the kitchen's closed...

Celebrity parents. It’s enough to make you want to chew your arm off, really.  Of all the truly mind blowing things that celebrities say, the most irritating have to be the things they blab about parenting. 

        

For starters… “We’re very hands on and don’t have a lot of help.”  Um, riiiight.  Let me get this straight. You have like, three to six kids and you don’t have a “lot” of help?  Puh-leeeease.  You and Mr Handsome-pants are away for work (modeling, singing, acting, designing your fashion range, getting caught philandering) for what, 4-8 weeks of the year?  Even if you fly the coop at different times, that would mean for roughly 8-16 weeks of the year, only one parent at a time is responsible for the whole shebang?  

I can only assume that their idea of  “not a lot of help” is very different to mine.   I’m sorry, truly I am, but I simply cannot believe, nor picture, one celebrity parent doing the hard yards with two, let alone six, kids. On their own.  With not a “lot” of help.  Given that they also have to take time out to learn lines, have meetings, socialise, get pampered and preened, rehearse, practice, smoke joints, get pampered and preened, go to the gym and get their plastic surgery done, it would seem that they may just be pony-ing up the truth.  Just a bit. Cheeses. We’re hands on… gimme a break.

My favorite quotes have to be the ones on nutrition.  Heidi Klum – bless her tiny size six bum – was quoted saying something like: “We all eat the same meal, right from the baby to the oldest.  And when the kitchen is closed, the kitchen is closed."  (She did say, in fairness, that the baby’s food is liquidized.)  Given Mrs Seals svelte form, I’d say the kitchen was probably never really open in the first place.  And if it was, it couldn’t have been for very long.  Anyone who has tried to get a baby, toddler or child to settle when they are still hungry, knows that it is a daring statement to say, “the kitchen is closed”.  Unless, that is, the “little bit of help” is getting up to fix a snack for the offending hungry child while the folks aren’t looking.

And then, folks, there’s Tom Cruise.  Poster boy for the Vitamins to Cure Post-natal Depression Campaign.  And all this time I thought he was an actor and not a world famous Psychiatrist!  Shame on me.  Er, Tom dear, it’s called Complimentary Medicine.  It’s supposed to compliment not replace, the other medicine you might need.  Geddit?  You can tell that his split between spending time in the real word and on a set is not quite equal - that green screen may finally be getting to him. Vitamin advice, dear friends, from a man who hasn’t even had the balls to age gracefully. Perhaps I should write him a note telling him that anti-oxidants, vitamins and good nutrition are recommended for staying youthful? Plastic surgery, Tom? Nope, not me. Botox Tom?  Bo whaaat?  Fillers Tom?  Never even heard of them!  Real natural, Tom.  No really, we can tell. Nice one.

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give me the sensory deprivation room, please...

I was nearly famous last week.  Actually, that could be a bit of an exaggeration. I went to watch “Men who stare at goats” and swore (quite loudly, in fact) that in one scene, they'd stolen my idea.  The one idea that could have made me famous. At least I thought they stolen my idea... till I Googled it and read that not only isn't it solely my idea, but its already famous and a true and horrific fact.  

I’m getting diverted – sigh, George Clooney has a way of doing that to me.  I won’t reveal the whole plot, but I will go so far as to say it’s set in some godforsaken deserty place with lots of US soldiers running around.  Could be Iraq or Afghanistan (locations make a big impression on me, you can tell). Anyhow, there’s this Guantanamo Bay type scene where you see an inmate in the “hole” (why is it called a “hole” and is there such a thing as outmates? And while we’re at it, they’re really not treated like mates at all). He’s kitted in the usual outrageous range overalls, there’s a strobe light strobing and a music playing.  LOUDLY.  And which music would that be?  No, not The Prodigy. No, not Metallica, Korn or ACDC either. But … the Barney theme song.  So then I knew. Like for sure, sure, sure.  It’s not just me.  The whole hot damn world finally recognises the damage created by torturous nursery rhymes and tunes composed for kids television. Most grown ups will do anything for break from the monotonous caterwauling. They may even go so far as to sit in on a neighbour doing DIY with a angle grinder.

