December 2008 Archives

Oh Christmas

Dear Finn

Today is Christmas Eve, a day before a day you have been waiting to arrive for quite some time. This is the first year that you have really understood the idea of Christmas and have become excited at the myriad little clues that it is soon to appear. Before you knew the name for tinsel....every small glimpse of tinsel was exclaimed over...."there's Christmas!" Every sight of a Christmas tree was a cause for great celebration, every sight of the red-suited obese one an amazing thing. We've had Christmas music, Christmas lights, a rather tiny Christmas tree...the whole shebang. Seeing it all through your eyes has somehow even managed to remove my largely bah humbug attitude to the whole thing. I have been heard to sing Jingle Bells and to hassle your Dad that at some sad stage in his life he downloaded Mariah Carey's contribution to global Christmas muzak. I like to imagine that he sat alone drinking sherry while listening to it, on this very night in years gone by. But that was before you entered our lives and gave Christmas a whole new meaning.

Christmas Stack 2008

By that meaning, of course I'm talking about the profound life changing experience of a RED RACE CAR. Or at least the belief that Santa is going to bring you a RED RACE CAR. With a smiley face. Maybe even a whole box of RED RACE CARS. With smiley faces. I think you have possibly been talking about RED RACE CARS since October. Which is good...we have known what Santa was going to get you for Christmas for quite some time. Imagine the look on Santa's face when upon going down the local mall...well organised as usual about a week before Christmas...no such item was to be found. No RED RACE CAR with or without a face, smiling or otherwise. The expletives were unprintable. The faces were long and sad. There was tearing of hair and gnashing of teeth. Luckily given another few hectic searches, Santa managed to come up with the goods. He hopes. He lies awake at night worrying about it.

Not the only thing he has to worry about. Now you probably don't quite appreciate the significance come Christmas time, but you have six cousins who require Christmas presents. Presents that Mrs Claus, overheated, overweight, and completely overshopping, really didn't feel like looking for in crowded malls a week before Christmas. Enter the saviour in the form of Aunty Ally who suggested that a $5 note would be just as exciting for the elder five. Excellent!

This released some wad of heavenly memory which has been gumming up your Dad's grey matter for years, and he started rambling on about how the money needed to be ironed and then carefully wrapped in tinfoil. I guess I must have looked a bit bug eyed at this...because I was then accused of being a half-assed Money Aunty...what the hell was I thinking just giving a paltry wrinkled $5 note in an envelope? Was I mad? Did I have no consideration about the importance of the wrapping? I began to see why your Dad doesn't really trust banks.

This was closely followed by a conversation that still makes your Mum giggle to think of. Where is the iron? How does the iron work? What do you mean, a water window? What does this dial do? This was very closely followed by another long list of unprintable expletives....as the test $5 note, no longer made of paper, but rather of plastic, decided to melt rather than flatten itself into pristine glory. It would be fair to say your Mother laughed her ass off until there was no ass left.

Your Dad, humiliated, but not cowed, unfortunately managed to spend the evidence before it could be photographically recorded and presented here, and salved his wounded pride by doing the best damn tinfoil wrapping of a $5 note that anyone has ever seen. Any Dinger that is, as I have rightly explained to him that the only four other people in the world that have ever wrapped their money in tinfoil have the same surname as he does.

You too have that surname, and you too shine as bright as tinfoil.


Merry Christmas.

love Mum.

I grovel

Dear Finn

I was told off by a friend the other day for not blogging enough, and I know it to be true. I realise that I need to write less more often, and that the natural consequence of not writing often enough is longer and more unwieldy blogs that have less point to them as I vainly try to keep up with every happening. Today I shall attempt a new beginning...shorter blogs more often. I can see the issues in this already raising their nasty little heads. Unlike my journo telling-off friend for whom writing is as natural as breathing, I find writing to sometimes be more like pulmonary odema. A certain mind set needs to be achieved. A certain peace and fluidity. All kids asleep is definitely a huge plus.

Aaah procrastination...the hero of inaction. Be gone.


So to begin.
In recent times you become more and more aware of language and the way in which you use it is a delight that increases every day. Your use of words is by turns cute and downright hilarious. Of the many incidents that make me so happy to have a talking toddler, these are just a couple.

One morning you got up and came into our room. You sat on the bed for a minute and then started exploring inside your pyjama pants as you commonly often do. We were all like...Finn take your hands out of your pants, what are you doing?
You were like...WOW my penis is really big!

I'm still not sure what the appropriate response is to such a pearl of wisdom...your Dad and I looked at each other and dissolved into giggles.

In a similar salute to your masculinity...on another occasion you had your hands down the back of your pants...are you getting the common theme here? and upon being told to take your hands out....you removed them, declaring that your hand smelled like farts.

One thing is clear.
You are all boy. Grubby, mischievious and really really keen to pick your nose, scratch your bum and fiddle with your willy.

love Mum.