Adult diapers?

The bathroom is a fascinating place.  Well, it is if you’re 15 months old  and knee-high to a grasshopper.  There are so many interesting things in the bathroom.  There are cupboards to open, drawers to pinch your chubby little fingers in, a bathtub to throw things you find in the cupboard in, a toilet that seems to want to eat small children, and of course, toilet paper to rip into tiny little pieces and then leave all over the floor, or, even better,  try to eat.

Recently though, Hannah has discovered a new fun toy in the bathroom: my feminine hygiene products.  I like to keep them in a little basket, right at the front of the cupboard, for easy access.  When your uterus feels like it’s trying to punch its way out and you would absolutely love to scream your head off at anything thing that moves, the last thing you want is to be walking around the bathroom, pants around your ankles, playing hide and seek with your pads.

Hannah LOVES to free the pad from its nice little blue package (why is it blue, why can’t it be pink?  Or purple?  Is the pad wrapper taunting women for having to go through menstruation when men don’t have to?) and then…THEN she tries to put it on.  Say what?  SHE TRIES TO PUT IT ON!

Hannah the pad bandit attempts to put one on

“It’s not a nappy sweetie,”  I tell her, giggling at her as she squats down and holds it against her nappy region (babies don’t know that nappies go on the inside of their pants).

“Well, they pretty much are adult nappies.”  Aaron doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into.

“Excuse me!!!!!  I DO NOT wear nappies!”

“But they pretty much are.  You put them in your underwear and they catch stuff.  That’s what nappies do.”

Oh snap.

Then there’s the tampons.  I’m not partial to Australian tampons.  I think tampons should always have applicators.  Australian’s don’t seem to see my point of view, making applicator tampons a rare find.  Mine came from the U.S.A.  They are compact, but still have an applicator.  They are encased in a little yellow wrapper.  Now that I’ve scared off every single male reading this, here is the point:  My Tampax Compak tampons bear a striking resemblance  Hannah’s Heinz little kids snack bars.

“Bar!!”  She excitedly chants when she picks up a tampon from my little product basket in

Yum, which one would you rather eat?

the cupboard.  “Bar!!!”  She even tries to open it.  I can see her unwrapping it with her eyes, greedily devouring my tampons, ecstatic that she has found a seemingly secret stash of her precious “bars.” The bathroom looks like a tornado came through.  A tornado that went past a feminine hygiene products factory, picked up its contents, and then dropped them all, half-open, in our bathroom.

P.S. please use the Top Mommy Blog banner on my blog to vote for me.  It’s super silly (well, ridiculous really), but everyone is allowed to vote once every 24 hours and that is how blogs get to the top.  It’s not about how many different people like the blog, but how many votes they get (pretty much how many loyal voters they have).  I am currently number 200-something out of 2000-something, so I’d like to climb higher to get my blog more exposure.  Thank you so so so so much!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And the winner is (drum roll please)….

71 views.  Oh my gosh, that is the most views I’ve had in a single day.  Ever!!  If only I could get to 100!!  And all because of the car. It seemed like a realistic goal to me.

The next day:

Opening my laptop,  an e-mail caught my eye.  “Boo (not as in Boo, I scared you, as in pet name for my husband)!!!  I got freshly pressed!!!!!!!!!”  Sure, it was his birthday that day, but I couldn’t contain my excitement.  It’s not every day you get freshly pressed.  I fumbled over all the keys on my laptop, too giddy to operate it properly.  The wait was agonising.  Why is it the internet always takes so long when you really, really want to look at something?

Finally (after what seemed like an eternity), the page loaded.  1,220 views!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  And the day wasn’t even over yet!!!!  I felt like I’d just won an Oscar.  Well, what I imagine it would feel like.  Being Freshly Pressed is what every blogger strives for (ok, maybe not all bloggers, but I certainly did).  After 3 days of being Freshly Pressed on the front page (how does that work, I thought being freshly pressed only lasted for 24 hours?), 5,899 views, 1,853 votes, and 160 comments, the winner is…..

BLUE!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Interestingly, 24.32% of Aussies said the car is purple, the highest percentage of any country.  Maybe it really is a cultural thing.  Maybe they are taught that way.  Or maybe Aussies have a high percentage of colour-blindedness…. I’m just happy to know that I’m not colour blind.

