I’m really not sure that I’m cut out for this dog-owning business

Somewhere in Adelaide, there is a woman who is telling a story something along these lines:

“So, I’m just sitting on the bench at the edge of the large park where dogs are allowed off their leads at that time of day, enjoying one of the lovely summer evenings we have in Adelaide, and letting my large-ish dog leave the park to run across the road – well, I did call at him three, or perhaps even four times, and he didn’t respond to my calls, but it was all right, my young lad followed the dog across the road and he didn’t stop to look for cars either – to greet another younger dog of more or less the same breeding.

This little dog started going beserk. Jumping and sniffing and twisting itself around its owner’s legs. You wouldn’t believe how scared that little dog was. Hmm? What’s that? Am I sure it was scared and not just being a puppy and wanting to play? Oh, yes, I’m quite sure of that, I’m an Expert on Dogs I’ve Never even Seen Before.

So anyway, I just happened to mention to the owner of the dog that even at six months her dog should not be scared of other dogs. After all, my own is only two years old which is more or less the same as six months, and he has never been scared of other dogs. So I suggested to her that perhaps she should socialise the dog a bit more. What’s that? How do I know whether she takes the dog to obedience classes, or whether the dog gets together with the next-door dogs quite including spending the night there, or whether it goes for a walk to a different dog park where it regularly meets with other dogs? Oh. I can just tell. Like I say, I’m an Expert on Dogs I’ve Never even Seen Before. 

Of course, my dog was bouncing around by now too, only because it was being led on by this other dog. And in other circumstances, it would have responded immediately to my commands.

What’s that? Yes, yes, I spoke to this woman in much the same gentle, caring voice I would use to suggest to a new mother that her baby probably should be wearing socks and should most definitely be weaned by now…well, after all, it takes a village to raise a child…and a dog as it turns out.

Well. I can’t tell you. This woman just exploded. It was a polite explosion, but an explosion nonetheless. ‘Do you know what?’ this woman said, and it was at this point I noticed that her shorts are probably a bit tighter than they were when she bought them fifteen years ago. ‘I’m really quite exhausted at the moment, and I’m just out for a walk with my dog trying to clear my head, and I really don’t need lectures from complete strangers.’

I looked somewhat bemused, I’m sure. She went on, obviously embarrassed at this completely unprovoked outburst as I offered my own dog another Burger Ring.

‘I’m sorry if I sound rude, but it’s just, you know, I’m just someone trying to do the right thing…but you go out with your baby and it should be wearing a hat, you go out with your dog and you should be socialising it’.

At this point, my young lad, thankfully oblivious to the adult tensions said ‘what’s your dog’s name?’ and we were able to return to the veneer of civility which holds our society together.”

The End. Apart from five minutes later when my dog did a poo and I didn’t have a bag with me, and the man walking past gave me one in a very grumpy way. And then, just around the corner, there’s this boxer dog (I’m scared of boxers, because I got chased by one once) and the gate is never closed, and it followed us to the end of the street. So obviously I’ll be taking a different route for my walk this evening. That’s The End.

 

Sigh

How much should I intervene in the games of Uno my two young boys are playing? They are five and seven years old. You know what’s going on: seven year old cheats; five year old screams; thirty eight year old yells. Or: seven year old places down correct card; five year old cheats; seven year old cries; thirty eight year old yells, this time with more force.

For a while, I was going down there, using calm reasoning to move the game along. Then I moved along to frustrated sighs. I’m afraid then it became a fed-up raised voice. And now, I am just leaving them to it. One of the problems seems to be the list of convoluted rules they have invented (all with the aim of getting the most wild +4s in their hands).

What do you do? And joining in is not an option. Honestly, I’ve played more games of Uno and Twister this last week than I’ve played in my entire life. I’m limiting the number of games I play each day. For my own sanity.

UPDATE: it’s not urgent that you answer, they have moved along to a new game which involves running up and down the passage spitting at each other. If you need me I’m on the couch, whispering my constant refrain: they’ll never be teenage girls, they’ll never be teenage girls.

Only one week of holidays left

I’ve been trying to get the cupboard of baby and toddler and pre-school clothes cleaned out before school starts. There’s almost zero chance of a third child appearing now, and I think it will be less hard on my heart to pass the clothes on now than it will once both of my boys are officially at school. I was going to tell you how it feels to take the clothes, worn by both of my boys, out of the washing machine and hang them on the line. But such sentences take a lot of time, and I’ve got lots of deadlines and not to mention the Uno games. So you’ll need to imagine the washing for yourselves. You’ll be fine. Just grab a whiff of the washing powder you used to use. Your mind will do the rest.

