Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Forgot to post this at the time but so cute am posting it now. Totally irrelevant and out of context. Still, aren't my monkeys yummy??
Just sat down after marathon event/party/extravaganza.
John made me promise that next year would be much more low key and I agreed with my fingers crossed behind my back. By next year he will have forgotten how much work it was and how tired we are. Parties are a little like child birth in that way. Hideous at the time but quite good when you look back at them.
I like Halloween. It is my very favourite holiday. With a focus on dressing up and eating. Surely it is truly a 'woman's' holiday.
We spent maybe a full 40 hour week getting ready. Halloween cookies shaped as skeletons, jack-o'lanterns, ghosts, bats and black cats; body parts cupcakes, pumpkin pizzas, the list goes on.
Poor John spent his evenings icing cookies and stringing cobwebs around the house. He's a good lad really and didn't complain once. He knows better! Last year he made that mistake and was greeted with a howling banshee. This year he just smiled, sighed and went about his assigned tasks.
Unfortunately, children's parties bring out the worst (or best depending how Martha Stewartesque you are) in my OCD and send me spiraling into a frenzy of trying to outdo my last years effort. I guess at least this way I'm always the winner.
The Monkeys were a vision of yummyness. Monkey Senior dressed as 'The Little Mermaid' and Monkey Junior as 'Nemo' or 'Flounder' if you're talking to his sister. Monkey Junior screamed when we put his costume on (and for the next hour or so) and Monkey Senior screamed when it was time to take hers off. How are they both the product of one uterus?
Our house is small but normally we would use the word cosy to describe it. Today it was just small, small and hot and cramped. 16 sugared up children and their hungry, thirsty mums and dads were squeezed into our 30sqm living room. fueled with Halloween sugar cookies and candy, it was a sight to behold.
We went all old school and had bobbing for apples and a modern, more clean up friendly version of the treacle doorstop game (old Scottish game with a treacle covered slice of bread on a string). We also did a cracking game of statues to Michael Jackson's 'Thriller' and a hilarious children's version of 'Ghostbusters'.
We went trick-or-treating at the neighbour's. A truly wonderful thing to be given candy by strangers. Little did they know that muggins had provided all the candy and delivered it 'round the houses in the week before - all the expense none of the glory.
Anyway, a good time was had by all. And next year, don't tell John, but I'm bigger and better. Yay me!!!
Sunday, October 14, 2007
The thing about the late nights and the drinking is that I just don't bounce back like I used to. The squishy pillow creases on my face don't go away when I lift my head from the pillow. I can still see the traces of my 250 thread count around lunchtime.
In days of old, I would have got up, given my face a good scrub with 'apri' and then, got on with my life.
These days it takes a little longer.
No more is the 'last nights makeup and bed head' look a good thing. Those sexy panda eyes are not quite so sexy when the makeup has bled and settled into the wrinkles; and the hair, when not styled around the grey streaks, is a little too Morticia Addams to be enjoyed by anyone but Gomez.
I have though, recently discovered the huge anti-wrinkle properties of a couple of litres of water a day (It also works on the overwhelming feeling of fatigue that is unavoidable in life with two monkeys).
But more amazing (wait, there's more) is the incredible new range from No7.
This, yes, yes, I get it, it's sad, has changed my life.
I am looking younger. Markedly younger. The crows feet, almost gone!
Before you know it, I will be getting I.D'd at PG rated movies.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
This morning I woke up with the sort of yucky feeling that can only be produced by a late night and an excessive amount of alcohol.
Monkeys, I have found, are distinctly unsympathetic to this particular brand of poorly.
Try as she might, Monkey Senior is incapable of regulating her volume. Her energy levels, while incongruous with mine on a normal morning, are completely polarised on the days when the only way I can stop my brain from falling out is by keeping my hand pressed to my temple.
I may get up at 7 but I would choose not to speak, think or move until around 9. Monkey Senior opens her eyes and slips straight into top gear. She is terrified that somewhere in the world there is fun to be had and she is not getting her slice.
