Well folks, that’s it for 2011 and we’re welcoming 2012. I’m hoping for a year of good health, much laughter and time to write.
I’d like to wish each and every one of you a Happy New Year and thank you for all the support you’ve given me throughout 2011. You’ve astounded me, made me laugh out loud and tickled out “Oohs” and “Aahs” with your lovely comments.
I thought I’d finish the year with a few of the finer points I’ve learned this year:
- Relax: nail polish, fork prints and smiley faces add character to a dining table.
- Chill out: it doesn’t matter how much extra you cook, in an attempt to be more organized for the next day. There will be none left, those
greedy sodsgrowing children will eat it all.
- Stay calm: it makes no difference if you have a board on the wall with a colour-co-ordinated plan of what has to be taken to school – one child will still forget their sports bag. Even leaving the said bag in front of the front door won’t help. They’ll just fall over it as they’re forgetting to take it with them. And if you hang it over their shoulder on the way out, don’t think you’ve cracked it. No. They’ll just leave it on the bus.
- Take a deep breath: your keys will not be in the key cabinet. They will not be in your handbag. Nor will they be in the pocket of the jacket you wore yesterday afternoon. You won’t find them on the nail-polished table or beside the telephone. You’ll not locate them on the bookcase. They’re not even hiding under the sofa. Don’t panic. You’ll get stuck behind a tractor anyway and you have no chance of being on time. Stop yelling and remember yesterday. You sat for 55 minutes in the orthodontist’s waiting room. Then abandoned your children while you darted off to put more money in the parking meter. Only to discover you had no change left, so you raced into the hairdressers on the corner to beg them for coins. You paused for a split second, tempted by a moment’s luxury without children and the thought of a head massage. You hastened back to the packed waiting room, located a chair far away from your own children, but still, unfortunately, within an audible distance. The little one dragged a stack of plastic chairs all around the room, sometimes disregarding one in the middle of the floor, which would then be tripped over by an already annoyed looking parent. You told the little one to say sorry for the sixteenth time, for bashing a
sitting ducka disheartened mother’s leg, just as the dental nurse called out the names of three of your four children. Being such a large family, the orthodontist had cleverly decided to split your group over two treatment rooms, so you ran back and forwards with a fourth hanger-on dragging on your leg, watching knees jerk and listening to little shrieks of pain. 25 minutes later you exited the building, all children, jackets, scarves and hats present and correct. Though your nerves were somewhat dishevelled. You arrived at the car whose newish ticket still had 29 minutes left on it, so you put it in the ticket machine to help out some other poor potential dentist goer. Then you headed to the shopping centre, requiring a last-minute-invite birthday party present, squared paper, a glue stick and another batch of headache medicine. You relocated your car with the help of your sons incredible car-finding powers. Then drove home worrying about getting the homework done, practising vocabulary with the dyslexic one for tomorrow’s test, all the while wondering what to make for dinner. You suddenly realized that you’d just been shopping and could have purchased something simple to rustle up. You sighed and be honest, swore somewhat under your breath. Being rush hour, you of course got stuck in traffic, and you started to feel a little anxious as your I’ve-had-four-children-bladder urged you to reach the toilet. Do you remember now? Your keys are in the bathroom.
- Count to ten: absolutely any time you have the opportunity.
- Don’t vomit: it was only natural she’d get confused. After all, it was a lot for a four-year-old to remember. Step 1: wipe the toilet seat with loo roll. Step 2: undo/pull down pants/tights/trousers (and possibly hold up skirt/dress). Step 3: Sit down and pee. Step 4: Wipe yourself. Step 5: Redress. Step 6: Wipe the toilet seat ready for the next person. Step 7: Wash and dry your hands. It would probably have helped, with hindsight, if you’d specified, Step 6: Wipe the toilet seat ready for the next person with a fresh piece of toilet roll.