tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44588765667165859502024-02-20T16:56:44.982-08:00Cookie Monster in TherapyCookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4458876566716585950.post-12677348200656590982012-10-14T05:52:00.002-07:002012-10-14T05:53:22.304-07:00Time to get back on the horse<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4458876566716585950" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>Our youngest kid, Mischief, is now happily at school.<br />
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4458876566716585950" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>This means Mama Cookie finally has some days to herself after years of changing arses, singing offtune, making up condensed versions of books whilst reading aloud, and picking playdough out of the rug.</div>
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This means looking for a job outside the house. With actual pay!! How exciting.<br />
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4458876566716585950" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>Apparently 9 years out of the work force may be too much for some peeps to take a gamble on me, even though it's not like I have been sitting around smoking reefers and eating hash cookies ALL this time. </div>
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So I have started coming up with something to pad out the ol' CV to cover the last 9 years MIA in the paid employment arena. So far I have come up with:</div>
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* Has watched every show of Oprah's final season. Hoooooo'ooooooooo.</div>
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* Can come up with a small limerick or rhyme to go with almost any situation.</div>
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"What's that smell in the bedroom?<br />
What's that smell under the bed?<br />
Is it a pair of dirty undies?<br />
or is it rotting fruit instead?!'</div>
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* You can throw me in any high pressure situation and I'll multi-task (read halfarse) my way through it, come out the other end with a slight twitch, throw back a bottle of Beam and get ready for the next one!<br />
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That's what you call life skills. Someone will take on me on and be hugely disappointed, um delighted with their decision.</div>
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Cookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4458876566716585950.post-45284738255934495332011-08-19T05:59:00.000-07:002012-10-14T16:44:02.907-07:00Sometimes I wish I had faith<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">It's hard when you don't have a faith to fall back on. At times I really wish I did. Maybe it would be easier to reconcile the why's. Logic sometimes has no reason.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">Anyway.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">Sometimes it makes you wonder about it all. Not in the existential sense, because I'm not all that fond of putting my life in someone else's hands and/or decisions. I like to think that when I fuck up, it's all my own doing. A learning experience if you will. They say that fail stands for First Attempt In Learning. I don't know what a second, third or fifteenth fail stands for.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">I digress.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">Our family has had some shite thrown at it lately. We are sitting tight on the premise that we have had our fair share and are up for a bit of sunshine and growth now. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">If you are in my close circle you will know that my cousin took her own life recently. I am only going to state the painfully unobvious here in this post and indelicately rude and inappropriate, because I will bust into a fit of tears otherwise. And that, whilst perhaps good reading, does not allow me to finish what I have started.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">I am angry. I am livid. I can't believe what she has done to me. Despite what she thought was going on, I am fucking gutted that she did not give me the opportunity to stop this. She has a fucking daughter that has to grow up in the shadow of a mum who has done this. I have to explain suicide to my own children when they should be learning fucking times tables.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">I am heartbroken, I am despondent, I am losing lustre for life. I feel like she has taken an easy route out, a sucker's route, a selfish route. I have been feeling pain that is indescribable and I haven't fucking hung myself. Why the fuck did she?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">I am.... lost. I don't know what to do most times of the day now. I think of her at random moments. I wonder. I don't understand.</span></div>
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Cookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4458876566716585950.post-54682834176152232802011-03-03T03:23:00.000-08:002011-03-03T03:41:14.884-08:00High spirits in the face of adversityMy brother just moved to Lyttelton, a few weeks ago. And just over a week ago there was a massive earthquake. You may have seen it in the news. It was a biggie, around 6.6 on the Richter scale, and it did some severe damage to the town where it was centred and to the city that was nearby. At this stage there are a reported over 160 people confirmed dead, with numbers ready to rise.<div><br /></div><div>My nephew was getting ready to jump into the pool for swimming lessons with his brand new primary school when the earth shook and the wall caved in. He was shipped out to the middle of the school field and safety.</div><div><br /></div><div>Big bro's house shook up a storm but sustained no damage, other than losing power and water, sewerage etc. He was still evacuated due to a potential landslide above his home.</div><div><br /></div><div>The town was a mess, and a national state of emergency declared. All descended on the Civil Defence centre to assess, receive food and water, and check on the welfare of their friends and family.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the midst of all this mayhem, hope and laughter and a fighting spirit prevailed.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jZ2LjBxBDuo&feature=player_embedded">This is what happened</a> during those moments after this quake.</div><div><br /></div><div>The spirit of Kiwi's won't be broken, even if the buildings are. And yep, that's my bro juggling away and hula hooping in there.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Cookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4458876566716585950.post-73446423075945613112011-02-08T01:48:00.000-08:002011-02-09T01:35:02.548-08:00Trying to win me a Sock Zombie<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(59, 89, 152); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><div>So, Chelle over at <a href="http://domestica79.blogspot.com/">Coffee and Zombie Movies</a> is having a competition to win a most gorgeous Sock Zombie named Rhoda. She looks gorgeous.</div><div><br /></div><div>I want her.