Parking rage

This post is dedicated to the thoughtful souls who filled every single 'Parent Park' at Rangiora New World this morning with their child-less vehicles. That long walk across the carpark in the sleet was just what my 2 preschoolers and I felt like, and we all particularly enjoyed Caleb's half-way face-plant into the gutter, while about 100m from the front doors. Cheers for that. Hope you got a flat tyre on the way home ;-)


After 4 days cooped up in the snow, the driveway was finally clear enough to drive our car through, so I thought I'd pop into Rangiora to get some milk and fruit. Didn't really **need** to, but we were all getting just a little bit over these 4 walls and our white landscape (though now it's kinda brown and grey) so an outing seemed like a welcome distraction. And actually **popping** anywhere in Rangiora is a bit of a joke in these post-quake days anyway, now that a good percentage of ChCh has joined us in our conclusion that it's a pretty decent spot to live. Basically, I should have stayed at home, which is the moral of this post.

There are certain signs that give away a vehicle's child-status, and any half-witted parent can spot them a mile away. Obviously car seats and those tacky yellow 'Baby on Board' signs are a dead giveaway, but there are other, more subtle ways that a small person marks their territory. Things like food wrappers. Manky apple cores. Seventeen sweatshirts and odd socks, flung about the back and trampled upon until they might as well be a part of the upholstery. Books. Drink bottles. Basically if a vehicle contains none of these things, it is fair to assume that the owners do not have small children. Or that the vehicle belongs to my husband.

So it was with a sneer and a narrow-eyed glare that my children and I entered the supermarket this morning, after our harrowing journey across sodden asphalt and sudden splashing from vehicles unseen behind our chilly, hooded selves. Now if any of the assorted cars parked in the parent parks contained evidence of small children, or a disabled sticker (though they have parks of their own, I'm happy to share ;-)) I wouldn't have minded. In fact, with a nearly 3 year old and a 4 year old, I usually don't bother with Parent Parks. And even in my more stressed days as a new mother, I really only used them if I had both children with me. Today, I would have been happy to walk if I knew that those cars contained frazzled mothers and children who were spared the inconvenience of the ghastly weather. But they didn't.

One contained a tartan rug. Children? I think not!

One contained a washing basket with a spray bottle of some kind of chemical cleaner in it. Children? I think not!

One had a dog in it. A dog. One of those small, yappy, fluffy white things, wearing a tartan coat. A dog is not a child. Go to the back of the line, Lady. And what is it about tartan?

I spent the supermarket visit alternately snapping at my children and mentally penning my e-mail rant to the local newspaper. Was actually looking forward to seeing my venom in print, like A. Clarkson from Woodend, who has a very regular whinge. They should actually give him a column, he has so much to say. Possibly a retired school teacher who misses the union meetings...

Anyway, I was almost eager to bump into one of the park bandits as we left, but to no avail. So we jittered our way across the carpark in our wobble-wheeled trolley instead, saving our glares for the trolley boy. Poor soul.

Next time I suggest going out, just shoot me. Or at least give me a 'get-the-heck-over-it' pill.

General madness

Life is back to its busy term-time normality now. Week Two of Term Three is just finished and I'm suspicious that the last holidays were nothing but a figment of my imagination. We are all tired, ratty and frazzled... actually, maybe that's just me.

This term at school, we have our biennial musical. The less said about this stress inducing madness the better, but it is a major contributor to my foul mood and snippitiness.

At home, I have a four year old that is revealing a passion for art, craft and writing. She is at her happiest when she has a pencil in hand and a ream of paper to scrawl on. And if Mummy continues her current run of photocopying fails, then there will be no shortage of drawing paper anytime soon! She would actually thrive in school right now, but she is still 9 months away from turning 5 **looks to find a brick wall still standing after a year of earthquakes to beat head against**

Our lovely 2 year old is also a whirlwind of activity. He is revealing a great sense of humour, and a fondness for wearing Princess-themed dress-up frocks. I'm thinking the two traits are linked, especially when he minces past in heels and squeaks in a shrill voice that his name is now 'Ginger'. He is equally at home swinging a hammer or disassembling his train table with Daddy's missing flat head screwdriver. He is begging for real tools for his birthday, but my furniture couldn't stand it.

I often get asked if the stories I post about my children both here and on FaceBook are really true - I mean come on, could a pair of children really be that crazy? I filmed them in action whizzing down our orchard paddock the other day as proof of their day to day antics. Judge their madness for yourself...

DISCLAIMER: Many parents watching will be horrified at the speeds at which my children are hurtling down the hill without a helmet. They will probably also be concerned that they are wearing insufficient clothing for a Canterbury winter's afternoon. I firmly believe that children tend to bounce. Or at least mine do. Ignoring last year's brush with State Highway 72 our children have grown up surrounded by hazards and are constantly being taught to respect them. Mother Nature and the Laws of Gravity are great teachers! **braces self for calls from CYFS**

Anyway here they are in all of their glory...



Some interesting features you may not have picked up during the onslaught of raw Kiwi accent and poor camera handling / editing:

* Yes, those are chooks running about my lawn. And yes, they are meant to be contained in their lovely little chicken house on legs with fancy easy access laying boxes. And yes, Kevin the rooster continues to crow continuously at ungodly hours and incite similar behaviour among the other cockerels (**snigger**) within a 2 km radius. I am unimpressed. Their day of reckoning is coming. Probably in a fertiliser sack and a long one way trip to a picnic spot a long way away...

* Sophie does claim to have nearly "done wees" in her knickers due to the sheer thrill of downhill racing. And then proceeds to remind me of Caleb's penchant for peeing on trees. And then (this bit is muffled, but it's worth watching again just to hear it) she declares that she'd like to give it another go herself. Peeing on trees that is... and yes, she has tried and failed at this before. She's sometimes not a fast learner.

* I cut out most of the roaring that Sophie does to Caleb to get him to move from the bit of fence she wanted to crash into at the end of her run. It took 4 minutes before she was persuaded to actually stop yelling and get biking. I left the snippet in that you see, purely to share her wonderful line "GO. OR I'LL BUMP INTO YOU AND CHOP YOUR SKIN OFF!" She has a way with words, that child.

So that's us. It's meant to snow again this weekend, so more craziness is bound to be on the cards.