Thank you to everyone who read my blog, voted, and made comments.  Sadly though, the argument is far from over.  Aaron, of course, claims my photos make the car look blue.  I say they look true to life.  I even took one in the sun and one in the shade, so as not to bias said photos.  I will have to find out the actual colour from a dealership or auto shop.  If I can be bothered…..  For now though, I’m happy to go with the majority, and say: “Sorry Boo, the car is BLUE!”

P.S. Since I got a lot of comments about the nice flowers next to the car, here are photos of the flowers in the front and side garden (Thanks to Trish, who planted them all a long while ago).

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Colour: Is it a cultural thing?

“It’s blue.”

“No, it’s purple.”

“Whatever, it’s so blue!  There’s not a SPECK of purple in it!”

Aaron and I have had this argument a million times in the nearly 6 years (well, we gave it back for a couple years when we lived in the city, but you get my  point) we’ve owned the little Suzuki Swift Cino.

“I’ll just look up the colour in the manual.  Or papers.  Or something.  I’ll look.  I’ll find it, and it will say blue, you’ll see!”  I looked.  I didn’t find it anywhere.  I even googled it.  I couldn’t find the original manufacture colours anywhere.  So, I did what all rational people do: I started polling people.

“Purple.”

“Purple.”

“Oh, you mean the purple car?”

That didn’t go so well.  Surely I can’t be partially colour blind, can I?

Suddenly, I came to the realisation that the only people I’ve asked (the only people available to ask) are Australians.  So what if colour is a cultural thing?  Maybe, just maybe, some hues are so close that in some cultures/regions/countries, they are viewed as one colour, and in other places, the view is slightly different.  Maybe I’m not colour blind after all.

I put it to you, what colour is this car:

Blue or Purple?

Do more kegels

I love boxing class at the gym.  I tried Zumba, but we all know how that turned out….  No, I’m too special for Zumba.  We do something different each week at boxing class.  Each week I leave feeling like I want to curl up in a ball and sleep for a few days.  We do circuits, intervals, weights, pretty much anything that gets your heart rate up (in between the actual boxing of course).

This week, they busted out the jump ropes.  I can’t remember how long it’s been since I’ve jump roped, but it’s definitely been a very long time.  When I was little, I did Jump rope for Heart, and occasionally, we’d do double dutch jump roping at recess in grade school.  Yeah, long time indeed.  I was kind of excited when the instructor came in with the jump ropes.  Awesome, I’ve got this.

I was handed a jump rope and told to jump for one minute.  The rope was far too big for me.  I held out my arms like I was trying to measure something long so that I wouldn’t trip over the ginormous rope.

I took my first jump.  Oh.  My.  Goodness.  Was that?  Did I just…?

I jumped again.  A look of horror spread across my face.  The instructor looked at me oddly.  I pretended to get my feet all caught in the ridiculously large rope to pass time, jumping as little as I could.  I couldn’t just stand there, looking like a fool.  I jumped again.

Oh crap. I kept jumping.  With every jump, it kept happening.  I constantly (on purpose) got my feet tangled in the rope.  I kept jumping.  With every jump, a couple drops of pee came out.  I tried to hold it with all my might.  I kept jumping.  I kept leaking.  I put my legs together as far as I possibly could, desperately trying to gain the much needed control of my rogue bladder.

“Ok, stop!”  The instructor told us.

“I’ll be right back, I really have to pee!”  More funny looks.  Just behind me, another girl was running out too.  We ran to the bathroom, emptied our bladders, and went back to class.

“At least you have an excuse,” the girl around my age said “I’ve never had a baby!”

“Sorry, seems I need to do more Kegels.”  Yeah, I actually did announce this to the entire class.  Why not?

Time to jump again.  What???  How can this be happening again????  I JUST went to the bathroom! I spent most of the jump rope time pretending my feet were tangled in the rope with each jump.  Plausible of course, since I’m fun-sized and the ropes are giant sized.

Lesson learned:  do more kegels.

The call that never came

My mobile phone rang.  I could feel the excitement rising within me.  Nervousness bubbled in my stomach.  The number on the screen was one I didn’t know.  With a shaky voice I answered.

“Hello, this is Sheri.” I don’t usually answer like that, but if it was the call I was waiting for, I wanted to make a good impression.  I didn’t want them on the other end, thinking hmmm…is this Sheri?  Should I ask for Sheri?  What kind of weirdo answers with just Hello and nothing else?