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); line-height: 18px; font-family:Calibri;font-size:13px;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i100.photobucket.com/albums/m36/Hellablog/IMG_0923.jpg" style="text-decoration: underline; color: rgb(123, 35, 179); "><img src="http://i100.photobucket.com/albums/m36/Hellablog/IMG_0923.jpg" alt="" border="0" style="border-top-style: solid; border-right-style: solid; border-bottom-style: solid; border-left-style: solid; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; position: relative; padding-top: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-left: 8px; background-image: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-attachment: initial; -webkit-background-clip: initial; -webkit-background-origin: initial; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); border-top-width: 1px; border-right-width: 1px; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-left-width: 1px; border-top-color: rgb(197, 197, 197); border-right-color: rgb(197, 197, 197); border-bottom-color: rgb(197, 197, 197); border-left-color: rgb(197, 197, 197); -webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.199219) 0px 0px 20px; -webkit-border-top-right-radius: 5px 5px; -webkit-border-top-left-radius: 5px 5px; -webkit-border-bottom-left-radius: 5px 5px; -webkit-border-bottom-right-radius: 5px 5px; float: left; margin-top: 0pt; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 179px; height: 239px; background-position: initial initial; " /></a></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>In order to gain entry to the competition to win this wee darling, I have to post a pic of ugly bread that I have made.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't tend to bake bread too often, so here for your viewing pleasure is a pic of Powdered Toast Man, of Ren and Stimpy fame, oh how I loved that show.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 22px; font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:13px;"><img height="235" width="150" src="http://www.sobras.com/nelsondaniel/wp-content/uploads/2007/08/colpowderedtoastman_big001.jpg" alt="" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; font-weight: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-size: 13px; font-family: inherit; max-width: 600px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 22px;font-size:13px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 22px;font-size:13px;">Also, this may gain me more cred in the baking side of the deal, this is a pic of the Mr Hanky gingerbread men that the kids and I made last Krismas for Santa (ignore the date stamp, I can never be bothered resetting it when I change over batteries, much to my mother's chagrin when she's sorting her albums).</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 22px;font-size:13px;"><img src="http://a7.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc3/hs356.snc3/29401_457886374464_835199464_5846148_1094592_n.jpg" width="720" height="540" id="myphoto" style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); float: left; cursor: pointer; " /></span></span></div></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;color:#3B5998;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:11px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;color:#3B5998;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:11px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;color:#3B5998;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:11px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;color:#3B5998;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:11px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;color:#3B5998;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:11px;">Keep your fingers crossed that I win!!!!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;color:#3B5998;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:-webkit-xxx-large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;color:#3B5998;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">Also, my formatting is all over the show in this post, but I want the zombie so bad that I don't want to risk taking the time to fix it and miss out on the competition.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;color:#3B5998;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">So there.. Just deal with it.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;color:#3B5998;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:-webkit-xxx-large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;color:#3B5998;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:-webkit-xxx-large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;color:#3B5998;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:11px;"><br /></span></span></div>Cookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4458876566716585950.post-67996835731205737912011-01-18T07:11:00.001-08:002011-01-18T07:18:11.364-08:00Not feeling the love.Thought I should post something here. It's been a while.<div><br /></div><div>Can't for the fucking life of me figure out what to put.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fuck it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Go hard or go home!! Yeah baby.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1px; "><img src="http://rlv.zcache.com/go_hard_or_go_home_tshirt-p235233625282847659ou13_400.jpg" id="il_fi" height="400" width="400" style="background-image: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-attachment: initial; -webkit-background-clip: initial; -webkit-background-origin: initial; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-left: 8px; -webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.644531) 2px 2px 8px; background-position: initial initial; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Photo from: www.zazzle.com.au</span></div><div><br /></div><div>Well that totally fucks that idea too. Hmmm.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll get back to you.</div><div><br /></div>Cookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4458876566716585950.post-45919613841660832742010-12-26T23:10:00.000-08:002010-12-26T23:24:41.209-08:00Gently caress you Mofo<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font-weight: normal; "><span class="UIStory_Message"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Sometimes all life has to offer you is a big bag of shit. Grab a shovel, spread it out and throw some seeds in it. Let the flowers grow. It takes time, but they will grow.</span></span></span></h3><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It's hard to see past that initial pile of shit sometimes.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My niece passed away 2 years ago. She would have turned three 3 weeks ago. My nephew passed away 6 weeks ago, he would now be 7 months old. My nana passed away just after my niece did. I got a phone call a few hours ago saying my cousin lost her 5 week old baby this morning.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I lost my friend when my niece went. My brother's wife. She was a really, really good friend to me. When her daughter went, me having four kids who were healthy was too much. This sucks. I understand in a way. Not completely, nor do I ever want to. We no longer speak. When her son was diagnosed was the final straw for her.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I am now there 100% for my brother, which is good. He needs it. I should have been more about him in the first place, but women wear their emotions on their sleeve more, so tend to look like they need more help. He needs it too. I take comfort in all the shit that has happened that we are now more emotionally tied than before. I hope he bears up okay.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My heart goes out to my cousin, and I hope that she keeps herself strong. I hope her other children can rely on her. I hope she has someone close to reach out to. I hope this never happens to our family ever again.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Somehow, some way, flowers will grow from this.