And just to give you some perspective, today, the kids did not eat all their breakfast easily and quickly and without single-handedly desalinating the entire Himalyan Mountain Range.

They did not make their beds, get dressed, brush their teeth and hair quickly.

They did not play with just one toy.

Instead, the evil geniuses did the exact opposite of the graceful and wondrous things they did yesterday.

They went downstairs, and they went very quiet.  Very.  After yesterday, I saw this as positive, rather than portentous.  Sucker fact #1.  So I did not go down to investigate, I assumed, on the basis of one day of unprecedented excellence (that shall henceforth be known as THE Golden Day) that they were silently and systematically completing all of the set tasks.  Sucker fact #2.

They were not doing any of these things.

They were in fact recreating the aftermath of Cyclone Tracey in each of their bedrooms.  They were efficient and effective in their re-enactment, and just like Tracey, they moved quickly and then they were silent.

If you’d like a list of the damages, here it is:

• Every Sylvanian and it’s accessories were strewn across the floor. The floor has a rug.  With a heavy shag-pile.  So now there are stupid tiny, tiny, minuscule pencils and bottles and lipsticks that will ne’er be seen again.  Their sound will be heard as they are hoovered up next week.  And no, I will not be vacuuming with a stocking over the vac to find these tiny agents of evil.
• All of the Lego was out, but only some of the Lego was invisible.  Invisible, but not undetectable to the soft, delicate arch of my bare feet.
• Every stuffed toy was out of it’s drawer.  I usually have them shoved in a drawer.  I had no idea there were so many. Inexplicably they were lined up on Liam’s bed, a row of strange cyclone survivors.
• A box of musical instruments, unopened for over five years were ALL out.  Maracas, harmonicas, home-made shakers, castanets, bells, xylophones, ukuleles, whistles and bells. WHAT?  WHY?
• A scrapbooking class must have come to visit, had their way with Coco’s supplies and then vanished, as every.bit.of.craft.crap was out.  Even the never-previously-used stamp pad.

There was probably more, but I’m sick of talking about it now, almost as sick as I was of cleaning it all up today.  Usually I wouldn’t have done it.  Usually I would have made them do it themselves, with the threat of the big green bin to get the task done with alacrity, but today was different.

And those little axes of evil knew it, because tomorrow:

(Insert Jaws theme, or Death Star March, or the shower music from Psycho)

THE MOTHER-IN-LAW COMES.

So all must be perfect.

It is as Liam said when he clocked the state of his bedroom and the bathroom this afternoon, “It’s like the Queen is coming to visit.”

Mission Accomplished.

How about you, do you clean up after your brats?

Any Mother-In-Law tips?   (Just joking Jen)

Today both kids stayed in bed ’til 5.30am.

Today they ate all of their breakfast without complaining or having to be told eighty-seven times to sit up and eat their eggs, or stop putting on so much salt, or stop teasing/copying/looking at each other.

Today they made their beds without being asked four million and six times.

Today they got dressed, brushed their teeth and their hair in a timely fashion without being asked once.

Today I got to see the Grade 3 ukulele concert, and it was surprisingly good.

Today I had a great day at work, with so many fantastic old patients, and one new one.

Today my husband had my dinner cooked and a glass of red poured when I came up after work.

Today I got to read a gorgeous snippet of what I hope will be a twitter friend’s best selling novel.

Today I had some bills to pay, and I got them paid.

Today the self-inflicted, dancing-induced sore neck that I have, wasn’t as bad.  It’s healing.

Today was a good day.

And I am grateful for good days such as these.

They might not be earth-shatteringly exciting, or full of portent, or meaning.  They may not even be the days I will remember when I look back on the blessed life I have led.  And for that I am grateful.  Because some days just need to be good days.  And that is enough.

“Life is what happens when you are busy making other plans.”  -John Lennon.

How was your day?

Did you have a good day?

It’s been a busy few days around these parts: catch-ups with friends (amazing), busy days at work (fun) and lots of last things to get done before the school year finishes in EIGHT MORE DAYS.  So apologies RRs* for going AWOL….

Two weeks ago, we had Unit One in tears when I suggested he do a practice-run of the song he was due to play at his end of year drum recital (Is it a recital when it is kids smashing the crap out of a set of skins?).  We have not heard one single skerrick of practice all year, and believe me, with the size of our house and the type of songs he learns, I’d know if he was playing.  Let’s just say it is not Vivaldi.  So far, I’m told he doesn’t need to practice because he “learns it all in my lessons”.  The lessons go for half an hour.  Per week.  Sounds suspiciously like that old “I did all my maths homework on the way home on the bus” chestnut.  Anyway, I said “give me a run through” and he cried.  Because, shock of shocks, he couldn’t remember it.

It’s funny, he’s been the type of kid who hasn’t really had to work very hard for anything so far.  He’s naturally good at most things, has a great memory, and could read fluently at four years old.  This means there have been no hard-won battles to learn sight words or times tables, no trial and error, no striving for success.  So of course he wanted me to call the drum teacher and get him out of the concert. Or change songs to something he already knew.