Gosh darn it, it was just the car place.  Humph.  Sigh.  Once again, it wasn’t the Amazing Race Australia calling me for a semi-finalist interview.  I’ve been waiting since the 17th of September, when applications closed.  Actually I’ve been waiting since the 6th of September, the original deadline, which my team mates (yeah, I applied with 2 different people) and I excitedly got our audition tape and application in by.

I can’t help myself, I’ve also been looking at all the auditions that people posted on YouTube.  On a daily basis.  We wanted to get a place on the show so so so so bad.

I’ve always wanted to be on the show, ever since the first season.  I even looked up eligibility, application deadlines, and race rules.  But I didn’t live in the U.S., so even though I am a U.S. citizen, I wasn’t eligible.  Then the amazing happened: The Amazing Race was coming to Australia.  I was so excited I couldn’t sleep.

I made a list of things I’d pack because yeah,  I am that nerdy.  I looked up every single season of the Amazing Race on Wikipedia and read every single word about every single season.  The Jess and I talked strategy.  We watched other peoples audition tapes on YouTube together.  I checked the channel 7 message boards on a regular basis, wondering (like many others) if anyone had yet been contacted.  Not that anyone would admit to it, that is not allowed.

Finally, I’ve given in.  Considering filming is to take place by December (according to the application), we’re not going to be contacted 😦 .  Maybe I’m biased, but I thought both audition videos were quite good.  We’re not models, actors, beauty queens, or f grade celebrities though, so I suppose we probably never had a chance.  For your viewing pleasure, here is one of my audition tapes (The Jess doesn’t want ours to be on the internet, so I’m not including it).  A lot of the footage was not actually meant to be used in the tape, as it was our random banter between takes, but it showed us as us, so I put it in.  Let me know what you think.  Good or bad, feedback is wanted.  Gotta make improvements for next time!

P.S. yes, I really do run like that.  Laugh it up, laugh it up.

One of those days….

I looked at the clock.  7:30am.  Hannah was stirring, making cute little baby (ok toddler, I’ll try to stop kidding myself) noises, talking to her dollies.  I let her play for a while and then it went quiet.  Not like the “I’ve just fallen back asleep” quiet.  I don’t know how I knew she wasn’t asleep, but I knew.  I guess Moms just know such things.  It was more of a worried (my worry, not hers) quiet.  A something’s happened quiet.  Or maybe an “I’m doing something cheeky” quiet.  I wasn’t sure, but I decided to go in.  Usually I would assume she’d gone back to sleep and let her sleep on.

I slowly opened the door.  I suppose there was a chance that my intuition was chucking a sickie (pretending to be sick and taking the day off for those of you not used to such Aussie lingo).  Or that my intuition is just a little special anyway.  I walked into her room, a big smile on my face and peered into the cot.

My heart dropped.  I nearly wet myself.  I think I lost 2 years off my life.  My eyes continued searching the cot.  She wasn’t there.  The room was silent.  I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my entire life.

Busted!!!

A tiny movement caught my eye.  My heart was still pounding.  I was still silently freaking out.  But then I saw her.  She was sitting on the floor of her room, clothes and books scattered all around her, like a tornado had recently been through her room.  My bible was on her lap, it’s pages being not so gently turned by a mischevious toddler, excited by the fact that she was now in possession of a book I never let her play with.  It’s pages are so thin and fragile, I didn’t want her to break it.  Silently, she sat there, in awe of the book that Mommy reads to her every day before bed.

“You cheeky little baby!”  She turned and gave me the cheekiest little cute smile that she could possibly muster.  “How did you climb out of your cot?”

Luckily she didn’t hurt herself.  I’ve never had to put the cot rail up before.  Usually she

Surrounding her was a mountain of chaos

wore a sleeping bag to bed.  Not for climb preventing, but because she starts the night at one end of the cot and ends up at the other, losing her blankets in the process.  Last night though, it was really hot, too hot for the sleeping bag.  I put her to bed in light-weight pants and a t-shirt.  Perfect climbing attire, apparently.

Later that morning:

Why is there a raisin floating in the bath?  Did cheeky baby take a raisin with her?

Where did that pea come from? Hannah was squatting.  She momentarily stopped playing.  OH. My. Goodness.  She is POOPING in the bath!  SHE IS POOPING IN THE BATH!  Oh man, what do I do? It kept coming.  When she finished, she started playing again, oblivious to the fact that her pristine bath was now full of excretement, carrots, raisins, peas, and corn casually floating on the surface, looking like that hadn’t ever travelled through an entire digestive system.

