Friday, June 7, 2013
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Sunday, February 3, 2013
two minutes. Coincidentally, my same best time for removing a bra.
To find out where you can buy MaxiCosi car sets & capsules in your area - CLICK THIS LINK
Saturday, February 2, 2013
Sunday, January 27, 2013
We've moved. Here's BFLI's new home.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Sunday, January 20, 2013
It's always been a bit of a lark with the owners but a couple of months ago we had to ask them to at least attempt to keep their dog in their yard because ours was on heat.
"Not a problem," they said. "We'll make sure we shut the gate." And then, a few days later, "It was the in-laws, you know. They don't think to close it properly."
"Ooo, is she pregnant then?" the nice people who clip Jazz's coat every summer asked us a few weeks later. They were feeling her belly and seemed quite keen on the idea.
"We hope not," Tracey assured them. Jazz is a Samoyed whereas the dog from up the street is a Stafford or something. She's white and fluffy, he's black, short haired and has a head like Bob Hoskins. We figure their pups would be as odd as Donkey and Dragon's.
But it's been a couple of months since she was clipped and she's still fat and we've no puppies, so all is well.
But today, the youngest owners of black dog were over playing with our kids and I heard them talking about how their dog and, to be honest, I'm especially pleased for our Jazz that he won't be fathering her babies, because it turns out he's a bit of a cad.
"He had babies with dogs up the road," the young master was telling my kids. "He escaped across the road and humped them."
"I know what hump means," Master7 told him.
"It means making babies," said Miss9.
"It means pooing in our garden," said Miss5.
"No, it doesn't," Master7 assured her.
"Well, that's what it was doing," she assured him right back.
"It means sex," said Master7. "Their dog was having sex with our dog and now they have to have a baby."
Well, that's certainly how it's always worked for us.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
"How many kids you taking?" was the only question I asked.
"Funny," she said without a hint of a smile in her voice. I remember when she used to find me hilarious.
So at 5am this morning, having got up, given Miss0 a bottle, showered, made a coffee and snuck out onto the balcony, Tracey was waiting for my mother to pick her up to take her to the train station.
At 5.30am, the kids woke up.
"Dad! Where's Mum?" Master7 bellowed from the other side of the bed.
"She's gone to Brisbane," I reminded him.
"So can I play the DS then?" he asked. Tracey doesn't like the kids spending too much time on the electronics.
"Yes." With Mum out of the way, he knew this weekend was destined to be awesome. "Just whisper, will you? Now go away and don't wake your-"
I was interrupted by the sound of Miss0's bottle hitting the bedhead. She tossed it, grenade fashion.
"Never mind," I said, dragging my sorry ass out of bed. There was no use trying to get back to sleep. Miss0 wails like a banshee until she's taken out of the cot and set free. And because she's a climber I'm worried if we leave her too long in the cot she'll work out she can get out without our assistance.
In the kitchen I found a note from my wife, giving me my orders. I love she feels the need to include things like 'breakfast' and 'baths' on the list, and things like 'give baby food, not just bottle'. There was a bit on Agony Uncles last night which I think sums up my wife, and probably most wives, nicely - delegation, with micro-supervision.
Then mid-morning both grandmothers arrive, almost in formation, to take away Miss5 and Miss3 for the day, leaving me with only Miss9, Master7 (both attached to their iPods) and Miss0, who, like me, slept for a three hours this afternoon. I see this as proof our parents read my blog because last time Tracey went away things didn't go very smoothly. (link - Daddy Poppins)
But things have gone much better today. When Tracey called to check up on things, Miss0 had just woken me up from my nap.
"How's it going?" Tracey asked me.
"What's that screaming?"
"Nothing. It's the telly."
"It's the baby. What's going on?"
"She fell off the lounge."
"Why was she on the lounge?"
"We were sleeping."
All things considered, I think the day went rather splendidly. Everyone fed, bathed, read to and a night of beer, pizza, Bladerunner and The Fifth Element ahead of me.
Then, after the blighters were in bed, I looked at the list and realized I hadn't ticked one final item off the list.
