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He’s happy enough to keep pretending and playing this community role-playing “Santa” thing, but he’s adament he doesn’t believe it really. But he’s still not sure where the presents come from.

It doesn’t seem to have occurred to him for a second that it might be his tightarse parents who actually shell out for lego.

Why no, I don’t know why he’s talking about it in May.

He writes his letters with serifs. Pointy serifs that could take someone’s eye out.

F with serifs

He writes and writes and writes, copying everything he can lay his hands on, he picks out letters he recognises. He delivers the mail to us and knows who the letters are for. All these words make my heart sing. What is motherhood if not a licence to use and abuse a corny cliche?

Copying letters from the Aunty Cookie ABC panel

It was so kind of you to address your first blog post in two years to me personally. I’ve been smiling all morning since I read it. And feeling a bit old. Feel free to take responsibility for the smiles and I’ll take full responsibility for the old thing.

Anyway, it was great to read about your travel plans, and I thought, well, if Gareth can get his act together to blog after two years I can update the world on the goings on here. I’ve been letting the blog go a bit. It needs weeding and watering. And content.

Ahem. We celebrated the kid’s birthday a bit early to make sure he got his moment in the sun before everyone started talking about Christmas.

He requested an Old Macdonald Had A Farm cake. My oldest friends spent their Saturday night making marzipan animals and a tractor. I slathered the green food colouring around.

Having realised that his knees were hitting the handlebars on the trike he was given last year we decided to get him a two wheeler bike. He unwrapped the helmet first and said “it’s a helmet for riding a two wheeler, you could go to the shop and borrow a bike for me to ride”. So it turns out we overspent, because he would have been ok with just borrowing a bike every now and then. He was speechless when he unwrapped the bike, and now i understand why my grandpa enjoyed Christmas so much. Being able to give your kids something they didn’t even dare dream about is so cool.

We’ve been getting ready for Christmas. The Bloke’s family will be here Christmas Day, we’re looking forward to it and trying to work out how many extra glasses and chairs we have to borrow. I found a bunch of new plates and bowls in the local oppies and they’ve all had a run in the new (to us) dishwasher. We inherited a dishwasher. Let’s not talk about how exciting that is because it’s one of those things that contributes to feeling old. The kid has enjoyed Christmasses past, but this one is the first he’s able to anticipate and get excited about before the actual day. He’s figuring out who Santa is, and that there’ll be presents and a party and “all my friends will be there”.* The Bloke and I, atheist and apathetic about Christmas for so many years, find ourselves enjoying the making of decorations, the purchasing of presents (and getting competitive about which of us has found the Best Present) and we even bought a tree.

Our excitement hasn’t made us completely loopy, when I say “bought a tree” I mean “went to Diggers and purchased a small olive tree”. Dammit I’m not spending money on a tree that doesn’t produce edibles. Our olive tree is still very small, the kid helped pot it up and made lots of appropriate oo-ing and ah-ing noises about the decorations. The tree itself isn’t sturdy enough yet to hold up all those decorations by itself so we’ve enlisted the help of the Macquarie Dictionary.

The kid has also learned to pose for photos. The elbow on the heater cracks me up. How does he even know to reference all those Gentleman leaning on fireplaces in grand houses?

* Which is to say “my grandparents, my cousins, any aunty who brings treats (all of them) and Uncle D who has a boat and is therefore the coolest of cool”

The kid came home from daycare with a colouring in of Santa last week, I asked him who it was, he said “I dunno, um, Santa”. Then he wanted to know more about Santa, so I explained.

“So I will see Santa at Christmas?”
“No, he’ll come when you’re asleep and be gone before you wake up”

And the look on his face said “So I totally don’t have to bother remembering his name”.

I found the camera briefly, and got the photos on the puter, and now it’s lost again. It’s not the only important item suffering the lost, found, lost, found fate.