“GRANDMA!!!!!!!!!”  I freaked out a little.  A lot, whatever, I won’t lie.  She didn’t hear me, she is a little deaf.  “GRANDMA!!!”  louder this time.  She came in, rather quickly for an 80 year old woman with hip trouble.  The urgent note in my voice must have tipped her off.

She looked at Hannah who was stark naked, standing next to the bath, clearly longing to actually be in the bath.  Grandma gave me a puzzled look.

“There’s been an accident….”  I pointed towards the bath.  Grandma laughed.  This is SO not funny right now!!

It would have been easy to clean up had the offending bodily waste been nuggets.  But no, it wasn’t nuggets.  It would have been easy if it were a log.  No, not that easy either.  No, this poo, this-first-time-she’s-ever-pooed-in-the-bath poo was runny.  It was everywhere.  It was like someone had put a kilo (ok, that is an exaggeration) of that flaky brown fish food in the tub and then threw in some pea, corn and carrot mix just for kicks and giggles.

Well, I wasn’t giggling.  How am I going to clean this up???

“Just drain the bath.”  Grandma told me.  I kept staring in the bath, unable to actually put my hand in to reach the plug.  You want me to put my hand in there?  With the POOP??!!!  My hand is going to be in the same water as the POOP?!

“Do you want me to do it?” Grandma asked.

“No.”  Well, I kinda did, but I had to woman up and do it myself.  I hesitated and then reached in, an “oh my goodness this is disgusting” look plastered all over my face.  The water started draining from the bath but slowed after all the chunky bits settled in the drain.  I can’t look, it’s too disgusting. I grabbed my razor; the only thing handy that was disposable and useful in such a situation.  The handle end proved good at stirring up the chunky bits, allowing the water to go down the drain without my hand having to once again enter the contaminated bath water.

A wipe proved useful in removing the chunky bits (aka peas, corn, carrots and raisins).  Everything was washed, scrubbed, and put back.  The bedraggled baby was put back in the tub, and bath time recommenced.  Please don’t poop, please don’t poop.

It’s gonna be one of those days.

`

A conversation with Hannah

Hannah: “MOM!”

Me: “Yes baby?”

Hannah: “Bum.”

Me: “Um…ok then.”

Hannah: “Adubudubudbubba.”

Me: “Oh, that sounds interesting.”

Hannah: “Mum bum.”

Me (laughing, I can’t help it): “Oh, Mom is a bum?”

Hannah: “Dog Dog!”

Me: “Good girl, you heard a dog dog.  Do you like dog dogs?”

Hannah *nods head*: “mmmmm.”

Me: “Why do you like dog dogs?”

Hannah: “Yabbabudadadada aaaaaiiibdee.”

Me: “You’re so cute!”

Me: “OH GOODNESS!!!” Something warm was running down my bare stomach, trickling down my leg.  It took me a second to realise what had just happened.

Me: “She just peed on me!” I said to all the curious people looking at me, wondering about my little outburst.

Someone else: “Isn’t she wearing a swim nappy?”

Me: “Me, no, I took it off to dry her since it’s our turn next on the change table.”  I guess that’s what I get for prematurely taking off a baby’s nappy.

Me: “See you guys later, we’re going to have a shower….”

The problem with swimming

Hannah: not your average baby

Hannah started swimming lessons last week (I would have posted about this last week, but I forgot to bring the camera, and no one likes a post without photos).  I knew she’d like them, she loves the bath, but I didn’t know that she’d LOVE them.  She had a smile plastered on her cute little pudgy face the entire time.  Some babies cried.  Not Hannah.  She giggled.  The instructor had us put our babies’ heads on our shoulders and walk backwards around the pool, simulating swimming for the little ones.

“Grab their legs and show them how to kick in the water” the instructor told us.  I didn’t have to.  Hannah decided kicking is what she does best, splashing me and anyone in my general vicinity while she was at it.  She struggled to free herself of me so she could swim on her own.  Cheeky monkey, you’re not ready for that yet!

In Washington, everything at the beach is grey.... In case you're wondering, this is me on my pony Snowman when I was about 14

I love swimming.  I always have.  Sure, I didn’t grow up near the beach, but somehow, I still love swimming.  To get to the ocean where I’m from involved a lengthy drive and camping.  Then when you got there, the water was so cold that you’d turn blue after swimming in it for a few minutes.  The sand was grey, the sky was grey, the water looked grey.  That’s Washington (State, NOT D.C.  There is a difference!).  But I didn’t care, I’d go swimming anyway.

