History Lesson

"Mum, did you know there was once a King of China, and his name was Mousey Tongue?"

"What? *light dawns* Oh, do you mean Mao Zedong?"

"Yes! That's what I said! MOUSEY TONGUE! And he was King for 10 years!"

Wrapped in Cotton Wool

This is going to get long. Bear with me. (Maybe get a cup of tea first. And some biscuits. Get some for me while you're at it?)

As we are all aware, I'm not all that big on other people's kids (OPK's). I just don't like them all that much, and can list on one hand those kids who I like enough to tolerate for more than 10 minutes (nieces and nephews aside, because they are exempt by virtue of being related to me, and thus fabulous.) The kids are having a birthday party in a few weeks, and I asked them to each nominate 3 friends (other than cousins, etc) they wanted to invite. Lest you think I am being cheap, let me just say that 3x3+3 = 12, which is about as much as I can handle, activity and patience wise. For a 7 year old's birthday party, 12 kids is enough. Bear in mind, the trio go to a small school - their class is only made up of 14 kids. Over the years our kids have mentioned that, of that 14, there are some who they don't get along with, and some who they do. Because, you know, this is perfectly normal - to like some and not others.

So the kids drew up their lists of invitees - and not surprisingly, some of them were not in their grade. Friends from ballet, cousins, family friends, friends in older grades, friends who go to other schools...you get the idea. In the end they (collectively) only chose 5 friends from their grade. FIVE. I was a little disorganised on the invite front, and it was getting late. So I printed a bunch out and stuffed them in my handbag. A couple of days later, we were wandering around at pick up time a bit later than usual. The kids asked if they could give out their invites. I noticed that 3 of the 5 invited kids were around, so I let them pass out the invites.

In doing so, I allegedly committed a crime.

I hurt a kid's feelings.

One kid (one who was not invited) saw the three invites go out. He approached me and asked me what it was about, and I said, "It's for an activity at home." He wanted to know where his envelope was, and I just basically nicely told him that it was a private thing, and that was that. I gathered up my kids and left. A minute later his mother comes running up to me, asking me what "the commotion" was about. DD1, bless her heart, pipes up, "It's our birthday invitations!"

Yeah. BUSTED. Big time.

Long story short the Mom started asking loads of questions about it - date, time, place, etc. I had no choice but to then invite this kid, right? She made the assumption he would be invited, and I totally wimped out and let her believe that. She's had DS over for a lot of play dates...so I freakin' caved in. I assured her that her kid will get his invite the next day. We parted on good terms, but I will admit to feeling really annoyed that I had basically capitulated so easily.

I get home and the phone rings. Said Mom calls to TELL ME OFF for the hurt I have caused her son by not giving him an invitation. She literally tells me how her kid spent the ride home crying and wailing and being upset about what happened. She tells me how she had to promise him a whole bunch of stuff, to make up for the fact that he didn't get an invitation. She tells me how it was rude and inappropriate of me to give the invites out at school...and that she thought it was necessary that she tell me, so that I know what I did wrong. She then goes further to say SHE would NEVER not invite the whole class to her kid's party.

Ummm...yeah. That's why your parties of full of screaming, hysterical, out of control children running around like crazed drug induced maniacs coming off a bad trip. And, here's food for thought, lady - maybe, just maybe, the fact that you give in to your kid's every whim is the reason why he's an out of control, spoiled brat. A brat which my kid doesn't want to have at his party. A brat who my kid ASKED me to please stop sending him over there for play dates because he couldn't stand the noise and the chaos any more.

Clearly, she was trying to piss me off...because then she says, "AS A MOTHER, you should know that when your child feels hurt, YOU feel it too."

Oh, PUH-LEEZE!

This is where, for me, it gets a bit hairy. Did I do the wrong thing by handing out invites publicly? Maybe. Do I really think that this deserved a telling off? No. I am still finding it hard to believe this woman had the balls to do this.

What is this world coming to, that we cannot teach our kids that life is not always fair? Life is full of little disappointments. There will be parties they won't be invited to. Tests they will not pass. Dates they won't enjoy. Food that will smell better than it tastes. Dresses which aren't flattering. Boys who won't like you back. Applications that will be rejected. Dream jobs that will turn out to be horrible. Life isn't always full of blue skies and birds flying by and soft music playing in the background. At the end of the day, her kid will survive not being invited to this party. To put it bluntly: KID, SHIT HAPPENS. I don't understand this modern parenting culture of wrapping kids up in cotton wool...protecting them from every little disappointment.

On the party front, I don't understand why I have to invite kids who my kids DON'T like. Kids who they don't play with or interact with. Kids who have done nothing for my kids other than, you know, exist in the same classroom. There have been times when my kids have not been invited to things - parties, play dates, whatever. This actually happens to us way more than in most families... because someone in their class will invite over only one DD, or just DS. Maybe that's why I believe in the "give it to them straight" philosophy - because it's an issue we've dealt with numerous times. Still, I don't think this mother was doing her kid any favours - she won't be there to cushion the blow of every one of life's disappointments, will she?

Opinions? Are modern parents molly coddling our kids too much? Or should we be preserving their childhoods (because let's face it, childhood is getting shorter and shorter) and protecting them from life's little disappointments? Go on, give it to me straight.

You Know You're a Parent of Triplets When...

....your laundry pile reaches your armpit (literally). (Note: I am 6 feet tall.)

....you go to get the kids a small after school snack and it costs you $21.

