Going Global

With the world in, or on the brink of, recession and the Australian dollar on a par with the Biddelonian Jangu Nut, my hero and I have decided that this would be a great time to visit the motherland. Or at least his mother’s land, my mother lives a scenic four hour drive along the coast.
Aiming to hit UK shores in their summer (because although it would be nice to be there for Christmas I was born and bred here in the colonies and doubt I could cope with an Irish winter) means getting our act together now. Which, it will come as no surprise to anyone-except it seems my hero-is more difficult than you would anticipate.
My hero would seem to believe that taking a family of five half way around the world is no harder than dropping into the post office and picking up a zone 2 metcard. He is wrong.
We will need passports. Which means getting full birth certificates, since the statements issued when the children were born are not acceptable. I could have applied for them online. But that would mean finding appropriate identification, having it notarized by the police and posting it in to a government department, crossing my fingers that neither the application forms or my I D went missing.
So I chose instead to go into the city and wait around for half an hour in person then walk away with them in my hot little hand. A process than was not free, nor easy. I had to check the details on the certificates and there he was under previous issue of parents. Thomas Kieran. It was like a punch to the solar plexus. It did bring tears to my eyes. But my stomach soon reminded me that it had been five hours since I had eaten and I got over the shock quick enough.
Now I have to apply for the passports themselves. A process I’m sure will run smoothly and easily, restoring my faith in the system. Let’s see if there really is any power in positive thinking.
After much searching and sorting we settled on dates and I found airfares that won’t leave us completely bankrupt, though I’m not entirely convinced that we won’t have to hang our arms out the windows and flap.
Next on the list is finding accommodation. Naturally we will be spending the bulk of time with family but after sitting on a 22hr flight with 3 children I want to do some tourist stuff while I’m there and that means a couple of weeks travelling. I’m thinking self catering cottages. For a week in the Republic of Ireland and a week in Northern England. Sort of a base camp from which we can so day trips.
So for those of you in the UK any recommendations greatly appreciated. Particularly accommodation you found good or companies you’d warn against. But also places you would recommend we visit or avoid. We will be hiring a car for our time outside London so transport not an issue.
Car hire, there’s something else I need to get sorted. It never ends.
And here is where I take a break to do the Christmas shopping. Because there is nothing as relaxing as fighting crowds while piped Christmas carols worm their way into my brain.

A conversation with Boy Genius

He came running in from the school bus, giggling and waving his arms. It had obviously been a good day.
Hello, Boy Genius
Hello, mum
What did you do at school today?
Cooking.
What did you cook?
Sandwiches.
What did you put on the sandwiches?
Glad Wrap.
One of the good things about living with autism-it opens you up to seeing the simplest things in a different way.

A smashing time

Three days in a row of over 30°C without the benefit of a warm weather preamble and we’re all feeling a bit hot, tired and emotional. Some of us have words to express our discontent, others have only action.
The action boy genius chose to best exemplify his feelings was to slam his (empty) dinner plate onto the table.
Unfortunately this resulted in the surprise breaking of the plate (I mean really, who could have seen that coming) which is, apparently, best dealt with by standing up, screaming at the top of your voice and smashing your dining chair onto the floor as hard as you possibly can over and over again.
I had to assume by the lack of blood on boy genius and the vigour of his ongoing chair smashing that the only thing damaged was the plate. I managed to remove the offending fragments and made the, I think not unreasonable, suggestion that he take a deep breath and calm down. However he seemed to believe that a more efficient method of achieving a calmer state of mind would be to pour a glass of cordial over his own head then slam the glass onto the table. (The glass was fortunately made of sterner stuff than the plate and survived.)
This necessitated a quick trip to the bathroom where clothes were violently removed and forcefully put into the laundry basket, all to the mantra “don’t hurt yourself” (said while pinching his own arm). A shower and hair wash to remove the sticky cordial residue was then in order before he could storm off to his room from whence he appeared fifteen minutes later in his pyjamas to flop onto the couch and announce “feel better”.
The frustration of being unable to express himself verbally is obviously hard to cope with. The frustration of cleaning up after his frustration is also hard to cope with (I can assure you the last thing I felt like doing was moping sticky green cordial off the floor, table, chair and walls). And if this is any indication of what to expect this summer is going to be very hard to cope with indeed. I may need to buy some plastic plates.

