I also have a fair share of the horrors. But I choose not to blog them - I choose instead to deal with the horrors by sitting comatise with my head in my hands and a drink at the ready. Or when things are really bad - just going to bed and sleeping for twelve hours knowing that when I wake up something will have changed - even if it is only my level of tolerance for the horror. But blog it? Not a chance. So the result is a kind of skewed magical version of the life here at number 55. Which is lovely. But is only 7/8s of the pie.
Case in point - on Sunday I had this conversation with Sam...
Sam: Mum, why does it sometimes look like there are worms wriggling in your poo?
Sam: Well sometimes I look at my poo and it looks like there are worms in it.
Sam: They are white.
Sam: And skinny.
Sam: They look like worms.
Yep - that's the world here that doesn't get blogged. I tell you with authority that the top selling worm treatment "chocolate" coats your mouth in a way that can not be washed away with any amount of red wine.
I will also mention that in search of information I turned to Google. What has been seen can not be unseen.
- finish making the advent calendar (then take photos of it because it is lovely)
- vacuum (urgh)
- get birthday present for Rosie
- clean bathrooms (at the very least, a cursory wipe)
- remove two bags of clutter from the house (this involves a random walk with the timer on, scrambling through junk drawers to de-junk them)
- write a christmas present list (super budget conscious this year - leave a comment if you have any ideas in this direction)
- email my book depository list to mum (she is ready to give up on us)
- organise a playdate for Milly so I can get started on end of year reports a bit early.
We each write down three activities we wish to do, fold in half and bury them in a cake tin full of our dyed pasta and do whatever gets drawn out. All of us do it together, noone is exempt. It makes for a fun, if somewhat exhausting family day. As I type, the rain is still coming down. I am not sure Mike and I have the energy up for a second day.
(photo by Milly)
On the same day Sam handed in his first "project" and I am proud to say that he knows more about France than I do, having done the project himself.
... as I climbed out of the car and squinted through my grove of trees into the sun to check the letterbox I saw a cluster of blossoms. The very first - with six pretty flowers. There are no signs of any others following suit, but it seems that tree #4 has stopped sulking and come to the party of doing what crabapples are meant to do. It has flowered, which means it will fruit. Which means the others might catch on and next year I can make some pale pink sour-y sweet crabapple jam. And then I might sit on the verandah and look out at them lovingly, instead of the looks of disappointment I give them at the moment. Perhaps a horticultural corner has been turned.
My beach list is both extensive and hilarious to those around me (who apparently have no issue with the discomfort of a sand filled gusset):
- 2 full size plastic buckets. Various uses whilst playing at the beach (can be used to fill the moat of sandcastles to great effect). However, their primary purpose is to be filled with water for rinsing sand from body parts during the beach experience (sand free sandwiches - only possible after rinsing). They are used in various ways for various reasons all day but their final task is to rinse feet and thongs/crocs a millisecond before getting back into the car.
- at least 2 rugs, size large. To spread out and ensure a sand free sitting zone. This year I have been buying large heavy 70's bedspreads from op shops and I am thinking they will be perfect.
- a shovel. To dig small moat around rugs to mark out the no-go zone, ensuring that children do not step on rugs with putrid wet, sandy feet (shovel may be played with by children once rug area is secure).
- (when milly was small) a small inflatable wading pool. To fill (using one of the buckets) for baby to sit and crawl around in without becoming as putrid as the aforementioned feet. I am still tempted to leave it on the list but am willing to have a trial beach day without it before deciding.
- ziplock bags (size large). For protection of telephones, keys, wallet. Can also be used when children insist on bringing home sand drenched foundlings. Very handy for sunscreen which can become grit filled within moments of use.
- beach chair. The type with low legs. I may look like I am sitting on the rug, but I actually have another line of defense between the sand and myself.
- enormous sun hat. For hiding behind so that I am unrecognisable as the crazy lady who has brought a dozen anti-sand measures to the beach.
For the record, I look at families who arrive at the beach with nothing but sunscreen and bathers with both awe and respect. Did you know that some people don't even bother with shoes? Or a towel? Imagine.
Winchelsea is a 40 minute drive from here, the show takes place on the town's oval and the kids spend hours running from one stall to another. There are rides and showbags and fried food but they can't beat the lure of the SES cutting up a real car, watching a white dog called Red jump an 8 foot high barrier, eating cordial flavoured ice shavings or seeing a man called Max win the overage axeman's championship on his 71st birthday. Got to love a country fair.
here. I am not sure which I love more - the special edition pillarbox red or the traditional white with blue edge? Would I choose the pie set or the bake set or both? They are so beautiful. Alas, no International Shipping so this is a dilemma that does not need to be solved.
Now off to get the boy...
Now off to get the boy...
Labels: beautiful things
The other half of the duo of River Torrens childhood delight are Captain Jolley's Paddle Boats. The Paddle Boats haven't been gussied up so much as Occ and Safety-ed up, now installed with umbrellas for shade and requiring children to wear lifejackets. Deceptively difficult to pedal around the river, the kids and Michael had a grand time dodging swans and ducks and playing the game of pedalling tantalisingly close to the spray coming from the fountain...
In more mundane news, the sore throat I woke with yesterday refused to be banished and has morphed into a full head cold. Just as some glorious spring weather settles in. Poor Me.
4 acres in the Adelaide Hills. Fruit Trees. Original 50s house. Separate building for a studio. Dam in the top paddock near a forest of small gums. A ruin (albeit currently spider riddled and scary). Large vegie patch fenced off from the sheep who clustered under the mulberry tree. And of course - the rope swing.
Covetous much? We were. Michael's Aunt Lesley and her partner Susannah bought the property this year and are slowly working their way around it. Lesley has a lovely orange and grey ride on mower which makes it sound like no work at all to tend the rolling hills. In reality I think we are too slothful for this kind of adventure but the fantasy makes for lovely daydreams.
Then home to tuck the kids in, eat dinner prepared by Michael before making a cake for tonight's dinner with friends. The rest of the evening was spent lounging on the couch reading my freshly delivered copy of The Perfectly Imperfect Home. A lovely way to end the week.
I have woken with a sore throat though so that will need to be banished...