Do jingle writers deliberately do this?  Don’t they know that - musically speaking - what parents need is something like chilled out jazz or Reggae (joint optional) or some perky pop (Simply Slim optional)?  You know who your true friends are by the music they give you. If they give you nursery rhymes etc. they may secretly be keen on watching you launch yourself over a cliff.  You see the truth is this. Adults assume that kids want to listen to music that sounds like kids i.e. a bit deranged, manic with too much soprano and falsetto.  They don’t. They’re more than happy to hear good old rock with maybe a bit of punk thrown in there.  Sound evidence that kiddies’ sing-along music is plain frightening can be found in scary movies.  Have you noticed that if they really want to scare the living shit out of you they always use tinkly kids voices singing in the background? It’s normally a song like Twinkle Twinkle or Ring-a-ring-a-roses. (BTW.  Death by firing squad to the bastards who wrote 10 Green Bottles and Alice the Camel.  Simply heinous. Horribly hateful.) 

If it will set your mind at ease (as you plan your Nursery Rhyme CD torching strategy ... New Years bon fires work very well) they’ve actually done research on how it’s not a certain type of music that stimulates your child’s brain, but more that they listen to a wide range of music.  Apparently kids can hear the melody behind the electric guitar even if their parents can’t. Maybe because they’ve no preconceived ideas about what the “right” music to listen to is.  True story. Google it, it’s out there somewhere. Just maybe lay off ACDC, Korn and Metallica.  I mean really, no one understands their music.

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apgar shmapgar...

When babies are born, they’re immediately whisked away for an Apgar test.  Sigh; their first 5 seconds of life and they are already being tested.  And this test, I daresay, is hardly one they’ve had time to prepare for.  Does in vitro life make you Apgar fit? I think not.  Lets look at what the Apgar is all about...

A = Appearance.  There has been absolutely no opportunity for the newborn to spend time on a tanning bed.  Thank goodness what they’re looking for is “pink” and not “golden-brown”.  BTW, if your extremities are blue - sorry - you’ve lost a point.  This is the last time in a child’s life that it will be considered a plus to be pink. 

P = Pulse.  The poor infant doesn’t know if they are supposed to be working up their pulse (75% of their max) or working towards an impressively low “resting pulse” (domain of the super-fit). Sheesh, talk about a surprise test. 

G = Grimace. This is probably the most telling part of the test that indicates what you, the parent, is in for.  If Wikipedia is to be believed, the scoring on “Grimace” goes somewhat against what most parents are hoping for in the long run. In the world according to Apgar, Grimace is a plus.  Again, the only time in your life this will be considered a winning sign. The infant that scores the highest is the one who cries and pulls away when stimulated.  The average achiever grimaces or gives a feeble cry when stimulated and a poor-performance-could-do-better infant scores nil when they don’t respond to stimulation.  This is both rude and unfair.  You’ve been in a warm, quiet cocoon for 9 months with nothing but the sway of your mother’s hips to worry about and now they expect you to perform like a circus seal?  If a newly-borns wakeup attitude is anything like mine, I don’t blame them for scoring nil.  At best I give a mumbly grunt when woken up before … well, before I’ve woken up. Additional note: the scoring on “grimace” is measured also by the words: reflex (ok, that’s ones fine) and irritability (of course they’re irritated and guess what, they’re going to stay like that for at LEAST 3 months.)

A = Activity a.k.am muscle tone.  This one I have a real problem with.  If you were lying in a hammock for say 9 months, maybe spinning it around every couple of days, you wouldn’t develop much muscle tone.  I fear I that even at my age I’d score horribly low on the Apgar test in this department. I know they’re been swimming around in water, but there’s hardly enough room for laps.  And even in vitro athletes would loose their fitness for sure in the last 8 weeks when things become too cramped.  Yoga?  Maybe.  Pilates? Very unlikely. And heaven knows, no weight training whatsoever.  It’s a miracle any newborns score at all.