...you see nothing wrong with parading around in the nude, because frankly they've seen it all from barging in on you anyway.

...you spend $300 on groceries and two days later, there's "nothing they like" to eat in the pantry.

...it takes 0.45 seconds for your house to go from immaculate to hurricane ravaged.

...no matter how many multi-pack rolls you buy, there will never, ever be enough toilet paper.

...whatever happens, HE did it.

...whatever happens, it wasn't MY fault.

...your hearing starts to go at age 32. Not because you're getting old, but because of all the screaming in your ear. Sorry? What did you say?

...you forget your kids names regularly. "Hey, Lex-no-Ki-no...WHOEVER you are, would you PLEASE stop whistling in my ear!!

...you have read almost every single beginning reader book in all the levels 1-31. You know some by heart.

...you are sure that your purchases alone cover the rent at the local K-Mart/Target.

...you often find yourself sounding like your Mom, "You call this clean?" "ALL I ask of you is to clean your room. Is that SO hard?!"

...you find yourself pricing 7-seater cars on the web. The next day when your daughter over hears you talking about this and interrupts your conversation to yell, "MUM! MUM! I think you should get a convertible!" you suddenly think this sounds like a GREAT idea. Surely the wind will drown out the noise?

...you find yourself wondering if your health insurance covers hip replacements, because you're going to need one after the endless games of "stacks on." (eg let's all jump on Mum until she begs for mercy, and then let's keep jumping!

...you start thinking that military school is not such a bad idea.

...you start to think of the entire world in threes, and wonder why other people don't think so, too. Why are family tickets always 2 adults + 2 kids? Why do snack packs of crackers always come in a bag of 10?

...you keep hearing ads on the radio for a health retreat, and you find yourself thinking you can tolerate Feiki in exchange for how quiet it must be up there.

Any more? Feel free to add them in the comments.

Yumm-entashen

This week us Jews celebrate the el cheapo version of Halloween - Purim. Kids dress up in various costumes and we eat food which is reminiscent of the story. After all, what's a Jewish holiday without food?! The Purim story is called the Megillat Esther and it reads like a decent Hollywood blockbuster script. Plenty of love, intrigue, passion, deception and of course, a decent villain who we all love to hate - Haman.

Among other things, Haman is deserving of some mockery, at least in a culinary sense. A traditional Purim food is Hamentashen (pronounced home'n-tah-shen), a triangular cookie meant to represent Haman's 3 cornered hat...or his ears...or his pockets (3 Jews = 4 opinions) Traditionally Hamentashen are filled with various jams, poppyseed and almond or date fillings.

Hamentashen are a very easy thing to make and kids love them, so it's a perfect cooking with kids activity. In my case (no surprise) I cheat and use a basic sweetpaste dough as the base rather than a more complex butter cookie recipe. You could use pretty much any roll-out sugar cookie recipe, or just cheat even further and use the tubes of stuff you can find at the supermarket. Kids can help by making the dough and then doing the rolling out and so on, but I find it's much less stressful to make the dough and roll and cut the circles yourself. Arm the kids with the fillings and let them at it. This recipe can also be used as a tart base, to make plain sugar cookies, to line pie tins, and so on.


I should also say that the business has wreaked havoc on my home baking. All my trusty utensils are in my commercial kitchen, leaving my own home bare of baking essentials. So I made these with no Kitchen Aid (instead using my hands and a fork), no rolling pin (a wine bottle did the trick), no piping bag (small spoon worked), no decent round cutter (a cup works) and no actual recipe (it was in my head.) In other words, you have no excuse not to try these yourself.


It should be noted that we also used various non-traditional fillings. Recently one of my fellow writers at Candy Addict sent me a massive box of American candy goodies. So our Hamentashen are filled with Hershey's Kisses and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups as well as the more traditional jam. Enterprising six year olds also dipped a toe into the molecular gastronomy movement with the invention of the "Claire 2000." Yes, a Hamentashen with a dollop of raspberry jam and a Peanut Butter Cup on top. My son ate one and literally swooned. You've been warned.


I wouldn't recommend the Kisses route, though - the damn things are made out of some scary unbreakable chemical compound and thus do not really melt. Instead they go kinda wrinkly and then mealy and ... well, gross. Use a more appropriate melting chocolate instead.


...and while it's not essential to eat your dinner while watching these bake, it does make for an entertaining photograph.


Hamentashen, emzeegee style
150g butter, at room temp
150g sugar
300g plain flour
2 eggs

(Note the formula is 1:1:2 so you can scale up and down as required.)

In a bowl of a mxer with the dough hook attachment (or just with your hands), mix the butter and sugar until incorporated - do NOT cream. Add the flour and mix until it resembles fine breadcrumbs - ensure there are no large butter lumps. Add the lightly whisked eggs and mix until just combined(a fork will do this nicely). Take out of the mixer and give a good squish with your hands to bring it to a ball. Allow to rest at least one hour (but nothing bad will happen if you don't. It just may be a bit hard to work with and shrink a bit on cooking.)

Generously flour your work surface and the dough. Roll out to about 3 mm thickness and cut out circles. On each circle place about 1/2 tsp of mixture - don't overfill as it makes a mess. Then follow the method as demonstrated by my son below: bring up the two sides to form a point at the top. Then bring up the bottom curve and pinch the corners together to make a triangular shape. (There are various philosophies about how to do this so the filling does not explode. It's all bull****. This method works.)