I wore board shorts over my swimming suit when I took Hannah for her swimming lesson.  Not because I’m now a mom and have cellulite on my ass (although I have to admit, that is a factor).  Not because I have a very hungry butt that likes to devour my swimming suit at every opportunity (again, also a factor).  Not because they make bikini bottoms so small these days that they only seem to cover your bum-crack and nothing else.  Not because during pregnancy, the only place I got stretch marks was my butt.  Sure, these things were all factors, but I’d still don the bikini bottoms sans board shorts if it weren’t for the one problem I have with swimming:  I always forget to shave/wax/pluck/do something about my unfortunate bikini line.

I don’t want to be the one that’s running around on the beach or at the pool looking like I have a family of  big, black, angry spiders trying to escape from my nether regions.  Not only that, but when I do remember (or can be bothered) to shave first, I get those annoying little red bumps all over.  Which is worse, spiders coming out of your swimmers, or a million (ok, that’s an exaggeration) red bumps?  If I wax first (which takes much more effort and time.  Plus, where would I do it?  We live with Grandma now, so I can’t do it in the lounge room like I used to.  What if Grandma came in?  “Hey Grandma, oh yeah, that is my crotch hanging out, I’m just waxing.”  I could do it in my room, but what would I do whilst waxing?  There’s no working tv in there.  If you have to go through the discomfort (to put it lightly) of waxing, you need something to amuse yourself while you do it), then a couple of days later I get a million (ahem, exaggeration) ingrown hairs.  I suppose then I would look ok for the day of swimming (If I waxed the night before), but ingrowns (as well as the red bumps) are itchy.  I’d look good for a day, then I’d look like I have crabs.  Sometimes you just have to scratch.  Scratching makes it worse.  Then you have a million red lumps and/or ingrown hairs, long red scratch marks extending from your crotch, to halfway down your leg, inflammation, and everyone you are around at the time thinking that you must have crabs.  There’s always tweezing, that causes much less future problems, but it takes so long, and you know what?  I just can’t be bothered (and again, where would I do it?).

Bring on the boardies.  We’ll just pretend they’re to cover the cellulite.  Or the stretch marks.

There’s paint on my pants

“You’ll regret putting those posters on the wall someday when you have to clean all the blu-tack off and paint the wall!” Grandma told The Jess back in the day when she was a tween, plastering posters of ugly band members on her wall.  And ceiling.

“No I won’t!  I’ll fix it I promise!”

10(ish) years later:

“Um…we need some paint.”

The sales girl with the green fringe looked at us, unimpressed.

“We need some of this colour *holds up paint swatch* and some of this colour, and then this one for the trim.”

Everyone was looking at us.  Maybe we were ordering wrong.  Or maybe it was the fact that we were both wearing cute little sundresses in Bunnings.  Ok, it was probably because we clearly had no idea about painting.

“Do you need acrylic paint?”

“Um….”  Judging by the look The Jess was giving me, she had no idea either.

“Well the trim is shiny, but the walls aren’t.”  We’re so helpful and knowledgable.  “Where do we find painting stuff?”

Quizzical look from Green Fringe.

“Rollers and um…whatever else we’ll need.  Do we use rollers?”

$220 (of The Jess’ money.  It was her room, her walls, her damage, her promise) later, we had everything we needed.

This weekend:

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“You need to put something on the floor to protect it.”

“Grandma, I bought something for it, stop fussing!”

“Have you got all of the rollers and brushes and things you’ll need?”  Grandma means well, but seems to need constant reassurance that you are not going to accidentally kill yourself and/or anyone else/the house/the car/anything really.

“Grandma!  Go away, it’s all under control.”  The Jess was on a mission to prove that contrary to family belief, she is actually an adult.

*Gagging noise (how do you spell that?)* “Ew, this blue tack remover stuff is disgusting.  It’s getting in my mouth!” I said to The Jess.

“Maybe you should stand under it when I spray.” Good point.  But it didn’t remove the icky taste in my mouth.  It was kind of like how your mouth feels after you eat one of those cough drops that make your mouth a little numb.

