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.

The Second Son

I have been asked many times: "Don't you have two boys?" It must seem to many that all my focus is on my oldest and his journey in the autism spectrum as I write about him so often. For days now, I have been trying to write this post about Boy 2, but I seem to get nowhere. Time and time again I have come back, but cannot find the phrases to do him justice.

How do I describe my second son? It is not an easy task to explain the complexities which make up my wonder child.

The Gods were generous when it came to my second son. Boy 2 is a child of true physical beauty, and many have been captivated by his long-lashed turquoise eyes, cheeky dimples and those luscious lips. Not to mention the cleft in his chin. His gorgeous looks also mean he has been allowed to get away with an awful lot in his short life.
From his earliest forays into the school world his teachers allowed themselves to be dazzled. I grew sick of hearing "Look at him, how could you chastise him, he is too cute..." when he had committed some atrocity (luckily usually minor).

Boy 2 both baffles and battles the teachers, and I freely admit can be quite a challenge to handle. But they all acknowledge the wealth of abilities my last born possesses. The school dance teacher pulled me aside many years back to tell me he had the most natural ability she had ever seen in her many years of dance, both professional and at the school. Oh, and that he needed to start lessons somewhere, anywhere. He refused. He point blank won't dance in front of any people other than his family, terrified he may be teased. Yet when So You Think You Can Dance is on he can mimic the moves so brilliantly...

Mind you, the very parts I adore - his dazzling mind, incredibly quick wit and smart mouth -  are also what get him into the most trouble (just like his mother). Last week his teacher told me how, when he was caught mucking up and was in trouble, he responded with: "Well, I am going to tell my MOTHER about this, and she WILL deal with you!" Luckily she was as amused as I was, and knew me well enough to know he was bluffing.

His intelligence and ability to grasp complex concepts means he has the potential to achieve so much. His concern over what others think of him and trying to fit in means he could so easily choose the wrong path. I worry more over him than I ever do about Boy 1. He breaks my heart at times with his adult mind in a young man's body. With the way his life weighs on him. After all, he bears witness to the brother he loves in the depths of despair. I think the dark side of Boy 1 is what has moulded Boy 2 into the class comedian. Wouldn't you learn how to make people laugh when a brother's tears are breaking your little heart?

Boy 2 loves to tell people he looks like his Dad, but is just like his Mum on the inside. A mini-me. I think he once overheard me telling an old mate of mine the same thing. He hadn't seen Boy 2 since he nearly three and was curious about my little man. Luckily Boy 2 could not hear the phone reply. Two minutes of dead silence after my "He's me in a boy's body", followed by a shell-shocked "Oh... FUCK!"

I guess words now fail me because I understand him too well. I almost know what he is thinking before he does, and how hard he can make this life if he is not careful. Of course I do, after all he is me...just in a small boy's body.

Challenge 29: A Very Festive Merry Madmother Christmas

Blog This

What does a Madmother view
as Festive?

Why, Mad Boys, of course!

               Christmas 2003

Christmas 2004

            









           Christmas 2005

Christmas 2006

That’s all folks! I have been forbidden to show the more recent ones due to Mad Boys’ desire for anonymity.

Merry Christmas to all!

Oh, and this is my entry for the Blog This Challenge 29: Photographic Challenge

"FESTIVE"

Just pick the photos you like best... Hehehe.

Oops, I meant Ho Ho Ho.

Feeling Mellow...

I have a friend. A beautiful friend. Well, she is one of my many beautiful friends, and I will get to all of you, but this one is about her. She dropped in unexpectedly early yesterday when we were all still clad in our smelly, sweaty pjs, unshowered, teeth and breath... well, urgh about sums it up.

She brought her daughter with her. I asked her in, pre-warning her of our unsanitory state. She came happily, warmly, smiling as she always does. Seeing her is like being wrapped in one of those balmy spring breezes, refreshing yet so lovely and warm. I am very grateful for her being in my life. I mean, let's face it - I am high maintenance at times! But she is gentle, calm and understanding, even as she is shaking her head and uttering "Oh, Madmother!"

What was lovely yesterday was watching her child and mine playing together. Her daughter is also gentle, quiet, but with an inner strength like her mother (though she would deny that trait). At times she is almost other worldly. Not in a vague, disoriented way, but almost like Boy 1. Off on a higher plane with imagination roaring, slaying the bad, embracing the good.

The two of them went off into the kid haven and were playing eye toy on the PS2. I knew her Mother was a little worried about the boy/girl dynamics, and the roughness of some, but Boy 1 is not at all like that. We walked into the room to watch them just prior to the departure. Boy 1 was telling Dragon girl (her daughter) how great she doing for a beginner, how much better than he was when he started she is, and lots of lovely positive stuff. It was beautiful to watch. Friendship. Uncomplicated, straight down the line, friendship.

*Sigh*. What a wonderful morning, even if I was self-conscious about my odour.

Did I Happen to Mention

...that I have an addictive personality? Oh, I didn't? Well, I do. So now, after completing my first challenge from Blog This I am tapping fingers, jigging my right leg and trying to control the twitch above my left eye as I count off the days to the next. I am addicted. It is really not a bad thing. I had lost a lot of my natural Tigger bounce where writing was concerned, become disillusioned with my lack of ability and in serious danger of giving it all up.

Big Boy (DH) was worried, really worried. He knows story words flow through my brain in a constant stream begging to be written and as he has to live with me and my verbal diarrhoea... Well, lets just say he had visions of being drowned under words if my other outlet ceased. So, for my enthusiasm to be revived by joining this site has made more than just me happy, in fact the whole Madmother household is breathing a very loud sigh of relief and there have even been a few loud "OH YEAH!" and high fives.