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div></span>Cookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4458876566716585950.post-6473622947041044992010-12-16T01:17:00.000-08:002010-12-18T01:51:32.862-08:00Black outs and Baby JebusI am sitting post blackout. We had another stirling electrical storm with thunder and lightening just overhead. The kids were in the pool, with me supervising the weather. Rain - cool. Thunder - cool. Lightening - not so cool. Time to get out. I'm a good mum like that. Always have the kiddies best interests at heart.<div><br /></div><div>So with a power outage due to the storm we set about getting candles ready in case of a long haul. Also sorted out a bbq dinner. Then the kids wanted activities. The candle lighting gave Missy an idea. "Can we do a ceremony for Jesus?" </div><div><br /></div><div>Hmmm.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, I don't class myself as an atheist, although many seem intent of whacking me in a box of some sort, but I don't believe in a God. I do, however, respect any one else's belief system whatever it may be. I also have enough respect in their beliefs to add an initial capital to the name God. See, very accommodating.</div><div><br /></div><div>The subject matter comes up from time to time in the house as the kids pick up stories and ideas from their friends at school, and especially around this time of year. I tend to tell them what the mainstream story is surrounding what they have heard, throw in a couple of alternatives that others might believe, and ask them their thoughts on the matter. We have always been open with them that dad is a 'pro' (sorry, but always gives me a chuckle) and mum goes for the negative.<br /><div><br /></div><div>The kids themselves aren't hugely fussed either way at present. They are just wee sponges that suck up info, regardless of the topic matter. I don't really think any of them are of an age to make up their mind as to what side of the fence, or even which fence they sit on. It's all just information. </div><div><br /></div><div>They all have the choice at school as to whether they will participate in "Scripture" classes, and which denomination they prefer. At present the younger two, 6 and 7, have chosen Non-scripture. Our eldest picked Catholic for the tail end of the year, after the first two terms of Non-scripture resulted in extra maths work. Not cool teachers. Talk about subtly determining their choices.</div><div><br /></div><div>Arse-end result of this natter is that Missy, 6, asked if they could draw pictures of baby Jesus to hang in the house. Liberal ole Me figured that this was okay if that's what they wanted and I now have multiple pictures that resemble a cocoon with a human head poking out hanging from my ceiling. Because they need to twirl apparently. As do many of us.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Cookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4458876566716585950.post-34378071263350043182010-12-04T04:11:00.000-08:002010-12-04T04:30:55.791-08:00Cookie relives the blues...I posted a while back about losing my beautiful niece to a dreadful disorder, Spinal Muscular Atrophy, and how my nephew had been diagnosed with the same thing.<div><br /></div><div>I have a heavy heart as I say that the wee man has now been taken due to this dreadful, horrendous diagnosis. He passed in his sleep, mercifully, a couple of weeks after SMA took his facial muscles and therefore his gorgeous smile from his face.</div><div><br /></div><div>The feelings of inability, uselessness, ineptitude and nothingness came rushing back. No family should have to deal with this bollocks. And twice??</div><div><br /></div><div>Hesitation has hit me as I write this, as to whether it is something that I should share. If it is something that should be hidden away and I should not mention it for fear of making others uncomfortable. The death of a child is not a conversation starter, this I have learned.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fact is, this is an uncomfortable topic. I know that. I've lived that. I don't want to push this on someone for whom this is a no-go station. Via the internet, you can click this topic away. So I will go on and give myself a bit of a release that I needed before and now need again. If I see you in real life and this has made you a bit uneasy, pretend you haven't seen it to make things easier on you and me both. Lets talk about the weather instead. Hum de ho.</div><div><br /></div><div>My brother is my piece of goodness. He made my youth worthwhile. I helped him and he helped me. Going into why is another story altogether. Just know that I adore him and will do anything for him. To not be able to help him now, is unbearable. He is an amazing man, with strength, goodness, pride. If anyone deserved something less, I would like to meet them. My brother has dedicated his life to making people laugh. And he ends up with this shit.</div><div><br /></div><div>Life is sometimes a bag of fucking arseholes with no rhyme or reason.</div>Cookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4458876566716585950.post-7503015355486388052010-10-07T03:35:00.000-07:002010-10-07T04:09:21.203-07:00Lily's gone to BondiMy darling daughter is holidaying in New Zealand. She is 10 and travelled as an unaccompanied minor on the very short international flight to visit her Nana and Poppa.<div><br /><div>Today I learned that NZ is not yet as caught up in the hype of always protecting your children, and still very much the way I grew up. My mum sent her off to the movies in the city, albeit the smaller one that's closer, not the bigger one slightly further out, with her two cousins, 14 and 6. They were dropped off, then left to their own devices, to see the movie, do a bit of shopping, have some lunch and then get themselves home: a bus ride and then roughly a 15 minute walk if they take the same route I used to. Or they could take the scenic route, which we also commonly used, walk a bit, get a train, walk a bit more, alternate bus. Always finished with that 15 minute walk up the hill to home.</div><div><br /></div><div>Last I heard, it was 6.30pm NZ time and still no sign of them yet. The tears started welling up in my eyes. Tears of joy that she was experiencing a freedom that seems to be lost to many children these days. Tears that my home country was still living up to the ideal in my mind, of a different culture much more relaxed and less fearful than the one I live in now.</div><div><br /></div><div>The one problem I do have, is that now I have that nagging feeling back in my head and heart that I need to go home. It crops up often for me. I brush it off as looking back through rose coloured glasses, things would have changed, nothing's ever the same when you go back to it. But New Zealand will always remain 'home'. </div><div><br /></div><div>They say if you live in a place for three years it becomes home for you. I've lived here for 13 years now, and I still look back to a smaller country with love in my heart and constant yearning.</div><div><br /></div><div>I hope my girl enjoys her time there, laps up what is on offer to her, and comes back even more confident in herself than when she left. And no, I haven't rung back to check she made it home all right.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, to counter the gush, because I don't want to be all deep and meaningful, we had another life lesson today. The fish belonging to my dear daughter who has travelled over yonder, died tonight. </div><div><br /></div><div>Her sister, aged 5, was entrusted to feed Lily and Munta whilst my Munchy girl is away. All was going well until a wee dilemma involving roughly a years' supply of food making its way into the tank in one hit. Munta stood strong. He swam through that brown haze, eating happily, smiling away. Well, we assume he was smiling because it was pretty hard to make out an outline let alone close facial features. If fish had determinate facial features to begin with.