tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76497821263597012452024-03-13T23:28:47.105+11:00CityCottageSmall house homeschooling in the city.The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.comBlogger250125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649782126359701245.post-6479825664664646002013-02-07T07:39:00.001+11:002013-02-07T07:39:24.427+11:00ToastThe girls usually bite big chunks out of the middle of their morning toast rectangles, turning them into some kind of amorphous animals that squeak at each other over the breakfast table.<br />
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It's well established that Peanut is the mother while Bug is the baby. I would like to say their conversations are complex and deep, but normally they consist of high pitched "Mummy, mummy!" and "Baby, baby!" Ad infinitum.<br />
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But this morning Peanut, being hungry and with big plans for drawing a giraffe right after breakfast, scoffed her toast.<br />
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When the squeaky bread child came calling across the table, she was very blunt: " Sorry, but your mother has been eaten. Try again tomorrow."<br />
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The toast baby did not seem too perturbed.<br />
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Mrs Accident: raising resilient* children since 2008....<br />
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*read "shockingly callous"The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649782126359701245.post-36527932763034656282013-02-04T19:53:00.000+11:002013-02-04T19:53:04.287+11:00Sweeping it under the carpetI have a confession. It's sordid.<br />
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Oh, alright, it's not sordid. Not even a little bit, in fact.<br />
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Actually, I don't know why I started like that, let me try again:<br />
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I bought a carpet sweeper.<br />
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(Now I know why I started like that. You've all just rolled your eyes and scrolled away, right? Riveting. Woohoo! Mrs Accident's found a new housewifery tool! Call the Associated Press! Man the phones! We're onto a winner!)<br />
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My carpet sweeper is a bold blue, like the colour of a banana in a surrealist painting.<br />
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It has gears and cogs and bristles and brushes, and I've seen them all, because the damn thing falls apart at the slightest provocation. (Or violent provocation. Bug thumped it down the stairs.) But the nice thing about simple machinery is the ability for it to be repaired, so my fine carpety friend lives to sweep another day.<br />
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And it gets a work out every day.<br />
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And here we do have a sordid confession. My floors used to be shocking. I was embarrassed to be called the Accidental Housewife, because anyone who came to my house would have taken one horrified, shaking glance at my leprosy withered floors and assumed that any housewife that may have once inhabited the home had indeed met with a nasty, career ending accident.<br />
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But no more!<br />
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I hated pulling around our heavy old vacuume. I felt like I was enduring some kind of Ancient Grecian punishment. The thing was effective, but the outcome was barely worth the effort involved. It was not something to be done daily, but with two small kids and two dogs, it certainly should have been!<br />
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Enter carpet sweeper, stage left, (and exit, and enter, and exit... it usually takes a few passes... ok...wait... got it!)<br />
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It's light and quick enough that I can do a zip around every day, keeping the floors looking nice and holding off the vacuuming for absolutely ages. Yonks. Eons! (I recently went three weeks without vacuuming once. It was heaven. And probably terribly unhygienic. Please don't tell Martha Stewart!)<br />
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It's also good for that heartbreaking dilemma when you just finished vacuuming, the floors are pristine, then the toddler wakes up and grinds her post-nap corn cracker into the carpet. Instead of throwing the toddler, carpet and cracker out the window, you can simply grab ol' sweepy and divert years of pesky police involvement! Mrs Accident, saving you from yourself since 2013. Your welcome.<br />
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So embrace your inner 1950s housewife, and get in early on my newly proclaimed carpet sweeper fad!
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<br />(Or, you know, not. I don't want to boss you around or anything. It's entirely up to you. I'm just saying they're good, that's all.)The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649782126359701245.post-54938475710462222552013-02-02T17:22:00.000+11:002013-02-02T17:22:51.324+11:00Peanut, IVTo my darling Peanut,<br />
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tomorrow is your fourth birthday party.<br />
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You're beside yourself with excitement. You spent the last hour before your nap running up and down the stairs, launching from the banisters the parachute men your Daddy bought you, and squealing "Whoo! Best Day Ever!"<br />
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We're having a pony party for you tomorrow. There's horses on your cake, and even though we couldn't find you a horse piƱata you're still pretty damn excited about the stegosaurus one instead. And (shhh!) we're taking you to the stables for a surprise pony ride tomorrow morning too. I cannot wait to see your face.<br />
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If anyone asks you what you like, you take a deep breath and tell them "pink and purple and princesses and ponies and sparkles and unicorns!"<br />
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But that's not why I'm writing to you today.<br />
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Today I want to tell you, not what you like, but what you <i>are</i> like. A snap shot of you at three and 364 days.<br />
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Where to begin? You're brave. Incredibly so. When you needed injections, you knew it was going to hurt. You were worried. And it did hurt, I could tell. But you held my hand, took a deep breath, and didn't cry at all. The nurse was astounded, but I wasn't surprised. You're the kid who gets straight back on her scooter after a bad crash, the one who falls off the bed head four times in a row because you are absolutely certain you can master climbing over the end rail, and won't quit until you've done it, damn the pain! (Did I mention you were quite tenacious?)<br />
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You're a natural performer and you love to sing and dance for your family. However, I mostly think you enjoy do it by and for yourself. I often catch you around a corner somewhere, eyes shut, swaying and singing along to a tune only you can hear. (Thankfully, although I can't hear the music, I can hear your lyrics, and they are pure comedy gold. My personal favourite thus far was an epic love song to your dolly with the golden hair. You would give any tragic ballardist a run for their money.)<br />
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You adore your baby sister. You make her bed every day, even though I've asked you not to regularly - it's her job! But you persist, because you have an incredible service streak that runs right through you. Your the kid who does the dishes without me asking. You're the girl who runs to find my shoes, because you've overheard that I'm heading outside and deduct I might need them. You ask to help with every household chore, and can dust and hang laundry and clean a bathroom and sweep perfectly, just because you like to be of assistance.<br />
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You like wearing dresses, and painting, snuggling the dogs. You like scooting and drawing and playing school. You think cake is an icing delivery system. You hate pizza, but will devour a calzone in a flash. You'll eat the cherry tomatoes, but won't touch the big ones. You like milk, the more chocolatey the better. You only have bananas in a smoothie. You're convinced you're the fastest runner in the world and get cross when anyone beats you.<br />
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You're my first born, the apple of my eye, the skin to my banana, the crust of my pie.<br />
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I love you, baby girl. Happy birthday!The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649782126359701245.post-70091645777715916642013-02-01T22:20:00.000+11:002013-02-01T22:20:16.096+11:00Kindergarten at home: Learning about JapanSo we just finished our first week of homeschool. The whole, first, four day week! Epic. We're such professionals now. Ask me anything, I'll give you the homeschool answer.<br />
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But seriously, it went quite well.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our doll's house is copping some serious weather.</td></tr>
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I was kind of planning on doing a weather-focused week (it was SO wet on Tuesday!) but it quickly morphed into a Japanese week when we found some interesting books at the library. This tied in nicely with our work on teaching Peanut that she comes from Australia - no point teaching her about her country and culture, if she doesn't know that there are others that are different!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fish kites. 97% glue, 2% dog hair.</td></tr>