Bake on lined cookie sheets for about 18-20 minutes at 180C or until golden on the edges. A warning, the jam will be MOLTEN when it comes out, so resist the urge to pop the bubbles. Cool on a wire rack and eat, preferably with an enormous glass of milk.

Yet More Sex Talk

After school today, one of the teachers approached me (not a good thing, as it's either a) to rat on one of my kids or b) to get me to volunteer for something). She wanted to tell me that my son had been explaining to the rest of his class the mechanics of sex. In full detail. Apparently the other kids were listening in rapt attention.

Her reaction to this was basically to take him aside and say that while she was glad he understood about it, really - not everyone wants their kids to know that kind of information. So, please, could he not talk about those things at school? I understand where she is coming from - it's no different to the Tooth Fairy or Santa. Some kids know the truth (as it were), others don't. I firmly believe it's a parent's right to choose how and when to explain about all these topics. In our household the policy had been one of age appropriate honesty. So when they asked a few months ago about how babies actually get INTO the tummies of mummies, we explained.

In detail. Appropriate detail. We also referenced the very handy video at the Melbourne Museum. A video they've seen dozens of times, which shows the whole experience in all it's soft focus but very real glory. As is the way of 6 year olds, a song was born. A song with only one lyric: "Daddy put his peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeenis in Mummy's vagiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnaaaaa!!!" (repeat. ad naseum, at full volume, in public.) When said Daddy returned to the car (because, of course, it was me who was confronted with this conversation), the kids asked if what I had said was really true. Because it if WAS true, then that meant we had done it THREE times to have them. And that, my friends, is SERIOUSLY GROSS and EEEWWW and YUUUCCCKKKK.

Never mind that having them actually required NO sex. Not even once (unless you count all the practising.)

DH's answer? An embarrassed, mumbled, "Well, it's been known to happen." At which point he looks at me, eyes wide, and silently asks, "What the hell? I go to pay for petrol and THIS happens?"

Needless to say many conversations about sex followed, and we just kept on with the party line of an honest, age appropriate answer.

So today, when the teacher thought I should clearly be mortified, embarrassed and apologetic, I just looked at her and smiled and said, "Well? Was he at least accurate?!"

Apparently, he was.

Very accurate.

She couldn't quite understand why I looked so proud.

Yeah, best we just leave that one alone...

Another sign my kids are growing up is that they now mostly shower rather than bathe. Sometimes two will shower together, but more often they go one at a time - to save time and my sanity. Often one will have a shower, and one or another will have a bath - but it's been a long time since all three of them jumped in the bath tub together. Mostly this is because they are just too tall, and also because 3 kids + body of water = tsunami. Today the trio jumped into the bath together, and were having a grand old time, until DH and I heard this:

DD1: MUM! MUM! Guess what?! [insert gleeful voice]
Me & DH: WHAT???

DD1: Me and DS JUST DID SEX!
DS: No we didn't!
DD1: YES WE DID! MUM, DS AND I JUST DID SEX!!

Oh holy sweet mother of god, I think it's time that we banned opposite sex bath time.

Because, you know, I don't want them going all Flowers In The Attic on us.

More Lazy Bread

This recipe has been making the rounds on various foodie blogs for a while now, promising decent bread in under 5 minutes. Lazy bum that I am, I had to give it a try. This challah recipe is also the reason why I dug out the Pepsi Max Bread recipe (found below)....because I couldn't possibly have gotten all floury and messy just to have to wait four days for a decent loaf of bread. Lazy and impatient, obviously!

The final product did look great, and it tastes quite yummy. However, if I were to lob it at your head from fifty paces, you'd be dead on the spot. This sucker was seriously, seriously dense. Since making it I have come to a few conclusions: 1) It's probably best to use fresh yeast rather than stuff which is some months out of date, 2) a cold room is not the best place for it to sit and prove if I want it to actually rise, and 3) my oven is buggered! I noticed that while the challah was baking the bottom was getting dark. As in Darth Vader dark, even though it was nowhere near finished baking. I also noticed that the top was pretty dark, and I had the oven at 10 degrees below recommended.... but I kept blaming it on me or the stars or whatever.


Today I baked some white chocolate chip cookies. About 4 minutes into the baking time, I look in and notice a) my cookies are not flattening out and b) the bottoms of them look suspiciously like Darth Vader. *lightbulb moment* My oven is buggered! So for you out there who are going to try this, I will say the recipe is easy, quick, and tasty...as long as you don't have a buggered oven. I'm going to try it again (given the above info) and report back. Stay Tuned.



It should also be noted that this produces a gorgeous, elastic dough which kids will find easy to work with (evidence as per picture above.) I'd gladly make this every week just so my kids could have some fun with it.

Master Challah Dough
(originally from Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day by Jeff Hertzberg and Zoe Francois, but in reality cobbled together from various food blogs)

1 3/4 cups lukewarm water
1 1/2 tablespoons instant yeast
1 1/2 tablespoons coarse salt
4 large eggs, lightly beaten
1/2 cup honey
1/2 cup unsalted butter, melted
7 cups all purpose flour

In a large bowl mix together the eggs, water, honey, butter, yeast and salt. Stir well with a wooden spoon. Add in the flour and stir until you don't see any more dry bits of flour. Cover lightly (not air tight) and put it in the fridge for up to 4 days. The longer you let it sit, the better the flavour (or so they claim.) You can also let this dough rise for 2 hours and then proceed.