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, Munta is a champion. Lily, not so much. She couldn't go the distance when the pressure was on unfortunately. We did wonder briefly if we should go the route of the sitcom families and replace Lily with a freshly bought doppelganger. Instead we figured it was another opportunity to teach responsibility, action v reaction, consequences. And flushed Lily off to Bondi.</div><div><br /></div><div>The phonecall to NZ to inform Ms Munch of Lily's demise will happen tomorrow. </div><div><br /></div></div>Cookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4458876566716585950.post-59644963042155323772010-09-27T21:13:00.000-07:002010-09-28T18:51:25.772-07:00Kid Stuff<b>Vocab Growth Spurt</b><div><br /></div><div>My three year old, today, to her five year old sister:<div><br /></div><div>"You're a woosy pussy and I cry for you".</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Fair Trade</b></div><div><br /></div><div>My seven year old son traded his lasagne for a full plate of cauliflower. ???</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Leaving on a jet plane</b></div><div><br /></div><div>My nine year old daughter is jetting off to sunnier pastures all on her lonesome on Thursday morning. She's taking yet another solo international holiday to visit the family in NZ, and I get to wake up really early to drop her off at the airport, sign her over to Qantas staff and then yawn my way through a trip to the park to appease the other three.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>You're late, you're late</b></div><div><br /></div><div>The five year old has me visiting op-shops and garage sales to secure approximately 30 tea cups and saucers, because she's got too many friends coming to her birthday Mad Hatter / Alice in Wonderland style tea party. Little Miss Friggen Popular.</div><div><br /></div></div>Cookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4458876566716585950.post-12538689745853451312010-09-26T05:28:00.000-07:002010-09-26T06:31:43.829-07:00Cornflour to the rescueYou may be thinking that I am about to impart a traditional family recipe, or a stunning new one I have picked up from the Taste section of the Sunday newspaper. Sunday is, of course, the only day I am actually able to read a paper start to finish including Taste, Life and Travel oh my!<div><br /></div><div>However, if you know me well, you know I'm not going to appear on Masterchef any time soon. My cooking abilities range far enough to ensure my family don't go malnourished, taste be damned. So, the cornflour in question is not part of a new dish for your repertoire. It is, however, a very handy item to have in the kitchen. Let me explain.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Mighty Munch had her birthday party on Saturday, which was a blazing success*. All the girls had their finger and toe nails shaped and buffed and polished in an amazing array of colours, from fire red** to pastel pink, to shimmering blue. They looked fantastic. The girls felt like princesses.</div><div><br /></div><div>With tween girls wandering around the yard, toes spread in those separator things and fingers waving in the air to dry their polish, the very audible gushes and giggles let me know we were on track for this years party. Ghostly white face masks were next in the package, the girls doing those 'trying not to laugh and crack my mask' snorts. </div><div><br /></div><div>I suspect my 'Fo may be a burgeoning metrosexual with his keen interest in the proceedings, and were it not for his mountain man facial hair, he may well have been laying on that table for a clay mask of his own.</div><div><br /></div><div>The singalong karaoke was a hit for the girls after their treatments, allowing the girls to let their voices notch up another couple of decibels for the neighbours the next block down to feel involved as much as our more immediate neighbours had been.</div><div><br /></div><div>Cake was cut, presents opened, gift baskets presented and the children were sent home for their respective parents to deal with the sugar filled fillies. </div><div><br /></div><div>Around this time, my white labeled friend showed his face again, just when I needed him most. Spirits hoisted, hehe, catch that double entendre? I began to relax and thought I might show the kids just how to karaoke like a pro.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was belting out the tunes with gay abandon (no double entendre there, just so few opportunities to use such a kickarse phrase that I pop it in when I can). We were really getting into the swing of it, although I think the scoring may be set to child-proof, whereby only non hormonally affected voices can rate, ie if your ovaries have had a workout or your bollocks have dropped, then don't hold hope for ranking over 900. Built in ageism comes as an added extra in Disney products.</div><div><br /></div><div>So anyway, time was ticking on, kids were hungry again, I was merrily unwinding. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was coerced into singing just one more song, wandered back into the house to finish up dinner, when holy moly, the flames the flames. Yep, I had indeed forgotten the chips.</div><div><br /></div><div>Bright yellow and orange flames were bouncing around so high, they were literally licking the ceiling. I haven't seen anything quite like it before.</div><div><br /></div><div>Given the height of the flames, quick thinking mama moved the pot to the floor to give some distance from the ceiling. I wasn't ready for a full blown fire fighting experience, half blown was enough for me.</div><div><br /></div><div>And this, my dear bloggies, is where the cornflour comes into play. The olive green container sitting on my shelf, wondering why the hell I have it if I'm never gonna use it. Mama 'Mo used the sucker last night, for an almighty purpose, so much grander than thickening the dodgey sauces that end up lumpy and not at all gourmet tasting like they promised in the recipe book.</div><div>Cornflour saved my home people. Suffocated the shit out of those flames.</div><div><br /></div><div>Must admit that I did cause a couple of spot fires with some splashback, but the bulk of the four feet flame-age was conquered by the mighty cornflour. I disposed of the pot outdoors, flipping her over again aid in muffling the now minor flame. One small spotfire erupted on one of the directors chairs which was quickly stopped by a terry cotton towel from the laundry (go spa party). </div><div><br /></div><div>I now have a very blatant ring of fire mark on my kitchen floor, soot covered ceilings which has only served to highlight spideys webs, a half-melted cheese grater, and a burnt smell now permeating the house.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyone say spring cleaning time? </div><div><br /></div><div>* Like how I threw in the 'blazing success' - it all makes sense now doesn't it</div><div>** 'Fire red' - I'm a champion at this stuff</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Cookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4458876566716585950.post-30343264417145889032010-09-23T06:38:00.000-07:002010-09-23T11:32:18.651-07:00All bourbon and no dinner makes Cookie a fun girlSo I was decorating for my eldest's 10 year old birthday party. She's as much of a girly girl as you could possibly imagine and by the time I was half way done it looked like a pre-pubescent pop star had drunk too many slurpies and vomited up pink and flowery shit all over the place.