Finally, the most mysterious of all.  R = respiration.  Now honestly, I ask you with my palms facing upward!  Newborns have really, really NOT had any chance to practice this.  Much like the “Grimace” part of the test, a strong, lusty cry is considered a plus. Top Score in fact. And since when is a cry considered breathing? Go figure. 

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the sidewinder sleeps tonight...

Here is a little known fact about newlyborns.  Shortly after their Apgar test, they are whisked away to an Intensive Training Course.  This course teaches them, in an accelerated learning style, to use up as much bed space as is infantly possible.  The class top achiever is the infant who has been able to “train” their parents to sleep on a section of bed not wider than a gymnasts balancing beam.  The infant that manages to hoof a parent completely off the bed, will graduate maxima cum laude.

There are quite a few tactics that they’re taught.  The fist one, which I’m sure was the inspiration behind the song “the sidewinder sleeps tonight”, is where the infant wriggles, and squirms so much that it is impossible for any co-bedders (note, I did NOT use the word co-sleepers…) to get any sleep at all.  And if they do get some shuteye, it is just that.  No REM, No deep restorative sleep.  Just 40 winks la la Churchill style.  BTW: the person who wrote “the sidewinder sleeps tonight” did not actually stick to the theme, if you read the lyrics.  They went totally off track, probably because they were so tired, having shared their bed with an infant or small child the night before.

The other tactic is called “Rugby-Posting” (if you have two parents in bed), or “T-Baring” (if there is only one parent left).  Here, the infant it taught to lie parallel to the headboard, stretch back with their head till it hits one parent in the stomach and kick their legs out sharply, until it connects with the other parents sternum.  They have to continue doing that all night regardless of the parents moving further and further away from the head and/or foot end.  Many parents have tried to thwart this strategy by maneuvering themselves to sleep parallel to the infant again, but this has proven unsuccessful as they invariably set off the infant’s sleep-to-move alarm and then they end up having to reposition themselves all over again into the H or T bar position. They also end up with no blanket.

Probably the most effective tactic is one called the “Rotating Starfish”.  Here, they are taught to first kick off all bedding, then find their way to the middle of the bed, where they will spread out like a star fish and rotate round and round pretty much all night. This is highly effective because it means that the parent has to continually adjust their position.  Once is never enough.  Don’t underestimate newborns and infants. They are born with their game-face on.

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a whole mile o' trouble...

Clearly, it was called the “Fan Mile” and not the ‘Family Mile’, for a reason. It should have been called, “The Optimistic Mile”, as upon arrival I saw many optimistic faces.  And why not?  After all, if nothing else, soccer is a game for optimists.  Where else will you see fierce, agile men battling out with the very real possibility of ending up with a nil-nil score?  Thank god for sudden death shootouts.  OK, not really, but you get my drift.  

We (that is to say us and the rest of Cape Town) just felt it would be a moment our kids should know they were part of.  Their sketchy soccer heritage if you like - a once in a lifetime opportunity.  Naively, we should have anticipated that’d we wouldn’t be the only family who flirted briefly with soccer mania.  Seemingly,  250 000 soccer fans brought their kids (and some cousins) who by the look of things, weren’t ‘feeling’ it at all.

What we saw, in fact, was very fake-happy looks on parent’s faces.  Gritted teeth as they carried whining, whinging children, toddlers and shorties of various sizes who clearly, had abso-effing-lutely no sense of decorum whatsoever.  A once in a lifetime event?  Couldn’t give a dang.  Can you feel the love tonight?  No, not really, mostly I’m just hungry dad. I think most parents thought they’d be able to show their shorties a photo of themselves (family portrait a- la-fan-mile style) one day and be able to say:  You were there.  You felt the gees.  You loved the vibe.  But nooooh, what were the shorties after?  Crappy snacks and psychedelic drinks.  