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So we read "The Magic Paintbush" by Julia Donaldson (of Gruffalo fame), and "Yoko's Paper Cranes" by Rosemary Wells. We made paper fish kites, and I let her in my cupboard to throw together a poor recreation of a kimono (note the socks and sandals... and that's my dressing gown!)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kind of wished I'd insisted on her brushing her hair...</td></tr>
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We painted our names in hiragana, and made some cherry blossom fans. We ate sushi and wasabi peas (Peanut made a wicked face, then went back for another. And another...)<br />
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We read about Japanese gardens, then recreated one in a dodgy white plastic tray with a couple of white pebbles, an old Buddha statue we found caked in dirt when we were planting our veggie garden, and a stick for the pattern rake.<br />
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And in between all that, we did some addition practice (first with a workbook, then some dice, then marbles, and finally adding the spots on dominoes.... But not all on the one day, of course!) and started in again on letters and reading. It took a while for Peanut's brain to find it's groove. I could see her searching the back of her mind for the letters she knew she knew, and getting frustrated with herself for taking so long. She wiggled in her seat, sighed, threw her head on the desk, and then suddenly, miraculously, read the whole of her "Gus the Duck" book by herself. It was a terrific lesson to her in pushing beyond what she finds easy and mentally comfortable, and having a spectacular success. I'm so glad she kept trying!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Her handwriting tells me we may have a future doctor in our midst.</td></tr>
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She has also spent the week trying to convince me to let her have another (oh, just one more please Mama!) of her alphabet cookies. I rolled the dough into long snakes, while she made them into letters. Usually back to front ones, but cookie dough is easy to flip! I was planning to have some left over to freeze for when real school starts next week, but I think that's a pipe dream. They are pretty damn tasty for learning aides.<br />
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So, all around, it was a terrific success. She was excited to learn new things, had a rip roaring time, and got to eat cookies. Win!The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649782126359701245.post-53986350799925843212013-01-21T21:32:00.001+11:002013-01-21T21:32:29.438+11:00I Love Lucy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
We are a Two Dog House. </div>
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However, with the necessary removal of our previous child-chasing, Archie-terrorising, Great Aunt-growling Panzer, we were missing a dog. </div>
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Besides, Archie is nothing but a glorified canine throw pillow anyway.</div>
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And so.... </div>
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(drumroll please, I promise she's worth it) </div>
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....here's Lucy! </div>
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Half kelpie, half schipperke, all love.</div>
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I would show you a picture of her sitting up, but I'm not sure she's capable of it when we're home. Every time we look in her direction she collapses in a heap in the hope of a belly rub. She even sleeps on her back, legs akimbo, neck stretched long. But she's a streak at the park!</div>
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She's amazing with the kids. She's calm, she doesn't jump up, she doesn't steal their food, and she doesn't mind if they take her ball to throw it. And if Bug does throw the ball her very hardest, all of two metres? Lucy will leap on it enthusiastically, gallantly playing the game as best she can, with exact the same energy and enthusiasm she expends on a proper throw by Mr Accident. </div>
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Here's Bug, using Lucy as a pillow. Both of them are extremely happy with the situation. </div>
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Archie has settled down immensely. You can almost hear the relief in the tone of his ongoing snores. He has a friend for the park, company for the morning garden romp, and someone to spoon with at night. Lucy has even joined him in his stair sleeps, stacked like a doggy bunk bed. </div>
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Here they are. Lucy's actually dozing here, her nose though the balustrade, halfway between where I was sitting upstairs, and Mr A downstairs. (Then I moved of course, causing a complicated rearrangement of sleeping locations. Very thoughtless on my behalf, I know.)</div>
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Lucy has started to heal my heart. I didn't want her. I was still in shock from Panzer. I didn't feel I could welcome another dog so soon. But Mr A found her from a rescue group, and she was so perfect we couldn't pass her up. She needed us. We needed her too. And she's been a balm for everyone.</div>
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So that's how we'll leave this post today. Lucy exhausted from her run at the beach and flat on her back at our feet, and Archie snuggled in the beanbag and snoring contentedly.<br />
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We are a two dog family.The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649782126359701245.post-37128079185685980382013-01-20T15:32:00.000+11:002013-01-20T15:36:51.379+11:00Happy Ham Day!There is a horrendous void in the celebratory calendar between New Years Eve and Australia Day.<br />
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A void that can only be filled with ham.<br />
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Enter the patented Accidental Household's Happy Ham Day.<br />
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Well... alright, so its not actually patented. Yet. Therefore, if you enjoy ham as much as we do, probably best to jump on the bandwagon now. To assist you, here are the Accidental Happy Ham Day social conventions:<br />
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1) there must be a hot, freshly roasted, generously basted ham.<br />
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2) only invite people whom the whole host family likes. No charity invitations are to be issued to annoying friends, no relatives are to be invited solely out of a sense of duty. If you wouldn't invite them to the pub, then Happy Ham Day is not the time for a catchup.<br />
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3) it's BYO sides. If guests want a sandwich, then they had better bring bread. And if they want roast veggies, then owning a car oven is advisable. (Do they exist? Perhaps they should.) The hosts of Happy Ham Day are obliged to provide ham, and ham only. Anything else that may be available is a delightful bonus.<br />
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And so, adhering to those fine rules, yesterday we warmed our new CityCottage with a delicious, clove studded ham, litres of cider and a boat load of friends. (A boat slightly larger than a dinghy, but smaller than a ferry. I suspect about a yacht's-worth.)<br />
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Oh, the ham! I'm quite sure the pig, had he known how amazing he was going to taste and how he would be fussed over and complimented, would have considered willingly donating his left leg to the cause. The basting made it glow, and the salads and breads our friends brought as sides complemented it perfectly. (For the record, I did do up some roast veggies. They were quite well received, but nothing compared to Mr Ham.)<br />
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We sat down to lunch at the table, and didn't move until far, far later that evening. We ate all the ham, the sides, and then ordered in pizza. We drank all the cider, the wine, then sent an envoy to the bottle shop. Four rowdy dogs played under the table, and four rowdy kids ran up and down the hall, all insisting they were not tired, and all sleeping the minute their heads hit their beds.<br />
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I sat at the laden table and finally spent time, after far too many years, with some of the people I love most in the world. The best friends of my youth burst from high school and scattered to the four winds - different careers, different states, different continents. But now, twelve years later, we all meandered back home at same time, and congregated around my dining table. Its a strange, wonderful old world.<br />
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I just wish I had some ham left over to eat in it!The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649782126359701245.post-34236568981168121162013-01-18T21:28:00.001+11:002013-01-21T22:38:18.866+11:00Doomsday? I'm ready!I have been watching far too much of "<a href="http://channel.nationalgeographic.com/channel/doomsday-preppers/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Doomsday Preppers</a>".<br />
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I've been inculcated.<br />
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I bought a water filter.<br />
