Sunday Scribbling

I used to love drawing, but over the years I have picked up my pencils or my fine liner less and less. So I am challenging myself to try and do an illustration a week, and get those creative juices flowing again!

This week's offering is "Dr Peacocktopus buys a balloon".

That was the summer of ...

That was the summer of 1997 - when everybody called me Wah-wah Boobs, and it didn't occur to me to mind. That was the summer before I gave up smoking like a chimney (ummm ... it was more like 10 summers before I actually did that), before my Dad found out I stole his 7 inch single of Dueling Banjos from his house, when I couldn't wait to see if my chemically fucked, over-bleached hair would ever grow again, and I thought I'd never find someone honest enough to tell me just how awful I really did look in a high necked singlet top. That was the summer random strangers handed me half eaten pastries as I walked along the street.

(I know that most of you have watched Dirty Dancing and know where I've got my inspiration for this post from ...  the start of Dirty Dancing when Baby says, "That was the summer of 1963 - when everybody called me Baby, and it didn't occur to me to mind. That was before President Kennedy was shot, before the Beatles came, when I couldn't wait to join the Peace Corps, and I thought I'd never find a guy as great as my dad. That was the summer we went to Kellerman's. ")

If you like, feel free to post your own pic from any summer in your life and paraphrase Baby to make it suit your particular summer, and share the link with me in the comments!

The dangers of being a "fun mum".

I have been walking around for the past two days with bicycle-riders bum.

I went for a bike ride with Jasper a couple of nights ago, and we ended up at the BMX track.

So, I automatically slip into "fun mum" mode, and proceeded to follow Jasper over the jumps, even got a little bit of "air" as I was jumping (are you visualising a voluptuous mumma on her little black retro bike, with a roller derby helmet, trying to jump her bike (and her own weight) over the BMX jumps after her 5 year old son? You know it! I'm cool! P)

But Cadel Evans I'm not, and the next day I woke up very saddle sore.

As I walked around like a cowboy with hemorrhoids, gingerly sitting down, alternating cheeks, I wondered, "Why do I keep doing this to myself?"

Is being a "fun-mum" worth it?

I thought of all the other scenarios that I had gotten myself into lately:

- Art angst: When you spend three days trying to get paint out of your hair after you used acrylic paint, not poster paint, for the afternoon painting session.

- Trampoline tight spot: It's not really a great idea for a woman who has had two children and is a little neglectful of her pelvic floor exercises, to jump on the trampoline with her kids.

- Cubby house collapse: Why do I keep crawling into these hazardous buildings my children and I make? My kids can get in and out of there no problems, but when I enter, I take out one (or more) of the supporting chairs and end up garroting myself on the roof sheet!

- Hide and seek heart attack: When your child finds a really good hiding spot, and you get more and more anxious as the time ticks by and you still haven't found them. You're about to start screaming hysterically, "WHERE ARE YOU!?" When they pop out of the dirty clothes basket gleefully yelling, "You couldn't find me mummy!!"

- Sparkle psychosis: The slow and degenerative madness you find yourself spiraling into as you keep finding glitter around the house, on the cat, on your face, in your cereal after a moment of craft weakness, where you caved in and let the kids use glitter.

So, I ask again ... Is being a "fun mum" worth it?

Of course it is! I may be a little masochistic and slightly mad, but all of my fun-mum follies are definitely worth it!



Are you a "fun mum"? Do you get yourself into these situations?

Dear Santa (A mums wish list)

Dear Santa,

I believe I have been a very good girl this year.

I have tried to be a good, kind and patient mum (with the kids, I never promised anything about being patient with grown -ups).

I have not embarrassed myself in public very much this year (I think you should turn a blind eye at wine-o-clock at BBQ's and get togethers).

And I generally have been polite to my fellow human beings (with just some scowling and pouting, as opposed to tourettes laden tirades, when waiting in the supermarket queue behind someone who parks their trolley in the checkout and then leaves it to go do all of their shopping!)

So Santa, since I have been good, I have my own little wish list I have compiled for you.

Can you please, please, please NOT bring my children any of the following:

A) Toys that need 852 batteries to run them, then run out once they've been operating for 36 seconds (unless you bring me shares in Duracell as well).

B) Lollies. A few are okay, and I know they make good stocking fillers, but you don't actually need to fill the whole stocking with them. I think last year Jasper was creating his own mini vortex in the backyard, when he rode his bike around, and around, and around in increasingly faster, lolly-and-sugar-induced circles, and nearly got sucked into another dimension. So, maybe just a handful this year.

C) Cheap $2 Shop toys that break when you touch them lightly with your pinky finger, or breathe heavily on them.

D) Toys with sounds that exceed 85 decibels. I don't think toy companies realise that any noises over 85 decibels actually cause noise-induced hearing loss, so toys get louder and louder as the years progress and my kids (and my) hearing deteriorates. Besides, they compete with the stereo, so I end up with some kind of extended remix version of Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven ... in two police cars and a firetruck".

Yours Sincerely,

Lyndell

P.S. What was that Santa? I can only assume you have said "Yes" to all of the above and are complying with my list, as I can't hear you, I have noise induced hearing loss from last year's presents!

Do you have a parents wish list for Santa this year?

The thing that came home in the lunchbox

I happily packed off my preppy, Jasper, at the start of the week with his readers, his hat and his lunchbox.