When you eventually decide to take it out, shape as per challah (want more info on this, feel free to email me - emzeegee[at]hotmail[dot]com. I've got instructions on how to braid in 3,4,5,6,7,8,9 and herringbone shapes which I'm happy to forward on.) I would make this into two loaves rather than one huge one. Cover and allow to prove in a warm place for 1 1/2 hours. 20 minutes prior to baking, preheat your oven to 350/170.

When dough is ready, brush with beaten egg wash and sprinkle with seeds. Bake 25 minutes or until the bottom sounds hollow when tapped. Enjoy!

Foodie Readings & Other Stuff

Having previously talked about my adoration of libraries, and of books in general, I feel I should admit that mostly I read crap. Chick-lit, crime fiction, so-obvious-it's-almost-ridiculous whodunnits, and so on. Occasionally I'll pick up something great, more often it's escapist reading of the highest order. Recently I picked up the above book: Finding Betty Crocker: The Secret Life of America's First Lady of Food. I'm don't read a huge number of non-recipe food-related books but this one caught my eye as I've always liked Betty. Not that we're friends or anything, just that I'd grown up using "her" products and she really was a symbol of Americana food.

Needless to say I came crashing back down to earth when I found out that she wasn't real. She was simply a marketing tool devised by some seriously clever folk at Gold Medal Flour. The book traces the history of Betty - from her appearances in newspapers to radio shows to live appearances to guest spots on TV. For many women (and men) she was the end-all-and-be-all in kitchen wisdom and hope, in particular during the Depression. Even Eleanor Roosevelt wrote to Betty asking for cooking advice! There are also a number of photos tracing Betty's visual history; from what she looked like in the early print ads to her more recent portrait updates. A bit like Barbie, Betty doesn't really age - in fact she seems to be getting a bit younger as time goes on (and minus the Botox!)

As far as the book itself, it was an interesting, quick read - while not a total page-turner, it still provided a fascinating insight into the world of baking marketing. In addition to following Betty the woman it also follows the product line, including noting the "horror" of the baking public when cake mixes first became available. Now, of course, there are whole cookbooks devoted to baking via a cake mix (sacrilege, people. Sacrilege!) An interesting read - for bakers and non-bakers alike.

---

Readers of this blog will know that on occasion I mention my friends...and to protect their innocence I tend to refer to them by various nicknames. Now one of those nicknames/people has taken on a blogging life of their own! Go on over there, have a look and be supportive, okay? Not only because I said so, but because, well... I said so!

The Baker's Wife goes online!

---

...and for those following the resolution, all is going well. Most weeks have far exceeded the 140 minute mark, and I'm really getting into it. I will admit some days it's harder to find those 20 minutes than I thought. Other days, I find myself lo0king at the watch and thinking, "40 minutes already? How did that happen?" More on this later on. In the meantime, be prepared for a phone call from me. :)

---

...and lastly, in "hungry three" news, First Grade starts tomorrow. I am sitting here resisting the urge to start crying and yelling, "My babies! My babies!" (although I reserve the right to do that tomorrow after I've dropped them off.)

Where have the hungry three gone?

On holiday, that's where! As a family we are spending two weeks living it up in Rosebud, a small beach town about 90 minutes out of Melbourne. We've spent days and days in the ocean, eaten literally close to 6 boxes of popsicles and ice creams on-a-stick, slapped on litres of sunscreen, had a bbq dinner almost every night, and our morning routine is like this:

9:30am - Dad. Dad. DAD? DAD!!! Dad, can we watch a video?
9:31am - (DH): Mrph. Rrmmhppg. MMmpphhrffr.
9:32am - Dad? Dad, we're serious. Dad? DAD! A video, Dad?
9:33am - DH hauls self out of bed to fumble with DVD player, reminds the kids to eat something and then stumbles back to bed.

Note: Notice I have no part in above scene. This is largely because the kids have been trained not to wake me up or bother me unless the house is burning down, one of them has a flag pole stuck in their ear, or DH can't be woken up first. It works.

11am - Kids finish movie, have eaten brekkie, and I shuffle, bleary-eyed, out to the loungeroom.

11:01am - (me): So, what are we going to do today?
11:02am - (kids): Dunno, but I'm going back to bed (upon which 1,2 or all 3 shuffle away.)

Eventually we all get up, eat, and s-l-o-w-l-y get ready to go to the beach. None of us feel any great need to move very quickly. None of us care about anything other than relaxing. We've been to the movies, had 3 sets of friends come and spend the day with us, and yet we all feel as though our limbs have turned to jelly. In a word, it's fabulous.

For those who are keeping track of my resolution, here is how Week One went:

- Of a minimum 140 minutes required for the week, I completed 160 minutes.
- Only on ONE day did I exercise the minimum of 20, every other day exceeded that.
- On most days I had one or more kids joining me
- The new 3/4 length jeans I bought are already too big on me

I read in a newspaper this week that most resolutions are broken by January 14th. Clearly, whoever wrote the article hasn't met me.

...and for those with some spare time on their hands, laugh as much as I did at this site, and then go laugh some more at this one.

10 Things In My World

5 things which are seriously irritating me:

1. Adult acne. Fer' cripes' sake, enough already!

2. The fact that I wrenched my back while my wiping my ass. I only wish I was kidding about that. Okay, you can stop laughing now. It fucking hurts, you know.

