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I don’t seem to have much luck with Mr Squish’s hair.

I’ve written before about my unfortunate foray into the toddler haircutting world (here and here). But on this particular occasion, Mr Squish’s bad hairdo was not my fault. (I love that so much I’m going to write it again: IT WAS NOT MY FAULT!)

I learned my lesson and now stay firmly away from such shenanigans, much to everyone’s relief. Now we go to the hairdresser. My son is propped up on a chair with a cape wrapped around him. He stares at himself in the mirror and blinks as the wispy hair cascades past his face.

Yesterday however, I was informed that my normal hairdresser wasn’t available. (Now, this is the part where a smart person would have arranged it for another day. Yes?)

So, what did I do?

“Is there anyone else available?” I enquired STUPIDLY. “Anyone else will be fine.”

This is how I came to meet “Ms Hachette”. She seemed nice, but her pleasant demeanor belied her true nature. Inside her chest beat the heart of a child-hating witch. I suspect she is a descendant of that witch Hansel and Gretel encountered. (In fact, I might just phone the hairdressers now and verify that fact. I don’t want to look stupid.)

I’ve never seen anything like it. She chipped away at my son’s hair with swiftness and intent, lopping off large amounts very quickly. To her, my son’s hair was something evil to be banished from the world. She wanted NOTHING left. Out out, damn hair! Begone with you ALL!

Now, perhaps I am being a little dramatic and unfair to her. I suppose my instruction of “Please take a bit off the top” could possibly have sounded like “Please remove his fringe ENTIRELY”.

Yes. You read that correctly. His fringe has all but disappeared. One moment he had oodles of hair. The next, he looked like this:

 

 

You’d think that I’d be angry, but I am not. Not at all. In fact, I am thrilled! I really needed a laugh and now every time I look at my son’s barren forehead, I double over with mirth. Mr Squish, unsure of what’s going on but wanting to be part of the hilarity, starts giggling too. Of course, this just makes me laugh more.

Aside from it being pants-wettingly funny, there is another aspect that makes me happy: I have FINALLY found someone worse at haircutting than myself.

High fives for everyone! Good result!

 

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Dear Universe,

I’d like to begin by issuing you with an apology. 

Whatever I’ve done to raise your hackles, I’M SORRY. 

I’m not sure what my offense was, but given this last month, it must have been a doozy.

Was it because I threw that expired yoghurt out without recycling the container? Is it because I buy too many plastic toys for my son? Or too many wooden ones?

Come on! Help me out here!

I first suspected I had annoyed you when you gave my son (yet another) flu. And this was a bad one. Lots of crying, clinginess, and throaty coughing that alarmed bystanders.

However, it was your decision to send through ALL HIS REMAINING TEETH AT ONCE that was truly inspiring.

You see, up until 3 weeks ago Mr Squish had a mere 8 teeth. Now after bouts of fever, sleeplessness, diarrhea, and reduced hunger (and that’s saying something), he has a mouthful of the little choppers.

I can’t believe you sent them all. At once. Whilst he had a flu. 

You, sir/madam, are an evil genius.

Anyway, as a result of the sudden and extensive mouth relandscaping, some of Mr Squish’s gum tried to make its escape. I don’t blame it as I was feeling much the same way.

I freaked when I noticed some black skin coming away from his gum  (sorry, that sentence should have come with a warning). 

That, Universe, was a special touch. So was the dentist who incorrectly guessed it was a tooth infection and had us in a panic until a second dentist diagnosed a simple gum blister and harmless dead skin. 

So we drew a relieved breath of air for a second.

That is until I took Mr Squish for his regular health check up. Aside from the normal anxiety about his weight, the nurse reignited my worry about his suspected lazy eye.

When my son was 1-year-old, I took him to an optometrist because his eyes looked slightly wonky in photos (not in real life, bizarrely). The doctor assured me it would resolve itself and said to return at 18 months if I was still worried.

So back I marched with my fluey, teething and miserable son in tow.

This time we were swiftly referred to a specialist pediatric optometrist (“best to act now”). As part of his eye test, Mr Squish had to have stinging eye drops administered that would reduce his vision FOR 24 HOURS. 

Yay! That is precisely what Mr Squish needed.

It turns out his vision and eyes are fine. Just a visual illusion that will go away. But thanks for the stress, Universe. THANK YOU. If I wasn’t lying awake holding a crying toddler, I was lying awake worrying.

Then at the end of all this drama… drum roll, please…. 

I got food poisoning!

TA DA!

So well played, Universe. WELL PLAYED. 

Rest assured, you sadistic bastard, after this month I have heard your message loud and clear.

From now on, I promise to recycle properly, hug a tree every day, and to make all Mr Squish’s toys from debris I find on the side of the road.

Your servant,
Ms FOAS

Down with sleeping!

I’m back!

I apologise for my two week absence. All my readers must have been worried, but I’d like to assure you both that I’m fine.

It’s just been a crazy and busy few weeks. Aside from my freelance work, I’ve been dealing with a fluey 17-month-old son. What with a sore throat, fever, runny nose and hacking cough – Mr Squish has suffered the lot.

During this time, he’s been ultra clingy too. When I put him down for even a split second, he stands perfectly still and howls until I pick him up again. So I’ve had a snotty toddler literally attached to me for a fortnight.

(They don’t show these honest parenting scenes in Huggies commercials, do they. Still, my arms are now so freakin’ strong I could probably lift a medium-sized ute.)