It's funny coz it's true

more music charts

It's My Birthday

Just thought you ought to know

When in Rome

….bring me back the tackiest papal souvenir you can find. But be warned competition for most tasteless memento on my shelf of tat is fierce. The contenders are:
• The dual A-side medallion featuring both Popes in glorious living colour. Reminiscent of the photographs one sometimes sees embedded in grave markers in modern lawn cemeteries this piece is positively tasteful compared to-
• The clear acrylic paperweight featuring not one, not two, but three church fathers etched within; rotating stand with multi-coloured up lighting optional. Nothing says piety like a ‘batteries not included’ sticker on the box. This, however, is stylish and sophisticated when compared to-
• The Pope Snow Globe. Formerly a front runner in the can-it-get-any-tackier-than-that stakes I feel its innate crassitude has been out shone by-
• The Plaster Pieta. This plaster replica of Michelangelo’s Pieta fulfils the Artist’s Ultimate Vision. I am certain that if temperature sensitive paint had been available in1499 he would have splashed it indiscriminately all over his bland marble sculpture. The addition of glitter to this timeless piece is nothing short of genius. I am so glad the manufacturers spared no expense in production.

A big thank-you to Alex for her ongoing contributions to this phenomenal collection. No really, thanks, thanks a lot.

Only 12 more shopping days until my Birthday

Thought you'd like to know.

Seeking Sympathy

I have cut my thumb.
It hurts-a lot.
It is bleeding-a lot.
Nobody here cares about my pain and suffering.
Does anybody, anywhere?
Show you care-leave a comment.

Costume Drama

There are many things about motherhood nobody tells you.
The acute observer may notice these things but usually they go unseen and unspoken of, particularly by the childfree portion of the population. There’s a conspiracy of silence surrounding the more unsavoury duties of motherhood. And it is mothers who invariably end up with this particularly onerous task.
Yes, I’m talking about making costumes.
So far this year I’ve had to come up with:
A sixties mod-it’s amazing what can be achieved with a mini dress, false eyelashes and a bit of teasing and hairspray
A medieval maiden-where velvet and chiffon came into their own and a passion for gothic dresses was established
A peasant-earth tones only, mob cap, mercifully, provided
And now I need to fit an Arabian Nights theme.
I headed off to the op-shop with the Professor of Pendantics and high hopes of some harem pants left over from the early nineties or at the very least a decorative crop top. Two hours later, having trawled through every place likely to harbour costumes or clothes from which costumes could be constructed we were back home empty handed.
It was in desperation that I dragged out a bag from the back of the wardrobe with thoughts of piecing something together from some old sarongs.
And there it was-a sheer black skirt with some vaguely Arabic gold print. I remember wearing it back in the day with a black crop top. More digging and sure enough I found it. With a bit of adjusting it could do.
The Professor tried the ensemble on-and it fit!
No adjusting necessary. Hoorah!
(I’m not sure what shocked me more. The fact that my baby can fit into clothes I wore in my late teens or the fact that I was once that thin. Look see there’s the evidence-she’s wearing it.)
So tomorrow I have to develop RSI sewing tiny gold elephants and bells onto the crop top. Then I can breathe a sigh of relief until the next costume notice comes home from school.

Quiche: A guide by Boy Genius

To make:
Cut up steamed cauliflower and broccoli into small florets. Remove ALL traces of stalk. This is Very Important.
Fry finely chopped capsicum, onion and bacon until soft.
Grate cheese.
Crack five eggs into a big bowl. Remove shell.
Mix everything up together, pour into pastry case, bake in oven.
To eat:
Use brown fork (this goes without saying really. Brown fork has mystical properties that only Boy Genius is aware of. Nobody else may ever use brown fork for fear of erasing these properties. Boy Genius can not eat at home unless he uses brown fork.).
Separate ingredients from quiche using an esoteric system, possibly based on colour or perhaps texture. Eat one ingredient at a time. No ingredient may be eaten until the previous ingredient has been consumed. An electron microscope is helpful at this point to ensure no atom of previous ingredient remains rendering quiche unfinishable.
Sure it’s time consuming but the effort is worth it.
Quiche is good.