3. My de-lurk day failed miserably.

4. Finding packaging for my Three Sweeties gourmet line of products. All the sexy packaging is either too expensive or not air tight. *bangs head on wall* Ideas welcome.

5. The cook in the kitchen next to mine who keeps coming into my kitchen and saying, "So what did you make me for afternoon tea, hmmm?" Umm, that would be a big fat NOTHING, ya biotch. Now get out of my kitchen!


5 things which make my life worth living, other than my children, husband and chocolate:

1. The gourmet line of Three Sweeties products are seriously, seriously good. I've got nothing to put them in, but as products they are exceeding my expectations. Three words: Vanilla. Bean. Marshmallows.

2. This week DH and I are going on a mini-vacation for 5 days (which I can ill afford the time, but we planned it ages ago.) This is the longest we've been away from the trio. I'm thinking of indulging in three things: 1) sleep 2) uninterrupted sex and 3) breakfast which does not involve cereal. Repeat.

3. Tomorrow night I'm going to the parents' association meeting with the express purpose of kicking ass about a number of issues which are really irritating me. Frankly, I love a good fight. Especially one which I plan to win.

4. My DH has a cute butt. Which I'll get to admire on vacation, without a kid yelling, "Gross! Dad! I can see your BUTT! Ewwwww!"

5. DD1, who would normally have a very hard time performing, stood up in front of a theatre full of people, in full costume, with bright lights shining in her eyes and loud music playing.... and SANG. With hand motions. Something she previously could not do without needing to cover her ears and hide in a corner and sing to herself. She did it. On TWO nights. I have never been more proud of her. Sometimes it's the little things.

Bedtime

This one is gorgeous, and so very true! I know there have been a lot of kid-related posts lately, and officially speaking I'm not a "mommy blogger" so some of you might be bored. I promise to get back to food, and work, and school, and the other Three Sweeties news soon. In the meantime, enjoy this bit of fun ... and if you've got a recipe for French macarons which actually WORKS, please send it on.

A Sweet Memory

Yesterday my friend Dr J called to wish me and my family a Happy New Year, as today is Rosh Hashana (Jewish New Year). I like this holiday, especially since it's one of the few happy holidays in the Jewish calendar. Plus the traditional food of Rosh Hashana is stuff I like - apples, honey, sweet challah - basically all things round and sweet. So Dr J called, and after he wished us a Happy New Year he also said, "...and a couple of days early, Happy Implantation Day!" He had remembered what I had forgotten - that 7 years ago, in the middle of services at Temple, I had to run off to a doctor's appointment. An appointment were they were implanting the three embryos which are now better known as The Trio.

At the time I thought it was very appropriate time of year. These potential lives were being given to me in the period of time in the Jewish Calendar where it is decided who shall live and who shall die, who shall be forgiven for their transgressions, and who maybe needs to work a bit harder next year. We talk about being "transcribed in the Book of Life" for the coming year, and that's exactly what I asked for as I walked out of that Temple that day. I nervously, quickly, quietly walked out of there, ...and right before I walked out I turned around, faced the bimah, and said very quick, silent prayer. "Please," I said, "Please, please, please inscribe at least one of these babies in the Book of Life."

I'm not a terribly religious person. I would describe myself as more of a cultural Jew than a religious one, so it was a strange thing for me to do. Still, I figured I needed all the help I could get - if medical science couldn't solve this whole infertility thing, maybe a helping hand from the Man Upstairs would. Hey, at that point, I'dve stood on top of a mountain and howled while turning slowly counter-clockwise, all while wearing pink stripey shorts, if I thought it would help. Frankly, IVF sucks.

Anyway I walked out of that Temple, drove to the doctor's office, and two weeks later had the life-changing experience of the nurse on the phone telling me that my HCG levels (the hormone which indicates pregnancy) were totally through the roof. A mere 2 weeks after that, I got the thrill of seeing three tiny flickering heartbeats on a monitor.

So we could say that it worked - that my silent prayer got answered. They *were* inscribed in the Book Of Life. Or maybe it was just coincidence. Either way, I couldn't be more grateful on this Rosh Hashana eve.

May your days be filled with sweet reasons to celebrate. Mine are filled with at least 3.

Morning Java

So there I was thinking DH was going to be pretty annoyed with me, when he got home (after reading this blog) and found out about all the things I did/didn't do while he was away. In specific I thought he'd be annoyed about the whole kids-and-coffee thing. After all, every morning of the entire week he was gone the kids and I shared a massive commuter mug full of coffee. He's has this "thing" (and really, I can't fault him) that kids shouldn't be drinking coffee. You know, all that caffeine. Not to mention the chemical cocktail in Sweet n' Low, or the fact that kids don't really need coffee per se. However, he now is left with no legs to stand on after: a) he readily lets them (occassionally) drink Diet Coke or Pepsi Max (which contain not only caffeine but also cancer-causing fake sugar substitutes) *and* b) he came home from his trip away with these:

Yup. Those are giant matching commuter mugs. Perfect for them to have their OWN tall mug of warm, caffeine-laden, pink sachet of cancerous goodness filled, growth-stunting cup of morning java. For shame, DH, for shame. This is how coffee addicts are born.

However, I've recently discovered that DH is smarter than I am. Funnily enough, HE won't make them coffee on mornings he drives them to school. Ya know, he doesn't want to support their habit or anything. So even though I was keeping java consumption down to a minimum (by us all sharing only one cup worth), he's gone and allowed them to have their own. Which, as we know, all six year olds who share every iota of their lives want. Something of their very, very own which they don't have to share because he/she is not sharing properly and it's not fair Mummy!!!!!!! So. He's the one who has made this bigger than Ben Hur, but *I* am the bad guy because I'm the one who actually fills the damn things up.