Monday night his reader, hat, but not his lunch box, made it home.
Worrying about the poor psyche of his lunchbox (all alone at night in the big dark school) I asked Jasper, "Can you please bring your lunchbox home tomorrow?"

Tuesday afternoon came, and Jasper had bought home his lunchbox! But not his sandwich container.

"Did you actually eat your sandwich?" I asked him.

"Yeeeeeeeeessssss" he replied, his eyes looking around the room like a nervous squirrel.

"OK matey. You'd better bring it home tomorrow then!" I was nervously wondering about what wonderous new life sprouts from the crusts of a light rye, cheese and relish sandwich? And whether that life would be intelligent enough I could train it to remind Jasper to bring home his lunchbox!!

Wednesday evening remained sandwich containerless still.
Thursday I started to wonder if the teachers could smell anything coming from Jasper's pigeon-hole. Did they walk past and wonder "Hmmm? What child brings a parmesan and dead badger sandwich to school for lunch?"

Friday afternoon I picked up Jasper from the school gate and asked him then-and-there, "Did you remember your sandwich container?"

Jasper smiled his huge I'm-so-awesome-give-me-a-prize smile and blurted "YEP!"

As we drove home I was anxiously thinking about what I was going to confront as I opened his bag. Glow in the dark toxic sludge that formed the shapes of the planets of our solar system? Colonies of mould singing a rousing rendition of "The Wild Colonial Boy"? Strange, tiny, light sensitive creatures that peer up at me as I open the sandwich container, blinking, they ask, "Got any more sandwiches?"

I popped on a pair of latex gloves and opened his bag with utmost care, grabbed the offending sandwich container and had a look at it ...

It was empty! Jasper HAD eaten his sandwich! All that remained was the smell of old bread and a few cry crumbs.

As I sighed with relief I felt a slight pang of remorse that I didn't get a chance to train a new creature to sit on Jasper's shoulder and whisper to him when the home time bell rings, "Don't forget your lunch box!"




Do your kids forget to bring things home from school? Do they eat all of their lunch, or do you find special gifts of squashed sandwiches waiting for you at the end of the day?

MUM! I gotta go!... NOW!!

When you're really busy running your errands,
Down the street, with a thousand things to do.
You hear a tiny little voice pipe up,
"Mummy! I need to do a poo!"


I don't have time for this, I'm too busy!
I've got to pick up that script by 2!
But those little eyes just look up at you, repeating,
"Mummy! I need to do a poo!!"


Can you hold on for 5 more minutes?
We're at the checkout, so shopping's nearly through,
But he's banging on the trolley, getting louder now,
"Mummy! I need to do a poo!!!"


Why won't this transaction hurry up!
It's taking forever for the EFTPOS to go through!
The checkout chick is getting grossed-out from him chanting,
"Mummy! I need to do a poo!!!!"


So you run around searching frantically.
Somewhere there HAS to be a public loo!
He's started jumping and clutching his bum, yelling,
"Mummy! I need to do a poo!!!!!"


Finally! You make it to the parents room.
Unfortunately, there's a bit of a queue.
But they let you go ahead when they hear him screaming,
"MUMMY! I NEED TO DO A POO!!!!!!"


Quick! Take down your pants and your undies.
No! Please don't take off your shoe!
I know you're busting, but take your time honey,
"Mummy! I need to do a poo!!!!!"


As he sits there smiling contentedly,
With a stench that is way off the charts!
He grins sheepishly, and says very quietly,
"It wasn't poo mum. It's just farts".

Kids always pick the worst times to go to the toilet! Have you been stuck somewhere with a child that needed to go?

B.U.I (Buying Under the Influence)

It's Friday night, the kids are in bed, hubby is watching football, or cricket, or goldfish tossing on the TV, and I have a lovely bottle of wine...

I open the bottle and stumble across Ebay. "Ooh! I just needed to look for a new pair of sunglasses", I say. Then am sucked into some kind of time-space vortex for the next two hours.

I come to with an empty bottle of wine beside me and am having happy thoughts of my new sunglasses which will arrive some time next week...

Along with all the other impulse purchases I made!

The week after a B.U.I (Buying Under the Influence of alcohol) session is like Christmas! Strange surprise packages appear at your door. You were like your own personal Kris Kringle!

Some of the items you buy are great (like those sunglasses), but other purchases just may have been helped along by that cheeky little bottle of red!

It's a week long extravaganza of parcels arriving via post. Almost like a surreal version of "The 12 Days Of Christmas" (feel free to sing along with me, you know the tune):


In the mail on the Monday, my postie gave to me...
A macrame owl hanging off half a dead tree.

In the mail on the Tuesday, my postie gave to me...
2 bright shades of eyeshadow, and a macrame owl hanging off half a dead tree.

In the mail on the Wednesday, my postie gave to me...
3 novelty purses, 2 bright shades of eyeshadow, and a macrame owl hanging off half a dead tree.

In the mail on the Thursday, my postie gave to me...
4 Snuggies snuggling, 3 novelty purses, 2 bright shades of eyeshadow, and a macrame owl hanging off half a dead tree.

In the mail on the Friday, my postie gave to me...
A 5 disc set of Barry Mannilow siiiiiiiiiiiiings....! (the 80's)

..and so on...

I'm just relieved that it didn't go as far as the 12 pink Flamingos!

Have you ever bought under the influence? Or have you ever experienced any kind of buyers remorse?