1. Yesterday, a friend and I were discussing the perennially-intriguing question of How Many More Babies? (me: unsure, she: never again), and she said kindly”Well, you have lots of time still, you’re only 30.” I am 27.
2. Today, Miles wore his newish checky flannel shirt with moose, deer and bear printed on it. (Plurals!) At the supermarket a couple started whispering together and he finally said “Go on, ask her, you know you want to.” She approached and said “Where did you get that shirt?” and I said “I made it”, whereupon an electric guitar riffed briefly in the background and a shaft of light glinted off my gold front tooth. And after she’d finished being all “No!” and “D’aww!” and I’d been all “Thanks” and “Nice baby” (it was average, but diplomacy is a necessary part of fame), I took the children and the trolley and proudly trotted to the wrong end of the checkouts, where there was only a fire exit, and we had to slink shamefacedly back again without meeting their eye.
3. I’m on Facebook now. It’s not my fault. Half my blood relations vanished overseas, and despite spending the week before departure wailing how sad it was that I couldn’t come and how much they’d miss me, did I hear a peep from beyond the horizon? I did not. But they were putting photos galore up on Facebook. So you see my hand was forced. Also, Helpdesk Man got sick of me sneaking onto his computer to devour the angry political/theological posts from his million peculiar friends.
My feed is less engrossing, as I don’t have a million friends of any kind, and those I have are more wont to post things about cookery, placentas and indeed cooking placentas. I did consider friending some people I dislike just to spice things up, but the moment passed. Anyway, it is a more convenient place to post the nefarious sayings of the chillun, and as a result I have been neglecting my blog. (Let it all out; I will wait while you weep.)
4. I’m depressed again. Sort of. I’m still on the drugs and not on the ledge of a high-rise, so things aren’t exactly dire; I’m just at a low-grade level of moop which manifests in a lot of bleary web-surfing and generally impaired productivity. It’s annoying more than anything - I have Things to Do. The other night, when I was alone in a state of deep feh, I nearly powered through it with the thought “If you can’t be happy, be useful” and was all geared up to clean the fridge, but a sudden defense mechanism must have kicked in and I remembered I could have a bath instead. So I read a portion of “Last Chance to See” while soaking and felt much happier. The fridge is still dirty, though.
The pathetic part is, I have no earthly right to be depressed, because:
5. We’re going to Disneyland! I mean, we’re actually going. Money has changed hands. Tickets are booked. Passports are… well, we have a way to go on the passports. Still, things are officially Afoot. And the best part is, thanks to a certain friend online, we’re spending the actual Disneyland portion of the trip in the Grand Californian hotel! They have concierge service. Not that we’ll be getting concierge service; don’t really want concierge service, because as far as I can tell they only turn back your bedclothes for you, which I quite look forward to doing myself for the novelty of getting into a bed that’s actually been made; but the point is, we could have it if we wanted. Similar thoughts apply to the gym. And there’s a fancy pool, to which neither my swimming nor my legs will do justice; and a lobby of surpassing greatness. What does one actually do in a hotel lobby? In movies people mostly get shot at. Should be bracing.
My editor, on the virtue of an article I will be writing about the trip, is trying to get us free passes to a few things. This has gone to my head a little. I may have given her the contact details of not only Disneyland and Universal but also the Pantages, Medieval Times, the San Diego Zoo, Legoland and Knott’s Berry Farm. All in the cause of the fourth estate, naturally. What I really covet is entrance to Club 33, but even if they gave out press passes I doubt I could convince anyone that an article for a 0-5 parenting magazine was a worthy reason to sully the inner sanctum with my filthy descendants.
I am of course tremendously excited, in theory; but my current state of mind is focussing more on the flight, which unhelpfully starts at 6AM - which didn’t sound too bad until I realised it meant we’d have to be there at 3. With the children. At 3. In the morning. With the children. Maybe if I left the pigs unsupervised by the duty-free likker the trip would go more smoothly.
6. Have I mentioned our new chickens? We have three - Helvetica, Esther and Alegreya. The first two are mostly Orpington and Alegreya is mostly Rhode Island Red. They show the same lack of respect and penchant for the indoors as their departed sistren, but Alegreya lays lovely big eggs, and the presence of friends has done wonders for Wingdings’ mental health. She’s started laying again and no longer walks around backwards.
After the first few nights they rejected the hen-house, and now sleep perched on a shrub by the back door. They look cold, miserable and frequently wet, but who am I to judge? And it is fun to see dinner-guests start when they leave, as they realise they are being balefully regarded by four feathery fluff-balls at close quarters.
7. Miles, when presented with a friend’s baby to inspect: “Got cheeks.” *kiss* “Yummy baby.”
8. I sliced my thumb open on a staple in a pair of op-shop jeans while attempting to try them on. Blood everywhere.The lady gave me a Band-Aid, but not a discount.
9. Would you rather be granted good luck for the rest of your life with traffic lights or parking spaces?