The painting wasn’t so bad, but cleaning all the walls pretty much sucked.  The Jess sure knows how to ruin walls.  Not that I’m one to talk.  When I was an annoying tween, I put my ribbons (from equestrian events) all over my bedroom walls.  Not

My room growing up. This was before all of the photos on the closet started to overlap. Yeah, I know, I was still in my awkward phase....

with Blu-tack, as would have probably been smarter.  No, I used push pins.  Hundreds of them (I have hundreds of ribbons).  When we first moved into the brand new house (after living in a mobile home, ok, trailer, until I was in 4th grade.  Yes, I am trailer trash), I was specifically told “Don’t put anything on your walls!”  I listened for a while, but the white walls were just so boring.  My room needed a bit of Sheri-fying.  I started slow, one push pin on one side of the wall, another on the other side, a piece of fishing line in between, with some of my best ribbons hung on the line.  This little decoration didn’t get much of a reaction, so I put another line up.  Then another.  Then I found the fishing line arrangement all too hard and started using push pins for each individual ribbon.  It wasn’t long before every square inch of my wall was covered with ribbons (and hundreds or push pin holes).  There was no room left on my walls, so I put all of my photos on my closet doors.  I didn’t have any blu-tack, so I used brace wax (as in, wax that you put in your braces so they don’t cut up your mouth).  It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now that my photos have all been removed from my closet door, it’s not such a pretty sight.  With my closet door and walls completely covered, I started on my bedroom door.  I was a little bit naughty as an annoying teenager and used to take funny stickers off of anything and everything.  Yes, steal them.  My favorite was the “Doo Doo Only” sticker from a dumpster like bin at the fairgrounds that was for, well, doo doo.  My bedroom door became my canvas for my unusual sticker collection.

Ok, that was a bit of a tangent, but point of the story is, like The Jess, I too made that promise to my parents: “Don’t worry, I will fix the walls and doors!”  But now I live in a different country, so 10 years later, they are still waiting.  At least The Jess actually came through on her promise.  Plus her walls weren’t half as bad as mine.

“What kind of paint did you use?”  Grandma was fussing again.

“Um….”  I think we’ve established that The Jess and I really had no idea, we just used what Green Fringe gave us as per our request (“it has to be anti-mold, and washable”).

“The rollers are soaking in turps, if it’s water based paint, you don’t soak them in turps.”  I don’t know how Grandma knows things, but she does.

“Um….”  Jess started looking at the can.

“It’s acrylic.  No, it’s oil based.  No, it’s water based.  I don’t know!”

“It says you can wash unused paint down the drain, does that mean it’s water based?”  Seemed logical to me.

“Ummm…”

“See if you can wash it off your hands easily, if you can, then it’s water based.”  Grandma’s fountain of knowledge poured out again.

“I think it’s water based.  No, it’s oil based.  No, it’s water based.”  Yeah, we’re awesome.

It was water based  But if water based paint can be washed with water, then how can you wash the wall if, say, a cheeky little monkey called Hannah draws on it?  I’m skeptical.

We’re not finished yet (I will post some after photos when we are), we still have to do the ceiling and trim/molding (whatever it’s called), but it’s looking quite nice.  Next time, I will make sure I don’t pull out a wedgie (my butt likes to eat my underwear, what can I say?) when I have paint on my hands, and I will wash paint out of my hair before it dries.  You learn something new every day….

WRX: The new family car?

The key wouldn’t turn.  Poo.  I went around to the passenger door.  Key wouldn’t turn.  The key hasn’t worked in the boot for many months, so that wasn’t an option.  I fiddled some more.  Key wouldn’t turn.  Poo.  Aaron tried to turn the key.  Key wouldn’t turn.  Humph.  We went inside in search of the spare key (which has never been able to actually turn the car on, only open the door).  Hmmm…I put it somewhere safe, but where was that safe place?

“I got it!”  Grandma touched the key and just like magic, she could turn it.  Maybe all the shaking was just what the lock needed (poor Grandma).

“Don’t lock the door!”  Aaron said.

Time to get a new car.

Some time later:

Looking slightly sheepish “I kinda want a WRX,” Aaron said.

“Is that really practical?”  I asked, sceptical.

“You know when you have always wanted something that you couldn’t have and then there’s a chance you could have it and you really want it? (I can’t remember the exact words that were said here, but they went something like that)”

“You mean like a cat?”  I said.

“Oh man, I walked right into that.”

“You can get a WRX if I can get a cat.”  Oh snap!

The car shopping began on the weekend.  Because I know nothing about cars, and I just like things that look pretty, Aaron compiled a nice list of potential cars within our budget, had good safety ratings, and well, I’m not sure what else.