<div><br /></div><div>This was troubling on many levels, so the only obvious solution was to crack open the white labeled problem fixer and stand back to assess.</div><div><br /></div><div>After assessing for a good half bottle or so, the place actually started to make sense. The pink was speaking to me in a way that it hadn't before. The Disney pop music sing along karaoke and manicure/pedicure chairs were working. The brightly coloured orbs hanging from the ceiling, the fluffy ball things in the vase. Maybe I was a girly girl at heart too!</div><div><br /></div><div>I started to get into the swing of things; a sip for me, a swirl here, a swig for me and a heart shape there.</div><div><br /></div><div>By the time that bottle was down to droplets I was sparkling it up with the best of them.</div><div><br /></div><div>Didn't feel quite as sparkly this morning but the kid is happy with the decorations.</div><div><br /></div><div>End.</div>Cookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4458876566716585950.post-16548675381603640442010-09-01T07:29:00.001-07:002010-09-01T08:03:43.104-07:00Late night funSo it's 12.30am, and I have just unpacked my late night supermarket shopping and have some time to myself. Love this time of the night, because it's finally all about me. I can do as I please without the cherubs needing attention physically or emotionally. Ahhhhhh. <div><br /></div><div>Why is it that I have only just unpacked groceries. Well, when you have four wee darlings you learn early on that you don't take them anywhere near the grocery aisles when doing the 'big' shop. Now don't get me wrong. From the four of them, I have yet to experience a shopping meltdown or tantrum. And my kids get the word 'No', understand the meaning, and that it will only be said once per item, so they won't kick up a stink after trying for some random, comes with a prize and all in bright packaging product, and I cast their wants aside in a heartless fashion.</div><div><br /></div><div>The main trouble is that my mind is very fickle if not concentrating on the task at hand. My kids get this, and know that merely because I said no to one item, if they ask for, say fifty more, then odds are they might get a couple of them. Because I get ideas in my head that I am more of a gourmet cook than in actuality. And that, yeah, it has been a while since they had custard. And, oh look, all four of them like the same thing for a change. Or figuring out four different items they can collect for me so they are 'helping out', which completely throws me off my aisle by aisle shopping list. And then the checkout price doubles.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I shop at night. All on my own. Me and the three other regular late nighters with a couple of irregulars in the mix. I know all the staff, they know me. We chat and laugh. It's almost like going out for coffee with the girls, except it's chatting over the mushroom trays, or the deli counter, or front loader washing liquid display.</div><div><br /></div><div>Very chillaxing and also kinda odd that I get kicks this way nowadays. Definitely not what I used to do after 11pm, pre-procreation. Saddest though is that I found out tonight that my local supermarket will be closing an hour earlier from next week, so they can open an hour earlier in the morning. The morning. When I am in solitary charge of all offspring. So disappointing.</div>Cookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4458876566716585950.post-8842042801782872112010-08-24T04:22:00.001-07:002010-08-24T04:26:18.953-07:00Allie gets me.In case you haven't happened upon the blog <a href="http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/">Hyperbole and a Half</a> before, do go check her out.<div>She gets me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Case in point:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; "><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU5TggjrDNijopzHgCVIvCQdTTEMaP0_A_pH3nRGCut-JNNEwdo2314dmudt8eVKEVcQnJfEsAVNLIpCTyl3KAWx3ZSoBgjnMZN_iWRrtqmeSLu9fdiG10K5Dv8PPm-OA_r7XTTlNlXoJM/s1600-h/cookiemonster.png" imageanchor="1" style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); text-decoration: underline; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; "><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU5TggjrDNijopzHgCVIvCQdTTEMaP0_A_pH3nRGCut-JNNEwdo2314dmudt8eVKEVcQnJfEsAVNLIpCTyl3KAWx3ZSoBgjnMZN_iWRrtqmeSLu9fdiG10K5Dv8PPm-OA_r7XTTlNlXoJM/s400/cookiemonster.png" width="400" style="border-top-width: 1px; border-right-width: 1px; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-left-width: 1px; padding-top: 4px; padding-right: 4px; padding-bottom: 4px; padding-left: 4px; border-top-style: solid; border-right-style: solid; border-bottom-style: solid; border-left-style: solid; border-top-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-right-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-bottom-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); " /></a></span></div>Cookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4458876566716585950.post-86888059440119205982010-08-17T22:54:00.000-07:002010-08-18T00:47:24.541-07:00She's going the distance....Okay, so I may not be <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=__PU5CVSegg&feature=related">built for speed</a>, however I think I have had an epiphany as to why my body is determined to remain with... ah, um, plentiful coverage. It's to do with global warming.<div><br /></div><div>What?! You may be reeling with the revelation, but let me fill you in. My body is like a prophet in its own right. My body sensed the impending global warming that is now taking over the world and has been busily packaging itself in order to cope with depleting resources. That's right.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am contained in an efficient machine that in days to come will keep me nourished while lesser mortals perish due to their lack of self-contained sustenance. So yeah, keep laughing you bikini clad girls, catwalk women and those of you who can still fit into Myer's <a href="http://www.myer.com.au/fashion_youth.aspx">Miss Shop</a> apparel. In the words of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DuRgQlfpD0U&feature=related">Gloria Gaynor</a>, or more recently <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=596qaxm-u4o">Cake</a>, "I will survive".</div><div><br /></div><div>The only downside to my top-notch, NASA wish they thought of it earlier, physique is that my poorly maintained 'Fo and our offspring who are less well-endowed than I with their laughable "athletic" builds will not go the distance with me. Sigh.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Cookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4458876566716585950.post-72503170774453269992010-08-16T02:46:00.000-07:002010-08-16T03:25:13.358-07:00Things I hate that let me know I'm not too old yet<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidHtNRtVokPc3G42EuAWqzgUvQFo66hlfKizaD5hQE4N1ejaTb0uNa7alv_sbdkdArBgXfR7GfgQvSrRqrByD8rw0p3ARBNX0aPlD-rFq3MMVZrlTndiERFi369Kofrrnilf7k5d7Z2w5w/s1600/photo_9501_20091105.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 187px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidHtNRtVokPc3G42EuAWqzgUvQFo66hlfKizaD5hQE4N1ejaTb0uNa7alv_sbdkdArBgXfR7GfgQvSrRqrByD8rw0p3ARBNX0aPlD-rFq3MMVZrlTndiERFi369Kofrrnilf7k5d7Z2w5w/s320/photo_9501_20091105.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505951076733707538" /></a><br />1. When it's raining outside.... and the people who are visiting don't want to go outside and dance in it.