I found the ring I had thought was gone forever in Adelaide. I had tried to be relaxed about it and think about how it’s just an object, and life is bigger than that, yada yada. But I was feeling rather sooky about it anyway and now it’s much better. In other happy news I’ve finished a few things, some pants for the kid, a summer handbag for me (except for the button, which I’ve lost), the neice’s doll quilt (18 months late), and the Bloke’s quilt (more than two years late).


I like to think of myself as a person who isn’t very attached to objects and things and stuff. But I am. Most of us are. Moving is rather confronting in that regard. I’ve tossed and donated and garage saled and recycled and yet there are carloads and carloads and truckloads of things. We had to drive around yesterday looking for charity bins. Most of the ones we found were nearly full, so we’d get rid of one bag, then drive to the next one and repeat the process. Five bins later there was room in the car to collect the lad from Nanna’s. Christmas usually makes me feel ready to become a Minimalist and toss everything as I become swamped by all the new stuff. Moving house has the same effect. Having both at the same time makes me want to join a monastic order.

We had a quick dinner with friends last night, the kids hit the wall around 7pm, and the adults weren’t far behind. I was awake for the children’s fireworks, but I had been in my jarmies for some time. We saw in the new year in bed, surrounded by bags and boxes, unless of course the bags and boxes get up and move when the people go to sleep. We were woken by a drunk couple arguing outside our house at some stage, but it didn’t last long enough for me to get up and offer relationship advice (go home, sleep, and talk about it when you’ve sobered up). We got up this morning and walked into the city to find the Bloke some new jeans (same as the old ones, but without holes, they’re on sale at the moment) and the kid a few necessaries. If you have to hit the big yucky shops for post-Christmas sale prices, first thing in the morning on New Year’s Day is the time to do it. FYI: Hudsons coffee will be the only place open and they do now serve organic fairtrade coffee, but the staff may be too tired and hungover to notice you asking for it. I’m not really sure what I got, except that it was in a paper cup (which you get even if you’re drinking instore).

In other news, I’m now old enough that cabinet papers from the year of my birth are so old they are no longer secret. The new house, incidentally, is roughly the same vintage.


Last inner city curry on Sunday night. First country living beers (and soup from Nanna) on Monday. We’ve even got the new internet working (albeit slower than the current connection).

Packing books, chucking things, booking removalist, or finding camera so I can blog the new house?

Christmas is almost done. Christmas event number four is tomorrow. I’d show you the haul, but the camera, she is somewhere under piles of wrapping.

The short version is that I got some new art, the Bloke got some new art, and the kid has 35 new Matchbox cars/trucks/utes and one rather large and noisy bulldozer next to an old doll’s house with lovely new wooden furniture. He also insisted that I should paint his “males” on Christmas morning. Far be it from me to tell a male he can’t have a mani & pedi on a special occasion.

Also, the new house has brown velvet curtains in the living room, which will co-ordinate nicely with the loungesuit* lounge suite, and there are orange tiles in the kitchen. I’m planning to measure up the garden for a truckload of compost when we pop in there tomorrow morning before Christmas.

* Blogging while a little weary can lead to telling the world that you have a brown velvet loungesuit. Oh that it were true.

I know I said this last year, but I promise, next year your birthday present wont have Christmas wrapping,
love Mum

But not prayin’. Because we’re not the prayin’ kind. We’re not above beggin’, though it wasn’t in the song. We applied for a house last week, and we’d really quite like to get it. The agent will be ringin’ back today.

In the meantime, there’s knittin’ and sewin’ and wrappin’, and showing that we care, etc.


I finished a sock on the bus & train back from Carrum yesterday. The kid enjoyed the first of our family Christmases, especially the splashing and jumping in the water, although the train and bus trip there was also pretty exciting. He loved his pres-pres and I had to disappear them before childcare this morning to ensure he wouldn’t try to take them with him. He got a Beetle!


and a Dumb Fuck!


So, should we unpack the Christmas decorations, or for the third time in my life, will I be moving house the week before Christmas?

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