Sunday, May 31, 2009

Autumn as Metaphor

The last leaves of Autumn are floating down, and in a few hours it will be winter. As the trees have been shedding their leaves this season, I have been right there with them, shedding possessions in a decluttering frenzy, breathing in that bright crisp air which is whispering, 'You don't need all these leaves, float them down, let them go.'

Not that a casual visitor would be struck by an atmosphere of minimalism here at Chez Blue Day. Far from it. The entire decor screams, 'Six untidy people live here, and one still tips chocolate milk on the carpet.' We have a ways to go, but the end is in sight. Every time I sweep through the house yet again with garbage bag in hand (family members huddled protectively over their favourite possessions) I manage to find more stuff that we don't need, want or even like. How does it all get here? Nobody seems to know. Stuff just happens. My new mission - to prevent stuff getting in the front door so I don't have to deal with it once it is here.

School holidays again, and our big project is to bake all the chocolate chip cookie recipes and decide once and for all which is the best one. Then we can recycle all the inferior recipes, float them away on the wind, six less pieces of paper baggage to carry in to Winter...

Friday, May 22, 2009

The Usual

The usual day with the four year old: the whining the moaning, the yelling. The laughing. Oh that manic laughter. Then the screaming and kicking on getting into, and then getting out of the car seat. I have to take her away so that the big sisters can have some Time Out from their spitfire sibling. Then the haggling and hassling and wrestling to get her into bed. Then the ten minutes screaming over my poor choice of bedtime stories. At my wits' end I think that surely, by the fourth child I should be better at this. Apparently not. I lie with my face tickling her her neck, so sturdy and strongly assertive, this child, and I whisper ,'I love you, I love you, I love you,' over and over, reminding her, reminding me. And then, as the sobs die away, there is a little whisper in the dark, 'I love you in the morning, I love you when I was born, I love you in the afternoon, I love you in the night...'


Later, a post-it note appears on the laptop:

Dear mummy I love you so much I will cuddle you to deth and kiss you to life love Rosy.

The usual. Shouting and love notes. It could be a lot worse.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

An Exercise in Poise


This is Rosy at her ballet class practising 'Exercises in Poise'.


I was paying close attention. I could use some of that.

Monday, May 4, 2009

What Virginia Woolf Didn't Know

While Virginia Woolf proved to everyone's satisfaction that 'a room of one's own' is vital if a woman is to write fiction, what has never been satifactorily examined are the minimum requirements for the writing of a very minor blog.

My trouble in the past has been that every time I have a minute, there is somebody already on the family computer, busily taking over the world (what are manufacturers of computer games thinking? Teenagers don't need any encouragement of their instinctive proclivities for world domination), writing the Great Australian Novel, dressing up Barbie or ordering essential technical widgets from ebay. Mummy writing a blog just doesn't rate on the scale of vital IT activities.

But here I am, finally clicking on the NEW POST tab. The minimum reqirements? A third hand laptop, an armchair in the corner, and ear plugs. A room of my own? Imagine the bliss! Will be happening sometime after the second child leaves home. Until then, a laptop of my very own, and a tiny bit of headspace. Oh, and finding the cord thingy that connects the camera to the computer. That would be nice too.
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