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I bought two way radios.<br />
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I bought solar and hand cranked torches.<br />
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I have dehydrated potatoes and peas.<br />
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I am ready for the zombie apocalypse.<br />
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Are you?The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649782126359701245.post-46289569687307567582013-01-17T22:09:00.000+11:002013-01-17T22:09:48.755+11:00In which I stop eating cookies, and miss them terribly I am firmly of the belief that the only thing more socially offensive than bragging about one's own weight loss is having a fit of the evangelicals and trying to talk everybody else into a fitness binge too.<br />
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So I won't be telling you that I finally returned to my pre-both-babies weight..... ahem. (Feel free insert some applause here. Not that I need it, I'm proud enough as it is.)<br />
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And I won't be telling you how I did it. Unless you keep reading, in which case I hold no responsibility for your impending boredom or a sudden urge to have a set of rock hard abdominals. (Your choice who the abs belong to. I prefer Mr A's myself.)<br />
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It all started when I saw my friend Leah, looking smoking hot and strong just a year after having her twins. Twins! And she was so healthy and vital and powerful! I wanted what she was having, so I did what she did. I ran home and signed up for the Michelle Bridges <a href="http://www.12wbt.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">12 Week Body Transformation</a>. You've probably seen it around the place, heinously over-advertised in the odd one or two million places.<br />
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If you're good at following instructions, 12WBT is simple. Just chug along following the recipes and doing the exercises she gives you for every single day, and bam! Success. Well, with a few speed bumps. There was a random bean and legume week in there that was a struggle (for Mr A, too. But for different and more gaseously scented reasons.)<br />
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Of course, it probably would have been wiser of me to do the program at an easier time. Having a move and Christmas in the middle was a major derailment of the diet train. And the exercise train. It was a pretty big crash, actually. And there was ham involved. Succulent, delicious ham.<br />
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But by New Years all the ham was eaten and the brandy sauce had lost its lustre, so I decided to be delightfully conventional and start again. (Luckily, more recipes had been unlocked on the site by then too - no more beans for me!) I mixed in some Zumba and kettle bells too, because obviously fitness fads are only popular because they are extremely effective. (You're all just lucky this isn't an in depth review of Crossfit. I'm holding out on poor Mr A, he's a boots and all convert.)<br />
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Despite the enthusiastic exercising, I suspect my success was mostly due to counting calories. <span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">(Of course, there's an app for that. And in this case, it's free: MyFitnessPal) </span>Now I have the hang of it, I'm actually shocked at how much I used to eat. My two daily, deliciously large, double-choc, post dinner cookies were the equivalent of what should have been half my day's food. Never mind the afternoon cake...and the huge meal servings...Mien gott! No wonder I couldn't shift the last few kilos! It's a wonder I wasn't the size of a house.<br />
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And so here we are. Goal weight: achieved. Next stop? Quite possibly super-fit. Or a relapse into cookie-queen. We shall see!The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649782126359701245.post-73038446930690747642013-01-15T21:55:00.000+11:002013-01-15T21:55:25.813+11:00Let them eat cakeWe live in wedding-shop-central. There are about eleventy seven wedding stores within a minutes walk from our CityCottage. As a result, Peanut is currently mildly obsessed with weddings. Loves them. Plans her own. Intends to have a bright red floucy dress. Focuses on the provision of ample cake. (Of course, since she's three she doesn't actually like cake. Being an icing aficionado she sees cake as nothing but the slightly annoying but generally necessary delivery system.) But this wedding has one caveat.<br />
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The bride, in her mind, will be marrying another bride. Why? Because she loves her best friend Victoria fourth most in the world, and of the higher ranking peeps, Mummy and Daddy are already taken and apparently marrying your own sister is taboo. So it will be a girl on girl wedding.<br />
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Besides, she considers boys of her age to be stinky, overly violent and insufficiently communicative. She wants someone who will build a house with her, not run in screaming, fly kick it over, then soil their own pants. I can see her point. (There were two... interesting boys at her last preschool, both with behavioural difficulties. It's unfortunate she's made a assessment of an entire gender based on these two squeaky wheels, as she knows some lovely, gentle, emotionally intelligent lads too. I'm trying to talk her round.)<br />
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But back to our well planned numptials.<br />
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Luckily, Peanut doesn't yet know that currently a lady marrying another lady is not recognised under our backwards, discriminatory laws. And that's completely my fault because because every time she mentions choosing a partner, I remind her that one day she will meet a nice boy or girl who she really loves, and if they love her back, then they might be the person she chooses to marry. Or chooses not marry. Because we are not the slightest bit religious, and it is her life, and her promise, so it follows it should be her choice.<br />
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She does know, however, that if I don't get grandkids, then I will be exceptionally cross. For some things, the things that <i>really</i> matter, it's worth taking a stand.The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649782126359701245.post-48017466910121262732013-01-14T20:34:00.000+11:002013-01-14T20:45:01.164+11:00Ignoring Stuff. A city skill.I feel like I'm finally getting the hang of city living.<br />
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It was overwhelming at first. I felt like Country Mouse. There was far too much noise, far too much happening at once. Too many people, too many cars, too many routes to learn and new supermarkets to navigate. (Sounds petty? Not at all - hustling two small children back six aisles in a crowded supermarket, fighting against the flow like a determined salmon in spawning season, is no easy feat. But I really did need more Parmesan.)<br />
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City dwellers seem to have refined the ability to Ignore Stuff. They know what is relevant, and what is superfluous, and can move about the streets noticing only what they need. But me? I was ridiculously overstimulated. My head was on a swivel, watching everything from the lowliest cockroach to a speeding bus. I reached the end of each day emotionally exhausted.<br />
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And I am used to seeing people I know on every corner. I had become a little too used to living in an idyllic neighbourhood cross between the Desperate Housewives and Stepford, but thankfully with less crime and fewer creepy robots. Here? I know nobody. As I walk the streets, I automatically scan the faces approaching for anyone I recognise. Anyone. At all. But I know no one. And when I reflexively smile at people, nobody smiles back.<br />
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I am working on my Ignore Stuff reflex. It's developing, I know, because now I can come back from a run calm, not frantic. I think of the ancient gums that line the local streets, the wrought iron work on the terrace houses, and that nice little dog at number nine. I am wilfully blind of the stinky old man I couldn't manoeuvre past, the piles of rubbish, and the busy roads I run down. And I've stopped looking for friends on every corner. But I can't stop the smiling. I won't! That's my little ray of sunshine, and I'm bringing it to the big smoke.The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649782126359701245.post-73860300102064395162013-01-13T16:54:00.000+11:002013-01-13T16:54:38.822+11:00CasualtiesWe suffered some casualties during the Great Accidental Move.<br />
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Those of you who read along regularly know that before our big shift we had two dogs of varying loveliness. (Archibald the delightful eternal puppy, and Panzer the hell-hound. You can read about Panzer's adventures <a href="http://the-accidental-housewife.blogspot.com.au/2012/06/panzer-ate-my-everything.html?m=0" target="_blank">here</a> and <a href="http://the-accidental-housewife.blogspot.com.au/2012/05/welcome-panzer.html?m=0" target="_blank">here</a>.) We also had two extremely large goldfish. I'm pretty sure that (if he had entertained the thought) the enormous gold fish could have climbed clean out of the tank and strolled off, evolving, down the road.<br />
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However, we are now short two fish and a dog.<br />