But that's okay, I figure they can brush their teeth in the morning. I'm calling today a success.
As anyone who has watched Supernanny knows, time seems to take longer for little kids. It must bend or something. I guess that's why she suggests kids stay on the naughty spot a minute for every year of their age: Three minutes to a three year old is like seven minutes to a seven year old.
Which probably means, for our five year old daughter, she's been in lock up for about 18 weeks.
Sure, we could make the effort and carry Miss9 to the car and go out more, but this heat has us feeling super lazy and, as excuses go, a broken leg is a good one.
So when we took the family out yesterday on parole the conversation coming from the back seats gave us a big dose of the guilts.
"Look! It's a blue car!" Suddenly the world was full of colours and people and places. It must be what it's like to be released from prison. Everything was new and wonderful and much more interesting than before they were incarcerated. "A yellow car! Look! Traffic lights!"
"That's the soccer ovals! I remember them"
In a mirror image of the Naughty Corner Time Conundrum, it was a long, long five minute drive for myself and Tracey. Especially me, because they soon made it personal and Tracey sided with the inmates.
"A pink car!" said Miss5. "Dad, you've got a pink car."
"No, I don't," I called back to her. "I have a red car. That's why we call it the Red Rocket."
"The Red Bucket," corrected Tracey. Okay, so it's a little old and crappy.
"Should be the Pink Rocket," said Master7. Okay, so it's a little faded.
"The Pink Bucket," corrected Tracey.
Obviously the whole lot of them are suffering from Cabin Fever.
But if they keep dissing my sad little car I'll cancel parole and throw them all back in the slammer for another couple of weeks.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
"I'm need to go to the toilet!"
This frustrates me. No one ever yells out, "I'm still picking up my toys!"
And it's not like we randomly change bedtime, so it shouldn't come as a surprise every single night. We don't, for example, tuck them in at 5pm one day and then, on a whim, 9pm the next.
I raced around mustering them towards their rooms and eventually managed five out of five in their beds. But we weren't done yet.
"Where's your pillow and doona?" I asked Miss3. She was lying on a bed made with nothing but a bottom sheet.
"I show you," she told me, and shot out of bed and past me before I could say anything else. Thirty seconds later she reappeared at her bedroom door with her pillow in one arm and dragging her doona with the other. She'd probably been using them to make a cubby house in one of the other rooms.
I settled her back into bed and decided to lie beside and chat for a second. It's one of my favourite parts of the day - lying, chatting with them or tickling them or pretending to sleep on them and having them chuckle and laugh, and then big kisses and hugs before moving onto the next kid.
I threw myself down onto her pillow, ready to snore loudly in her ear.
"JEEZ!" I yelled, abruptly sitting up as pain shot through my skull. "What the...???"
"I show you," said Miss3, ignoring my outburst and subsequent rubbing of my scalp. "I got presents."
And out of her pillow she pulled a Dora doll, a soft puppy and some Barbie furniture. I suspect my sore head was from Dora bashing me over the head with the dining table. The puppy looked too innocent to be involved in any rough play.
Anyway, I shouldn't complain. At least they were off the floor :)
- Bruce Devereaux
Bruce Devereaux is one of the nicest people he knows. When not at work he enjoys reading, writing, hiding from his children and not changing nappies.
His career, and if we used the term any more loosely an e might fall out, has included a gardener, a personal lender, a console operator, a stop/go man (not as big a bludge as you might think but great if you’re into sunburn, abuse and varicose veins), a cleaner of banks and pubs and, for a very brief period, a door to door salesman (until the last door he knocked on was answered by a very scary woman with tremendously hairy legs).
Bruce Devereaux currently works as a forty-five-year-old award winning customer service officer (glass statuette available upon request) for the Bank of Queensland and as a very casual employee for Corrective Services. He likes to believe he excels at both but then he has always been prone to exaggeration.
His favourite colour is green, with a picture of Dame Nellie Melba on one side and General Sir John Monash on the other. His favourite flower is self-raising.
If you see him around town, call his wife immediately - he's probably snuck out and left her alone with all the kids.
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