What makes minds tick in a house of 6 where
the majority vote lies with The Youth.

Monday, August 30, 2010

Don't Try This At Home

Having poo-pooed a number of seemingly reputable Yum Cha establishments in the last four weeks, The Youth were prepared to try again on Sunday. This time they consulted The Sydney Magazine and decided on a joint recommended by Terry Durack which attracted a "civilised business crowd". After much preparation, The Youth (who were ready by 8.45am) and their chaperones powered into town, parked the vehicle and poured a couple of pocketfuls of change into the parking meter.
The establishment was reached by way of a red-carpeted spiral staircase. Greeted by waistcoated waiters bemused at our early arrival, we were ushered to the central table. Trolley Dolleys were summonsed from the back room, unprepared for such prompt diners. The fare was tasty, if a little predictable, but there were a number of highlights. The first was the 'prawn ball'. It contained the compressed bodies of many hundreds of prawns and was wrapped in an enormous layer of...let's see...fat, I think we'll call it. Needless to say, it was ambrosial, manna from heaven. Some short time afterwards, the husband began to complain of chest pain and 'a zinging sensation' in his brain. His MSG tolerance obviously substandard, we assured him that the post-cha buzz would fade. And it did (part-timer!) The second highlight came straight after the 10am chocolate mousse. The Youth, who had been specifically herded by the waiters to seats on the east of the circular table, were mesmerised by the plasma screen in the west wing behind us. In their stupor, they failed to notice the glass of icy cold water teetering on the tablecloth in front of them. The husband didn't stand a chance. The ignominy of an ice chaser to the groin after the MSG assault was unspeakably cruel.
We vacated the establishment poste-haste and, on our trek back to the vehicle, deemed the joint "a dud" on a number of different levels. Our quest continues.

Friday, August 27, 2010

Friday Night Special

On my way to collect The Youth this afternoon, a travelling compadre of mine suggested that Fridays were an excellent excuse for a glass of wine with dinner. FRIDAYS, I guffawed, drawing only polite tittering from the entourage. FRIDAYS are when you really let loose. I extoled the merits of a glass with every evening meal in which children were involved. More polite smiles. And then expanded on the benefits of two glasses on a Friday night whilst some other sucker took the heat for a couple of hours. A few more whimsical looks. And that's when the chasm opened, when I realised that there are two types of mothers: 'Sensible' mothers, and 'Those Who Can't Actually Believe They're in Charge of Minors' mothers. Quite clearly, I fall into the latter category. The contenders for the former then began to talk about how bath time was a good juncture at which to pour a glass of Chardonnary. Bath Time. Are there really children out there who bathe EVERY day? Is this natural? Surely it can't be good for their delicate skin. What a hideous waste of time and water. A good spruce down in a communal shower once a week is good enough, isn't it? The chasm was now a bona fide crater. I bid my farewells and collected my dirty child from pre-school, flicking bits of last night's honey soy salmon out of her hair as we moved on to pick up her grotty brother and sister. And as we all walked home together through the park we made a pact that we wouldn't discuss our drinking or bathing habits in mixed company ever again. Later, we consulted Cicero who confirmed for us that "diseases of the soul are more dangerous and numerous than those of the body," and we felt vindicated. Pass the Pinot.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

It's Competitive at the Top

Today was Book Week parade at school. Come dressed as your favourite book character. Simple enough. But, NO. Lady R was adamant she would go as "the ninja from Kick Ass". (What! What! How has a 7-year-old ever heard of, let alone seen, an episode of that ridiculous piece of excrement? And why can't the Americans spell arse?) No amount of banter would convince her that this character featured nowhere in any written, literary, erudite text. At a stretch I decided that she could be a Tashi Ninja. No good, it seemed.
Meanwhile, The Young Man would be going as Ron Weasley. Far too many Harry Potters were forecast, so this would be the surreptitious outside chance. Many tears were shed, many infant gauntlets thrown down, and in the end no-one was entirely happy. Especially when Lady R saw the Young Man's costume - cape, complete with hood and Gryffindor logo, cloak clasp and wand (the only moment of lightness coming when we discovered on the packaging that the French translation for wand is baguette - much hilarity).
So goes the preamble for today's extravaganza that included Chess Club, multiple wardrobe changes, lurking outside toy shop windows for doors to open and delivery of NEW costumes to the youth all before 9.15am. However, all this seemed in vain when we spotted the calibre of costume cruising past us as we walked through the school gates. Mad Hatters, Frodos, Chewbaccas, Alices...they were all there. Not in store-bought rubbish like ours. No. Parents had quite obviously spent precious time at sewing machines, late into the night, to produce such high-quality garb. No expense had been spared, no corner cut. Our hearts sank. The Young Man waved his wand half-heartedly, hoping to knobble some of the competition, but without success.
Yes, the lunch time parade was fabulous. No, the youth didn't bring home the prize-winning bacon.
But the valuable lesson learnt from today is one in the eye for all those over-achieving haberdashers: waste your money and you're only out of money, but waste your time and you've lost a part of your life. Touche.

Monday, August 23, 2010

The Tummy Bug

Not to harp on the subject of sinking feelings, but there's another one I detest, and it goes a little like this..."Mummy, I don't feel good". The guarantee is this - you're either going to be wearing a gown of vomit in the next hour or spend the next 24 of them praying against all odds that, surely, the child is merely (1) hungry, (2) tired, (3) deluded. The odds, however, are not good. As we discovered again this week, with 2 of the 4 youth bed-ridden and threatening billious behaviour, one husband writhing with stomach coniptions, one au pair collapsed in the hallway at 3am on Monday morning with same, and the prospect of a lay-down misere for the remaining escapees. Wish me luck.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

The Toy Explosion

There's that sinking feeling when you hear the silence, feel the dread, and then enter the room where there should be noise, laughter, frivolity. And you find THE TOY EXPLOSION. You know the one where every conceivable item has been removed from its 'Proper Spot' and flung into a central repository in the living room. This Time Waster is one of my most loathed.