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The fish first - we tried to move them, transferring them to an occasionally lidded bucket, stopping their food and generally following all and any directions we could find online about moving fish. It was a disaster. The black fish didn't last the night, and goldy wasn't far behind, splashing off our mortal coil soon after.<br />
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Of course I hoped that was the end of the losses, but the biggest was yet to come.<br />
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We're down a dog. Panzer to be precise.<br />
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She's not dead, just... relocated.<br />
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She was always a little different. As a puppy, she was abnormally psychotic, chewing and bouncing her bulk around with the best (or worst) of them. I was exceptionally glad when she started to outgrow her energetic ways, but unfortunately she then developed what can only be described as "violent tendencies". She was wonderful with the immediate family, but would chase and growl and bite at anybody and anything that came near us. Including my great aunt, an unsuspecting German backpacker, all children, and any dog smaller than her. She had issues.<br />
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We tried. Oh, how we tried. Endlessly. Exhaustingly. Expensively. Including professional training in home, then three weeks of residential training with one of the state's best trainers. He could fix police dogs, rescue dogs and other problem animals, but he was lost with our Pan.<br />
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It was becoming increasingly obvious we couldn't keep her. The new house had no spare backyard to hide her when little friends came over, and the dog park was full of small fluffy Pan-bait. We were 24 hours from a date with the RSPCA, and since she clearly going to fail the initial re-home-able personality test, she was 24 hours away from a date with death. We were beside ourselves. I even tried calling friends who might take her in the Northern Territory, hoping her particular brand of crazy would be more socially acceptable in the land of pig dogs and anarchy. No luck.<br />
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Finally, as a last ditch effort, I called the breeder. And even though Pan was desexed, that wonderful lady agreed to have her back. Panzer was heading off to a family that would love her as much as we did, full of her-kind-of-dog, back to her mum and dad, brothers and sisters, with plenty of space to run and play. <span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">It was an enormous relief.</span><span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"> </span><br />
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And now she's gone, our house is so much calmer. The children are confident running down the hall or playing on the floor without being blindsided by a boisterous, heavy playmate. Our visitors can move around the house as they please, without being trapped on the couch at Panzer's discretion. And we can take Archibald to the park without fear of bodily injury and a lawsuit.<br />
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In fact, Archie's life has improved considerably. Panzer dominated him terribly, to the point he barely ventured from his corner and knew if he asked for a pat, it would come with a side of dogfight. It's taken him a week to come back out of his shell, but he's clearly far more confident and happy. We all are. <br />
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But I do miss Pan.<br />
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<br />The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649782126359701245.post-32017943900154589412013-01-11T21:36:00.000+11:002013-01-11T21:36:09.381+11:00The Move - Chapter One (or How I Fell I Love With A Lady)Well there I go again, announcing sweeping changes and then disappearing for weeks.<br />
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Why? Total lack of the interwebz!<br />
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Well, not entirely total. I did manage to wrangle myself my very own smart phone (finally!) and use ridiculously large chunks of bandwidth to feed my Facebook addiction. But any plans I had for blogging were shot down by the ruthless combination of teeny tiny keys and massive data costs. Besides, I needed all my spare bytes to navigate my way around the new city!<br />
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I had so many posts in my head, too. All mentally written, edited, and promptly forgotten. Drat!<br />
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Well, best I start at the beginning...<br />
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"How was the move?" I hear you ask, on tenterhooks for weeks waiting for our riveting removalling stories, keenly anticipating my return.<br />
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It went remarkably smoothly. Technically it was the quickest move we've ever pulled off, because this is the first time every box we own has been unpacked. All our last moves we never actually finished, dragging a box or two with us over several years per house. We had to unpack every box this year, because this house is tiny. REALLY tiny. (And currently being made even more so by the additional of a hulking, man sized teenage boy, but that's another story.)<br />
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By the end of the move, we had ditched two skip bins and a medium sized truck's worth of junk, never mind all the still semi-useful stuff we managed to give away. It was a real wake up call on assessing the things we needed and really wanted. The downsize has been very cathartic, and do you know? I haven't missed a single thing I tossed. Not one.<br />
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We've found all sorts of ingenious places to stash the things we kept, too. All hale Ikea and underbed "storage". (Storage is a loose term I'm using here for the absolute cram-fest that is under every bed. I've put my childhood Tetris skills to excellent use. I'm pretty sure Peanut's bed legs are no longer actually touching the floor, but instead she's perched, floating on a morass of stashed Christmas decorations and excess crib parts.)<br />
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I'm in love with the house. Madly. She's a grand old dame with character. There are certain things I've always wanted in a house, and she ticks my boxes. Even the boxes I didn't know I had. Picket fence - tick! Hydrangea - tick! Wooden staircase - tick! Wooden floors.... shaker kitchen... dog door... formal dining... decorative arches... snug upstairs sleeping quarters that feel like we're tucked into the frankensteinian love child of a treehouse and a boat - tick! <br />
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And she's a house with history, who has obviously been loved for a long time. She's not just<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"> been cobbled together as strictly a rental concern. Everything from the hose fitted shower heads to the handy washing machine pipe hole in the laundry has been thoughtfully done. </span>My friend Joel put it best: this is a house that was built (and recently delightfully practically renovated) to actually be lived in.<br />
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So, that's the end of The Move, Chapter One. I suspect the next chapter will cover the trials and tribulations of Moving With The Accidental Pets (we're down three, mien gott) or perhaps Ten Easy Lessons On How To Stow A Full Sized Christmas Tree In A Shoe Box. Who knows? See you tomorrow!The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649782126359701245.post-20142790395037648002012-12-20T06:29:00.000+11:002012-12-20T06:29:00.169+11:00Homeschool preschoolThis year, I had hoped Peanut could to go to a preschool for three or four days a week. I wanted her to have some structure in her days and the experience of being outside the home and in a learning environment with her peers so the transition to "big school" would not come as such a shock.
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Unfortunately, given our move, this was not going to happen. I did find her a school, and she will be attending, but it is only two days a week, and the classroom set up is so fluid they don't even have a designated time for lunch. It isn't what I had intended at all!
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So I have an alternate plan.
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Peanut will attend two days of school a week. She will associate with her peers, learn the realities if a hierarchical playground pecking order, and gain further confidence in being away from her family for hours at a stretch.
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But the remaining three "school" days a week, we'll be homeschooling, complete with a schedule that involves set times for snacks! It's the best I can do in the position we are in, and hopefully it will be sufficient to set Peanut up for success.
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We'll do literacy and numeracy every day (even preschool days, they don't seem to do much at school...) then on non-school days, we'll have PT and science one day, geography and art the next, then finally history and music. I know that sounds very scheduled, and it's meant to, but it's a schedule for me only. The actual lessons will be play based, last around half an hour (or more... or less... depending on interest level!) and start with provocations. I not a fan of piles of busy-work worksheets, I don't think they actually help much with retention. If I have my way, Peanut will barely realise she's "doing school".
