On any given day, we have few items on our bathroom counter. Vitamin jars, hair gel, re-dehydrated dinosaurs, toothbrushes, you know what I mean.
Tonight, only a few extra objects grace the surface. A few cups and glasses, a Pokeball and a couple of tubes. And in the dark, I almost picked the toothpaste.
Turns out that while peppermint heel balm smells good, it’s not quite as effective, or as pleasant tasting, as the old triple stripe.
I think I would have preferred the dinosaurs.
Each Monday night, I hold a children’s group while their parents are learning about Loving Our Kids on Purpose. I currently have 8 kids from 3 years to approx 7 years old. Tonight I took them to the Primary playground (it has a gate they can’t open and this is important!). For the past 3 weeks, the older boys have been playing “Super Secret Agent Assassin Ninja Zombie Heroes” and this week one of the SSAANZs was under the lowest part of the fort.
“What are you doing under there, Ninja Assassin Zombie?” I asked.
“I’m making a booby trap!” he replied, happily.
“That sounds fabulous,” I said. “All the bad guys better watch out!”
“Yeah, anyone who comes under here gets their boobies chopped off!”
😲🤤
I’m not kidding. He wasn’t being cheeky, not silly about being able to say “boobies”, just an obvious answer when you’re 7, apparently.
When I could contain my laughter and breathe normally again, I couldn’t help but broach the subject again. I’m a teacher, it’s kinda my job, you know?
“Did you know that even though they’re called booby traps, it doesn’t mean that boobies get chopped off?”
I had not finished speaking before he jumped in, shocked that I would even suggest such a thing,
“Yes, it does. That’s what happened to my dad!”
“Pardon?” This I have to hear.
“Yes. That’s what happened to my dad in First War 2. He went in a booby trap and got his boobies chopped off. That’s why he’s got no boobies any more!”
I’m not often speechless.
Veritas,
Eski.
PS. Thanks to Dee Hudson of Striving to be Kind for the “Conversations” idea.
It may not come as any surprise to you that I have a bit of a ‘thing’ for words, meaning, phraseology, etymology and all things language. Due to Mummy interference, I expect, my kids learned to read very early on, the latest taught himself. I can validate just about anything; waffle and buzz words are a specialty and my poetic license renews quarterly, but I think this shortest kid, currently 5, is going to outstrip me. The imagination is amazing! I’m actually thrilled! 😚
Tonight’s moment:
VERY SMALL CAT (VSC):
Hiss! Scratch!😼
MASTER 5 (M5):
Ow! Aargh! (Genuine fright and real tears follow) 😢
VSC: exits quickly stage right 💨
M5: is gathered up by next youngest brother and mummy for cuddles
Sniffle. Sniffle. (2 minutes maximum)
M5: I want VSC to apologise! 😡
MUMMY: How would you like her to do that, sign language or meowing? Has an ‘I am hilarious’ look on face.
M5: 😠 I just want her to say sorry for hurting my foot and my feelings.
MUMMY: I know, but how can she do that? ‘Meow-ry, M5’?
M5: I have to tell her she’s not being pleasant and when she does that, I feel like she wants all the love and doesn’t want me to have any love.
MUMMY: 🤤😲😨 Pardon? (Apologies, but WTF would seem appropriate here.)
M5: repeats previous statement, with feeling and lip quiver. 😭😢
Where does he get these things?!
Last week we caught up with friends at an indoor play centre. M5 appeared to be immobilised in a very small ball pit by an unknown Miss 3 waving/hitting with a small kids’ book. From 3 metres away, I could see the look of surprise, shock and indignation on M5’s face, “Why would she do that?!”
I called to him to move away, a few times actually, before he shook off the apparent petrification and took two steps backwards. Miss 3 followed, book raised. By this time, all five of the mums with me were watching, interested in the stand off. Miss 3’s mum realised what was happening and stepped in to move her daughter.
Noticing all of us watching, M5, totally serious, raised his still tiny forefinger stiffly and intoned with purpose,
“If she does that one more time…
REVENGE!”
I am thankful that I was sitting on the floor. We all fell about laughing, much to M5’s disgust. He walked away to more mature interactions in the cubby house.
I did feel the need to tell my friends, still laughing, that we don’t teach revenge as a matter of course in our home.
Love the odd little being so much!
🤣 Eski
It seems that I’ve inherited my mother’s ability to find, be found by and adopt any lost sheep. In some cases, her ability is literal. We adopted a large, lost sheep. We were in Central Australia, the year I turned 9. We’d been travelling for 6 months around the country and now had taken up residence in a single carriage of a converted silver bullet train (something like this). My bed was over the hot water service in the ‘laundry’; Mum and Dad had a fold out bed in the lounge room so my brother and sister could share the double bed in the single bedroom that there was.
When cattle or sheep were rounded up, little ones would often be brought into the community, almost like a toy, and, as toys often are, they’d be discarded and forgotten. This had happened to Sheepy. He had been around the place for a while. He was no longer little and cute, but full grown, fat and fluffy. Well, he would have been had his overgrown wool not resembled a large and fibrous tumbleweed, complete with spinifex grass and felted matting. Sheepy had wandered into our yard one day and, as I mentioned, Mum is genetically predisposed to be unable to resist something or someone in need of assistance. Sheepy became her personal project. She blunted the few pairs of scissors we had, regardless of their original purpose, trying to create a coiff from a conglomerate. The community thought it was hilarious, but I could understand her concerns. Desert days are not cool and Sheepy was lumbered with inches of filthy thermal insulation. Each day, scissors of various sizes and Mum waged war against Sheepy’s many extra layers.
