Want To Know Why I Haven't Posted Anything Recently?

You’d think God would be kinder to me. I mean, s/he’s thrown half a dozen significant earthquakes at me in the past nine months (hell, by comparison even pregnancy’s fun), and we’re being put through thousands of aftershocks, not to mention the loss of job security. Our city’s broken. Isn’t that enough?

I took on a part-time job. Just a little one. Hell, it barely even counts as a job! But it’s enough to let us have takeaways on a Friday night without a dose of the guilts – and that, folks, is a Big Deal for us just now.

A real job! Excellent idea, I thought. Beloved agreed. The cosmos, apparently, did not.

Within days (it felt like hours), our home turned into a House Of Ill. Drop the ‘Repute’ bit at the end – we’ve been so ill we haven’t had the energy for anything that exciting!

Little Miss Two – croup. Deduct one week.

Little Miss Two – gastro virus. Deduct two days.

Little Miss Two – croup (again). Deduct one week.

Master Seven – croup. Deduct four days.

Me – gastro virus. Deduct two days.

Little Miss Two – bronchio-freakin’-litis, for crying out loud! Deduct one looooong week.

Beloved – sprained ankle. Deduct zero days. No time for sympathy pampering, because…

Master Seven – serious infection. Hospitalisation. Deduct one night’s sleep.

Master Seven – severe nausea, vomiting and diarrhoea brought on by vicious, kill-the-bug-and-you-with-it antibiotics. Deduct five days.

And somewhere in the middle of all that I have to meet a major deadline in my new job and find time to write.

Guess what fell off the list? (Sigh.)

Post-script. Oh. My. God. Little Miss Two has come down with another cold. If it turns into croup, so help me, I’ll turn to drugs. For me, not her.

Am I the only one this kind of stuff happens to? Please, if life does this to you too - share it with me! Let me know I'm not the only one the cosmos is punishing. Give me permission to overdose on chocolate - or suggest an even better way of drowning my sorrows. :)

Maggie's Attempt At The Good Life

We leapt at the chance. A week of The Good Life? Perfect! Fresh air, peace and quiet, and a brief escape from the lingering stresses of QuakeZone. Exactly what we needed.

Bursting with anticipation, we shoved a few clothes in a bag, grabbed the portacot, strapped in the kids, and headed for the wop-wops.

Our destination: Motukarara. (Try saying that after a couple of wines.) Far enough from town that we wouldn't hear the constant thrum of traffic, streetlights wouldn't mar our view of the Milky Way each night, and we'd feel the tranquillity seeping into our bones.

The daily trips into town were a drag - school runs twice a day (not to mention swimming lessons, soccer practice, and weekend soccer game), a couple of pre-school sessions, Beloved had to work in town, and I had several appointments that couldn't be missed. Aside from that, though, we had a fair taste of The Good Life. Here's how it panned out:

Day 0 - turn off TV, can't get it working again. Not a biggie for me - but major for the kids.
Day 1 - pre-dawn wake-up by three cats scratching furniture and demanding food. Hens produce very first egg, just in time for Master Seven to discover. This is indeed The Good Life. :)
Day 2 - Magnitude 5.3 earthquake at 3am. Kids upset. Rest of night a write-off.
Day 3 - OMG one dog looks dead! (False alarm. Whew.) Miss Nearly-Two locks herself in bathroom. (Not a false alarm.) Shrieking gale-force winds all night. Sleep impossible. Convinced roof will fly off. (It doesn't.)
Day 4 - Hint of cat pee in living room. Magpies attack one of their own in field. Shrieking gale-force winds all night again. Sleep deprivation takes its toll.
Day 5 - Tyre blowout. No cellphone reception. Master Seven waiting at school... and waiting... Screaming kid in back of car. The Good Life sucks.
Day 6 - No internet access. Feel like I've lost limb. Miss Nearly-Two poos on kitchen freaking floor.
Day 7 - Fantail flies into house (death omen according to Maori superstition). Fan-freaking-tastic. Chirps merrily, has to be shooed out. Miss Nearly-Two enchanted. I'm filled with dread. Fine. Take my damn internet access. Just keep my loved ones safe.

Conclusion: The Good Life is over-rated. Or maybe bad things just happen to me more than anyone else. What's your take on it?

Tropical Paradise Holiday

So off we went. Our first tropical holiday in years. Our first ever as a family of four.

We coped with the 5am start. We mostly coped with the first six hours of our seven-and-a-half hour journey, thanks to drugs (for the baby, not us), an in-flight bassinette, and individual in-flight screens which Master Six loved.

Then the baby woke.

If you're a parent, imagine your child at their very worst. Then imagine holding them in your lap while they do it. For an hour, maybe more.

Okay, we won't talk about that.

Our destination was indeed a tropical paradise, with fancy-wancy five-star hotel and super-friendly staff. None of which made any difference when Baby decided she wouldn't sleep anywhere except her own cot back in Christchurch.

We soothed her. We ignored her. We tried feeding her up. We fed her so much she should've doubled her body weight. She should've slept like a… well, a baby.

She didn't. She woke every two hours, all night. EVERY night. For TEN NIGHTS. We ignored her some more. We decided the neighbours would kill her (or us). We ssshed her until we couldn't dredge up another bloody sssh.

Sleep deprivation is a horrible thing. It takes away the sparkle in your eyes, the glow in your skin and, ultimately, your will to live.

Master Six had a fantastic holiday. Why? Because, God knows how, he slept through our nightly hell, woke refreshed each morning and had a great time at Kids' Club.

Myself and my beloved? We paid somewhere in excess of $NZ6000 to lose the will to live. Then flew back without the luxury of baby bassinette. (It went to some tiny days-old scrap of baby who couldn't even roll, let alone create havoc.) We arrived home with bad necks, bad backs, bad moods and a baby who had decided life worked pretty well at two-hour intervals.

The moral of the story: just don't bother. Wait until your kids are five. Better still, make them save for their own damn holiday. In the interim, buy a bottle of non-duty-free, set up a deckchair in the lounge, and drink yourself silly so you don't feel the chill when you strip down to your swimwear.

Brace Yourself: It's The C-Word...

Not cancer: Christmas. A word that conjures up such a range of emotions.

Emotion 1.  Surprise. Is it that time already?

Emotion 2.  Annoyance. The baubles and fake snow are cluttering shop windows, the piped music in lifts/malls/phone calls is Santa-themed, and the street decorations have appeared overnight. Do they really think we need reminding?

Emotion 3.  Panic. We're in serious countdown, now. Have I organised presents? Bought Christmas Day's food-orgy fodder? Posted cards? Worked out logistics with in- and out-laws? Dusted off the decorations? Herded my kids into writing letters to Santa?

Emotion 4.  Boredom. Blah blah. Do we really need to make all this effort again, and so soon?

Emotion 5.  Anticipation. Christmas is a very special time of year if you've got kids to share it with. Mine can't wait! It's beginning to rub off on me, too. :

Emotion 6.  Happiness. Am I not the most fortunate woman in the world? I have a great partner, awesome kids, and extended family who really enjoy together-time. We may not be the richest guys on the street, but we're warm, we've got food in our bellies, and we're surrounded by people who love us.

Yep, it's that time of year again. And I'm counting my many blessings. I'm a very lucky girl.