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I'm excited to start early in the new year, and no doubt I'll write about it here, so feel free to follow along!The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649782126359701245.post-62420433017298309942012-12-19T06:30:00.000+11:002012-12-19T06:30:02.620+11:00Preparing kids for the moveI have a two year old and a three year old.<br />
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Thus far, they have been unfailing excited about the upcoming move, even though it has involved giving away their trampoline, throwing out three tricycles (who needs five bikes for two kids? After all, they can only ride one at once. It was getting crazy.) and leaving the schools they love and their first real self-chosen friends.<br />
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So how did we do it? How have we kept the whole thing positive? Here are my tips and tricks:<br />
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<b>Start early.</b> Many guides advise keeping the information about the move to from the children until just a few weeks before. I wholeheartedly disagree -- this is not the kind of thing to spring on your family. We began talking about the move about six months ago. There is a lot of administrative work to be done to move a whole family to a different state, especially when that move is being arranged through work, and all their additional layers of bureaucracy. This meant plenty of discussion between my husband and I, and if we hadn't introduced the idea to the children early on, they would have figured something was up and possibly worried unnecessarily.<br />
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<b>Use props and play. </b>When we first started talking about the move, I made the girls a book. It was just paper stapled together, and drawn with markers and crayons, and was very quick and simple to put together. It used the girls names, and outlined what would happen during the move in story format. You know, the usual:<br />
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"Once upon a time there where two little girls called Peanut and Bug, who lived in a big house with their Mummy and Daddy and dogs and fish. One day, Daddy's job moved to Sydney, and so the whole family decided to move too. </blockquote>
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Removalists came to the house and packed everything that Peanut and Bug and Mummy and Daddy owned into boxes, then put them in a big truck. Then Mummy and Daddy and Peanut and Bug and the dogs and fish got into their cars, and followed the big truck on a long drive to Sydney. They were lucky and stayed the night in a fancy hotel. </blockquote>
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Then the next day the removalists unpacked all their things in the new house. Because Peanut and Bug were such a big help during the move, they were allowed to sleep in the same bedroom at their lovely new house!"</blockquote>
Then we brought out the Tonka trucks, and the girls spent the morning packing the dolls house into the truck and moving it around the playroom.<br />
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The story, written with their names in, and then the concrete modelling of the move really helped their understanding, and allowed me to identify and clear up any misconceptions they may have had about the move.<br />
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<b>Show them the new house. </b>This is easy if you are moving locally, but we're moving interstate. So when Dad went to the open house he took plenty of photos. We added these to the real estate agent photos, and regularly scroll through these on the computer. We have shown the girls their new room, their bathroom and the courtyard. They know the new house has stairs, and that we won't be able to play on the grass-out-the-front anymore, as there isn't any - it's a road. All these things help to manage expectations, and they feel familiar with the property before they have even set foot in the place. I also talk up the positives: "Look, this garden bed is empty, will you help me to choose the flowers for it? We can plant them together." and "Wow, that looks like a great corner for your art table! What do you think?"<br />
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We've also been cruising the neighbourhood on Google Street View finding the best route to the library, pointing out the new sushi shop and looking at the supermarket where we've ordered the Christmas ham. The girls are excited to arrive and see it all in person! (I don't know how I'm going to explain the shop-with-the-pole-dancing-ladies-painted on though - small steps. I keep having reminders that we're moving to the middle of a proper big city.)<br />
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<b>Find them matching activities. </b>Peanut currently does playschool and swimming lessons, so I have placed a great deal of importance on finding her matching activities in our new location. She will still be attending a preschool two days a week, and she will swim too. But we are adding dancing lessons as a reaction to living in a small house, much further from our local park - there will be limited space to groove in the house, and she does love an exuberant, flinging boogie. (Different to flinging boogers, thank goodness. That's the two year old's domain.)<br />
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<b>Introduce the new school early.</b> To ease nerves (hers and mine) I dragged the whole family on a six hour round trip to attend Peanut's new school's open day. This allowed her to meet her new teachers, find her way around the playground and classrooms, find and use the toilet (more important that you might imagine - that can be a real source of concern to young kids!) and feel happy and confident about the new school situation. Then, and I think this is vital, she could go back to her old school and tell her current teachers all about it. This allowed them to make all the usual positive mumbles (from trusted adults that aren't a parental unit, and are seen as school experts) about how good it sounds, and how much fun she will have, and how excited they are for her, which really reinforced the message.<br />
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<b>Talk talk talk. </b>Every evening I ask the girls if they have any questions. These have ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous (no, we aren't taking the toilet... yes, we have to take the dog.) but it keeps the communication channels open. I must have run through the timeline for the move a thousand times if I have done it once. (Tuesday pack, Wednesday put-it-in-the-truck, Thursday drive, Friday unpack... then Christmas! Yay!) I figure the more we talk, the more they know... and knowledge, in this case, is reassuring.<br />
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So that, for what it's worth, are my tips on a happy move with young children. I have two very excited girls just waiting for the big truck here, happy to discard their trampoline to make it happen, so it's working well for us. I'm off to clean the blinds before we move... until next time!The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649782126359701245.post-81501231404080404392012-12-18T06:30:00.000+11:002012-12-18T06:30:03.146+11:00The Great Clutter Clear of 2012We're onto our second skip bin of pre-move dumpage.<br />
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It's very confronting moving from a large house into a tiny cottage. You suddenly have the requirement to assess every item you own for functionality. We've culled considerably.<br />
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I've made some questionable choices. Do we need six smallish-but-unstackable plastic cauldrons for Halloween? Undoubtedly! But an exercise bike? Naaaaaahhh...<br />
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It's a very virtuous feeling to have a house free of clutter. I've scoured out all the "man-drawers". (Well, except two, a boy does need a dumping-ground, and one upstairs and one downstairs is actually a preventative measure. It gives defined limits to the spread of used batteries, old library cards from other states, locks without keys and keys without locks, and a web of ipod earphones.<br />
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Here, Michael McIntyre knows what I mean:<br />
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Meanwhile, the mass clear out has been confronting for the children, too.<br />
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We had to give away the trampoline. It would have taken up more than half the outside space of the cottage, and it wasn't even particularly large. Luckily we could offload it to a good friend who just moved into the neighbourhood. The gaining and losing daddies made quite the spectacle carrying it off down the middle of the road, and as the three year old watched it go, a little sob or two escaped...<br />
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I thought "here we go" (she hadn't reacted negatively to the move at all yet) and knelt down to comfort her. Her bottom lip was quivering, but she was trying to hold it all together. She looked at me searchingly: "Mama, but... I don't WANT to give Daddy away!" Poor kid! Once she realised Daddy would be home again in five minutes, she was totally fine, happily waved goodbye to the trampoline and headed inside to play.<br />
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So our house feels empty. We're rattling around inside it, and we're ready to move. Roll on Tuesday!The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649782126359701245.post-63242063831357445442012-12-17T07:37:00.000+11:002012-12-17T07:37:35.485+11:00Refocus. Refresh. Renew.I've spent the last two years trying to live the life of a country housewife.<br />
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As a massive over-reaction to leaving my job to be a full time stay-at-home-mother and homemaker, I threw myself into the role. </div>
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I learnt to bake bread, kept two delightful chickens, and taught myself to sew. I cloth nappied, sang the praises of cleaning with bicarb and vinegar, and making my own laundry detergent. And the whole time, I blogged. I suspect I was trying to justify myself. </div>
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But the "Accidental Housewife" blog grew stale, and became more of a persona that authentically me. So it's time for a refocus - I'm starting fresh.<br />
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The blog is getting a slight facelift and a rename. I'll still be "The Accidental Housewife" but the blog will be CityCottage. </div>