Ummm, NO.

In the interests of making a point (and being right in the process- my two fave things) we made him practice that song three times every night for the next nine nights, and guess what?  He learnt it.  He bashed those drums as hard as he could and he did a great job. Not perfect but great.

You see, the reason why he didn’t want to practice it was because he couldn’t do it perfectly the first time.  He was concerned, because even though it looks like an easy song, he says it’s quite difficult. I suspect when you’re a kid who has had things come easily, you don’t have resilience or determination in your repertoire.  Maybe persistence isn’t something you’re born with, but something you have to practice, just like your drumming.  So we entered tenacity training.  And it worked (Of course it did, did I mention I’m always right?).  He did the song, and by the look on his face, and the chatter in the car afterwards, the victory tasted sweeter for being something he’d worked on and worked out.  Thunderous applause.

Crank up the volume, sit back and get Thunderstruck

PS Please click the link- he’s collecting views and I promised I’d blog up the numbers for him….

* Regular Readers

Here’s my top five, peeps, and no, cancer is NOT on the list.

1.  Vespas. How cool are they?  Hahaha, that was a joke. Vespas suck.  We all know that right?  So stop buying them then people.  And stop driving them in front of me at 50kms in an 80km zone.  Thanks.

2.  Two visits to The Green Room at Eumundi in one week.  Love that place.  Love that green. If it was closer, it would be my new local. And, in fact, if I could convince more people to meet me out there for a sneaky mid-week, mid-day glass of sparkles, then I suspect it would be, regardless of distance.  Sorry Red, you’re grouse, but green is the new black.

3.  My $2 tomato plant from the world’s worst store (Bunnings).  It’s planted in a tiny bit of sandy “soil”, receives no love, and has currently yielded seven juicy ripe tommies.  FYI I am also growing basil, mint and chives, so yeah, basically self-sufficient. Just call me Don Bourke… Without the swears (except for the blog yesterday, sorry about that.)

4.  My awesome home-based barista (everything is home-based now isn’t it?). He just bought me a cup of the hot, perky brown stuff.  Better than George Clooney… yes, yes, I know there’s a new ad. Mmmmm George I mean, Nespresso.

5.  Blogging. Thanks for reading, all of you. Thanks especially for the shares, likes and comments.  I know I’m pretty self-indulgent, and rant on about my own shit all the time, in fact, Sam gave me a gift yesterday that said exactly that…  But I really do appreciate you letting me know when you are reading, what you like reading, and egging me on.  I love doing this.  It’s my first ever real hobby.

How about you?  Any hobbies?  

What’s your top 5?

I don’t really feel like writing a blog right now.

I just got some news that someone I care about has cancer.

Another one.

My Dad died of cancer.

Nath’s Dad died of cancer.

Nath had cancer.

Nath’s sister had cancer.

My Aunty died of cancer.

Two of my mates died of cancer.

Two of my patients died of cancer.

Another three of my patients had cancer.

Someone told me the other day that one in two people will have cancer.  I’m not sure if that’s right, it seems like quite a lot, but maybe it is, and maybe that’s why it feels so personal. Regardless, I’ve had enough.

So right now I’m gonna go give my sleeping kids a kiss, sit on my couch, hug my cancer-free husband, watch some Top Gear on the teev, eat some chocolate, drink a beer, and think about how lucky I am that my worst ailments are a blister on my toe and a bit of a sore finger that I suspect might be a bit over-worked. (Even though they are quite sore)

And cancer? You can fuck right off.

Today Liam asked what the silver wee-wall in the male toilets is called.  He wanted to know if it was also called a toilet.

Because I am truthful, and a wealth of information, I told him it was called a urinal and the reason why.  Sometimes, because I love words (and the sound of my own voice) so much, I may* tend to go on a bit with information.  Especially when we are in the car and they are strapped in tight, hurtling along at eighty clicks.

So, urine.  And then I added in faeces, just to round out the conversation.

But of course it didn’t stop there.  The little buggers wanted to know the “astronomical” words for “all of the body parts”.  I tried to steer the conversation in the direction of words like phalanges, sternum and clavicle, but I know they didn’t pay any attention. I could tell by the sniggers, that penis, vagina, labia and anus were much more interesting.

Conversation then went of the direction of changes the body undergoes during puberty. Luckily it’s a short car trip home. I may have had to slighty exceed the speed limit (but only if you aren’t a member of the local constabulary..if you are, I was on sitting on the limit the whole way) to avoid talking about anything menstrual.**

Just the other week, Coco came upstairs because Liam had called her a penis.  Not penis-breath, penis-head or penis-brain. Just penis.  So who knows what is going to happen at the next altercation, with all this newfound terminology.

This won’t end well.

Anyone else think it’s funny that their kids call Dick Caplick Park “Penis Playground”?

What do you call the private parts?

* Who are we kidding? I bloody run an the mouth like Cujo after a stroke.

** I have The Menopause, so I’m done with talking about all things womb related.

****Apologies to all the parents of my children’s friends. You may have some explaining to do.****