<div><br /></div><div>2. Really loud music.... that has to be turned down because my 'Fo can't have a conversation when the volume's past 4.</div><div><br /></div><div>3. Wind whipping in from the driver's window... which makes someone else say they are cold and asks me to wind it up.</div><div><br /></div><div>4. Kids talking and laughing insanely... when I don't get the joke.</div><div><br /></div><div>5. Frost in the morning... that doesn't get cold enough to ice over the puddles.</div><div><br /></div><div>6. The dog hanging around the table while we are eating... and yet she won't take my peas.</div><div><br /></div><div>7. Music that I can't make out the words in... so I get sprung singing loudly and completely off topic.</div><div><br /></div><div>8. Cold weather... that makes everyone else stay indoors so there's no one to hang outdoors with.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Cookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4458876566716585950.post-24478084095065759032010-08-14T06:35:00.000-07:002010-08-14T07:15:47.431-07:00When I grow up...I sometimes think about those pick-a-path books. You know the ones from when you were a kid, where you get to decide the fate of the characters by deciding if they will turn left or right, fight the monster or retreat.<div><br /></div><div>Despite what a lot of people think, life is like that. Nothing is set in stone. You choose different paths to take all the time, with varying results. And while time does keep ticking on, you can turn back the pages and have a different crack at it to get to the outcome you want, just like in the books. A happy ending where you defeat the bad guy, find the treasure and become a movie star.</div><div><br /></div><div>We are all a product of our choices, good and bad. I tell my kids that if you try something and it doesn't work, think of a different way to get it done. To get it right first time is often a fluke. Ensuring you can get it right again takes understanding and often hard work. With each failure comes more knowledge.</div><div><br /></div><div>I asked the kids today what they think they might like to be when they grow up. Missy (5) wants to be an artist, painting and drawing. She likes it and is really really good at it apparently.</div><div>Current Sportsdude (7) wants to be a scientist so he can make cool stuff. Diva (9) says she is shit-hot at writing and loves fashion, so she should be a fashion writer (but of course, it fits so nicely). </div><div><br /></div><div>We asked them what they thought Mischief (3) might be.</div><div>"Oh, she can probably work at the McDonalds drive through or something". High hopes abound for our smallest wee cherub, who herself declared she wants to be Dora. Your loss McD's.</div><div><br /></div><div>Whatever they choose in the end, if they know that it's okay to make mistakes on the way they might have a better shot at happiness. Which is really what it's all about. My advice to them for choosing a career: Find something that you love to do, then find someone to pay you to do it.</div><div><br /></div><div>I only have 1 more year before Mischief heads off to school before I get to make my next page turn. What will I be when I grow up I wonder?</div>Cookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4458876566716585950.post-43024601919178995472010-07-27T03:06:00.000-07:002010-07-27T04:05:49.828-07:00Split Decisions<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Lucida Grande';font-size:11px;">When it comes to the kids, the 'Fo and I share most of the decision making process, with obvious pole position going to whoever is directly in the situation. And yes, given the opportunity my 'Fo would indeed be whipping the rotors around, ie Helicopter parenting, overseeing most if not all of the activities and decisions our kids make in order to keep them safe. <span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Lucida Grande';font-size:11px;">In his wisdom however, he generally bows to my superior knowledge of childrearing, ie I pushed em out, I get bonus voting cred when it comes to certain issues. I tend to be a bit more relaxed, give more of a free reign, allowing them to make mistakes, hopefully learn something from it and knowing better next time. </span></span></span><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;font-size:11px;"><br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Lucida Grande';font-size:11px;">Ultimately they are all fairly clever in their own ways, but also gloriously idiotic at times.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;font-size:11px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;font-size:11px;">Take this weekend. Two of the kids had friends over on Saturday after rugby. The friends also happened to be brother and sister, so worked out nicely - took them both home in the happy wagon with me after the game, only one pickup scheduled for later. Shipped one of mine off around the corner to her friends house. Lovely. Only the 3 year old left requiring a bit of an eye.<br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;font-size:11px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;font-size:11px;">Now, as I said, I'm all for exploration, testing boundaries and trying new things. Turns out the adventure of the day was climbing on the shed outside. My son does this all the time to retrieve his misplaced tennis/rugby/soccer/softballs. From what I've seen it's a jimmy up on the fence, up on the garden shed, around the edges to scale up to the garage roof when need be. Never been an issue. He's always been fairly good with his physical abilities and sense of self, so I've never really had reason to worry.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;font-size:11px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;font-size:11px;">Apparently not all kids have built in catlike senses as he does. Or maybe they spook a bit easier. I wandered outside to hang the washing on the line, mid-climb. My boy nodded hello as I walked past, his mate freaked. He's obviously not got approval for shed climbing in his home and thought I was about to lose the plot. Whereby he lost the plot for me. I saw in slow motion as he went for a hasty retreat and decided to step back right across the middle of the shed roof. The tin shed. Roof held up by one thin bracket, which I later discovered wasn't even a full length bracket and had a join in it a few inches from the end from whence he stepped.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;font-size:11px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;font-size:11px;">At this point the fun level went skyhigh. I'm sure I had an internal chuckle somewhere anyway. The kid stepped, the roof buckled, the bracing snapped at the join. Shed shifted due to uneven load, roof panel bent way down to the point of no return. Thankfully ounce of wisdom prevailed and the kid hoisted his weight back onto the foot still on the wall panel that had a bit more support left and then froze.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;font-size:11px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;font-size:11px;">My boy darts around the edge and jumps off within a millisecond. Fresh meat stands there looking at me, grip of terror on the garage roof edge. Torn between thoughts of broken shed, ruined storage space and impending rain forecast for the evening, mixed with feelings of how to deal with the parents of this kid should he come to an injury of some kind, I figured the cost factor of an injury related law suit may be higher than the ruined storage items and guided him off. Instability meant the easiest passage was to jump over the neighbours fence, then climb back over it down past the shed.