I'm a clairvoyant. I know I'm going to die of a heart attack.

Yes, I am the posessor of mystic powers beyond many's comprehension. My kind are often called seers, oracles, psychics, soothsayers and mediums.
But I personally like to call myself a mother-of-children-who-like-to-climb-high-stuff.
I know that I will most likely die of heart failure after going outside one day to find my children perched atop the TV antenna trying to tune in Tokyo.
On any given day I will let them outside and they will head straight for the nearest tree, swing-set or shed, and proceed to climb it until they can climb no more.
One big problem with this is the getting down factor...they don't actually factor-in getting down.
Unlike kittens stuck in trees, I haven't yet had to resort to calling the fire department, but I'm sure that day is coming.
My 4 year old is quite capable at getting down from any of the above climbed things, but my 2 year old tends to use the "Muuuuuuuuum!! I'm stuck!!" method of descending from whatever he has scaled.
I'm OK to get him down from here:

And I can also get him down if he climbs our chook shed.
But what am I supposed to do If I come across this?

Or this?

Or even this?

　

Unless I can wrap them in bubble wrap, or buy 486 matresses and scatter them around the place under anything tall, or feed them up with the l’Élixir du bouncy balls, my demise has been written. It was nice knowing you all. I'd better go brew some chamomile tea, shoot myself in the butt with half a pack of rhino tranquilisers and then go check on where the boys are...

Ranter Claus and her cranky sack (this has nothing to do with Christmas)

I was in full Ranter Claus mode yesterday.
I had a sack full of cranky and I was handing some out to what ever victims dare stumbled my way.
While I didn't go as far as to stand on my front veranda yelling "Ho! Ho! Ho! Oh, and look, another skanky Ho!" at the high school girls walking past after school. I still did have quite a few more cranky gifts stowed away.
After 2 hours sleep the night before and a week of virulent gastro attacking my household, my temper was slightly frayed.
It all started with the fact that my very fragile esophagus (due to my channeling Mr Creosote from Monty Python for the last couple of days) was not cooperating with my usual morning ritual of pouring percolators full of coffee down my throat until my eyelids stayed open of their own free will. I had massive heartburn, so I was forced into doing coffee shots with a Quik-eze chaser.
After that was a blur of rantings about George Carlin and the unfair aesthetic advantage puppies have over lobsters, why they hire postmen that can't read, I growled at my chickens about why they eat better than me and I threw a few loads of clothes at the clothes line (where they'd better freaking dry, no matter WHERE they landed!)

I thought i'd do a bit of cathartic online forum "opinion sharing", so I headed to one of my favourite parenting sites where they were having the eternal "natural birth Vs gimmie-loadsa-drugs birth" debate, where I offered my very informative, balanced and concise views on the subject:

"The term "natural childbirth" always makes me a tad puzzled. I don't really understand what is so "natural" about inviting and welcoming pain. If you want an epidural, do it, if you want a drug free birth do it, but please don't strut around like the guy at the gym with the big bulge under his towel trying to prove their manhood. Childbirth is not an egotistical competition about proving who has the biggest lady-balls. Birth how you want to, just don't do it on a soap box."

Feeling slightly better at being able to vent to something that didnt have feathers, pegs or had their eyes glued to ABC2 ignoring me anyway, I took the boys out for a walk.

I was fairly well behaved, except for that little moment when I gave the crazy eye to the woman standing in the middle of the footpath who was trying to pretend not to notice I was approaching with a pram. I looked her in the eye as I tried to maneuver the pram past her, and muttered "Odd!!" in a weird voice. Some day people will learn that women with prams are mental, and it's best just to move.
But. The biggest reason that I have unleashed the sack'o'cranky is that my computer's hard drive has died and I have to get it repaired. So not only do I have to be without my compy for the next few days, I can't accompany my blogs with my awesome dodgy photoshopping skills!
I'm lost!