Aussie Thanksgiving

I love Thanksgiving.  The warming food, family, unlimited bread rolls, pumpkin pie, and of course, a day off school or work.  I haven’t actually done Thanksgiving since last time Aaron and I were visiting my parents at the right time, however long ago that was (a long time!).  Mostly because I couldn’t be bothered cooking such a feast for just Aaron and me.  Now we live with Grandma, and The Jess and Jim live close by.

This year, I thought I’d go the whole 9 yards.  Ok, 8 yards.  Turkeys are expensive here, and I’m cheap.  Plus, cooking a bird for an entire day seems like far too much effort when the end result doesn’t taste nearly as good as a chicken that I could roast in a mere two hours.

Unfortunately, canned pumpkin doesn’t actually exist in this country, so I had to make the effort to buy, chop, boil, and mash my own.  Did I mention that I’ve never made a Thanksgiving dinner before?  Luckily the trusty internet was on hand to give me traditional recipes.

Just my luck, it was 32 degrees celsius (98 farenheit) here on Thanksgiving day.  I pressed on and cooked up a storm anyway.  My feast turned out rather delicious, but on such a hot day, I probably would have preferred to eat a cold sandwich and salad, but what the heck, it was Thanksgiving.  And you know what?  I’ll probably do it all again next year.  After all, I am American.

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Now if only I could find my Christmas decorations, I’d put up our Christmas tree.  It’s my family’s tradition to put the tree up the weekend after Thanksgiving.  I’ve searched the linen press, the bedrooms, the shed, the garage, under the bed, the living room, EVERYWHERE, and they are nowhere to be seen.  Doesn’t seem like such a big deal, but my Christmas ornaments are not your average ornaments.  I have been collecting my ornaments since I was a little kid.  There are no plain baubles in my collection.  All of my pieces are unique, and often something I’m interested in.  I.E. there is a camera ornament, lots of horses, cats, dogs, etc.  The stocking that my Mom made for me in infancy is in that box.  The stocking I hand sewed for Aaron is in that box.  Hannah’s baby’s first Christmas ornament, and our first Christmas together ornaments are in there.  Losing that box would be like losing a part of me.

So, I’m devastated at the moment, but hopeful that it is somewhere safe.  Somewhere that I just can’t remember at the moment.  I never would have thrown it out.  I’m just worried that we forgot it in that odd little cupboard above the stairs going into the laundry room at our last place.  The Christmas stuff is all we kept there.  I found the tree though, so I would think that we got the ornaments too.  *Sigh* my fingers are crossed.

It’s a bird eat bird world

Nothing gets past Hannah.  She can hear the car coming in the driveway from the back room, begging Grandma to open the door so she can see Daddy.  She can see tiny raisins that blend in with the poo-brown shag carpet (embarrassing, I know) like they were flourescent homing beacons.  She notices things that the rest of us don’t.   And then she points them out.

Birdy in her nest

“Birdy!” she said one day, pointing to the tree in front of us.  Well, it kinda sounded like ‘beardy,’ but we knew what she meant.

Our eyes followed her cute little chubby finger to the tree, and there it was.  This wasn’t just a birdy in the tree, trying desperately not to be seen or heard, this was a birdy in the tree sitting on its nest, incubating its eggs, right next to our front porch, just above eye level.  I don’t know how Hannah saw it.  The rest of us didn’t notice it in the slightest.  It’s not like the bird was making noise, or even moving.  It was just sitting there, frozen in its petrified position, desperately wanting to fly away, but opting instead to remain like a statue to protect her eggs.

Every time we went outside, Hannah would get all excited, pointing and telling us “birdy! birdy!” wanting to see it.  Hannah loves the birdy in our tree.  At least she did.

One morning I heard a crashing sort of noise followed by lots of unhappy sounding birdy noises.  I really didn’t think anything of it (apart from what the heck are those crazy birds doing out there?) until later when Grandma told me the birdy was gone.  The nest was hanging off the tree, not even resembling a nest.  The eggs were nowhere to be seen.  Not broken on the ground.  not caught in the branches of the tree.  Vanished.

Later that morning, I saw the birdy back in the tree, looking sad, poking her beak at the remnants of her nest.  I know she is only a bird, but it was still really sad.  Especially after Grandma told me that some birds species around here actually steal other birds eggs, purposely breaking the nest so it’s unusable (as if stealing future babies isn’t bad enough, they have to destroy the birdy’s house too?).

The poor birdy perched on the power line above the tree most of the day, crying out to all birds within earshot.  I wanted to hug her, take her inside, and tell her it would be ok.  But, she is just a bird, and as a bird, certainly wouldn’t appreciate any of that.  We were really looking forward to watching her eggs hatch, witnessing her feed her young, seeing them fly for the first time.  It’s not every day that a bird makes her nest at your front door.  Even worse, now every time we go out the front, Hannah says “birdy” in a really sad way, wondering where birdy is, and why she left.

“She went to live with her Mommy.” We tell Hannah.  And then she plays, happy that Birdy is with her mommy.

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There’s poo on my thumb

She looks innocent, but what is lurking in her nappy?

