A Luau Party

Aloha!

Last weekend we channeled our inner hula-hula and threw a luau for Francesca's third birthday party.

We hadn't held a party for her before because, well, who wants to throw a party where the guest of honour is likely to face plant in the cake (one year olds) or snatch things out of the hands of party guests shouting "MINE", leaving a trail of wailing toddlers and distraught parents in their wake (two year olds).

At the age of three, the manners are a little more civilised (although 'civilised' is perhaps too strong a word) and children seem to cope a lot better with copious amounts of sugar, gift mania and adrenalin.

Sort of.

It is also the age where children seem to 'get it'. Francesca couldn't remember her previous birthdays so everything was new and magical and filled with wonder.

On the morning of her birthday, she kept thanking us. Check out this video of her opening her first present. I love Jack's sense of occasion and suspense, and of course he's absolutely gagging to help her (she finally gives him permission, bless)

The day of the luau dawned bright and sunny. I woke up with the birds at 5am and, despite willing myself to go back to sleep, the fun of hanging pom poms and sticking fruit into a pineapple was too inviting so I got up and began preparations. And no, I'm not being sarcastic. Whilst playing endless games of 'shops' and pushing the swing 42,000 times a day makes me want to throw my pretend cappuccino at the pretend wall of the pretend cafe, I love organising my kids birthday parties.

I shamelessly nicked the idea of a luau from Kelle Hampton, the queen of kids parties, and I'm so glad I did. It was not only the perfect theme for little kids on a warm summer's day, but it was relatively easy and inexpensive to prepare. Kelle puts enormous effort into her parties, but I knew I would have to take a few shortcuts, so I tweaked the theme to suit me and added a few little ideas of my own. Please feel free to go ahead and perpetuate the nicking of this kids party idea!

It was very considerate of our hibiscus trees to bloom just before the party

What's a luau without a paper umbrella?

Leis waiting at the entrance for guests to don on their way in

Utilising some of my old hospitality skills (fan napkins were all the rage in the 90s I'm telling you!)

Strings of pom poms ($2.50 from the local discount store) prettied up the old gazebo roof

The good ol' Kmart clam shell filled with water and frangipanis made a gorgeous tropical pool (which filled with dirt and grass within ten minutes!)

Polkadot cups awaiting a pina colada non-alcoholic punch

I decided not to run any games. I'm still scarred by Jack's 5th birthday party when every kid made off with their lolly after unwrapping their paper from Pass The Parcel, until only two little kids were left passing the pathetic little parcel between them and looking utterly miserable and lonely.

I think small children, who, let's face it, still aren't fully socialised, are happiest when they can wander around doing their own thing so I set up two little craft stations.

The biscuit decorating table was very popular. Store bought cookies (one of those shortcuts I mentioned - I really was planning to make my own!), choc chips, sprinkles and icing in tubes - surprisingly little mess!

I love the concentration on this little one's face

This craft table held thin foam dolls with cutout clothes which had sticky, peel-off backs (K-mart).

We also had a small jumping castle that a friend generously lent to us (thanks Mick and Tina), and the trampoline was still a big hit.

Of course, it wasn't long before the kids discovered the two clam shell pools and the pretty party clothes were peeled off. One little boy got all his gear off and ran around quite happily starkers, yahooing and whooping it up around the backyard, no doubt amped up on the goodies on the biscuit decorating station. Can't wait to go to his 21st!

Then it was time for food! We served ham sandwiches and sprinkle sandwiches cut into shapes using cookie cutters, mini hot dogs, popcorn, fruit from Mr Pineapple Head and, in a nod to our ongoing love affair with all things Peppa Pig, some Peppa cookies (thank you Coles).

It was just gorgeous seeing all those sweet children tuck in to their party food, squealing & chatting by turns, and being gently guided by their mamas to try the fruit. And of course, there was our girl at the head of the table with her two jaunty pigtails and a perfect plumber's crack.

It makes me laugh, but also feel secure in the knowledge that these same little girls will be acting as each other's wing-women at parties in the future, making sure that no one leaves the house with too much boob showing or their skirt tucked into their knickers or, indeed, a plumber's crack. They'll remind each other not to accept drinks from strangers, to make sure no one goes home alone and they won't care if no boys ask them to dance - they'll tear up the dance floor together and laugh till their mascara runs down their beautiful faces.