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It's a good time to do it - we're moving house in a week. Moving from our Canberra sprawl to a tiny inner city cottage in Sydney. Moving from three bedrooms to two. Moving from the house that welcomed home our littlest baby and our newest puppy. Moving from the friends that the children and I have made at playgroup and playschool. </div>
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But I am excited. So excited! From all reports, the cottage looks lovely. (I haven't even seen it yet - just some slightly blurry photos taken by my husband, from at least a foot higher than my normal perspective. He's tall!) </div>
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The area is the kind of trendy suburb that caused professions of undying jealously from the heavily tattooed, dedicated hipster gentleman behind the postal counter, when processing my change of address application. (Is that good? I'm still deciding.) And it really is incredibly central, in one of the most exciting cities in Australia. The zoos, the museums, the aquarium, the parks... all beyond compare. And the beaches! Woo!</div>
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So this iteration of the blog, unlike my last solely housewifely focussed ramblings, will be about our CityCottage. The move, our settling in and the subsequent insane shuffling of belongings trying to fit them all in, and then on to raising my girls and life in the big city. I hope you choose to follow along!</div>
The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649782126359701245.post-76179137009129572842012-10-10T21:59:00.000+11:002012-10-10T21:59:11.563+11:00BrownI'm tanned. Unnaturally tanned. FAKE tanned.<br />
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And frankly? I look awesome.<br />
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It took a while for me to come around to embracing the concept. I am firmly of the belief that real tans are "skin cells in trauma" (thank you Australian Cancer Council) and it seems a bit silly to me to walk around all fakely-brown, perpetuating and supporting the brown-as-a-fashion-statement movement. But I like the way I look when I'm tanned. It suits my face, it suits my hair, it makes me look toned and thinner. Never mind that my clothes all look great against tanned skin.<br />
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However, I want my daughters to love themselves the way they are, without artifice. I work hard at it. I praise my own body so they learn it's ok to love theirs. I emphasize "clean and neat" over pretty when they are getting dressed. But I wear makeup regularly, and is a fake tan much different? I'm a walking brown contradiction.<br />
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Crunch time came when we had a fancy ball coming up for Mr Accident's work. He loves to take me out when we are both glammed up, so we decided I should have a tan to polish the look.<br />
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Now, I am something of a tanning virgin. I have had one fake tan before but it was a good ten years ago, pre kids, pre marriage, but not pre-Mr A. He remembered the tan lines and he liked it. He was looking forward to his wife coming home brown. But probably not as brown as I was when I strolled back in through the door....<br />
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It is impossible to maintain much dignity in a fake tan studio. The tanner asks you to hold poses like you're stopping two lanes of traffic, pretending you have bear claws, then tickling the sky. You're sprayed with a concoction named after a tropical cocktail, then fanned with what appear to be turbines stolen from an unsuspecting jet.<br />
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And even though you have asked for "just a touch of colour" you will walk back out that door as brown as an acorn. I also walked out sans undergarments, at the tanner's suggestion, which meant I felt like a thorough freak. I scuttled back to the car through the back streets and alleys, clutching my purse to my chest, dark enough to blend into the shadows. But I'm sure that's a common enough sight around that shop! (Actually, on a second perusal of the photo above, I was about that brown. And wearing about that many undergarments....)<br />
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Once I was home I disregarded the tanner's eight-hours-until-showers rule and jumped straight in and <i>scrubbed</i>. Luckily, the acorn brown faded to a golden glow, and I was fit to be seen in public again.<br />
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Alas my dignity was in for yet another blow. As I stepped from the shower and leant over to dry myself, Mr A asked what the strange white lines on my bum were. Turns out the tan lines he was looking for had multiplied - last time I had a tan, my butt was... ahem... just ever so slightly higher. This time, the new creases back there had left white gaps on my legs. I had pale butt whiskers! I don't think I've laughed so hard in weeks. Perhaps the tanner should add "bowing" to her list of tan poses.<br />
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So, my friends, do you tan?The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649782126359701245.post-83663723660648858742012-09-19T15:39:00.003+10:002012-09-19T15:39:51.703+10:00On time and teapotsI stopped blogging for a month to see if I missed it.<br />
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I did. A bit.<br />
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I didn't miss the time it chewed up.<br />
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I didn't miss the self-imposed obligation to post daily. <br />
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I had an undercurrent of dissatisfaction that was growing steadily stronger. I would feel inspired to post, but then I would need a post for <i>that day</i>, so instead of producing something well thought out and rounded, I'd blat out a sub standard missive which usually failed to impress me, let alone my readers.<br />
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I am inspired to write by reading. Everything from Roman legends to trashy crime. It lights a fire in me, and replaces the words I spill onto the page. But I didn't have time to read because each time I sat I was required again to <i>write.</i><br />
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And I loved the community developing, but I didn't have the time to actually read the blogs of the people with whom I felt this kinship. Heck, I was even starting to neglect my real life friendships.<br />
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So I stopped. Enough. A month away. And it did me so much good.<br />
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But what did I do instead?<br />
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I made a canvas doll for Peanut. My grandmother had given me a doll kit when I had my first daughter, and it had sat unused in the sewing room for years. I finally dragged it out and cobbled together a very simple and sturdy lady, with a plethora of lacy undergarments and a horribly complex dress. Peanut loves it. I can't stand the sight of it, because I embroidered the face on crooked and it looks like it's scheming.<br />
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I made jam, another skill I had been putting off trying. I found cheap and delicious strawberries and some practically free mason jars, and made four pots. Peanut refuses to eat it, but it has had rave reviews from everyone else. I'm pretty sure Bug thinks it's ambrosia, and I would happily eat it five times a day. I gave a pot to my friend and a pot to my neighbour, and then went home and washed the sticky red remnants off my kitchen ceiling. (Posie, I'm considering that jam as my entry in your Olympic Food Challenge. I know it's not mussels, and I know it's a month late, but it's both tricky and delicious, so in my mind it counts.)<br />
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I've started teaching Peanut basic reading. She's taken to it very enthusiastically and can put plenty of simple words together. Watching her figure it out and actually finish (<i>awl-by-mysewf</i>!) some simple books is fantastic. One of my great dreams for my children is that they grow to be inquisitive, and love the words that can show them the answers.<br />
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Another great dream of mine is for Bug to be toilet trained. We're well on the way - she has had numerous successes, and about two misses a day. Unfortunately, for all her accuracy, she is very <i>very</i> frequent. Every twenty minutes frequent. There's not much time left in the day when a third of it is taken up by rushing on the call of "Maaaa! Wees in toi-yet!" Additionally, Bug has realised that a successful attempt brings reimbursement. I'm pretty sure that child is now 98% Smarties (you are what you eat) and I am also beginning to suspect she's gaming the system. Well, more power to her. As long as I'm not changing nappies I don't mind, and I'm sure the novelty of hours on the loo will soon wear thin. I hope.<br />
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We're moving to Sydney at the end of the year. We still don't have a house. I was reading "The Female Brain" this morning (a very interesting book, and not as short as Mr A insists it should be.) Apparently as a woman I am programmed to see any minor hiccup like this as a major threat, akin to a tiger at the door of my den, and stress far more than is actually reasonable. I concur with this assessment. I'm mildly freaking out. I'm in a tizzy. I want a house, and I want it by yesterday. I think it might be time for a cup of tea.<br />
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A cup of tea from my new teapot! I turned thirty, and this is <i>EXACTLY </i>what I wanted. Mr A came through, and I am one very happy lady.<br />
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So, to sum up, I took a break, it was nice, I kept busy, I am back, but I won't be posting here quite as often. Allons-y!The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649782126359701245.post-5181225833784369882012-08-21T22:43:00.002+10:002012-08-21T22:43:31.522+10:00Once we went a walking...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I took my girls a walking, a walking in the woods...</div>
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Well, the bush, anyway. We'd set out from home on what was a beautiful sunny day in our local micro climate, but once we hit the local mountain it was COLD. Clearly when Jack Frost gets booted from the sunny lowlands, he takes to the hills. I took this photo just before lunch!</div>