Night hasn’t offered us much respite either. Mr Squish refuses to sleep alone, so for six nights now I’ve had a miserable toddler wheezing, whimpering and snoring only inches from my face. My job has been to rub his back, stare at the ceiling and think of alcohol.

On each night I got about 3 hours sleep. 3 HOURS! It’s enough to make a woman desperate. Or stupid. This explains the bad haircut I got the other day. In a resigned moment of I’m-so-exhausted-I-don’t-care-about-anything, I told the hairdresser to “cut my fringe short”. Let’s just say she did. Emphatically.

So I look gorgeous at the moment – if ‘gorgeous’ is defined as “bleary-eyed, snot-covered and with a nerdy fringe” – and I’m fairly certain it is.

Yesterday I told my sister Shootin’ Tex about the sleeping situation. This is how that conversation went (note: she does not have kids):

 

ME: Mr Squish isn’t sleeping.

ST: Good work, little man! Sleeping is for losers!

ME: Um…

ST: (chanting) DOWN WITH SLEEPING! DOWN WITH SLEEPING!…. I’m going to buy him a t-shirt saying that.

ME: I need to go now. I have some very important crying to do.

 

But I do have some good news. Last night, Mr Squish made it through the whole night IN HIS OWN BED. We both slept for 8 hours! May the gods be praised!

So I decided to write on my blog again today for two reasons:

1. To assure you that I’m not trapped under something heavy.
2. If I wrote any sooner, my post would have been a manic string of expletives. All in caps. And bold. And underlined. Twice.

 

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There’s been so much media coverage of the Fukushima Nuclear power plant problems. But what is the real cause of the problem, you may be asking.

Well, I have the answer. You see, a little chap called Nuclear Boy has an upset tummy and his stinky poo is threatening to obliterate everyone.

Obviously.

This theory has been largely poo pooed by the media, but I have video proof. Below is a film that was created to teach Japanese children about the possible nuclear threat.

It sets the story straight, once and for all. I can’t stress this enough, THIS VIDEO IS REAL.

It’s a little bit scientific, so take it slowly. Watch and learn, kiddies.

 

 

Wow.

Just think about that next time you complain about your own kid’s nappies. Things could be much worse.

 

[Please donate to the Red Cross Japan and Pacific Disaster Appeal 2011 by clicking here]

 

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My husband is MacGyver

We’ve just returned from a holiday in a charming beachside town. One night, after we put Mr Squish to bed, my husband and I sat down for a romantic bottle of champagne on our hotel balcony.

As we opened the bottle we realised the hotel room didn’t have a champagne stopper nor a wine cooler.

“Not a problem,” said my husband, leaping to his feet. He disappeared into the kitchen for a while while I waited expectantly. “What masterpiece he would create out of the limited bits-and-bobs in our kitchen?”, I wondered.

He did not disappoint.

 

 

Yes. That is a saucepan. A saucepan with water and a freezer pack in it acting as our wine cooler. In fact, it’s a ‘Med Pack’ which is made for transporting medicines. Perfect for every romantic night!

But I reckon it’s the champagne stopper that is the real triumph. You can’t tell from the photo but it’s made from a tightly-folded paper towel tied up with a plastic wrapper.

Here’s a closeup:

 

 

Now if that doesn’t scream ROMANCE!, I don’t know what does.

It’s also a perfect example of why I call my husband ‘MacGyver’.

For people that don’t know the iconic 80′s TV show MacGyver, firstly, shame on you. SHAME ON YOU. Go and stand outside and have a think about what you’ve done.

Now come back in and watch an episode. While you’re at it, play this magnificent drinking game. A drink must be taken when there’s an explosion, MacGyver invents something, or when someone asks “What are you doing, MacGyver?”

Here are some of the crazy-resourceful things the Big M has done:

 

• Created a magnifying glass using a hairpin and white wine

• Made a land mine out of a pine cone

• Simulated helicopter noise with a spatula attached to a ceiling fan

• Made a hot air balloon from gas cylinders, a tent and a shed

• Confounded heat-seeking robots with paper, matches, and magnets

 

Now in regards to comparing my husband to MacGyver, I admit that my husband has never created a hot air balloon in a hurry. Nor has he, in his capacity as a vet, been required to simulate helicopter noise. And he has only occasionally been confronted with heat-seeking robots.

But what MacGyver and my hubster have in common is their unfailing resourceful streak.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve returned home to discover a new MacGyverism somewhere in the house. Once I opened our fridge to discover he’d sticky-taped a Tic Tac box to the inside of the door.

“Why?” I asked simply, pointing to the new addition.

“Because the light stopped turning off when the door closed,” he replied.

I stared at him.

“This way…” he continued in the manner of someone addressing a person who has just fallen on their head “…the Tic Tac box touches the switch and the light turns off.”

Oh.

The Tic Tac box is still there, by the way.

I’ve been trying to remember more, but to be honest I’m so used to them now. MacGyverisms are almost a weekly occurrence. But they are far more prevalent when we’re not at home.

For instance, say our hotel room doesn’t have a strainer for pasta. Just give my husband a bottle top, some dirt and some chewing gum and problem solved!

No can opener? Give him a matchbox, a tomato and a used tissue box and Bob’s your uncle!

I must admit though, the MacGyver champagne stopper did do the trick. I’m starting to think there might be a market for tbese MacGyverisms.

So expect to see the champagne kit made from paper, a plastic wrapper and a saucepan in the stores very soon (patent pending).

 

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