A huge, massive, very big thankyou to our friend Riley who is just finishing Year 11 and still found the time to make this perfect Peppa Pig cake. Honestly, it blew me away! Sooo much better than what I had planned to make in my head.

Well that's about it for Francesca's Luau Wrap-Up. I'll leave you with a picture of a clucky looking John and a very contented little 10 month old Lucy in his arms at the party. He does have a way with babies. They love him. (And before you ask, the answer is no, we are too old, but yes, we are looking forward to grandchildren and yes, we will be laughing tears of relief as we hand them back.)

"Thank you everyone!"

A very big shout out to my wonderful blend-daughter (we're trying to come up with fun ways of not saying 'step-daughter'!) Christianne and her gorgeous flatmate Gemma for keeping the backend machinery of the party rolling and topping up the champers & guava in the mummys' glasses!

In case you're interested, I also created a playlist on the iPod for our Luau. I've been playing it as my office music ever since. Loving it!

Here tis:

1. Little Brown Gal - Maile Serenaders
2. Island of Lost Souls - Blondie
3. Over The Rainbow - Israel Kamakawiwo'ole
4. Under The Boardwalk - Rolling Stones
5. Surfin' Safari - Beach Boys
6. Roar - Katy Perry
7. The Girl From Ipanema - Stan Getz & Astrud Gilberto
8. Surfin' USA - Beach Boys
9. Better Together - Jack Johnson
10. Limbo Rock - Chubby Checker
11. Kokomo - Beach Boys
12. Yellow Bird - Chris Isaak
13. The Tide Is High - Blondie
14. Rock-A-Hula - Elvis
15. Summer Nights - John Travolta & Olivia Newton-John

All The Little Effers

I know, I know . . . I've been so quiet with the writing. Do you want my excuses? No? Well here they are anyway. Skip the next paragraph or two if excuses bring out the finger-wagging school teacher in you.

Our other business has been ridiculously busy which, after ten years of trading, we're pretty happy about. Like the birds flying south for the summer, we've been migrating both our website and our accounting over to new (hopefully better!) systems.*

However, unlike the dozens of dead migratory birds we've found washed up on the beach lately (too tired to keep going apparently - I know how they feel!), our whole flock of data has successfully migrated across and I can stop waking up at 3am shouting things like "The CSV file needs to be sorted by Column B!" and "Stop! Don't enter pre-1 July orders!!"

And then also, um, life. She's got her busy bottom on. Big client projects, rugby trips away, a new extra-curricular routine involving hapkido and piano, SOS calls from friends and, of course, these are the Big Birthday Months for our family. You want lots of crazy summer sex, people? You need to suffer the consequences of birthday burnout in September/October as all those little summer conceptions turn into actual people who expect presents and parties and cakes in the shape of popular animated characters for the rest of your life. Consider yourself warned.

But then, those little people do keep us entertained do they not? Francesca, for example, is at the perfect age for linguistic faux pas.

She now recognises the letter 'F' as the letter her name starts with. Whenever she sees an 'F' in a sign or a headline, she says 'Look Mummy, there's my F'. Which is all fine and good and isn't she clever? But when she sees an 'M', she also says 'Look Mummy, there's your F', upon which I correct her and say 'No darling, that's my letter, not my F.' I guess it shouldn't have come as a surprise when she accidentally dropped an alphabet puzzle last week and exclaimed "Oh no, I dropped all the little effers!" Cue snorts of laughter from surrounding adults.

As if the alphabet wasn't hard enough to master, there's all that tricky alliteration to get your tongue around.

The offending chicken with the salty skin

I roast a chook once a week, rubbing lots of salt into the skin, and the kids and I eat it, hot and sizzling, straight out of the oven. A few weeks ago, we were sitting around the kitchen table with chicken juice running down our fingers, and Jack announced that he loved the salty skin. Of course, little Miss-Contrary in one of the moods that makes me quake in fear in anticipation of her teenage years, announced loudly "I don't like sulky kin". And because it's fair sport in this house to make the toddler repeat her most hilarious mispronunciations for our own comedic pleasure, I asked 'What did you say sweetheart?'

