These kids don’t even know they’re born! (and other old person mutterings)

It’s day 4 of the Easter holidays and the following phrases a now on repeat:

“I’m bored”
“I’m hungry”

“Stop irritating your sister”
“Tidy up”
“No, not yet”
“Leave people alone”
“Take that OUTSIDE!”

And here I utter the phrase that firmly puts me into OLD woman territory: “these kids don’t know they’d born!”

Take today. A lovely Easter Monday (cold, but nice). We had breakfast, went into town to get the much promised new earrings for the girls, had coffee with G and V, then headed up to soft play whilst LSH had some time in the gym. But they were BORED?! How?!

Then we got home and it all became clear…

BeanPole ran outside with her bow to shoot arrows at stuff like the cutesy girl that she (and her mother) is.

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TinyPants got down to some serious pig painting indoors because she doesn’t “like outside”.

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Eventually, I chucked them both outside to get some fresh air. Then they discovered that our rock pool that got flooded over the winter had dried out, but we had mounds of frogspawn! This of course meant that we had to get the fish box out and “rescue” the eggs. Cue me and LSH trying to scoop frogspawn out of the rocks into water stolen from our fish tank.*

So, now we have a tank of frogspawn taking residence in the conservatory which have brought with them a gang of weird little fresh water shrimpy things. We’ve had to post a picture online to see if anyone knows what these things are. Mainly because I have visions of waking up to find a swarm of flying insects greeting me. Ew ew ew!

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Moral of this story? Stop trying to direct the fun. Give them space and let them make it up.

And try to not freak out about the mess or weird nature in the house.

* NOTE: frogspawn is grim. It is essentially thick mucus expelled from an amphibian. Touching this with your bare hands when the ambient temperature is around 4 degrees is not a pleasant experience. On the up side, frogs have got it right on the whole childbirth thing – this is gooey and pliable and way easier than the gargantuan boney head that beanpole tried to barge her way through with (for reference, she failed and had to be extracted through the sunroof).

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#fiveminutefriday – broken

As with the previous posts – this is part of the Lisa Jo Baker Five Minute Friday blog project.

I have five minutes to write continuously based on a single prompt each week. No editing, no rewriting, just from brain to paper (sort of).

This week’s prompt is ‘broken’.

GO:

It’s Easter weekend and people around me are getting very into the ‘real’ meaning of Easter. We even bought the kids ‘real’ Easter eggs. I felt a bit vindicated filling them with chocolate this way.

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Except I’m inclined to feel that actually, the whole torturing a man to death thing is not really symbolized by eggs and bunnies. These are two separate stories.

Across the globe, there are many goddesses in history that were worshipped for their links to fertility. Even the word ‘Easter’ is most likely linked to the Goddess ‘Ichtar’ who brought her son back from the dead by her tears through the spring leaves (sounding familiar?). In the UK, prior to the Romans, there were many religions, several of which involved goddesses of nature and fertility. One in particular was Damara, who was linked with spring and her protection of children and fertility. The May bank holiday where children are still encouraged to scatter flowers and dance around Maypoles is intrinsically linked to her. The scattering or gifting of floral wreaths was specifically to ask her blessing on those to whom the floral gifts were given. This is one of the many reasons that the tradition of May Day celebrations in quaint Christian villages throughout the UK never fails to raise an eyebrow. That and Morris dancing – men with bells on bashing each other with sticks is odd in anyone’s books.

Spring is a time to contemplate the fertility of nature, and perhaps ourselves. Which means for some accepting that our own fertility has passed. This was something which I was required to do at the age of 29 after my body again rejected our final efforts at creating new life. My body was officially broken. Since that point, I have generally avoided the joyful postings of scan and birth pictures on social networks and laughed off the questions of whether we want ‘any more’ – if only because replying ‘I’d love to, but my uterus kept killing them off’ just doesn’t help make friends.

Interestingly, my closest friend appears to produce babies like sausages, then thrusts them into my arms when they are minutes old, causing not a single pang of pain. Possibly because I love her kids like my own (although, and I know you’re reading this, that is not an offer of babysitting the whole tribe!)

I have two beautiful girls, and I thank whatever deity is keeping them happy and healthy, but I will forever wonder what the other faces would have looked like.

STOP.

Ok, that was a bit longer than five minutes, and a little more personal than my cake explosion from earlier. I’ve shared and now the frog can move on.

Ribbit.