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;font-size:11px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;font-size:11px;">Kid got bitten on the finger by the neighbours yappy dog while he was over there. Poetic justice in my mind. Actually did have an outloud chuckle at that one. Cruel I know, but the kid just trashed our shed.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;font-size:11px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;font-size:11px;">There was an unspoken understanding at that point between me and Freshie. I was not gonna lose it, nor would I say anything to his folks, nor was he top of the invite list. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: -webkit-xxx-large; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;font-size:11px;">Eyeball agreement. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: -webkit-xxx-large; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;font-size:11px;">And I set to work rehoming the Christmas and Halloween decorations.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;font-size:11px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;font-size:11px;"><br /></span></span></div></div></div></div></div>Cookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4458876566716585950.post-65605772239893119952010-07-09T04:08:00.000-07:002010-07-09T04:11:33.910-07:00Help Needed for a great cause<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); ">My gorgeous niece passed away 2 years ago aged 7 months, to a godawful disease called SMA, the biggest genetic killer of children under 2 years old. There is no cure, no treatment, no funding for research because it isn't financially viable enough for pharmaceutical companies to back. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); ">My 2 week old nephew was just diagnosed with the same thing. 90% of kids diagnosed with Type 1 SMA, as he has, will pass away before they reach 2 years old.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><br />Pepsi has a grant available to fund research that will be given to the cause with the most support by 31 July for $250k. One vote is allowed per day. Please click and help them succeed. If you could pass this on to anyone and everyone to boost numbers and support it would be hugely appreciated.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><br /><a href="http://www.refresheverything.com/sophiascure" onmousedown="UntrustedLink.bootstrap($(this), "75e5eYLmcx0uNwKnYZB-MvHUMYA", event);" rel="nofollow" target="_blank" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; ">http://www.refresheverything.com/sophiascure</a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">This is a major hit and hope situation. Much thanks.</span></span></div></div>Cookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4458876566716585950.post-58688544438864662242010-07-02T02:10:00.000-07:002010-07-02T02:45:04.739-07:00The poop has hit the fan.I have been whinging and cursing to myself lately about the bats that have started frequenting the tree outside my son's bedroom. Every night the big boy arrives, and on occasion he'll bring a roomie with him. I have a wee love hate relationship with this bat. Sort of like Charlie in that 2 guys show with the kid. He constantly infuriates me with little things like leaving his deposits all over the back yard, ie my clothes line and anything I have left on it overnight. At the same time I have a little chuckle about his conquests, wondering if they know he's a bachelor boy and probably will never change and settle down. I am in awe of his size and grace when flying, the volume of his wings flapping as he takes off. But I really do wish he would stop crapping every where.<div><br /><div>We had a pesky Minor bird fly into the house yesterday and in its attempts to break through the glass in every room, it let loose of its bowels quite frequently also. I'm still finding some of those wee gifts. The two year old and I did have a laugh as we ran around pulling blinds and closing doors to air traffic control him out the front door, although hers was one of those half laugh/half scared sounds, mine was half laugh/half getting really annoyed now. Genuine laughs came once the wildly flapping window slamming dude was outside. </div><div><br /></div><div>Today I have the joy of three of my kids with gastro. The husband has it too, as do I. I'm like cool hand Luke with my trigger finger at the ready with disinfectant, other hand in cobra strike pose towards the paper towels. As much as I try to enlighten the kids that gastro is much like the accounting system FIFO, First In First Out, they don't seem to get it. I should be pleased they are still willing to eat and drink instead of being like their dad. He's the one sniffling in the corner, loudly complaining to anyone in earshot, curled into foetal position and thinking the sky is falling. </div><div><br /></div><div>So yeah, a lot of shit going on right now.</div></div>Cookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4458876566716585950.post-81866715751535135812010-06-30T06:49:00.000-07:002010-06-30T06:56:58.823-07:00Blogs are like small businessYou know, how like most small businesses fail in the first three years or something. Blogs are like that. <div>It could be from being part of the 'now' world we live in, where instant gratification is the only way you know you're doing the right thing. No comments, must be shit, why bother.<div>Or the disconnected, non team-players. Those who start something but can't seem to follow through. (I fall in this category, very slack. Like to start a whole lotta stuff, but finish? Meh, one day maybe).</div><div>To prove this point, I have completely lost track of where I was going with this one.</div><div>So, been a while since I posted anything, plenty going on but the time it would take to write seemed a bit of a stretch. Will get to it soon.</div></div>Cookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4458876566716585950.post-15878546016264234192010-04-25T03:37:00.000-07:002010-04-25T03:55:08.623-07:00What to doDue to lack of funds the family wagon is sitting in our front yard with a forlorn look, wondering when if ever, we are going to fix the brakes and be able to joy ride together again. Oh how we enjoy storming down the motorway, oblivious to recommended speed limits and the in awe looks of the fellow motorists we leave trailing in our path. What do you mean those aren't recommended limits? I'll have to look that up. Anyway...<div>Unfortunately the 'Fo and I stuffed up royally when the kids were younger and got them used to certain privileges like eating, so when wee misadventures like no brakes pop up, we are un-budget-friendly when it comes to getting them sorted straight away. <div>And then we spend a lot more time at home.</div><div>So there is more time to dedicate to Super Mario Bros.</div><div>My 7yo son and I are the kickarse duo on Super Mario. Level by level, world by world we conquer.</div><div>On rare occasions we have a stumble on a course. And as awesome as I am at playing the game, unfortunately I am not kickarse on teaching my son the finer art of being a good winner, or being a non-profanity speaking, controller throwing loser. </div><div>Hence, whilst I was outdoors having my, ah hmm, mum's moment, breath of fresh air, bourbon refill and cigarette or whatever, I happened to overhear my wee cherub playing hard - just like I taught him, kicking arse - just like I taught him, and telling the on-screen turtles to 'suck my pussy'. I started to wonder whether maybe he should start playing the game with his dad instead.