'I don't like skulky sin!'

So there you have it. Sulky kin and skulky sin. Be warned suitors of the future who may wish to woo our girl, she simply won't stand for your grumpy relatives or crimes of a cowardly nature. And if you rub too much salt into the chook, then God save you young man!




*Business Catalyst for the website and Xero for the accounting in case, like me, you have a nerdy interest in these things.

The Sympathy Gene

"Honey, talk to the hand . . ."

Is there a sympathy gene? If so, I think I may be missing it. I also think my daughter may have inherited the lack of a sympathy gene from me.

Last week, I got up too quickly from my desk and banged my knee on the edge of the desk. And not just any old bang, but the father, son and holy spirit of all bangs! The dead centre of my patella struck the sharp corner at full speed. I found myself sprawled on the floor clutching my knee with tears in my eyes and trying to breathe deeply in and out through the pain. I went straight into calm birth mode but without the, y'know, HIDEOUSLY PAINFUL ACT OF GIVING BIRTH.

Francesca, who had observed the whole thing, had perched herself on the chair I had so recently and dramatically vacated. As a little involuntary sob escaped my lips she peered down imperiously at me from on high and said "Well don't cry about it. Just get up mummy. You're fine."

What?!

So here's the thing. I make a really concerted effort to show sympathy when my children hurt themselves. I hug them, say things like "Ooooh, that must have hurt darling" or "Naughty chair/step/table/corner", and distract them with teddies, stickers, television, food or whatever comes to hand. (Yeah, yeah, food as comfort. Sosueme)

But my poor beleaguered husband is a different matter. Let's just say I am sympathetic to a point. The point being just shy of 'man cold' accusations, and a damn long way from "Oh you poor darling. Let me give you a massage, then get into bed and I'll make you some chicken soup from scratch."

I may even have uttered the words "Well don't cry about it. Just get up. You're fine" under my breath as John battled some awful lurgy. A certain toddler, her sharp ears unsullied by Bruce Springsteen concerts, blue light discos and Like A Prayer at MAXIMUM VOLUME on the Walkman, appears to have stored those phrases for later use.

As I hobbled to my feet under the disinterested gaze of my daughter, my tears turned into gobsmacked laughter and as I looked at her I thought, good grief, she's a mini-me. And like me, she reserves her sympathy for her children. Pink Teddy, Tiger, Baby and all her other imaginatively named 'children' receive warm cuddles and "Don't worry, I love you's" from her every day (despite the fact that most of their injuries are inadvertently inflicted on them by their loving mother). Her sister's dog was sung Oh Darling by the Beatles on rotation by way of a lullaby last month. The dog!

The next day, Francesca accidentally knocked my freshly made, unsipped, much anticipated smoothie onto the kitchen floor. With the smoothie still all over the floor, I quickly grabbed my phone and asked her to repeat what she said:


By now of course it was a bit of a joke, but please note the steely gaze beneath the cute exterior when I ask her to repeat what she said. If her handwriting is crappy too, she's going to make a hellava doctor.*


* No offence to doctors, most of whom are brilliant, warm, engaging people, but we've all had the doctor with the unaccountably shite bedside manner, yes? I'm talking to you, unknown doctor, who after inspecting my friend's ankle x-rays insisted she walk through the hospital with a huffy "it's not broken!" It was later discovered she had severe ligament damage. She was in a lot of pain. She was also sitting in a wheelchair, which I could have wheeled her in. Naughty doctor.

Sydney's Public Transport - I Thank You

Today is one of those days when it seems inconceivable that I was swimming in the ocean a mere eleven days ago. Winter has sprung in formerly-sunny-Sydney. The ocean is fifty shades of grey-green,  big white marshmallow clouds are galloping across the sky and the ugg boots have come out to play.

Just a word on ugg boots . . . my neighbour Jo just popped in to invite us to a shindig at their place on Saturday night. She was wearing ugg boots. I was wearing ugg boots. The dress code for their party is ugg boots. Because that's the way we classy Collaroy chicks roll. Woo! We do, however, draw the line at cardy-chardy cask wine you'll be relieved to know. We drink from BOTTLES!!