Hannah used to tell me when she’d done a poo.  Ok, by tell, I mean she would cry and whinge.  Now, she doesn’t seem to care until it’s been there so long it starts to give her a rash and her bottom hurts.  That of course doesn’t happen often, as the smell usually tips me off.  Sometimes though, the smell is contained within her britches, not piercing the outside world, not alarming me (or anyone else) to the chaos that has happened inside her nappy.  So now, I check her nappy frequently, just in case.  I don’t want her to have a sore, red, raw, rashy bottom that makes her scream when I try to get the poo off.

After bible study today, I picked Hannah up from the creche.  She loves the creche.  Anyway, as a last minute thought, I decided to check her nappy on the off chance she’d done one of those smell-stays-in-her-nappy poos so she wouldn’t have to ride in the car with it all the way home.  My usual nappy checking method consists of me preventing her from running away with one hand, while pulling the nappy open at the top in the back, so I can peek in, with the other.  Sure, I could hold her up and sniff her bottom, but that makes me feel a little bit too much like a dog.  Not to mention sometimes there is smell (since she farts all the time), but no poo.

“How is your bottom Bubba?”  I should have asked her if she did a poo poo.  Sometimes she will tell me “poo poo” if she has.  Of course, she also tells me that she wants bubba for dinner  (“what do you want for dinner?” “BUBBA!”), so what she says can’t always be trusted.

My thumb went for the back of the nappy.  It was met by something squishy.  Something warm.  Something HORRIBLE!  I looked in, shocked to see a poo all the way up the back of her nappy, my thumb resting right in it.  To make things worse, she ate blueberries yesterday (just think about that for a minute).

“I just put my thumb in poo!”  I announced loudly.  Humph.  No one was listening.  They were all engaged in their own conversations, with loud children running around them, making it nearly impossible to hear me.

“There’s POO on my thumb!”  I was louder this time, but still to no avail.  I’m not quite sure what I expected them to do with the information.  Maybe I just wanted sympathy.

I frantically rumaged through my purse (one-handed of course), fending off the small bubba hands that were also trying to rummage through my purse at the same time.  Phew, I found the wipes.  I wiped my thumb clean.  Ick, it was under my THUMBNAIL!  That is so disgusting….  How do you possibly get all of the poo fragments out from under a long thumbnail without leaving any behind?  I tried not to think about it and kept wiping.

I took Hannah to the bathroom and changed her nappy.  Then, I washed my hands with a copious amount of soap and prayed that never, EVER, would that happen again.

The Stubborn Grandma strikes again

Yesterday it was really hot, prompting the following disagreement:

Grandma: “Where do you want this fan?”

Aaron: “Under your bed!”

Grandma: “No, where do you want it?!”

Aaron: “We can’t put it anywhere, it’s not safe for Hannah.”

Grandma: “What about in this corner?”

Aaron: “No, she can get to it there.”

Grandma: “So where do you want me to put it then?!”

Aaron: “Back under your bed!”

Grandma: “I’m trying to help you and you’re just being negative!”

Aaron: “Yeah, because I told you not to bring it out!”

Grandma: “But I don’t take any notice of what you say.”

Meanwhile, I’m watching and laughing uncontrollably….

Grandma: “I’ll put it here.”

If only I had the video camera handy. Hahahaha.

“Bum!”

After many debates, Aaron and I decided early on that we were going to use the word “bottom” for butt/bum/ass with Hannah.  I was in favour of the word bum as I thought it was the non-rude form of butt.  Aaron, on the other hand,  thought bum was the rude form of bottom.

“In Australia, bum is a bit rude.”  He told me.

“Oh, not in America.”  Or maybe it is, I don’t know, I grew up in a trailer, what do you expect?

The mobile home I lived in until 4th grade

I didn’t want to teach her a potentially rude word though, so, bottom it was.

“How’s your nappy Bubba, did you do a poo-poo?”  I asked Hannah.  *Checks nappy* “Peeee-you, that is stinky!!  Mommy is going to change your bottom.”

“BUM!”  She proclaimed cheekily.  I don’t know how she learned that word, but she’s been saying to for ages, and loving it.  Every time I say bottom, she yells bum.  She used to wave and instead of saying bye-bye, she’d say bum.

I’m sure my laughing when she says it doesn’t help things, but how can I not laugh, it’s so funny!  I’m trying not to laugh.  Let’s just say I’m working on it….

Am I too old for Jackass?

Aaron and I haven’t been to a movie in…well, so long I can’t even remember.  I suppose that’s what happens when you have a baby, there’s no time for movies.  Or you just can’t be bothered.  I thought the Jackass empire had ended years ago when suddenly, an ad appeared on TV.  We usually skip ads, but we made an exception when the Jackass music graced our ears.  We’ve been Jackass fans for years.  10 years to be exact.  It’s been 10 years since Jackass made its ass-ey debut.  *Sigh* I’m getting old….

I remember going to see the last Jackass movie when it came out.  I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.  My face went numb from all the smiling.  My tear ducts were empty from all the I’m-laughing-so-hard-I’m-crying moments.  There was no way we were going to miss this new 3D version.

