An epistle to my big boy

My Darling Boy,

Tomorrow you start kindergarten.

How can that be? It seems like only yesterday that you were handed to me in the hospital, all squishy, pink and utterly delicious. As I gazed upon your perfect little face, all scrunched up and screaming though it was, I promised you that I would never take my eyes off you, my precious boy.

And yet, tomorrow I must.

You are off to school.  Not the safe confines, heavily supervised, occasional and completely optional realms of child care, but school! You are a big boy, not a baby anymore (though off the record, you’ll always be my baby. Deal with it) and now there will be so many hours in the week when I will not be able to watch you, care for you or protect you and so many hours that I cannot talk to you, listen to you and guide you. Instead, during those hours, I hand those responsibilities to your teachers.

Though I will not be with you, my head will be full of you every moment – wondering if you’re happy, if you’re making friends, if you’re being kind and respectful or if you’re kung-fu dancing in the hallways (actually I won’t be wondering that as it’s a given). And also if you are missing me as much as I will be missing you.

I feel like I’m releasing you out into the wild. I can only hope I am sending you prepared.

You are a beautiful boy with a big heart and have everything you need to be anyone you want to be and achieve anything you want in life – not least parents who will love you and be behind you all the way, whatever your choices (with the exception of serial killing and joining the Young Liberals).

I know you’re ready for this next big challenge in your life. But tonight I’m seriously wondering if I am. You are so excited and I am excited for you but a part of me is knotted up as I loosen the apron strings and let you go and grow.

It was moments ago you spoke your first words and took your first steps. And now you’re stepping out on to a new stage in your shiny new black shoes (which, incidentally, I give until the end of the day to be scuffed beyond repair).

You are my miracle. The first of two children your dad and I were told we would never have. But here you are and you are larger than life. And even now, as I tuck you into bed as a pre-schooler for the very last time, I still can’t quite believe my luck.

Enjoy your new adventure, Sweetheart.

I love you.

Mummy

xx

Avast me Aussie hearties!

So my darling Devilboy came home from pre-school yesterday singing the national anthem, “Avast Our ‘Stralia Fair”, which the are learning as part of the school Christmas concert (no , I don’t get the connection either).

But thank Gods, I say, for I was living under a decades long cloud of ignorance to the actual lyrics of our national song.

Not only was I unaware that we were a nation of pirates, I’d never before realised that the first line was, and I quote,  “Our ‘Stralia’s all fartarse for choice” or that we were “good by sea”. I was particularly surprised to learn that our land abounds in nature’s gifts “of beauty Richard Ray” and that in “joy for strays” we all should sing “Avast Our ‘Stralia Fair”.

You learn something new everyday. Thanks, little man for the cultural  edification. 😉

Smiling assassin

‎Devilboy has been quite set on his future career for the best part of a year . In  fact, he’s been very specific about it.

He will be, and I quote,  a “fireman-dog and cat and snake doctor-rockstar-guitar player-kung fu warrior.”

When we mention that this will keep him terribly busy he simply points out that he’ll manage because we’ll be his “personal assistants”. Read slaves.

This morning, completely out of left field, this all changed.

“Mummy, I have to tell you something really important. I’ve changed my mind. When I grow up I would like to be a ninja. And a clown.”

When he grows up? The kid is obviously a child prodigy because he’s already well and truly achieved one of those goals and he isn’t even five yet.

Having had some time to think it over, I think it’s an excellent career choice.

I can see him now, a smiling assassin that silently and stealthily abseils into battle wearing giant orange clown shoes and a spinning bow tie with his black shinobi shozoku, flinging shirukin stars to the left and squirting plastic flowers to the right.

Frigging. Awesome.

There’s gotta be a Tarantino film in that.

drip, drip, drip

‎”Mama, I’ve been thinking in my brain… when I was in your tummy and you drank tea, did it drip on my head?”

 

Chaaarge!

I’ve spent the morning watching 18month old Devilette race up and down the hallway with a determined glint in her eye, holding aloft a plastic sword that is at least twice her size and shouting “chaaaarge!”

Either she is a miniaturised modern-day Joan of Arc or she’s putting in practice for when she gets hold of my credit cards in a few years time.

Alternately, she may just be another nut-job… just what this family needs!

You say potato…

This morning grandma came to visit. This in itself is not out of the ordinary.

Devilette was gifted with a plush Winnie the Pooh which she immediately fell in love with. Given her current fixation on all things fluffy, this is not out of the ordinary either. But then…

We told her his name.

She immediately shouted “Poo” gleefully and, taking us at our word, proceeded to stick it in the toilet.

Fair play, baby girl. Fair play.

mummyfied jnr.

When Devilboy is quietly playing in his room it generally makes me nervous.

And rightly so it would seem as this is the result of his latest “silence!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I’m a mummy! But not like you mummy, like an Egypt mummy, mummy!”

Of course you are darling.  And I’m a mummy that’s off to the local store, because we’re now all out of toilet paper!

bottoms up

So today we walked into the lounge room to find Devilboy dragging his bare bottom across the carpet in a manner not too dissimilar to the  way our senile cat used to.

After pinching myself to see if I was actually conscious and this little episode not a figment of my imagination I asked what I thought a reasonable enough question.

“Why?”

“I just wanted to see what it felt like” he offered, as if it were completely normal behaviour.

“And?” we asked, bemused.

“It feels exactly like rubbing your bottom on carpet”

No shit, Sherlock!

Sleeping beauty

On the 426^th day, the people awoke to find that the one they call Devilette had at last slept through an entire night.

And the people danced and sang as they feasted on vegemite toast, for it was still far too early and a tad undignified, to be slaughtering a sacrificial beast of the field whilst still clad in one’s PJ’s.

And there was much rejoicing. Yay verily.

 

 

The Devilboy is in the detail.

363 days before his 4^th birthday party, Devilboy decided on its theme. Vikings & Dragons. I figured that, like any other normal child, he’d change his mind a hundred times between then and his actual party. Foolish really, given that Devilboy and normal are two words very rarely used in the same sentence.

In fact as eachmonth passed, instead of changing his mind his resolve deepened. Dreading the thought of actually making a Viking Dragon party happen I even tried giving him subtle hints to send him in a simpler direction. Epic fail.

Over the next twelve very long months Devilboy regailed me with the details of his party. Where it would be, who would come, what they’d wear (it took quite some talking to convince him that fur, full beards and boots  weren’t really appropriate attire for the beach!) and what they’d do.

There would be shield making and bubble swords for fighting (and blowing bubbles) on the beach. There would be pin-the-tail on the dragon and a treasure hunt to find dragon eggs and Viking treasure. There would be some swimming. Then we’d eat. Right. Clearly he’d thought this all through. At length.

What would we eat? I’m so glad I asked. “Chicken on bones and dragon flavoured sausages, because that’s what real Vikings eat, mama!” I decided not to spoil his fun by telling him they’d have been more likely to eat some pickled herring.

And then came the icing on the cake… literally. “A dragon cake, mama. It has to be green with spikes and red wings and fire coming out of its nose!”

Holy shit! “Do you want to actually fly as well?” I asked facetiously. “Yes, please, mama!”

Note to self: Sarcasm is lost on small boys. Avoid in future so as not to dig deeper holes.