However, I didn't plan to write about ugg boots. Not to say that I couldn't write a whole post on ugg boots. I have a few good ugg boot stories. They aren't all pretty, but then, neither are ugg boots. All I will say is that black ugg boots may look good, but they ARE NOT GOOD. Subject closed.

Anyhoo . . .

We were forewarned by the weather bureau that this miserable cold wet weather was going to set in, so on Tuesday I decided to take advantage of the last sunny day of our rapidly diminishing Indian summer and take Francesca on some public transport.

This was not her first adventure on public transport. She went on a bus with our friend Philippa last year. And only last week, I took her on a train ride from North Sydney to Waverton, an impressive distance of one station north. AND BACK!

Right about now, those of you who don't have children or who are too old to remember what it's like to have many, many, many, many long, long, long, long hours in a day to find ways to entertain a toddler, are thinking that I am a miserly cheapskate with no imagination. Public transport as entertainment? Am I mad?

But those of you with pre-school children are nodding and chuckling and throwing back another glass of wine (from a BOTTLE I hope, you classy reader you!) in acknowledgement. Public transport as a form of pre-schooler amusement, is absolute gold!

It's new! It's exciting! It's time-consuming! It's cheap! And to a small child, it's like a fabulous dream come true in which every appealing, lovable, highly merchandised form of transport has crossed over into real life. Thomas! Chuggington! Cars! Who is that blowing the whistle? OMG, IT MUST BE THE FAT CONTROLLER!!! (cue toddler swoon).

On Tuesday it was time to try the big kahuna of Sydney's public transport system - the ferry. Whenever we cross Spit Bridge, Francesca points out the window and yells excitedly "Look Mummy, BOATS!!" Fortunately, we live in a city where it is very easy to fulfill a toddler's boat riding dreams. For the price of a movie ticket, we were able to jump on the Manly ferry for the half hour ride to Circular Quay and oh my, it was every bit as exciting as it promised to be.

All the way to Manly in the car, Francesca was talking about the boat and how it was going to be a yellow boat. THANK YOU Sydney Transport for painting your boats yellow. Mind you, Francesca's grasp of colours is not all that great. The ferries could be painted in purple and orange stripes and I'm pretty sure I could have sold her on the fact they were definitely yellow.

Thank you Sydney Transport for painting your boats yellow

The journey across the harbour was terribly eventful, what will all that going inside, going outside, going inside, going outside business. To the lady trying to read her novel just inside the door, who lost her place every time we opened the door to a blast of wind, sorry. I'm glad you moved. Eventually.

The 'outside' bit

The 'inside' bit

Even though we didn't need a reason to go to the city because, hellooo, BOAT!!!, we decided it would be fun to do something once we got there and arranged to catch up with my gorgeous friend Clare, who works in a vault somewhere under Castlereagh Street. Under all that Chanel couture and Mont Blanc pennery (new word!) is a vault where the Jason Bournes of Sydney can store all their alias passports, fake moustaches and fifty kinds of currency in private safety deposit boxes.

After inspecting the vault, we decided to go for coffee and cake.

And that's where the excitement of the BOAT!!! came back to bite me. Because everyone knows that too much excitement in a tiny body can cause a subsequent meltdown.

We went to a fancy cafe on the fancy level of Westfield (Jones the Grocer) where the cakes looked like works of art and the olive oil was backlit. We sank onto the leather banquette ready for a good catch-up chat only to have Francesca proceed to whine and not dine. She didn't touch her layered babycino, and spat out the jam filled cake she had determinedly chosen. Oh, it was painful. Clare laughed it off and, because she not only remembers the toddler years but is also like a sister, didn't hold it against me. She didn't give me the pained look that says "This is why I'll never have another baby." She just said it. "This is why I'll never have another baby." God love her. Obviously I agreed. She will probably look at me the same way in 13 years, with the pity of a woman who has survived three teenaged girls.