Can’t say I blame them.  If you were shortie enough you got to ride on a parent’s shoulders or back.  If you were a middly shortie, you had to walk.  And what did you see?  A whole bunch of stranger’s waistlines or crotches (mostly from the back, admittedly) maybe a few flag ponchos, a weird wig or two;  but that’s about it.  Were shorties feeling boastful, show-offy and smug about SA winters?  No, not really. Because when you’re a kid hot is hot, cold is cold, and comfortable is comfortable - there’s just no talking yourself into believing you feel great when you don’t.

And as I gazed at the parent’s faces, I saw longing.  There was an unwritten camaraderie based on knowing that whilst you thought you were being sportishly noble, all you really wanted to do was chug back a few lagers and discuss how fabulous SA is with some random foreigners.

I’ll never do a sporting event with shorties again. Not till they’re biggies. Hell, there were even 70 year olds having more fun, I shit you not. Beers in hands, blue rinse and all, wandering round the fan mile looking right merry and jaunty.  Lucky bastards.

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an Ode to Shorties...

To get me into a positive mind-frame (it being school holidays and all) I wanted to find a way to talk about some of the wacky stuff kids have come up with that make me laugh. I really didn’t want to stray too far from my normal hardcore profile and sound all sweetie-pie and gushy, so I’ve put it into very lame prose instead.  (Just be grateful I didn’t choose limerick style.  It seems you can’t make up a limerick that has no swearing and that isn’t rude! Well, I sure as hell couldn’t come up with any!) I even wrote it without whiskey in hand.  Such progress.

This Ode is to shorties to show that although

I whinge and I moan and I treat them as foe

I think they’re quite cool - they’re honest and funny

And can still make me smile as they milk me for money

Only shorties can ask, without fear of scorn

When a paunchy man’s baby is due to be born

They think blind dates are for people who’re blind

A bonus if you’re ugly, as your date won’t mind

They see the upside of things that are normally glum

Like wheelchairs and crutches and a big wobbly bum 

Everyday I’m in awe of how they never get tired 

Of fish fingers and noodles - how the hell are they wired?  

They think Spinach is the language spoken in Spain

And when you let them have coke, you’d swear its cocaine

I overheard that the Ironman is an actual competition

For men who have a fierce ironing ambition

Repeat DVD’s are no worry for them

As junior Alzheimer’s is cured by age ten 

They think I’m a teen coz I cycle and run

Clearly they think oldies can’t get this done

I was asked if the golf ball or club travels faster

Will Google be able to give me the answer?

Smart little buggers, they know I don’t know

They’re just trying to tell me they know that I’m slow

Even when they say “you can’t come to my party”

Ten seconds later they’ll still give you a Smartie

And though I know they’re naughty and full of kak*

I still think that mostly, kids really rock

P.S.  Theses are real things that have really been said. I shit you not, true story. From the mouth of babes…

* kak... afrikaans word for er...um.. nonsense

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g.o.f's

I think it’s time to talk GOFs, otherwise known as Grumpy Old Farts.  A major drawback of having kids is that it brings out the GOF in, what normally is, a “sweet old dear” (SOD).

You see, you don’t really notice GOFs before you’ve had kids. Its unlikely you’ll have had any major run-ins with a GOFs, as prior to the arrival of kids, we seem to be, well, not really on each other’s radars.  Kids are the catalyst for turning a SOD into a GOF, so consider yourselves warned.  

My first worst kind of GOF is the genius (normally found wafting round shopping malls) that mutters under their breath “that child needs a good hiding”.  Do they not see that you’re at your wits end? Can they not see you grinding away the enamel on your teeth? Can they not hear your silent prayer to any deity who’ll listen? Can’t they read by the very look on your face, that you’d dearly love to take harsh action but are trying desperately not to make a scene?  Surely experience has shown them that if you actually want to stop said kid crying/tantruming, whacking them is not the way to do it. Been there, done that, got the wailing-even-louder child. 