Sheesh. What's next? I offer them a sip of wine and he buys them matching hip flasks?

Yup, I'm The Worst Mommy EVAH!

Actually, I'm not, it's just that sometimes my kids make me feel that way. You know, when I'm being totally NOT FAIR and MEAN because I asked them to...oh, I don't know... GET DRESSED for school. Or maybe I asked that they tear down (and put away) their 10 foot high volcano of furniture, Lego boxes, Ken doll legs, playing cards and stuffed tigers. Or when I ask them to brush their teeth...having already asked 4 times previously, with an elapsed time of 5 minutes between nice, friendly, polite asking. Us mothers, man, are we HARSH!

Never mind that I let them have treats which I shouldn't have, including our new morning tradition of sharing a massive commuter mug of coffee (made with instant, and made with Sweet and Low! Oh the horrors!) on the way to school. Or the fact that I will move hell and high water to make sure they get what they need. You know, like a roof over their heads and pants that fit and exactly the right outfit for the dress-up parade. All of this goes out the window the very second I become the unreasonable, horrible, you-made-me-cry Mummy ... because I dared comment that it seems to take them 45 minutes to put on their school uniforms, but 2.3 seconds to get into PJ's so they don't miss one second of the Backyardigans.

Here are a few more reasons why I am a mean Mummy:

• I ask them to eat some sort of protein at dinner. No, tortillas are not protein.
• I ask them to brush their hair in the morning. You know, so that the other mothers don't think I'm neglectful. I have a reputation to uphold!
  
• I ask them to re-brush their hair, only this time with an actual hairbrush and not their fingers.
  
• I act somewhat exasperated when they spill their milk, all over the dinner table, AGAIN.
• I expect them to call me by Mum, Mummy, Mama, or variations on a theme, but not my first name. I earned this parenthood gig (with injections, money, emotional upheaval and a c-section scar.) Dammit, I want to be MUM. I'm the parent, I'm not your friend.
• I politely, nicely, steel-pins-in-my-voice ask them to please, PLEASE stop leaning on me so hard it feels as though my arm will break off.
• I remind them that picking one's nose and then using the same finger to lick icing off a cake is just, you know, gross.
  

Thing is, the Mean Mummy badge is one I wear with pride. Whether they like it or not, these three kids are going to grow up polite, pleasant, capable humans...and all because I dared to be mean to them. I say, Mean Mommies unite! (and god help us when they become teenagers.)

So - humour me - How have YOU been a Mean Mommy today? (Comments welcome. Don't pretend like you weren't mean. Seriously. No need to pretend. We're all friends here.)
__________________________________________________________

emzee housekeeping: Go read some articles over here because I wrote some recently, and Three Sweeties now has a home (!) so expect more news on that front, and for two nights running the children have not eaten dinner from a square box with a picture of a guy named Luigi on the front. Yay me!

Tooth Fairy Economics

It's raining teeth in our house at the moment, with each of the kids either losing a tooth or wobbling a tooth or discussing their wobbly teeth. A veritable dental typhoon around here! Since us Jews don't have Santa Claus, the only real 'fantasy' character we can use is the Tooth Fairy. I make a pretty good Tooth Fairy, even though my wings don't quite fit (and frankly are a bit out of fashion), and the pink dress does nothing for my complexion. Some months ago the kids found my stash of their fallen-out teeth (yes, I know, it's kinda gross to be keeping them - and scarily enough I even have some of my own baby teeth). They were thoroughly confused as to why I might have them, given that TTF herself is meant to take them away.

Hmmm. (Insert mad scramble thinking) Ummmm..... wwwwweeeelllll, you see, The Tooth Fairy SELLS them back to the Mummies and Daddies after she collects them, so the Mummies and Daddies can keep them as a memory of their kids growing up. Yup. That's it.

So this weekend we discussed TTF again - specifically, how someone so small can possibly carry coins which are so big and heavy. DD1 opined that in her fairy dress, TTF has magical pockets which can fit giant coins in so that the coins just barely peek over the top of the pocket edge. Sorta like Mary Poppins' carpet bag, the pockets look normal sized (eg tiny and suitably fairy-ish) but they can hold much bigger things than they look like they should. DD2, however, had a different theory. Namely that the people who give TTF the money in the first place give her tiny money, and TTF has a special magical skill which means she can carry her tiny coins and then magic them into normal size when she puts them under your pillow. Either solution works, really, and I was most impressed about the kids coming up with these answers.

It was quite an entertaining conversation, until such time as I asked HOW TTF comes upon all this money in the first place. I mean, millions of trillions of children across the world, times however many teeth - we're talking some serious dosh here. This is the point where my children proved (yet again) that they are smarter than I am, and that they remember what I say.

"Um, DUH Mummy! She sells the teeth to the Mummies and Daddies, and then she has money to give to the KIDS."

Ahhh. I see. My original explanation for why I had ziploc baggies of teeth hiding in my closet comes back to haunt me. Seems ol' TTF has a bit of a "robbing Peter to pay Paul" scheme going on. Clearly, a free market economy exists even in Fairy Land.

News Flash: Apparently, Isabella (friend of the trio) has SEEN TTF, for reals! Hmmm. Me thinks this report might be suspect.