Then Clare did what all good aunties do . . . took Francesca next door to the lolly shop for a sugar fix. Problem solved. Those ten jubes occupied Francesca in her stroller all the way back to the ferry. In fact, she was so relaxed and happy all the way home, I decided to forgive her for being blacklisted from the fancy cafe on the fancy level at Westfield. I also got a chance to play with my iphone photo apps and take some pics of my daughter's first excursion to the city she lives in . . .

I spend a lot of time looking 'up' when I'm in the city - I love seeing our gorgeous heritage buildings rubbing shoulders with shiny modern architecture

Waiting for the ferry, Wharf 3, Circular Quay

Looking up again, this time at Circular Quay, where these seahorses live under the roof

The giant gnarled fig tree in Macquarie Place takes my breath away, flourishing next to its concrete & stone neighbours

Strolling . . .

Back in Manly. Melt down? What melt down?

Empathy Trumps Ego . . . (sometimes)

Last Tuesday morning as I was emerging from the crazy, nonsensical land of the 5am dreamscape (you know the kind of dream I mean . . . where you're the curiously ugly ten year old love child of Don & Megan Draper living in a cave in the middle of Manhattan and eating pistachios through a straw), when I heard a muffled expletive. At first I thought I had dreamed it (perhaps Don ran out of whiskey & cigarettes) but then I heard the kitchen door open and realised it must be Ryan.

Ryan is our 22 year old rower and is often up at dawn's crack to scull the waterways of Sydney's harbour, so the fact he was awake at that time wasn't unusual. But something was amiss. I entered the kitchen to find him bleeding from the knee and shoulder. He'd missed a step in the dark on his way to the car, taken a tumble and shoulder-charged the tyre of the car whilst his knee made love to the pebble-crete path.

Later in the day, Francesca became fascinated with Ryan's injuries, with the following exchange occurring at least twenty seven times before bed time:

Francesca: "Ryry?"
Ryan: "Yes Francesca?"
F: "What happened?"
R: "I fell over"
F: "Hurt your knee?"
R: "Yes I hurt my knee"
F: "On tyre?"
R: "Yes on the tyre of the car"
F: "In dark?"
R: "Yes, in the dark"
F: "Oh"
Pause
F: "Okay?" as she pats Ryan on the leg
R: "Yes, I'm okay"

Pause for ten seconds.

F: "Ryry, what happened?"
R: "I fell over"
F: "Hurt knee?"
etc., and so on and so forth.

This exchange continued on for days, in almost exactly the same order. The most fascinating part of the whole affair seemed to be the bit about it happening in the dark. Sometimes we'd turn the tables and ask Francesca "What happened to Ryan?" and she would answer "Fell over", then add melodramatically "In the dark!!"

Oh it seems so boring written down like this but honestly it provided hours of amusement for us last week. What can I say, we are thrill seekers who love to live on the edge. And none of the good TV shows have started yet. We take our entertainment where we can get it. We're also cheap. No fancy Foxtel for us. We'd rather spend our money on booze and pills and pokies.

JOKING! We only spend big on booze.

The thing I really loved about the whole Ryan-falling-in-dark episode, however, was that it showed how much our little girl is growing up. The ego in a two year old is always firmly present - the self-absorbed pop princess diva is still in residence, ordering room service, leaving lipstick stains on the pillows and yelling at housekeeping - but the empathy gene is getting a look in.

Suddenly the plastic newborn doll whose head she was previously using as a step ladder to reach inside the cutlery drawer, is her special baby. She takes Baby to bed, cuddles her, feeds her and washes her. Baby often does a poo and needs her nappy changed with the assistance of MANY wet wipes. Baby also seems to be rather grizzly and in need of cuddles with her mama cooing "It's okay, it's okay" over and over. It's such a joy to watch.

Just don't try to separate the girl from her biscuit or you will discover that the toddler version of Nicky Minaj is alive and well and dishing out death stares in Collaroy.

Francesca's Farm

Francesca's farm is small. There are only three animals in it so far. But even since making this video last week, a snake, a horse and a gob-smacked mama have been added. The rate at which children learn at this age amazes me. I had forgotten. What a blessing Francesca has been added to my farm to help me remember.

