Blog This: Challenge 34 HEY, YOU!

What would you tell yourself? Would you give advice? What advice would that be? Ask about your perception of the world? Give us an idea of who you think you were or who you think you'll be in the future...

Blog This: Challenge 34 If I met my Younger Self...

My late teens and twenties, even thirties were great. I worked hard and played harder. I had a lot of good friends and quite a few great ones. A few of those still hover in my life today (thanks Facebook).

But to the child I was in the 1970's I would say the following:

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  Don't sweat the small stuff, life will throw some really big stuff at you and the small stuff is so unimportant.
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  Tell your family, especially your sister, what they mean to you. The lesson you learn about how fleeting life is will come too late to amend this.
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  Fight for your dreams, they are worth it.
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  Enjoy being a child, being an adult is really hard.
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  The people who are worth it will always be so, the ones who treat you badly may well grow up to be wonderful people, so don't write them off forever either.
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  Be proud of who you are, you are an incredible person in your own right. 

That's it.

Confessions of a Childhood Minx

Aussie Waffler's recent post on the things her children have attempted to pull off has inspired me to reminisce a touch on my childhood adventures. I was on the surface a really good kid, so sugary sweet that one of the many nicknames my older sister used to use was goodytwoshoes (yes, you have to snarl it out really fast like one word). But what my sister and my parents didn't know was that lurking beneath was the heart of a sinner. And a very clever one at that.

It is the usual story, I had a willing partner in crime in the form of the boy next door. We lived next to a private hospital, he was the matron's son. We were best friends, inseparable until the day he moved when we were six or seven.

Poor boy, on the rare instances we were caught out he was the one who copped the blame. And good mate that he was, he never crumbled under pressure nor dobbed. Not even when getting a full on spanking (yes, that was perfectly acceptable back forty odd years ago).

We weren't truly evil, just adventurous and spirited. And I guess in my case, a little too curious and imaginative, or is the term creative more appropriate?

Like the time I decided we were going to be superheroes and jump from our front verandah railing OVER the concrete garden edging to land safely on the spongey lawn. A little sample of our flying super-abilities. Of course, I was not going first, oh no. I was the brainiac who had dreamt up the idea, it was up to him to lead by example. So up we climb, I do the countdown (always gotta be a countdown), ten...nine...eight...seven..."Do you think we should MC (madchild)?" "What are you a chicken?" "Nooo, I'm not a chicken!" ...six...five...four..."It was your idea, maybe you should go first?" "It was my idea, so YOU have to go first! Do I have to do everything?"...three...two...one...

At this point he hesitates so I give him a little push to help launch him over the garden.

*SPLAT* Faceplants straight onto concrete edge. Blood splatters in vibrant streaks across Wise Woman's gladioli as his nose erupts volcaneously. He runs screaming next door to the Matron.

Of course, I then climbed down. No way was I going to be stupid enough to repeat that test of flight. Not after the big failure to launch he had managed!

And no, he didn't dob.

Then there was the big campfire debacle. I was obsessed with fire when I was young. To be honest, so was he. And so one day we decided to build ourselves a little campfire. Underneath the old timber hospital. Now the hospital was an old hardwood construction, about 3/4 of a metre off the dusty ground, and surrounded by a yew hedge. We had many meetings and played lots of games under there, hidden away from prying eyes. It was our secret hideaway. Sorta like a clubhouse but without the walls.

Anyway, this day we decided to add a bit of spark to the old place. So we dug a small pit by hand, placed some largish rocks around the edge, put in screwed up old newspapers, and threw on some dry twigs and smaller pieces of wood I had surreptitously gathered from our wood pile. Quite a pile when it was all combined. We then lit it with my Dad's matches.

Woof - up she went. We quickly realised our error in judgement and like the children we were, panicked. Attempts at throwing dirt on failed to quell the raging inferno, though the flames did dim a little. By now the floor was showing huge scorch marks, and we could hear the staff starting to yell "FIRE!" So we did what all terrified culprits do. We ran.

The fire station was only a block away, and the engines arrived quickly. By this time we joined the onlookers, scrubbed clean of soot and dust. Thankfully the smoke in the air masked the stench of our clothes. And the bottom of the floorboards were only scorched. It could have been so much worse. But it is only after the fact a pair of six year olds even think of those things.

Now, I could go into the rotten egg planting escapade, or the toilet incident, but I think you have read enough to get the idea.


Boy 1 and Boy 2 have no hope of ever getting away with any misdemeanours, unbenownt to them they have the master of all mischief in their midst...

Oh, and Wise Woman has never learnt why from such a young age I renamed those flowers of hers.... Bloodioli.