Congrats Janene Thompson!
I kinda think that made my day.

the gaze

I remember so clearly an evening, when Friday was about 2 and I was newly pregnant with Sunday, catching myself gazing at my firstborn as she splashed in the bath, feeling my eyeballs almost bulge at the love radiating out of them. I was enraptured, entranced and utterly in love.
I glanced over at my husband perched on a bathroom stool, and saw that he was looking at her the same way, a look which carried so much emotion, a gaze laden with awe and delight.

I remember thinking to myself then, this is why we're having another one. Another child to share the enormity of this love.
It seemed like almost too much emotion to burden one child with. Strange word I know, but love can be a burden (the love these girls of mine have for me is very heavy sometimes!), a responsibility in a sense.
A responsibility possibly best shared.

But then a few evenings back I caught myself gazing at Sunday splashing in the bath, feeling my eyeballs almost bulge at the love and delight radiating out of them.
I glanced over at my husband, perched on the same bathroom stool, with the same sappy look all over his face.
The same gaze, the same love.

There's something about this age, from 1 -2, which is so enchanting. Watching them grow and learn, the little synapses firing, the learning all the time balanced with the unadulterated joy at the world around them.

I was wrong it seems, the gaze is not a weight for them to carry, but in fact the light under which they grow. This look is the one in which they see themselves reflected, the one which bounces back approval, encouragement, confidence.
They need this gaze, they thrive under it, and while the gaze on Friday the firstborn may have been uninterrupted and undiluted, Sunday the second has an even bigger advantage.

She has a third gaze, that of her big sister, another light shining down upon her.