News Flash #2: Apparently DS, when he lost his very first teeth (at age 3), stayed up awake ALL NIGHT to see her, and he didn't see her. Apparently she was SO small, he couldn't see her because it was soooooo dark in his room.

News Flash #3: Boy, are these kids going to be pissed off when they realise their Mum owns a fairy dress with no pockets!

So freakin' annoying!

My kids are annoying the shit out of me at the moment. Thing is, they aren't really doing anything other than being their usual rambunctious, energetic, noisy and fun selves. For some reason, though, I'm finding that they are seriously getting on my last nerve. In a way it's unfair on them, because they aren't doing anything to deserve my "will you PLEASE stop that?" voice and my "you've got exactly ten seconds to quit it!" hollow threats. They're just, well, being kids. Happy kids, no less.

Sometimes being a parent kinda sucks. I actually admitted this out loud recently, when I told my snester that on some days, I just want to stay in bed and pretend I'm single and childless. I don't want to get up and be the responsible one. I don't want to be the person who makes the decisions, who gets everyone organized, who answers thousands of questions a day, who picks up yet another Barbie stiletto from the floor. I don't want to be the one wondering if letting my girls play with Barbie stilettos is somehow giving them body image issues. I don't want to be the one who is all rah-rah-yay-you-aren't-you-clever all day long. I want my kids to be able to read without having to listen to a reader every single night. (A reader = beginning reading book they bring home from school every day, for practice purposes.) The guilts set in when I find myself wishing I'd just wake up one day and they would be able to read, do math equations and just be able to, you know, DO STUFF without my having to put in the work to get them there. Of course, there are times I find myself wishing time would just slow down, and that I could relish every second of their childhood. At the moment, though, I'm thinking, "Seriously, how bleeding hard is it to actually TRY and sound out that word?" and planning in my head the massive world tour DH and I will take when the kids hit 18 years old and can look after themselves, thanks very much.

I suspect my irritation with them has nothing to do with them per se, and it's more about my own feeling of being overwhelmed at all the other things happening in my life. Then again, it could just be the simple fact that sometimes, kids are annoying. It's the one universal fact no mother will ever admit to - sometimes, your own kids really give you the shits.

It's annoying when they walk in on you in the toilet ten minutes after you had the 'importance of privacy' discussion. Annoying when they need to know every last detail of the conversation you're in the midst of, or the conversation you just finished on the phone. Annoying when they insist on not getting dressed unless you find the *exact* blue sock they want, in a drawer full of blue socks. Annoying when they believe you have both the money and time to buy them what they want tomorrow after school. Annoying when they drop food on the floor and ignore it until they step in it later and announce that it's gross, and no way are they cleaning it up. Annoying when they argue about taking a bath, even though they've taken one every other day for the last six years. Annoying when you're late to school already, and that's when they decide they don't have their sweater/toy/lunchbox/thing you can't find. Annoying when they are so exhausted they can barely hold their heads up, but once you send them to bed they have enough energy to light all of France for a week. Enough energy, it seems, to annoy the living shit out of each other. Which requires your intervention, which in itself is annoying because you know that they will feel so much better if they just fall asleep and get some rest. Annoying because one day they like cucumber in their lunch, and the next they hate cucumber and "don't ever give it to me again Mummy!"

Harumpf. Kids are annoying little boogers. Cute and lovable, but bloody annoying sometimes.

Choo Choo / Spew Spew: A Family "Vaca"

I've been fortunate enough to spend most of the last two weeks with my snester, her husband (my BIL), my oldest neice (HPG), my nephew (Lucy - not his real name) and my youngest niece (Gumboots). Suffice it to say we had a fabulous time, and here are but a few things which might give you a hint as to what transpired:

• Number of people to spew: 3 (me, DH, Lucy. 4 if you count DH doing it more than once)
  
• Most spectacular spew: DH, in the reception area of the caravan park where we stayed. "Hi, I'm DH, we're just checking in...*projectile hurl*"
• Number of times my snester ate a shitty tasting lunch: 3
• Number of times she complained about it: I lost count
• Bravest Little Indian: Gumboots, who survived my stripping her naked, holding her hog-tied over a patch of snow and saying, "oh, please please please can you pee now?!"
• Number of times we thought for sure we would lose fingers and toes to frostbite: Daily
• Number of times Lucy ate chicken schnitzel: Too numerous to count, but he now has feathers under his arms
  
• Number of times we said, "Shit, it's COLD!" : Too numerous to count
• Number of times I called HPG a "sullen teen" and she gave me a "I am SO NOT a sullen teen look"in a very sullen teen way: At least half a dozen times
• Most amusing comment: (from my snester), "You mean there is no TV? HOW THE HELL are we supposed to entertain SIX KIDS?"
• Most amusing cultural differences moment: The "brown out" in the toilet block of the caravan park, necessitating my sister getting a 'torch.' She was relieved to find it was a flashlight and not a tree branch lit on fire. Ooga Booga!
• My amazement at my BIL's patience for my kids: Daily
  
• Most sought-after and then forgotten about item: The freakin' cheese sticks at Myer Melbourne. We had to get them for my sis and BIL (or suffer some sort of early death) and then finally got them and my own KIDS ate them in the AIRPORT before everyone left. Ummm, can we say pointless?
• Best turn around: No, this isn't a freezing bloody cold muddy wet rainy horrible cramped small kinda dirty renovated train carriage we are sleeping in. It's an eco-adventure vacation!
• Best culinary re-naming: seaweed rice crackers into "pee pee crackers"..."because they kinda smell like it."
• Most painful culinary experience: watching Lucy and HPG trying to sift flour. Four hours and a kitchen full of flour dust later, they managed it.
  

and lastly....