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Bug took to the hills too. She took a while to find her feet on the rocky ground (that was a bit distressing for a scrub-raised kid like me, I'm inadvertently raising little city slickers!) but she soon hit her straps and took off. Way off. The kind of "off" where you eventually think you should call her back, but then she just looks round cheekily and keeps on running... </div>
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I had brought some index cards for Peanut to record interesting things. She was busy sticking down all the different kinds of leaves she could find, when Bug brought her a rock. So she stuck that too. Funny monkey.</div>
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Nice views, eh bro? (I may be watching some kiwi's-taking-over-the-Gold-Coast show while I type. It's terrible. I highly recommend it.)</div>
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We built a little lean-to as a play house. The girls wanted to live there forever. Bug crawled in, flopped down on her back, and refused to come out again. I think she was knackered after all her running away. Which is a bit rich, really, because she had actually been carried most of the walk. Otherwise right now we would still be at the trail head, looking at interesting pebbles, instead of home watching "quality" tv.<br />
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Pfft. Quality TV. Who am I kidding? If I'm not careful, the kids will pick up on this trash subliminally while they sleep, and I'll end up with two little duck-faced teeny boppers...<br />
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Oh no. Too late.<br />
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The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649782126359701245.post-76613880911514265072012-08-17T14:14:00.000+10:002012-08-17T14:16:13.941+10:00HarnessesMy children come from a long line of runners. And by runners, I don't mean sporty-race runners (although we do that too). I mean toddler runners. Running from mum runners. And we're quick ones, at that.<br />
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Here is a delightful photo of my aunt as a child. Note the industrial strength leather harness. From my experience with dogs, I assume it's because she managed to chew through her previous cloth lead.<br />
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I was given a harness for Bug the other day. I welcomed it - the giver loves my girls as much as I do, and would be equally pained to see them run into danger. But the gift made me think. Why have I never had a harness for my girls before?<br />
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I can see the positives. Knowing your child is safe and attached in an airport or near a busy road would be very reassuring. Let alone when you are trying to concentrate on something in public, and then you look up to find your children have wandered away! But by the same token I have seen a mother haul on a harness like it was attached to a recalcitrant dog, pulling her small son around the supermarket while he stumbled along behind her, crying.<br />
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I am the woman who refused to buy a GPS until I could map-to-ground perfectly, and who didn't want a dishwasher. I am wary of things that seem too easy, and I fear that if I used a harness I would fall into bad habits.<br />
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In my limited experience, taking the "easy" road with child training usually ends up being harder in the long run. I would prefer to take the time to teach my girls the correct behavior the first time, and then reap the rewards afterwards. It seems easier than putting off the training until later, when they are already set in their ways. Besides, the smaller they are, the easier I can catch them and scoop them up while they are still learning!<br />
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I also come at this from the relative luxury of having just two intelligent, healthy children. I understand that it would be markedly different if the child had a physical or mental impairment, or if there were multiple small children in a family.<br />
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Once Bug had learnt to walk, she immediately wanted to <i>run</i>. And she wanted to run unencumbered by my hand. Usually in a busy car park. I took the time (and it did take time) to teach her that she either held my hand when I asked, or she was carried. No arguments, no debating or crying, no other options. If she wanted to walk, then the default was holding hands. And if she wanted to run? She had to ask. No pulling away, no darting off. So now she says "Mama? Run mummy? No hand?" And it's wonderful. I let her loose as often as I can, but I like knowing she will be safe with me - and importantly any one else she walks with - just holding hands. So it's lucky our new harness is also a handy backpack, disguised as a very cute puppy. It's still getting plenty of use and love!<br />
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On a related note, I have also trained my girls to keep both their hands on the car when they are in the car park. It keeps them safe, but it's also funny to see them lined up like little hoodlums in a police raid. Hey, I get my kicks where I can.<br />
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So, gentle reader, did you harness your children? Will you harness? Were you harnessed?<br />
Or, like me, do you prefer not to?The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649782126359701245.post-21009688748730049772012-08-16T21:22:00.000+10:002012-08-16T21:23:59.255+10:00Stress. I need some.Sometime I wish my jobs here at home were just a little bit...<i>harder</i>. <br />
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It's terrible when I've had one of those niggly, annoying days. The kind of day when it took me Two Whole HOURS to get the the bottom of the laundry folding pile (a trip away will do that) and then I wander in to Peanut playing next door, only to find I now need to refold all Bug's clothes too (Peanut needed clothes for her teddies, apparently. They were very well dressed.)<br />
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The kind of day where we escaped the housework and fled to the park, only to find it already over run by a particular local family I find to be totally out of synch with mine - the kind of family where the mother says "oh, I love long day care, it means I can get rid of the kids from 7am until 6pm!" Shudder.<br />
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The kind of day when I am expecting Mr A home for family pizza night, but he messages to say he'll be late home at 6, and then calls at 6 to say he'll be even later... Poor Mr A.<br />
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And there's the rub.<br />
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None of my issues are particularly stressful. Nothing is very hard about folding laundry or park socializing or making pizza solo. And that's the problem!! It might be annoying to me, but do you think I get one iota of sympathy when Mr A staggers in after saving the world, juggling millions of dollars of equipment and organising hundreds of men, sending them to far flung places? No siree Bob. No sympathy.<br />
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Not. One. Bit.<br />
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Pfffttt.<br />
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I need a harder job, so <i>I</i> get bubble baths run for <i>me</i>.The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649782126359701245.post-90519846378318543372012-08-15T14:45:00.000+10:002012-08-15T14:45:36.822+10:00Cutest Party EVER!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Ok team, here's the plan. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Find two sisters. Have them live <i>really</i> far apart. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Like Perth - Venice far apart. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Then have them give birth to their children at around the same time. Make the kids a girl and a boy. Wait a year, then have everyone gather together at the grandparent's house for a ridiculously cute first birthday party.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ch5M3pWq2yk/UCndTp7-maI/AAAAAAAABUo/tSk1bmNtUWk/s1600/P8112188.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="181" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ch5M3pWq2yk/UCndTp7-maI/AAAAAAAABUo/tSk1bmNtUWk/s320/P8112188.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You'll need the basics - a Women's Weekly Birthday Cake number one cake. </div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Wait... let's make it two cakes, one in pink, one in blue. (Put them on separate cake boards, so no one confuses a joint first birthday with that of a transgendered eleven year old. You can never be too careful.)</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iqflkUufJ84/UCndRVaY73I/AAAAAAAABUg/wmKABvVKBx0/s1600/P8112159.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iqflkUufJ84/UCndRVaY73I/AAAAAAAABUg/wmKABvVKBx0/s320/P8112159.JPG" width="222" /></a></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Order in the biggest, sugary cupcakes you can find, because dude, those things have glitter on them. Glitter! </div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And add gourmet party pies, sausage rolls and the best pasties in Western Australia. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NG8PZQ5GL38/UCndejghMHI/AAAAAAAABVI/YBQVSoWkW7Q/s1600/P8112237.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NG8PZQ5GL38/UCndejghMHI/AAAAAAAABVI/YBQVSoWkW7Q/s320/P8112237.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Better get someone to make fairy bread... and lollies, too please!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6dha8xb-mDs/UCndcsD1dTI/AAAAAAAABVA/C9K3K85K-94/s1600/P8112236.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6dha8xb-mDs/UCndcsD1dTI/AAAAAAAABVA/C9K3K85K-94/s320/P8112236.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Find an engineer with heaps of spare time and a hankering to DO something, and get him to hang your decorations. This ensures perfect uniformity, and gets Uncle Seb out of everyone's hair for at least three hours - engineers get it right the first time, but damn, they <i>take</i> their time.</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NZgSsgZ0gzc/UCndaxFWh1I/AAAAAAAABU4/1h3f5yuYat8/s1600/P8112231.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NZgSsgZ0gzc/UCndaxFWh1I/AAAAAAAABU4/1h3f5yuYat8/s320/P8112231.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Finally, add in a liberal sprinkling of helium balloons (don't let the teenage hooligan take them outside and let them go, you'll have none left) and then invite over the absolute plethora of people who love those two little babies. It will be a total hit!</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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{Word of warning. If you just happen to be visiting this party with a three year old and a one year old, for example, and you leave the three year old in the care of her Papa while you put the one year old to bed, make EXTRA SURE that while you're gone, said three year old doesn't consume more than one cupcake. Two is probably too many, three definitely so. In fact, three will probably cause those cupcakes to be regurgitated all over you and your shared bed six hours later. How do I know these things? Intuition. <i>Certainly </i>not hard won experience. Ahem. In other news, I may never be able to eat pink cupcakes again.}The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649782126359701245.post-78332234945333388132012-08-14T15:23:00.000+10:002012-08-14T15:23:08.470+10:00Absence Note<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Dear Interwebs, </div>