This morning, we launched straight into plastic high heeled banging and clacking ('tap dancing') and a 'concert' involving drums and whistles. This all happened before 7:10.
My pleas for her to sit down with her other mother (Playhouse Disney) were met with a look of total disgust. If we were gonna get this concert right, we had to start practicing now.
Monkey Junior spent the first part of his morning screaming for food and throwing everything that was offered to him to the floor.
Why can't he appreciate how hard it is to open the pantry and be faced with so many awful, vomit inducing foodstuffs?
Why can't they understand that, while we all need bacon, mummy's to sick to cope with the 'fridge smell'.
I can't help longing for the days of old, when Saturdays were spent drinking chocolate milk, eating Georgie Pie and watching movies with Julia Roberts in them.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Today, courtesy of my sister and brother in law and a trip to the wonderful land of mickey mouse, monkey senior became excited to the point of total mental exhaustion and complete physiological and emotional meltdown.
She's no shrinking violet. She's confident. Despite our best efforts to crush her spirit, she has an excessive amount of self esteem and this is best demonstrated in her love of 'dress up' and 'dance around a lot'.
Any occasion will do; 'we must make our visitors feel welcome by dressing up in my fairy dress', 'Pretend you were Cinderella and wished for a fairy', 'Let's put on my fairy dress and go to the mall'.
She has, until today, had one 'suitable for any social situation' fairy dress. It is cracked out 3 or 4 times a day and her donning it is, in most cases, the precursor to some hideous game of make believe that will call for a commitment from the whole family.
Today, her cup didth runneth over.
Direct from the Disneyland store came a 'Little Mermaid' (pronounced Me-ur-maid) dress, tiara, bag, gloves and shoes ensemble and a 'Snow White' dress and shoes combo.
She was also given 6 pairs of 'Disney Princess' branded plastic high heels. A sure fire way to break her tiny ankles - especially on our wooden floors.
She calls them her tap shoes and I wonder if my sister gave them to her in the same spirit that we give our friends' children drum kits and games that 'reward children with light and sound'.
The most wonderful thing about monkey senior is that she is truly the most grateful and gracious child in the world.
She is spoiled rotten and we can't help but buy her things but, she would be grateful to be given a piece of toast.
So this haul, was like Christmas on E.
Just remembered that the last part of my dream was me looking for 1 shoe, the left. I had the right but couldn't leave the holiday house (which was filling up with people for a party I desperately didn't want to attend - don't know why) without the left.
Is that significant? Does it mean something that the shoes were old school doc martin's brogues? Also they were a weird greeny/black colour. Did they come in that shade?
Maybe I'm looking for something that isn't there. Should I start listening to the cure again? Do I need to drag out my tartan mini? - I warn you, this, 20 years on, would not be a pretty sight!
It just strikes me as something that I will have an epiphany about on my deathbed.
Spent all of last night cleaning a holiday house full of shoes and 'Star Wars' memorabilia. Very stressful. Now I am more tired than I was when I went to bed.
Holiday houses are notoriously sandy places and hoovers have trouble with sand. Not good for my cleaning obsession.
I get it, it's an anxiety dream like those ones where you're naked or your teeth fall out or you're late for work or you're in an exam for something you haven't studied.
Still a whole night cleaning on top of my day of endless hoovering. My subconscious is a cruel bastard!
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Just 'googled' myself and found that there is a couple with the blog name johnandesther@blogspot.
I'm sure that it happens. I get that John is like, the most common name in the world and everything and that some other poor unfortunate who was burdened with my name would probably have married one of them. Still, it feels a little like identity theft. Do you think that somewhere in Canada, this couple are living it large on our maxed out credit card and mortgage?
But worse than that, and to be honest with you, kinda depressing, is that a 'google' of esther praill reveals nothing.
I don't exist in googledom.
In a world where monkey senior told me to 'google' the answer to one of her unanswerable questions (the 4,000,000th of the day) I feel I need to do something google worthy.
The question is... what?
It would have to be something requiring no travel - skint, no intellectual strain - scrambled nursing brain, and no effort - fundamentally lazy and devoting every child free moment to watching the entire DVD collection of the Sopranos.