My sides started to ache.  Tears were running down my face.  Giggles escaped from my mouth.  In 3D, I almost felt like I was there, standing next to them, laughing at someone else’s misfortune.  Despite being a good 10 years older than the rest of the audience, we still found Jackass rather hilarious.  I don’t think I’ll ever be too old to watch Bam Margera screaming like a girl when faced with a pit of snakes.

Some scenes, however, were not funny at all.  They were just disgusting.  There is just no need to show a butt volcano (don’t ask, you don’t want to know), especially not in 3D.  I don’t think there is any need for the gross scenes, the movie would be much better without them.  It’s good feeling like you’re there, but not so much when everyone on-screen is vomiting (and we all know how I feel about vomit) and it seems like it’s travelling towards you, about to shower you with icky-ness.  Well, let’s be honest here, I closed my eyes during the vomit bits, but being 3D, I imagine that it would be coming towards me.  I wasn’t game to check.  Then the person behind me started making that little cough noise that often happens before the vomit comes (they apparently did not shut their eyes).  OH MY GOODNESS, someone is going to VOMIT on me!!!!! I honestly don’t know what I’d do if someone over the age of 2 vomited on me.  I’m sure it wouldn’t be pretty though.

And what’s with the male frontal nudity?  Ok, so a little bit is kinda funny.  Like when they do a funny stunt (I don’t want to ruin anything, so I’m not going to tell you about the stunts themselves), and then you’re like hang on was that…is he naked? But it was so fast that you’re not really sure and you didn’t actually see it very well.  That is kinda funny.  But a whole scene, a whole stunt involving, and focusing on male genitalia is just rude.  And not funny.  Plus, wouldn’t that be a bit awkward during filming, one guy standing there, buck naked, other males just milling about around him?  AWKWARD!  Not to mention embarrassing.

As with the last Jackass movie, Rip Taylor was there at the end.  Who the heck is Rip Taylor?  I have no idea.  And he’s not funny.  Rip Taylor endings are not funny.  Rip Taylor, you are not funny.  Please stay out of the Jackass movies!

All in all a very funny movie (minus the gross bits…).  My sides didn’t hurt as much as last time though.  I’m not sure if it’s because I’m older now, or if it just wasn’t as funny.  I was disappointed that Don Vito wasn’t in the movie as he is unintentionally HILARIOUS, but then I googled him and found out that he was arrested for groping 12 year olds.  Ew.  If you enjoy laughing at people making fools of themselves, doing funny and often dangerous stunts, then this movie is for you.  Laugh and enjoy.  Make sure you pee first.

A lot nervous, a lot excited

I always thought I’d be one of those moms who stayed at home until the kid(s) went off to school.  That is, until a few months ago, when I started to see that Hannah needs to socialize with other kids more (instead of hitting them and stealing their toys), and be looked after by someone other than me, Aaron, or Grandma.  I think it would be a bit scary for her to suddenly go to school all day, 5 days a week after being with me 24/7 for the first 4 years of her life.  Bit of a shock to the system.  Not to mention she gets bored.  I get bored too.  Don’t get my wrong, I love my little baby (fine, toddler) so so so so so much that I might just burst, but I need to work my brain in ways other than trying to figure out how to change a nappy without getting poo on my  hands when legs and butt cheeks are flailing about.  Studies show that putting your child in quality child care after the age of 1 is actually beneficial.

I don’t want to put my cheeky little monkey into child care 5 days a week or anything like that, I just want to do 1, maybe 2 days a week.  Honestly, I want to do 1, but that seems to be an impossibility, so I’m going for 2.  Hannah can socialize, learn stuff, do crafts, respect the authority of someone who is not related to her, and I can get out of the house, use my brain before it turns to mush, and of course, earn some extra money to help pay off our car.

I’ve been looking at jobs online for a few weeks now.  There’s not a lot out there for someone who wants to work 1-2 days a week, but I’m persistent, and came across one that sounded good.  Ok, awesome.  I applied, got a response not more than 30 minutes later, and have an interview tomorrow.

Now for the problem:  I’m nervous.   Sure, I’m excited, but I’m SO nervous.  It’s been ages since I’ve had an interview, I’m out of practice on all work fronts (apart from nappy changing, baby bathing, baby entertaining and so forth), and I have to leave Hannah with Grandma while I’m more than a block away (way more).  When I’m nervous, something happens.  Something not so good.  Something embarrassing.  I sweat.  My armpits sweat.  My face sweats.  My feet sweat.  Sweat brings stink.  Stink brings strange looks.  Strange looks bring bad first impressions.  Bad first impressions bring failed job interviews.  I’ll have an hour on the train, being nervous, sweating, getting more nervous, sweating more.  By the time I get there, I’ll probably have giant wet patches under my arms, a face that resembles an oil slick, and smell like off onions. Not a good first impression.

“Hi, I’m …*Sniffs air* Do you smell something?”

“Oh, um… that’s just me… I’m a little nervous. *nervous giggle*”  Awkward silence.

Deep breath. Wish me luck!

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