With time and perseverance, Mum won the war against the wool. Sheepy bore his new, attacked by vicious lawn mower, wool cut with lightness and freedom, if not pride. His accepting personality was overcome, layer by layer, with the more realistic taciturn nature of a scruffy, hot male specimen. So Sheepy left his temporary home and ran off to rejoin the community at large. And, not long after, and not shared with the shorter siblings, Sheepy made a guest appearance at a local barbecue. Such is life, I suppose.
I can see why some people aren’t sure if Sam’s story is real or not. I mean, I’m a 41 year old woman, not a 16 year old boy. I don’t have the requisite parts to have testicular cancer. This is true. And so is Sam’s story.
“Nuts, A Ball and other 4-letter Words.”
He’s a real person. Not his real name for the sake of privacy. This is his journey for a short/horrifically long period of his life so far. This is the story, too, of anyone who has been dealt the punch to the face (knee to the groin?) that cancer is. It’s also the story of winning. Of not spelling cancer with a capital C. Of making it. Of living life anyway, of growth and regrowth. Of sharing instead of hiding. Of kissing and sex. Of separation and belonging. Just Life. It’s the story of family and yet it isn’t.
I spoke to most of Sam’s family while his personal story bubbled in my head and came flowing out in words both his and mine.
I spoke to his big brother who, although uncomfortable in some ways talking to a relative stranger, made his love love for his family, even an annoying younger brother, very clear.
I spoke with his little sister, who thought I was a little crazy and made a rude comment about my shoe choices….fair call, though. The two of us forged a friendship that was close, for a while, and sang the real lyrics to Mumford and Sons’ ‘Little Lion Man’ really, really loudly, just because we could. Now she’s not a ‘little’ sister any more, but a beautiful, engaged young woman with whom a coffee date seems elusive. And I spoke with Mum.
I wondered if she thought I was odd, a teacher and mother of children of my own, befriending her kids. Apparently not, thankfully. And I loved them. Hearing their stories; getting a little into their lives.
Weird, isn’t it, how quickly that depth of feeling can come? And go. Not the feeling, just the actual spending time. It just drifts off sometimes. I don’t really know why. Happens far more often than I’d like, that sort of fading. Anyway, I’m getting morose.
So Mum let me hang out. And talk to her kids. And to her. She told me all of her experiences of Sam’s diagnosis, treatment, surgery and eventual recovery. I think I expected more tears, more drama. But you’ve already read that’s not her style. So it was fact and explanation of both circumstances and emotions.
I always meant to write the whole story. The whole truth for the whole family, but I couldn’t write Mum’s perspective. When I voiced her, my pen stopped. I, who had children of my own and knew how mums felt when their children hurt. I, who could scrawl out the story of a teenager’s masturbation and fantasy, couldn’t find the words to share this mother’s battle for her boy.
Why?
I’m sorry that I couldn’t find your voice with my pen. I’m sorry that I couldn’t express your fear, or the knowledge that you just had to do what you had to do. I’m sorry ’cause I wanted to tell of your courage, your love. I wanted to write more. I don’t think I could go there, you know, because it would have been bloody hard. I haven’t looked at my notes in years, but I have one thing that I’ve always remembered.
When mums hug their children, we often put our hands on their heads, ruffle their hair up a bit. And it’s a sign of affection, of casual ‘love ya, mate’ warmth. But for you it became more. Discreetly, under the guise of casual, you’d check your not-so-little boy’s scalp and neck for the telltale heat of fever and bumps of possible infection. I already knew how I felt when I held my ‘babies’ and I think I couldn’t find your voice cause I didn’t want to even imagine having to watch them so closely, so scared. I knew I didn’t know, couldn’t even guess and I didn’t want to do you or your feelings injustice.
So there it is. Honesty. I’ve finally made myself look at it as more than just writer’s block.
If you haven’t read Sam’s story yet, you could start here.
Love,
Mandy. 🐛<<
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I’m currently at the other end of the state to where I usually am, visiting my sister and newest niece.
My own children would have liked to come with me, especially the youngest. He adores babies; we (he) often stop prams simply by standing in front of them to talk to ANYBODY’S baby. So to have one of our own is a big deal…and she’s gorgeous!
Tuesday morning on the way to school and daycare, I reminded him that I was going on the plane that evening.
“Can I come, please?”
“Not this time, I’m sorry. It’s pretty expensive to go on the plane and we don’t have that much money. Everyone would have liked to come.”
🤔 “Do you have money for YOU to go on the plane?”
“Well, my ticket has been paid and so jowett I have no money. Luckily though, when I get there, Grandma and Aunty will feed me.”
🤔🤔😕 “Do you mean like Aunty feeds the baby?”
😲😲😂😂
“No. Maybe a sandwich.”
“I didn’t think it was right but I had to see if it was like that.”
Kids!
🖒🐛
Just for a little fun this afternoon, I have used this highly official name generator on our family. Henceforth, I shall known as, Professor Josephine Wraithwaddle.
My husband is: Lord Roderick Wraithhold
Eldest son (and heir to all our debts) carries the dubious title of Lord Wilfred Roth stone.
My daughter, my princess: Chief Inspector Henrietta Supperwaddle.
The two younger children have clearly tested our ingenuity as they clash on several points of unoriginality:
Earl Archibald Clankingfield and Earl Archibald Clankingchild.
Our visiting guest goes by Chief Inspector Percival Knightchild.
Clearly the steampunk community are only original when it comes to style of dress, not naming conventions; in our household at least.
Comment with your new Monicker!
Eski Caterpillar! 