Boy 2 is especially happy, he is the mini-me, even down to his dream of writing. He wrote a series of stories in Preschool. Yes, you are not mis-reading: PRESCHOOL. Okay, to be completely clear on this, he did not actually do the writing (cudos to Mrs Rose). He dictated, very precisely (and was quite the temperamental little author if even a syllable was altered) every word, drew all illustrations, and followed true to the end, his theme or central storyline. The Johnny series. Twelve in all. Since then he has written plays (two of which he and Boy 1 have performed in the school talent quest), poems, and now even a song. Not too shabby a CV for a ten year old.

Thus, if his Madmother had deserted the written word, his heart would have broken. Okay, I exaggerate, but it would have been severely bruised because he believes his old Mum can do anything and truly is of the conviction that it is only a matter of time before publishers knock on our door for both of us.

Oh dear. I seem to have rambled off the point once again. Just chalk it down to getting to know me and the fact I am battling an affliction at the moment. The common cold. Yes, on hot sweaty days I am even more hot and sweaty due to these temperatures my body is using to fight this bug. Oops, there I go again. Now, where were we? Oh, yes, getting back on topic.

Blog. This. Challenges. During my happy manic phase I am positive I could roll off a blog a day. Of course, during my low or stressed period it would drop to a blog a month if I was lucky. And in one week of the cycle I would be perfectly capable of polishing off a whole murder thriller including a body. If you get my drift.

Sorry, bit gruesome though I would think a few women out there can relate.

Now, how do I know I have an addictive personality? The most recent example I can give (other than my quick entry into the challenge) is on Facebook. Boy 1 and Boy 2 have been desperately lobbying to sign up as a lot of their mates are on it. After much heated discourse, and many set in stone guidelines we agreed. Mainly they wanted to play The Games. You know the ones: Cafe World, Yoville, Farmtown, I could go on and on. So I, in my wisdom, after managing to avoid these applications despite much intense lobbying from so-called friends, decided to monitor by playing too. I am now on level 21 in Cafe World. After a bit over a week. Oops. I did mention my addictive personality, didn't I? Yeah, well. Hang on a minute, I'll be right back, just have to serve some French Onion Soup.

No - not that sort, THIS sort:

See what I mean?

ADDICTED!

Must dash. Boy 2 has been waiting for a little to be picked up from a mate's house. See, even my adored children fade into the back of my mind when my obsessive side takes over. But before I go, a little more self-indulgence...

Had I lost you all? Bored you to tears with my rambling? Probably. But one thing I know for certain,

Madmother is BACK!

I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all.

~Richard Wright, American Hunger, 1977~

Camp Revelations

Son no. 2

We have just returned from a 3 day/2 night camp stay with the Grade 4s and 5s. A wonderful year for me to go (DH went last year) as it is the first time both my sons have been on the same camp and this will not occur again until 2011. It has been a great learning experience for all. I am proud of both my children, they stepped up to the challenges and coped with it all admirably. Bar a few meltdowns/temper tantrums, I won't dob on who did what but I am sure you can work it out if you have read my blog previously.

I relished watching the behaviour of adults and children alike, free from the shackles of parental expectations and schoolground restrictions. The kids you least expected to cope appeared to blossom and mature, taking on roles never seen before. Others, well, lets just say I hope the parents read the letters they were forced to write to explain their behaviour, and have a little chat, though even their transgressions were minor (unforunately it was the denial and not accepting responsibility for their choices which was far more disappointing).

Son no. 1

Okay, I lied, I am going to dob on who did what...

My oldest has a bug phobia and a tick allergy, so attending a bush/farmstay camp in the middle of nowhere was always going to pose issues but he pushed his limitations and expanded his world far beyond my wildest dreams or expecations. I am so proud of him I could burst. Though we had a lot of screaming terror over March flies, wasps and ticks, he managed to rein it in pretty quickly and participated in nearly every activity.

Son no. 2 coped well, as expected, but by midday on the final day he lost it over having to wait his turn for food. He was not alone in that session, we had three incidents in fifteen minutes as most had reached the limit of their patience. Tired, hot, and with very little sleep, little tempers frayed then broke. We also had many in tears on that last day.

But it was so much fun! Even for this oldie!

Irrational

I am sitting here, sobbing my eyes out after watching a comedy: The Boat That Rocked. The boat sank and they were alone. I am alone.

Irrational, I know, but right now in the dark, lonely place I lurk, it is entirely logical to me. I give friendship easily, I love to envelope, nurture, hold, feel. Trust is slower. Trust is deeper. So when not once, but twice it is hurled back into my face as ME betraying them, it hurts. I NEVER, even after someone cuts me to the heart, will betray their trust. It is not the way I work. But I hate it.

I hate the paranoia it creates, I hate the lying, the games, the way I question EVERYTHING in my life. And at this point, I am so scared if what is happening to me is serious, I hate the way the people who were meant to be there for my kids will let them down the way they have let me down, and will shape them.

Oh God, my oldest has come so far, I want him to have the emotional, nuturing, mummy parachute that maybe I will not provide. I am probably being stupid. But know that people who are supposedly friends in my life do not believe that the test results show nothing and yet I throw up blood. But both my children and my husband have witnessed it. Fuck. Maybe I am the internal Jesus. I so wanted it to be an ulcer. I want answers.

Dear God, why do they not see?

I am always the strong one for them - do they not see my Achilles heel? I hate people sometimes.

The Midnight Hour

Hush little one

The midnight hour approaches

Out comes ghouls and corpses

Covered in roaches

Crawling the earth

Without a sound

Hush otherwise

You are going down

Little one, it's almost over

Here comes a dead security guard

Little one you will find it hard

When you see an egyptian mummy

Now next time you will be,

Before you know it, a zombie!

Not quite 10 years old, I don't know where he gets his warped intelligence from. Okay, so I was a weird kid too.