Priorities

He appears self dressed in his favourite T-shirt. Horray!

I notice that favourite T-shirt is a tad snug. He has been fond of Curious George for many a long year and chortles gloriously at the mischievous tales. Since this was a welcome departure from Dinosaurs, and Thomas, my oldest daughter painted this specially designed creation with her own fair hands.

Delightfully, it was a hit. I grab my camera as for some reason I don’t appear to have any record of it’s existence and some time soon it will be relegated to the rag bag, threadbare and washed out.

As she walks into the kitchen I prompt, “show Nonna what you’re wearing dear!”

He looks at Nonna.

He looks at me, with a certain degree of uncertainty.[*]

He pulls down the waist band of his trousers.










[*] A hint of social awareness maybe?

So much to share, so little time.

Hand luggage and Teflon

It takes up a disproportionate amount of time in my working memory:- how to minimize luggage but maximize options?

It’s quite selfish really.

I have three sets of clothes that I wear all the time, the on, the off and the in the wash. It’s perfect. It’s perfect until we set off for our annual holiday to England.

Wear one and pack the other two in a suitcase?

No.

Wear one and pack the other two in the hand luggage. My suitcase in the hold will be full of other essential items, none of which will be clothes, least of all my own clothes.

This is o.k. because I will need all three sets of clothes for the journey. I shall be up and dressed in set number one at about 5 in the morning. I shall then remain immaculate throughout the day until we fly at 7 in the evening. It is essential that I remain in set number one come what may. During the first hour of the flight, my eldest son will have a technicolour accident, a combination of fear of flying and air sickness. At this point, I shall abandon set number one, wrap them in several bags and shove them at the bottom of the backpack.

Once I have donned set two, I shall remain inviolate during the remaining 9 hours of the flight, apart from other little accidents. Those lap tray tables are so tricky to manage. During the 9 hours I shall be speckled with three meals from several people, and possibly my own. I shall be sprinkled, doused and drenched in every available beverage. I shall reluctantly shun the offer of a free glass of wine. Befuddlement in confined spaces is a mistake.

As we move forwards through the night, we shall arrive yesterday. As we hit the ground in England, de-plane, charm customs, salute passport checkers, locate buses, hire a car and pile ourselves into it, I shall then have been in set number two for 12 hours, together with enough foodstuffs to make a severe dent in the world food shortage.

I shall resist the urge to change into set number three.

We will drive to our rental, de-car, relocate ourselves and our baggage into the flat. I shall make up four beds in the hope that someone will sleep sometime soon. Only when sleep is imminent shall I remove set two, leaving set three available, ready for the next shift, although not necessarily the next day. Otherwise, waking time will arrive and I shall be threadbare and threadless.

This annual problem weighs heavily upon my mind.

Whilst the English are more open to nud.ity, the weather tends to be inclement.

I need an alternative solution.

And here it is.




























There again, I may just have to grit my teeth and go shopping for an entirely new outfit altogether.

Idaho or bust! Or possibly somewhere else?

“Aha! There you are. The very man I’ve been looking for.”
“Really? Are there any other men around here?”
“?.......of for goodness sakes.”
“Well?”
“No.”
“So what did you want me for anyway?”
“I’ve hit a brick wall.”
“Oh dear! Much damage to the car?”
“?.......not literally you humbug.”
“?”
“It’s no good! I’ve been trying all day but no luck. I’ve shopped everywhere. They can’t be had for love nor money.”
“Oh. Shopping? Everywhere?”
“Yes. Landsend, Target and Amazon. You name it, I’ve looked!”
“E-bay?”
“No. You have to use Paypal and haven’t quite mastered that yet.”
“Well……I don’t know what to suggest?”
“They go up to size 5T but you can’t find any for a seven year old.”
“I thought you said this morning that you’d make some if you couldn’t buy any?”
“I did, but then I thought about it a bit.”
“And?”
“If I send a seven year old to school in home made blue dungarees, with egg yellow buttons the size of an egg cup, he’ll be beaten to a pulp.”
“Well it would help if you searched on coveralls or overalls.”
“I did! I couldn’t remember the right word first but eventually…Although I’ve not been able to find a dictionary that translates “English to American” yet.”
“Still no joy?”
“No.”
“What about those pictures you see of children out in the fields with potatoes and sheep and things?”
“Cattle or Longhorns, not sheep.”
“Not sheep?”
“No of course not. You know Americans! If you so much as mention ‘lamb chop’ they all have a fit of the vapours.”
“True. But out in the countryside they’re all gamboling about in dungarees.”
“Boon dogs! Or is that urban? Maybe Hicksville?”
“Don’t ask me?”
“Well what are we going to do?”
“Ditto.”
“Fair enough, if that’s the sum total of your assistance I shall expect you to get him dressed tomorrow.”
“No! It took you ages this morning. I thought I was going to have to take him in the nuddy.”
“Exactly. Hence we need a pair of overalls by tomorrow morning if we’re not going to have to repeat that particularly painful exercise.”
“Hmm. Why do you think he’s so obsessed with looking like Mario all of a sudden?”
“It’s just another one of little burrs just waiting to jump out of the bushes and latch on.”