I’m sad about the absent third child, deeply so sometimes, not for any particular reason, just because I always thought there would be a third. Time is kind of taking care of the sadness though, because we’re so far from being a baby house now that almost every day a baby makes less and less sense.

And as if to prove it, PlaySchool has come on the television and Eldest Boy has started walking around saying ‘this show sucks the world…this is for babies…’.

And this from the child who was ‘totally creeped out’ during the whole of our visit to the pirate exhibition at the Maritime Museum.

Regarding Alvin and the Chipmunks…

…those voices do start to wear after about fifteen minutes or so. The thing is, if you are living with people young enough to be taken to this film, then those voices are – more than likely – your reality. Day after day after day.

Also, at those big cinemas, it costs over thirty dollars for one adult and two children to go to the movies. Why did I need to be reminded of that?

And all of that for just eight cents a day

Alan Brough is playing brilliant music on my local ABC (and I suspect yours). Just now, he played something by the Front Lawn. I was listening to that when I lived in New Zealand, when all of my family – my grandfather, mother, father and brother – came to visit us and the mister and I moved our bed into the shed, because it was just a one-bedroom flat. And that’s the last time I saw my Mum.

That music really taken me to a different place. Do you know the place? The time? You know the feelings, I’m sure. When you think your body is filled with the spaces of people who aren’t there. But then you realise that really that space is more alive than any other part of you. These are the touches of relationships which were, and are, complex, but they’re the ones that have left you rich.

Nothing of significance beyond a lovely mango

Today, I have written and emailed to relevant persons, the draft of what is becoming a rather excellent paper. Since then, I have been reclining on the lounge, mourning the loss of Tendulkar, but still enjoying the breeze which is winding its way from the front door to the back door, which conveniently means it must pass my position on the couch.

I have eaten a most excellent fruit salad which was excellent because a. the mister made it and brought it to me and b. it included a rather lovely nectarine and one of the best mangoes I have ever eaten.

And I have, by means of Eldest Boy’s Nintendo DS, proved that my brain is bigger than his (bigger than the mister’s I mean – I would hope that my brain is bigger than seven-year-old’s, wouldn’t you?).

I am thinking of having a beer. I am hoping that when I express my wish for a beer, the mister will say ‘I”ll get it from you’. I am further hoping that he will then get one from the back fridge. The back fridge is still on since Christmas, and, because the back fridge does not get opened every two minutes by a hollow-legged boy, the beers contained within are particularly cold.

Normal blogging unlikely to resume anytime soon.

PS The people over the back fence appear to be having another party. They are most jolly-sounding affairs and make us feel a little old and slightly envious.

One. More. Sleep.

Just got my Christmas cards and two small presents in the post. So they’ll be late. Though I did get a few cards out earlier last week. Dropped off a little gift to friend. Went to the supermarket, forgot my list, but still got everything I meant to get. If you need cream, can I suggest you get there pronto. There wasn’t much of the good stuff left.

In the supermarket (the small, independent one up the road, I’m not going into any of those big ones), a man, watching me lug two casks of water out to the car said: ‘you should’ve got your old man to come and get those’. I said: ‘he’s busy’. The man said: ‘mowing the lawns is he?’. I said: ‘scrubbing the shower’.

Tomorrow, all going well, we will be having tartufo for dessert. There is slightly less than there might have been if Youngest Boy hadn’t been helping me.

There is much more to tell, of course there is. But best not spend too much time on this post, in case the mister comes home from the last minute shit, we forgot the…shopping and sees me here, because before he left, we had a small dispute over priorities. I’m sure you’re having similar conversations.

Take care of yourselves. Of yourselves and the ones you love.

Talk with youse next year.

Why I blog

It was my blogiversary on Saturday. Two years of blogging.

I thought perhaps I would use the time to reflect on all that has happened over those two years, because they’ve been quite full-on years for me. But it was a crap post.

Then, after reading the thread at Pavlov’s Cat’s, I began to toil away at a bit of a ‘why I blog’ post, an earnest essay on the frustrations of reading irritating people whose basic argument seems to be ‘blogging has failed, because blogging hasn’t changed the world’. A comprehensive, annotated account of the very many things that blogging is and can be…

…but you don’t have time to read all that. And I wouldn’t be telling you anything you wouldn’t already know. And also, it’s December. I’ve got salads to make.

So, I’m going to tell you of one piece of blog-related news which has been very exciting for me. I took a post I wrote sometime ago, added it to another post, wrote some more around it, submitted it to a journal, they accepted it, and now, it is included in Best Australian Stories 2007. I can’t tell you how very excited I have been about that.