Brown

I'm tanned. Unnaturally tanned. FAKE tanned.

And frankly? I look awesome.

This is not awesome. I do not look like this.

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.

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.

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.

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....

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.

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....)

Once I was home I disregarded the tanner's eight-hours-until-showers rule and jumped straight in and scrubbed. Luckily, the acorn brown faded to a golden glow, and I was fit to be seen in public again.

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.

So, my friends, do you tan?

On time and teapots

I stopped blogging for a month to see if I missed it.

I did. A bit.

I didn't miss the time it chewed up.

I didn't miss the self-imposed obligation to post daily.

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 that day, 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.

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 write.

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.

So I stopped. Enough. A month away. And it did me so much good.

But what did I do instead?

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.

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.)

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 (awl-by-mysewf!) 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.

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 very 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.

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.

A cup of tea from my new teapot! I turned thirty, and this is EXACTLY what I wanted. Mr A came through, and I am one very happy lady.

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!

Once we went a walking...

I took my girls a walking, a walking in the woods...

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!

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... 

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.

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.)

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.

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...

Oh no. Too late.

Harnesses

My 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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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!

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.

Once Bug had learnt to walk, she immediately wanted to run. 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!

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.

So, gentle reader, did you harness your children? Will you harness? Were you harnessed?
Or, like me, do you prefer not to?

Stress. I need some.

Sometime I wish my jobs here at home were just a little bit...harder.

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.)

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.

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.

And there's the rub.

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.

Not. One. Bit.

Pfffttt.

I need a harder job, so I get bubble baths run for me.

Cutest Party EVER!

Ok team, here's the plan. 

Find two sisters. Have them live really far apart. 

Like Perth - Venice far apart.  

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.

You'll need the basics - a Women's Weekly Birthday Cake number one cake. 

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.)

Order in the biggest, sugary cupcakes you can find, because dude, those things have glitter on them. Glitter! 

And add gourmet party pies, sausage rolls and the best pasties in Western Australia. 

Better get someone to make fairy bread... and lollies, too please!

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 take their time.

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!

{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. Certainly not hard won experience. Ahem. In other news, I may never be able to eat pink cupcakes again.}

Absence Note

Dear Interwebs, 

please excuse         Mrs Accident        

for her absence on the         last week           

as she was        visiting relatives in Perth.        

Ahhh Perth. Sunny, sunny Perth.

T-shirts to the park Perth.

Picking all the grandparent's cumquats Perth.

Teaching little sisters how to do somersaults Perth.

You wouldn't believe me if I told you I'm glad to be home, would you? 

But I am. 

(Even if the temperature difference is about 20 degrees!) 

Home sweet home. 

And blog sweet blog... 

I'll be back tomorrow with some pictures of the cutest party ever thrown. 

See you then!