To make matters worse, said wailing-child is normally insisting on some hateful toy from the Crazy Store that will break exactly 30 seconds after you have left the shop.  You’re using your calm, serene, Waldorfy-mom voice, hoping like hell your child will see reason when all you really want to do is smash every shirty Chinese made toy in the store, so that you will never have to repeat this scenario again. And then the GOF pipes up.  You toy with water-pistol whipping them but only manage to muster up a deadly glare.

My second worst kind of GOF is the one that goes to restaurants that actually have a kiddie’s menu, and expect not to see or hear any children.  Um,  if that’s not enough, surely the wild-west theme is a big enough hint about who this restaurant is meant for? These are GOFs from the “children should be seen and not heard” era.  How to I explain to them that GOFs should neither be seen nor heard?  That although the sound of my kids may offend them, the very sight of them offends me. To the bone.  Strikes a cord of terror that I too, will look, hear (and in some nasty circumstances, smell) like them one day too.  

There should be warnings for GOFs in family restaurants.  Real live children. Will talk.  Will chatter.  Will bump your chair.  And GOFs should be handed a manual before leaving home.  Dining out 101:  Avoid restaurants that have kids menus dumbo.  Go to the Mount Nelson if you don’t want to see kids you bloody plonker.  You know, that kind of thing.  How do I diplomatically say to them that if you’re a GOF you’d better start looking cute (remember, you’re up against some very cute kids) and behaving quietly (like a sweet, SILENT, garden gnome) if you don’t want the living Zimmer frame kicked out from under you?

My real whinge with GOFs is that they are low on tolerance and high on advice.  If I can be tolerant for 6-8 hours of the day with my kids, GOF’s can suck it up for an hour or so. And if they can’t suck it up they need "Sweet Old Dear" off. And lastly, if they’re going to dispense with advice, they can make it … nah, on second thoughts, they can actually just shut up, I’m already doing the best that I can.

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er, what's with that, weirdo?

This was my week for remembering phrases to do with kids and families, that are nothing less than weird. The phrases are weird, not the kids and families.  Some of those are weird too though  It would seem that there aren’t any substitutes for these phrases, as they’ve stood the test of time (but not in a fuzzy Charles Glass kind of way, if you get my drift.)  Maybe they’re just such fun to say (not nearly as fun as swearwords, mind you) that we can’t hoof them from our repertoire.  

Put the baby down.  WTF!! Even me, the child-lover I am, thinks this is a truly atrocious phrase. I mean did it start off as some kind of a sick joke?  “I’m going to put the baby to sleep and if it doesn’t then I’m going to put it down”?  Maybe it started because, as we all know, you can’t technically PUT anyone to sleep (without the help of some kick-ass narcotics that is), especially not a baby.  It’s really not a funny phrase at all - we simply have to stop saying it.  Put the baby down. I ask you.  You put sick animals down for Pete’s sake!  Perhaps that’s why some poor parents stared rocking their babies.  Just so they could say “I’m going to rock the baby now”.  

Adult time. Um, if I follow the train of thought for phrases like Adult Movies, Adult Interests etc. doesn’t it follow that kids will (eventually) assume “Adult time” is associated with, like, “Adult” activities?  I think it’s high time we really called it what it really is - tired time - a much more accurate description.  Also, I really don’t want to field a thousand questions when they reach puberty and finally ask what the word “Adult” really means.  Consensual sex, window envelopes and mortgages.  

What do you think you’re doing?  Drawing on the couch you imbecile, what does it look like I’m doing?  If we really expected an honest answer we would never ask the question.  Though it would be refreshing.  I mean, just for a change.  Mostly, I get the cunning answer… “Nothing”.   You’re kidding you little shirt, you’re not doing “nothing” because it looks pretty much like you’ve drawn all over the sofa with an Artline pen.  What we should really be asking them is “So, where do you see yourself in 2 years time?  Boys Town?”

