Lucky Me

It must be my lucky day.

That is, I’m using the term ‘lucky’ loosely. Granted, the day started out pleasantly enough. We survived the morning’s peanut butter drought; I had demonstrated commendable negotiation skills in convincing Chloë to wear weather-appropriate clothing; and the girls and I were less late than is generally the case on our way out the door. For the most part, it was looking to be a respectable day - a leisurely final few hours before heralding in the weekend. It was all looking good, until a rather regrettable incident occurred.

It happened on the way to kindy. The usual scenario – kids vying for my attention in the back seat, me contending with the school drop-off traffic. The moment itself was incredibly brief, particularly considering how much airtime it’s had in my mind in the hours since. It turns out the woman in front of me hadn’t taken the break in traffic as an opportunity to turn left, as previously suspected. Looking back, I probably should have confirmed this as an alternative to rear-ending her car, but it’s amazing how clear everything is in hindsight.

The most salient part about this scenario was that it was completely my fault, which always makes for pleasant conversation when chatting with the insurance company. I thought I was past an age where I wanted to be older than am, but speaking to them on the phone I found myself wishing I was at least 25 so as to avoid having to pay more than double the standard excess. I also enjoyed my conversation with the crash repairer, who got a kick out of continually commending me on my ‘good job’.

The day hadn’t quite turned out how I had planned. So naturally, I did the only reasonable thing. I found my slouchiest jumper, a jar of nutella, and did a fine job of wallowing. The girls tried to be helpful – Zayla reiterated that I ‘crashed car’ and Chloë advised that I ‘should’ve been more careful’. But somehow their words didn’t have quite the healing effect they were supposed to.

So how has this been my lucky day? Well, there’s a hero to every tale. A knight in shining armour for every damsel in distress. My knight just happens to be the same one who rides home to me every evening (albeit on a mountain bike as opposed to a stallion). He’s the kind of gentleman who’s unfailingly kind, understanding, and aware of the best way to react when his wife tells him she’s disfigured the car.

Not only did he not freak out, he told me that it didn’t matter and he was glad we were okay. He came home early just to give me a hug and help me feel better. He pretended not to notice that the house had gone to ruins while I’d been writhing in self-pity. Then he assumed all parenting duties until the girls were safely in bed. And he made it his mission to make me smile. Typical Nathan behaviour.

Some days are good days and some are just not. But on the upside, days like today remind me of why I love being married to Nate: because even on my unluckiest days, I still feel like the luckiest woman in the world.

Managing the Unmanagable

"The chaos of life", at least for me, refers partially to the uncanny ability of my children to wreak incredible havoc within relatively short periods of unsupervision, and my often fruitless attempts to prevent this phenomenon. I suspect any seasoned parent would agree that as startling as it is to hear the sounds of children wrestling or the contents of a well-organised drawer tumbling onto the floor, the real danger lies in those moments of apparent peace. The times when children are both silent and somewhere outside of the immediate vicinity. And especially if I'm trying to have a shower.


My initial suspicion during these times is that the toilet roll is now an unravelled heap sitting on the tiled floor, or that Chloë has concealed herself in the pantry with the container of chocolate chips I use for baking. But sometimes that's just me being a bit too optimistic.


I had one day recently when Zayla decided to open the fireplace and use the ash to create black masterpieces on various nearby surfaces. Perhaps it was my naivety that prompted me to send her away to play while I cleaned up, thinking it would prevent the further spread of ash. She did go away, and all was quiet during the clean-up. Too quiet. Upon investigation of the suspicious tranquillity, I discovered that my girls had combined their mess-making powers to achieve an even greater state of disarray.

I was a little bit impressed that they had managed to pull books from all but the highest shelf, it suggests to me some first-class climbing skills. But I can't say that was my dominant reaction at the time. I did, however, have the foresight to photograph this moment so as to leave their father in no doubt as to the extent of their guiltiness once he came home to a (hopefully) restored house.


But the story doesn't end there. Thinking that my children were somewhat repentant, and having still not finished with the ash, I returned the site of the initial crime to finish cleaning. But again - a prolonged and uncharacteristic silence descended upon the house. Yet this time the girls weren't in their usual lurking places - they were in my room.

I literally caught Chloë red-handed and Zayla red-faced. I also discovered after this experience that my lipstick is indeed wear- and waterproof, especially since Zayla's hair had a bit of a red tinge to it for the next few days.


Fortunately this concluded the day's shenanigans, partially thanks to the pseudo-babysitting abilities of the children's channel on the TV. But as I've discovered in the world of child-initiated disaster zones, tomorrow is always another day!


Isn't motherhood wonderful? Lucky I love them so much.