The Tortoise Has Great Hair

When Jack ran his first 50m sprint in the school athletics competition at age five, he slowed down just near the end of the race to wave at us in the stands. Was he the fastest runner? No. But you've never seen a more gorgeous smile, nor a kid who could rock a yellow polo shirt, baggy maroon shorts and sticky-up bed-hair quite like our Jack that day. And if there was a competition for the best 'saunter to the finish line', that blue ribbon would have gone STRAIGHT to the pool room!


Now it seems our little Francesca, in all her roly poly wonder, has inherited the family 'tortoise' syndrome. Despite meeting all other milestones on or before time, including pincer grip, first year molars, the ability to spot a Cheerio on the floor from 50 paces and the skill of exceptional adorableness, by 12 months she had still failed to crawl, let alone walk. Which was a problem, mainly because she was getting too damn heavy to carry around everywhere.


I started to get a bit concerned about this when she turned 10 months old and was still sitting on her comfortable, nappy-cushioned bottom, while all the other babies in mother's group crawled or walked around her, or used her variously as a scratching post, a mounting post or as a poledancing pole. She would just sit there, busting a few yoga moves such as Sitting With Octopus Arms and Sitting Pretty.


Enter Janet, the baby physio, who diagnosed Francesca with slightly low muscle tone. Now, despite the lovely Janet emphasising the word 'slightly' and telling me not to worry and that Francesca would be crawling very soon and was perfect in every other possible way, I still went home and Googled 'low muscle tone'.


Because I am an idiot.


And yes people, there is such a thing as too much information. Too much unnecessarily scary information designed to send parents into a sinister future vortex where your baby's movement and speech will be affected forever so they will never walk, run or be able to tell people that the rain in Spain falls mainly in the plain. If you have a baby that isn't reaching their gross motor milestones, just do yourself a favour and NEVER GOOGLE 'LOW MUSCLE TONE'. That is all.


So Janet sent us off with lots of homework, our favourite being to strap Francesca's thighs together with matching sweatbands (and you know you want to see THAT picture)!

The idea behind this innovative exercise was to force her knees to stay together so that when she knelt up or tried to get on all fours, her legs wouldn't splay out like a frog. It also adds a degree of modesty don't you think? We may reintroduce the concept when she turns 16. Do sweatbands come in metal? With locks?


I digress.


The other problem seemed to be that our little princess had an aversion to kneeling on floorboards. Because they're so hard and hurty-hurty on a gal's delicate little knees don't y'know. So we got some of those ugly foam tiles and tried to encourage her to kneel up to grab toys from an elevated height. It was working really well until she decided that it was much more fun to eat foam than kneel on it.


Then she discovered that it was ever so much easier to shuffle around on one's bottom. We'd flip her on all fours and she'd flip right back over on her bottom. And so we have a bottom shuffler (with the unexpected but delightful bonus of having our floors bottom-swept daily).


There were tears, oh yes, there were tears as we worked our way through Janet's list of baby physio exercises. At one stage I may or may not have told our tiny, innocent baby daughter who was doing the best she could to HARDEN THE HECK UP.


So did she get there?


Watch and find out . . .


Music "I Feel The Earth Move" courtesy of Carole King

Francesca's First Year

Goodness gracious me, where on earth did the last year go?

Our little girl turned one last weekend; I can hardly believe it has been twelve months since that bout of indigestion that turned out to be labour. And two whole years since I tentatively asked John whether he'd be interested in mixing up a baby in a petri dish.

Thank God he said yes.

And so here we are. Our longed for baby girl is a proper person now, full of toothy babble, sticky-up hairdos and a throaty laugh that starts in her roly poly belly and crinkles her whole face in a big giggly smile that makes us all feel warm and smiley on the inside.

Here's a vignette of her life so far . . .

Frankie Vicious

Oy! Nobody messes with Frankie Vicious of the Collaroy Punkettes

My daughter was born with a mohawk. I was just twirling it with my fingers while she was feeding the other night and it stayed up in these punky little spikes. Quick, call the hair police! 

Meanwhile, would it be too cruel to pierce her nose, colour her new spikes hot pink and buy her a pair of baby Doc Martins?