</div></div>Cookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4458876566716585950.post-20050621931037234152010-04-12T04:05:00.000-07:002010-04-12T04:23:40.524-07:00Shit, where are the kids???????Ha ha ha. We do like to laugh in our house. So when the 'Fo was looking for the kids during the hide and seek tournament tonight, I laughed and laughed when he couldn't find two of them. For over an hour. He was all like "Shit Shell, seriously. I can't fucken find them. They're gone. I don't know where the fuck they are, they could be anywhere. What the fuck is going on??? Someone might have taken them, or they've gone down the street or something, FUCKEN HELP ME. I CAN'T FIND THE KIDS!!!!!!!"<div>I obviously played all cool and shit, like "Come on Dad, you'll get there, they can't be far". </div><div>He's thinking I'm just in a bourbon cool type situation and starts freaking out even more.</div><div>"Shit, I can't find the kids".</div><div>Me, totally laid back, watching Biggest Loser on TV and knowing I could kick all their arses so hard if I could be arsed to get off the couch, and obviously knowing all the kids hiding places, and yes, some of them are pretty awesome, "You'll be right love. They won't be too far away, surely. Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming, swimming, swimming".</div><div>In case you don't have kids, or have a life then you won't know that that is a catchy arse point of the "Finding Nemo" film. Great happy ending, lovely message, none of that Disney fucken singing crap.</div><div>The poor 'Fo was just short of breaking point and dialing Emergency when I noticed the time was 8.29pm. One minute short of bed time for the kiddies. School holidays or no, my kids go to bed at time, regardless of whether I am busy screwing with Daddy's brain or not. So, the gig was up.</div><div>"Bed time kids. You win, Dad sucks arse at hide and seek, he loses BIG time. Come out, come out where ever you are".</div><div>Bing, bing. There they were, all too innocent. Not knowing at all the so close heart palpitations they had given their dad, the immense laughs they had given their mum. All too willing to show Dad their super awesome hiding spots.</div><div>"NOOOOO!!!! You can use them next time Mummy needs a break".</div><div>And all was well.</div>Cookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4458876566716585950.post-40703976396089566132010-04-01T03:19:00.000-07:002010-04-01T03:39:55.635-07:00Shut the Fuck UP!!!!!!Seriously man, how much conversation can one person make over a shitty piece of info? I'm gonna come off as number one arsehole mum here, but fuck can my daughter talk!<div>I love her dearly. Just wish maybe I hadn't raised her with as much fucking opinion as she has. On anything. And I mean anything.</div><div>Talk about the weather and she's there with a fricken synopsis on latest weather trends, future forecasts, last noted occurences and the night sky is red so it's gonna be a nice day tomorrow type of bollocks. And she's only 9. What the hell am I gonna do when she's older and has an ounce more education in her. Sheesh.</div><div>I'm not much of a talker in real time. More of the sit and observe type of a person, better not to say anything and have folk think I am a dipshit, rather than open my mouth and prove it, type of gal. Unless of course I'm talking to the voices in my head, but they get really shitty if I don't talk back and start ranting at me to start a fire or pull wings off a fly, or run naked down the street screaming "I'm a superior being from outer space and I do not come in peace mother fuckers", or.. you get the idea.</div><div>So the constant chit chat from the young ones is a bit much to deal with at times. My head voices get a bit antsy and upset at the challenge of authority too.</div><div>Anyway, so today was April Fools. And me and the 'Fo thought it would be hilarious to tell our kid that her fish died while she was at school. We laughed and laughed. Once she checked, she laughed and laughed too. Okay, maybe she shot us a smouldering look and did that fake laugh that you do when you want to be polite when someone is actually really pissing you off.</div><div>But me and the 'Fo laughed anyway, and they say laughter keeps you young.</div><div>I told this story to a friend who said we could well be paying for her therapy later in life and it wasn't really a very cool thing to do. And then went on to say that at least we weren't as bad as her other friend, who very nearly had to call in her 11 year old son when her boyfriend's tongue stud got stuck in her clit ring. Now, I dunno about you, but I'm thinking we are in a very different category to that little diddy. I always keep a pair of needlenose pliers and wire cutters on hand for just such an emergency. Should have been a girl scout.</div>Cookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4458876566716585950.post-24468787282425346962010-03-25T05:04:00.000-07:002010-03-25T05:24:35.906-07:00It's an Easter Parade!!!So my kid says to me tonight:<div><br /></div><div>Him: "Can you just make the hat for me, like while I'm at school or something?"</div><div>Me: "You don't want to have some fun and make it yourself, or maybe even just help out a bit?"</div><div>Him: "Nah, not really. Just make it like Missy's, but maybe make it brown or something. It'll be ok."</div><div><br /></div><div>And there we have it. The joy of fucking Easter. Meaning that I have to make fricken hats for the fricken Easter hat parade at school. Not a crafty arse women, not a lot of fucken enjoyment for this on my behalf. Just don't want to be seen as the dodgey arse mum at school any more than being a tattooed, non involved mum who teaches her kids to say penis and vagina already gives me credit for. Fuck canteen duty, I have better shit to do with my time. Anyway...</div><div><br /></div><div>So yeah, I fell for it. And it's now 11pm and I'm sitting with fucken cardboard bunny ears in front of me, all ready to be covered in BROWN fluffy shit. Thank christ for bourbon. Where would I be without it? Probably enjoying a decent sleep for the first time in years. How many years? Well my eldest kid is 9, you do the math. My brain's too baby-fucked to work out change from $1 these days.</div><div><br /></div><div>What the fuck is wrong with this picture? I spent my afternoon holding up a 70 power Mercury boat motor, so that the 'Fo, otherwise known as my husband or the reason for my quad set of children, could fix the steering cable. And while I was holding this fucking motor, which is pretty friggen heavy if you haven't had the joy of doing such a task yourself, the last thought on my mind was that I would then spend my evening doing craft work.</div><div><br /></div><div>Craft work. That's when you know that life as you knew it is slipping away beyond your grasp. I just spent a couple of hours intermittently holding up under my own power, a 100kg motor. And now I'm pulling out a glue gun to attach fucking bunny ears??</div><div><br /></div><div>Yeah, yeah. I know, I'm giving my kid the easy way out. Teaching him that he doesn't have to do his own work and shit. But trust me, I'm not one of those mums that does everything for them. In other parents words, and I quote, I'm a "bit of a bitch", and could perhaps "help them out every now and again", meaning do their fucken homework for them, like I didn't already go to school and do it myself and therefore have a big arse pass when it comes to doing it again 20 years later, or maybe "fucking cold" sortof meaning the same as the last. </div><div><br /></div><div>So yeah, I sit, I cut, I glue tonight. Knowing that when I'm old and incontinent, my boy will be the first one I call on to wipe my arse. Gives me a bit of a glow when I think of the circle of life.</div>Cookie Monster in Therapyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12635575299417653389noreply@blogger.com0