“So what are we going to do?”
“I’ll tell him I’m still looking.”
“Yes, it helps to be truthful.”
“But after he saw that costume on-line, I think we’re more or less done for.”
“It’s a racket. Fancy charging $70 for an adult costume and $100 for a child’s. It’s day light robbery.”
“Exploitation.”
“So our solution is?”
“That’s what I was hoping you could help me with?”
“Do you still have his old pair?”
“Er…..probably.”
“Couldn’t you tack something on to the end of the legs, make them longer?”
“Ooo dear me no. I don’t want to sink back to the 70’s nightmare. That really would be a curse for the child.”

Learning under pressure.

As they leave the house to get into the car for school, my youngest son makes a U-turn and skids back into the house. He is nak.ed in a nano second and parked on the throne for a last minute pit stop. He is a moment or two, too late. I pick up his sodden clothing and toss it onto the washing machine. I dither. I’m confident that it will take him a goodly while to put his shoes and socks back on without me to prompt him. I know that he would never dare risk permitting his bare little toes to touch the ground outside the house.

I dash upstairs for replacements whilst the rest of the team waits on the driveway, engine idling. I return with the clothes to find him struggling with the Velcro on his shoes. I have no option but to give him a swift sponge down rather than a shower. If you could hear his screams you would assume I’d turned a pressure hosepipe of icy water on him.


I turn my back after toweling him down but he’s off, wearing socks, shoes and a T-shirt, powering out to the car shouting, “be wait now, now wait now, wait, wait, wait!” I scramble after his partially clad form clutching his clothing as I skuttle down the path. I wave the clothes in my hand to attract the chauffeur’s attention. The car occupants watch his arrival, so does my neighbour. I call aloud, “wait he can’t go without his knickers!” My son does a little rain dance on the driveway concrete as his body shrivels and quivers in the early morning chill. Free of social cues, it is only his thermostat that will save him.

I think this is the first time in living memory that he has willingly submitted to going to school. His enthusiasm, eagerness and anxiety to join his siblings is quite breathtaking. I am uncertain whether his sudden keenness to conform has over-ridden his need for clothes, or whether it’s just that clothes are still an after thought of no consequence? Either way, my son has capitulated and demonstrated a willingness to participate.

My neighbour, the man with the voice that could best be described as a fog horn, bellows from the other side of the road, “Git yur shorts on boy!” My son’s ears receive the assault and his head flicks around to see our substitute grandfather modeling the desired behaviour from the other side of the street, legs akimbo, knees bent, curled arms hauling up the invisible underwear. What a trooper he is! My son is covered up and whipped off in a puff of exhaust fumes, safely on his way to school.

My neighbour steps over the road toward me. He tips his baseball cap up, the tired, faded red one, so that white tufts of thinning hair are visible. He blinks, with his crooked smile before he reminds me, “over here, we call em underpants.”

If I die before I wake………

I stand bleary eyed by the kitchen counter sipping black tepid coffee. [translation = my punishment for being distracted] I contemplate life, the universe and everything, as I watch small people at 5:15 in the morning. Wills, living wills, trusts, trustees and guardians, power of attorney – enough to make your head spin and your brain turn to mush.

“If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all!” he repeats as he runs backwards. This phrase is on his ‘now playing’ list. [translation = an endless loop] I hope that this current phase, will be short lived, but you never can tell with these things, the walking backwards that is to say, not the "motor mouth." Oddly enough he rarely bumps into anything. To date we are on our fifth week of’ backwards’ and of course he improves daily. [translation = becomes ever more agile and speedy] It seems grossly unfair to criticize him for such an innocent pastime, since my main objection, danger, has been unsubstantiated by reality.

So saying, he did take a tumble this morning, but that was due to foul play. [translation = in the feline sense of foul] I intend to give those cats a severe talking to! Fancy having the nerve to nip through someone’s legs when the walker is in motion! [translation = not everyone has yet learned to walk ‘a la John Wayne,’ as I have done.]

I put down my cold coffee for later and interject in the hope of turning my naked backwards walker into a dressed backwards walker. He makes his objections known, in no uncertain terms. His criticisms are not those of his peers, such as colour, design or fashion. He curses his clothing like none other -
“These pants are insane! Why aren’t they Latin?” [translation = they are uncomfortable because they are not sufficiently old and worn to softness]

If I die before I wake……… please find someone else to translate.