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please excuse <i><u> Mrs Accident </u></i> </div>
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for her absence <strike>on the</strike> <u> </u><i><u>last week </u> </i></div>
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as she was <u> <i>visiting relatives in Perth. </i></u></div>
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Ahhh Perth. Sunny, sunny Perth.</div>
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T-shirts to the park Perth.</div>
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Picking all the grandparent's cumquats Perth.</div>
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Teaching little sisters how to do somersaults Perth.</div>
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You wouldn't believe me if I told you I'm glad to be home, would you? </div>
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But I am. </div>
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(Even if the temperature difference is about 20 degrees!) </div>
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Home sweet home. </div>
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And blog sweet blog... </div>
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I'll be back tomorrow with some pictures of the cutest party ever thrown. </div>
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See you then!</div>
The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649782126359701245.post-35476493688976699822012-08-04T14:30:00.000+10:002012-08-04T14:30:01.790+10:00Snark on PinterestOne thing that truly surprises me is the lack of snark on Pinterest, especially considering the pins and commentary are all public. When I'm having a bitchy day myself, it's so hard not to jump in and write back. I want to bring a bit of honesty to the medium. I want to get on there and go "really? REALLY?!" <br />
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Hey pinner, I bet you're not really "<i>Making this ASAP!</i>" You're probably just snugged on your couch pushing "refresh pins". That's not ASAP. Get cooking.<br />
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That marinated vegetable salad does NOT look delicious, you fibber.<br />
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I sincerely doubt your half baked exercise routine produced that exquisitely tan, toned tummy you have used as the pin picture.<br />
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Adding boatloads of food colouring to your kids food to make it "exciting" is not a good parenting decision.<br />
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And don't get me started on the "<i>OMG so CUTE!!1! ^.^ Squee!</i>" people insist on writing on their nail art photos. It's fancy paint on dead skin. Go do something constructive like solving world hunger, or blogging something. Geez.<br />
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I could go on for hours.<br />
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I realise I'm probably the only person in the universe who has these evil Pinterest commenting compulsions. Better call the men in white coats.<br />
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I'll snark them, too.The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7649782126359701245.post-24708216543954561112012-08-03T14:00:00.000+10:002012-08-03T14:00:00.557+10:00Cloth Nappies<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zb3A69VVUvM/UBjJ_pG8rGI/AAAAAAAABTE/d5ZPd7z4OvM/s1600/P2150633.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="229" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zb3A69VVUvM/UBjJ_pG8rGI/AAAAAAAABTE/d5ZPd7z4OvM/s320/P2150633.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cloth nappies!! HUZZAH!!</td></tr>
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We love our cloth nappies at Casa Accidental. If you've somehow attained a lovely young sprog, or are about to have one join your family, hopefully this post will inspire you to give cloth nappies a go. </div>
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There are many different types of cloth nappies. A good description of the different types is <a href="http://www.babysoftlandings.com.au/static.php?page=cloth_nappy_basics" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">here</a>. I'm not going to go into a debate on different styles and their merits, it's been done, but I will tell you what I like about ours. </div>
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We use modern pocket nappies. There is a fleece inner layer that wicks moisture faster than any disposable nappy I have found. Small bums stay seriously dry. (Big bums probably would too, but my sprogs are both bumless wonders. I can empathise. It's a genetic flaw from my side of the family. There is no juice in our caboose, no junk in our trunk... but I digress.)</div>
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The outer layer is waterproof, and the inside is an absorbent, removable bamboo insert. </div>
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I love the removability. It means they are quicker to dry than other all-sewn-in nappies. Even so, I have twice as many inners than outers (following me?) so they can take their sweet time and languish on the line if they choose. </div>
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Let's run through the washing process. First, find a small child and get them to soil your nappy... </div>
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Tip the solids into the toilet (you should be doing that with your disposables, anyway. Don't put poop in the bin, people! Gross.) The microfibre means this is super easy, but if you are really squeamish you can buy flushable liners. I don't know if these would effect the wicking as we haven't tried them. I have visions of people rapidly stuffing a liner down the back of little Billy's nappy-rash-prone bottom when he pulls a "poop face"... </div>
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Now here is our change table on an idle Wednesday, scratches and all. Pure reality. Yes, it is in the shower. This is the only place in the girl's bathroom it would fit. It's super handy, unless <a href="http://stitchingandneedling.blogspot.com.au/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Sarah</a> is staying over and needs a shower!</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vFEHHfPDSm4/UBjJGuAX3sI/AAAAAAAABS8/k6MMcNYle_k/s1600/P8012067.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vFEHHfPDSm4/UBjJGuAX3sI/AAAAAAAABS8/k6MMcNYle_k/s320/P8012067.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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You'll notice the tightly lidded bucket down the bottom - that's for the dirties. I separate the inner and outer, and put them both in there. I "dry pail", no soaking here.</div>
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You'll also notice the messy pile of nappies on the upper shelf:</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pFwo5bUH-Ig/UBjJCHZV71I/AAAAAAAABSs/C6p31wkitq8/s1600/P8012064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pFwo5bUH-Ig/UBjJCHZV71I/AAAAAAAABSs/C6p31wkitq8/s320/P8012064.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Pre-folding is for chumps, I build as I go. It doesn't take long and Bug likes the extra seconds of singing while she's on the table.<br />
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I wash the nappies on their own in a hot wash, with just a teaspoon of laundry powder and a big splash of vinegar in the rinse. The vinegar kills any nasties, and also strips any remaining soap so the inners stay beautifully absorbent.<br />
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In winter I dry the insides in the clothes dryer, with a dry towel or two to speed things up (damn Canberra weather). Summer they go on the line. The outers go over the shower rail above the <span style="text-align: center;">change table. Handy!</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uv36CyH8d3g/UBjJD93QNtI/AAAAAAAABS0/E7UgDaPmktI/s1600/P8012065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uv36CyH8d3g/UBjJD93QNtI/AAAAAAAABS0/E7UgDaPmktI/s320/P8012065.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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(See that pink bottle of stain remover there? Also handy - keep your stain remover where you undress, so you remember to spray before you leave your clothes in the hamper. It's heaps easier than hunting through the load when you're about to wash it, and gives the stains plenty of pre-treatment time.)<br />
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And that's that.<br />
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All up, cloth nappies mean about one extra load of washing every two days or so, which isn't much in this house. The drying in winter can add up, but we still come out in front compared to the cost of buying disposables. It cost about $750 to set up my cloth nappy stash, which sounds like a lot (I bought about 12 in each of three different sizes, however they are now available in more adjustable sizes that do birth to toilet training).<br />
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But consider this: those nappies have done both girls. I have calculated the cost of disposables, and for two kids they came out at about $4500. FOUR THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS! We've saved enough for a holiday, even factoring in washing costs. Score!<br />
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Did you cloth nappy? Will you?The Accidental Housewifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12903019781422765851noreply@blogger.com29