Do you want a smack?  Sure mom, I’d love one.  I mean it’s been at least 4 days since my last one and I just feel like I need one more hit, if you’ll excuse the pun.  The worst thing about this phrase is that although actions speak loader than words, the action doesn’t work at all.  Bugger it.

For crying out loud! Like there’s any other way that kids cry.  What would be the point, the whole point is to be loud and heard.  It’s not long before kids twig that “for crying out loud” really means “f..k it”. Actually, I see now that along with “for crying in a bucket”, this saying better stay.  We really can’t have cussing toddlers, after all.

For Pete’s sake!  Who is Pete and why does he have a sake?  I mean, I’m the mom and I don’t have any sake at all!     

Before I get totally carried away I’m going to “give me a break”.  Not a green stick break, not a fracture but a nice, fat coffee break.  On my own.  In the bathroom. With the door locked.

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children have strange powers...

We had house-guest’s this week and my house of 2 kids swelled to 6 kids.  Through the madness and mayhem, I was able to confirm one of my theories - that children are magic.  I thought it was just my kids, but it turns out that it’s all of the little buggers.  Just to make it clear, they’re not magic as in magical. Ryk Neethling is magical, deep fried Camembert with cranberries is magical and being able to sleep late is magical.  Nope, children’s magic is more a magic-mushrooms kind of magic.  As in oh crap, I’ve had enough of this trip and I want to get off.  

Take their toys for example.  Kid’s magic definitely rubs off on their toys.  I’ve just tidied up the cluttered kitchen table a.k.a general dumping ground for scrap that doesn’t belong to me.  All rescue helicopters, Formula 1 cars and bits of lego have been parked in their rightful bays when blow me down and bob my hair if they don’t reappear the moment I turn my back. Flaming shrimps!  It’s tidy-up déjà vu the whole dang day!  Ah, the table’s clean at last. Get milk out fridge and put it on table.  Whaaat?  I thought I just packed that car away?  Oh well, tidy-tidy, move-move, pack-pack.  Ah, the table’s clean at last. Go to loo. Come back from loo. Whaaat?  I thought I just… you get the idea. Mmm, Toy Story might be factual. Clearly, they walk among us.

Kid’s magic also extends to their ability to withstand extreme heat and extreme cold.  Me: for Pete’s sake, take your Ben Ten sweater off; it’s 32 degrees outside!  Offspring: No, I won’t! I’m not hot, I like it and I’m not sweatin’!  Me:  Get out of the pool, your lips are blue and you’re going to get sick. No! I’m not cold and I like my lips blue and I don’t care if I get sick.  (Ja right, you little ankle-biter, I’m strangely not in the mood to nurse your fever at 3am tomorrow morning - all night clubbing’s infinitely more restful.)  

They also have a very deceptive kind of magic where they are able to adopt alter egos whilst looking pretty much the same.  Traditional introductions like “I’m Hannah” go out the window.  Instead, they introduce themselves by their alias, which changes from moment to moment.  Hi, I’m hungry.  I’m thirsty. I’m cold.  I’m tired.  I’m bored. Er, I’m sick of this, pass me my whiskey.  

Their most impressive magic to date, involves illness.  One minute they’re playing a raucous game of pin-the-tail-on-your-brother-with-a-real-drawing-pin, and the next minute they’re puking all over the lounge. There’s no nausea lead up. No “I think I’ll just lie down and gather myself”.  This special illness magic means that they can resist symptoms till the very last moment, giving you no warning or time to reach for a bucket.   Pure genius.  And to think, adults actually try and avoid throwing up.  

Their last kind of magic, I figured out, is very scientific and relates to noise.  Turns out they can cook up noise from almost anything.  A bottle opener, a blade of grass and a bag of cotton wool are all equal instruments of noise.  What’s more, it seems the sum noise of 6 children is greater than the number of children themselves.  I never was good as science or I may already have known this. 

But enough about magic for now, I’m off to turn my iPod on full blast for a bit of peace and quiet.

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