That limits it to like, a Nobel prize in parenting (unlikely) or an in print name drop in one of those 'out on the street' interview, community survey things, in whatever our local newspaper is, about the general lack of interest in, or understanding of, the local elections.
In that, I would be print worthy. Google worthy! A true authority, what with my total lack of interest in, and understanding of, the local elections.
Terrifying because apathy, as I keep telling my mother, is a vote and it's the only vote I can be bothered casting.
Funny how I can both look forward to and dread having people over.
It's hard for me, with my OCD, to have anyone arrive unannounced - what if the toilet bowl isn't shining? What if the bench isn't clear? What if all the crap that Jacob has moved out of his room into the living room/toilet/kitchen is still strewn all over the floor? What will they think if I haven't baked cupcakes/biscuits/muffins???
In the same breath, (a big breath - the kind that free divers use) I always dread anything I have organised more than an hour in advance.
I have particular anxiety surrounding anything that I have written in my diary. It sits there, on the page, taunting me with its 'what if all the other people there are mean and thin?' 'What if you get a better offer?' 'you've got nothing to wear/nothing interesting to say/nothing to contribute to anyone's social gathering'.
I am an enigma, a dichotomy! I am basically a 'fly by the seat of your pants' kind of gal, trapped in the body of a neurotic, uber-organised, neat freak. How, with all that modern medicine has to offer the world of anti psychotic meds, can this be possible?
That said, I had visitors this afternoon and it was nice!
Toilet clean, bench clear, Jacob's crap duly sorted, cupcakes baked and a good time had by all.
Monkey senior generally responds well to visitors of any description. She is her mother's daughter and likes to put on a show. Monkey junior is happy wherever there is food. Therefore visitors = home baking = 1 happy small monkey.
I realised pretty early in my foray into stay-at-home-mummery, that a whole day spent indoors with the monkeys was conducive to infanticide or at the very least excessive daytime drinking and, on our budget, liquor before noon is not an option.
So visitors to the rescue, if only because I find that other people's children, more often than not, make my children look nicer/cuter/funnier/smarter.
That reads as mean, doesn't it? But it's not - really! It's just my way of reminding myself that I am a lucky SAHM and life is great. And if I'm perfectly honest, my children are nicer/cuter/funnier/smarter.So I spent the afternoon talking about non-parent related stuff, monkey senior played at fairies/princesses/doctors/weddings/schools and monkey junior ate. Oh how the winter afternoons sped by - really!
I am blogging - which feels kinda weird because I am basically a Luddite and also don't think that publicly sharing my mundane blether is going to change the world in any way.
I guess the idea of actually forming sentences that didn't include any of 'The Wiggles' or 'High 5' lyrics was just too appealing to resist.
So here I am, a mere semblance of my former self.
First and foremost a mother of two terrifyingly yummy monkeys.
Monkey senior -
Age: 3 going on 4 going on 30.
In charge of: not only her brother, her father and I but, certainly if you ask her, the whole world.
Specialises in: dressing up, asking difficult questions and telling us that she hopes people won't be 'too jealous of how cute I look' and how 'magnificent my new party dress is'.
Monkey junior -
Age: 1 going on 2 stone.
In charge of: Mostly me (I'm a sucker for his boyish good looks)
Specialises in: being small, chubby and devastatingly cute. Unable to say any actual words but nods wildly in the direction of any foodstuffs.
In a wild panic, I began to realise that these two small creatures were maybe all defining. That I was just this 'mother' person, a 'wife' and 'mother of two'. A dull, tracksuit and fleece wearing creature that I had always ridiculed from the safe place of knowing that it could never be me.
Must be clear, don't actually own trackies or a fleece but figuratively speaking I am in a full kathmandu ensemble.
Somewhere in here is the semi articulate, sometimes amusing, single party girl of old and I am seeking to find just a small piece of her here, in blogland (note to self: do not access the part that was a shameless lush and hussy - she comes with killer hangovers and Saturday morning walks of shame).
So now, if this is the book of genesis, then on with the rest of
the good book.