First stop Subaru, to check out Aaron’s preference, the WRX.  I liked the look of the Forester.  Roomy, plenty of boot (trunk) space, driver sits up high (which I like because I learned to drive in a van.  My van.  My van was awesome.).  I don’t know, I just liked it.

They wouldn’t let us drive the WRX first.  Apparently they get a lot of hooligans coming in who just want to drive it, and have no actual interest in buying it.   Eventually, we were allowed to drive it.  The salesman (Rob) went first.

Aaron trying out the 2011 WRX

Rob stepped on the gas. VROOOM!  I actually went back in the seat a little bit.  I was so not expecting that.  VROOM!  It was exhilarating.  Who knew a car could be so much fun.  Hang on, that’s not true, I kinda knew.  I knew go carts and dune buggies could be that fun.  Of course Aaron will never ever ride with me in one again, but that’s not the point.  I’m surprised Aaron wanted to buy a fast car after riding with me in a dune buggy.  He still maintains I almost killed us (not true, I knew I wouldn’t hit that tree while sliding around that corner).  Wow, this was a good car.  So comfortable too….

I moved the seat forward and tested the pedals.  Nope, still too far back.  I moved it forward again.  Still can’t reach.  I pushed the seat lifting lever.  Oh, that’s better, I can actually put my foot all the way down on the clutch.  Awesome.  I relaxed the clutch again.  Uh-oh.  My knee hit the steering column.  Bollocks.  “I can’t drive this car.”

I think Aaron’s heart broke a little bit.  He looked flabbergasted.

Then we got in the 2010 WRX.   Just in case.  Save Aaron’s dream a little bit. Plus, I really want a cat.  Hmmm…the steering column in the older one (I say older, but it was still brand new and the 2011 had only just come out) is slightly smaller, allowing my extremely short legs to reach the pedals whilst allowing room for my knees (which were millimeters from hitting the steering column).  I don’t think car manufacturers think about fun sized people when making cars.

Next stop: Holden.  We wanted to try the new Cruise (I don’t think they spell it like that, but I really can’t be bothered looking it

Hannah playing in the playroom while we waited for a salesperson

up.  I think it’s Cruz?).  We looked around at all the cars, but no one came to help us.  Doesn’t anyone want to sell us a car?  Did we not look serious enough (or old enough)? Hmmm….

“Maybe if you held your hands at 10 and 2 like you’re supposed to, you could see the speedo.”  A salesman finally helped us and we were test driving the car.

“I’m not changing the way I hold my hands when I drive, this is how I like to drive!”  Did this wanker actually think he was going to sell us a car by patronising me?

“How fast does it go from 0 to 100.”  Aaron asked sub-par salesman.

“That’s irrelevant.”  Seriously guy, you’re going to tell a customer that his question is irrelevant?  How do you even sell anything?

Even if we did want the cruise, there was absolutely no way we were buying it from him.  We sat at his desk and talked price (because it’s impossible to just get away no questions asked after a test drive).  Obviously we didn’t buy it and got up to leave.

“Hold on, I’ll just get the manager to come and say hi before you go.  You can have a seat.”  Um…

Then the manager came over and sub-par salesman pretty much told him why we were leaving.  It was so awkward, uncomfortable and random.  It was like they were trying to guilt us into buying a car or something.  So uncool and pretty much made us not want to buy a Holden, ever.

We checked out some Toyota’s as well, the Rav 4, and the Aurion.

We um’d and awed all night.  Did we want a small SUV, or a car?  We went back and forth.  One of us would want the Forester, the other the WRX, then we’d switch.  Car buying is hard!

Too bad they took the photo in front of the used car sign...

Eventually, we decided to go with the WRX.  It may not seem like it, but it really is a family car.  For Aaron, it has a turbo engine and a sporty exterior, for me, it has leather seats, a sun roof, gps, a dvd player, a boot that fits the pram and groceries (oh, and it’s shiny), and for Hannah, well, she’s a baby, so she doesn’t really care.  But it fits her car seat, and it can fit another one next to it (for the future, no, I am NOT pregnant!), along with room for someone to sit in the back.   I’m sure when she’s a little older, she’ll like the dvd player too.  Plus, all it’s doors actually open when you want them to, the windows roll down, and the air conditioner doesn’t take 20 minutes to start working.  So you know what?  I think the WRX is the perfect car for our family right now.  We’ll get a bigger one later.

So we got the WRX, where is my cat?