• Best but Most Sad moment: All of my family standing in front of the International Departure Gate screaming at full volume, "IT SUCKS YOU LIVE IN AUSTRALIA!"

They're right. Sometimes it does suck.

Queen for a Day

One of the disadvantages to having triplets is that you often feel as though you are being pulled in three directions - literally. DH and I have always tried to give the kids time to themselves - one-on-one time with either parent, time to do their own thing, or time to just do what they want without the input of the others. It's hard to achieve - for a while there DH was giving their kids their very own "Daddy Day" on a Sunday. A good idea quickly became a bad idea - it was costing a fortune, as the kids would milk their Daddy Day for all it was worth. They wanted movies, amusement parks, museums, lunch out, treats...often all of the above on the same day. Not cheap! Then they started to compare what they had done with one another - and demand the exact same treatment - so there are some movies DH has seen three times! I occasionally work on a Saturday, which meant that we never had family time as DH was on parent duty one weekend day, and me the other. In any case we had to call an end to the plan for the time being. For now, we look for more meaningful ways to indulge them, and we do it less often to make it worth more.

Today DD2 and I took the day off (me from work, she from the rigors of kindergarten) to attend a performance of The Australian Ballet. It's something she has wanted to do for a long time, since she herself has been in ballet for almost three years now. After much procrastinating on my part, this, it would seem, is how a queen lives!

To be a queen, you must start your morning with a proper breakfast. Hot chocolate (4 marshmallows) and a just-warmed fresh croissant with strawberry jam. Note the bag in the background which is carrying all your most precious posessions, from McDonald's toys to magic rings to hi-bounce balls. All totally necessary for an outing to the ballet, darling:


Then you take a carriage (okay, suburban train) into the city, while enjoying a spot of morning tea (part two of the croissant.):


While you patiently wait for the show, lounge gracefully in the foyer of The State Theatre (best to take your royal subject, "ballet bunny" along as well):


Upon entering the theatre and walking towards your seat (front row, dead centre, natch), you see this, and immediately fall over in shock (literally, tripped over a stair) The falling over should be done gracefully, and then you should shout, "MOM! THOSE ARE REAL BALLERINAS!!!!":

...and THIS should be the look on your face when you realise that you not only understand what "arabesque" means, but you can do one too. Keep this look on your face ALL DAY, and make your Mum's (the Queen Mum) heart swell. Yes, that's pink eyeshadow on one eye - a Queen should always do her make-up before stepping out, and should not notice when one rubs one entire eye's worth off on her Mum's sleeve.

I'm not sure what god was playing at when he gave me a girly, dress and skirt wearing, make-up loving, all singing, all dancing, fashionista drama queen whose life plans include growing up to be a REAL ballerina and oh yeah running the whole world while looking gorgeous... but I'm glad he did.

Say It Isn't So!

We have to get a dog.

As in, HAVE TO. As in, SOON.

Suddenly everyone around me is pregnant, talking about babies, and doing the whole "baby thing" in my presence. I hate babies. They're boring, messy, noisy, and I totally, definetly see no room in my life for a baby. I already HAVE three babies, and I DO NOT NEED any more. Moreover, I don't WANT anymore. DH and I made this decision a long, long, long time ago. This is our family, and we're happy with it. As a rule, babies and I don't get on, and to have any more would significantly change our lifestyle, not to mention probably send me reaching for the anti-depressants, weight loss pills, and a whole box of doughnuts. WE DO NOT WANT BABIES IN THIS HOUSE. My kids can walk, talk, feed themselves, dress themselves, have intelligent conversations, act like humans are meant to - and I LOVE that.

So why, then, do I find myself feeling...dare I say it...just a teeny-weeny, itsy-bitsy, minute amount of jealousy? Why do I find myself feeling just a bit....clucky?

Fuck.

We gotta get a dog.

The Birds and the Wees

Conversation in a car, and I have no idea how this started:

Child: So then a man takes his vessel, and it goes into the egg...
Child 2: and then the egg becomes a cell, and then the cell becomes a baby!

Mum: A what? A vessel? What?

Child: Yeah, you know, a VESSEL. The thing that sticks into THE EGG. You know, THE THING, Mummy. You *know* this. The vessel remember?

Mum: Um...vessel? Don't you mean the...

Child 2: Wait! Wait! Now I remember. It's not called a vessel. It's called a ...*thinks hard* ...A SQUIRM. YES! A SQUIRM! Da squirm goes into the egg, which then becomes the cell, which then becomes the baby!

Mum: (unable to speak, too busy trying not to laugh. It should be noted that the conversation about "da squirm and da egg" continued on for several minutes.)

....later....

Child 2: Dad, I don't understand why it's called a cell. Aren't those what you find on the beach? You know, a S-H-E-L-L. How does an egg become a (s)hell? What do (sh) cells have to do with babies?

*grin* Never a dull moment around here.

________________________________
...I'm just taking a break from regularly scheduled programming to send a special HELLO OUT THERE to Jenny S. from Bairnsdale (the Gippsland region of Victoria). I recently found out she is a regular reader, and I just wanted to say THANKS JENNY! :)