How Many Men?

It's been interesting having Damon home this week, the week school begins.

King's Beach, Caloundra, January 9

Interesting because Damon has now learned WHY the 8 PM bedtime is nonnegotiable and WHY all three boys shouldn't sleep in the same bed. 

Interesting because he now sees WHY I snap up the half-price school shorts and sweatshirts when they go on sale months before we need them.

It's also been a lot of fun watching him send the boys to do errands.  Like yesterday when it took all three of them to go down and hunt for the screwdriver.  Which not one of them found.

Or when he expected them to know where to find their own school clothes.  As they were standing on them.

Wet N Wild, Gold Coast, January

Honestly, sometimes you just give up and get Ryan to help out instead.

Leading me to come up with a lightbulb joke I know I am probably not the first woman to think of.

"How many man does it take to screw in a lightbulb?"

"Only one.  But you need a woman to find it for him."

Ian.  Yesterday.

I'd better go and find out where he's misplaced the baby!

The Effect of Moving on a Marriage

Last morning at the townhouse.

"My husband is moving us into our new home as we speak,"  I told the woman at the service counter.

"On his own?!" she asked.  "How the heck is that going to work?"
"I decided I'd had enough of the packing and cleaning, the organizing and time management.  And I've been doing it for the both of us - and an increasing number of children - as we moved from East Coast USA to Arizona, from Arizona to Europe, from France to Germany and then from Europe to Australia.  I'm done.  I'm tired.  It's his turn this time."

"Uh yeah, but HOW is he going to manage it?" she insisted.

Homemade pizza in the new kitchen.

And it's true.  Damon had absolutely no idea how to start packing.  I ended up helping the night before after all, or it all would have still been sitting out, waiting to be put into boxes, to be done 'while the movers were there.'

Obviously no idea of how LONG it takes to pack.  And of how quickly two 20 olds can move heavy objects.

On the other end, he had no idea of WHERE things were once we got to our new home.

"Did you remember to put the childrens' school uniforms where we could find them tomorrow morning?" I asked.

Uh.

Never mind that I had had an idea of where everything was even as we moved across oceans, continents and hemispheres.

He'd lost track of it all moving down the street.

Look Ma, pizza!

And the cleaning.  Yes, guys, here's the update.  Someone HAS been cleaning all those homes you move out of for you.  INCLUDING the oven, the fridge, the lighting, the blinds, the garage, and....yes, it DOES take longer than 1 to 2 hours.

It took Damon an extra week AFTER we'd moved out - going in when he wasn't working - to do it.

All of which meant that moving IN to the new place wasn't happening.  Good thing dark blue school uniforms hide the dirt well.

WITH ROOM FOR A KITCHEN TABLE!

And it meant that the only person who had learned a lesson from me making him do it this time was, you guessed it, me.  I am going to suffer either way if I don't do it myself.  And he honestly didn't notice a difference between the well-though out, organized way I had always done things and the haphazard way in which he finally managed to get things done.

Unpacking the Barbies in Ryan's room.

Honestly,  back in Germany when I was explaining the difficulty of packing and organizing for an autumn in Germany, things we would need there versus things we could ship on the boat and things we needed in Australia right away and needed to take with us on the plane, the only ones who truly understood it were the Germans.  Most of who would never have bothered to attempt it. 

Lynne's husband, Thomas, just looked at it all and suggested labelling each pile with a different colour marker to make things easier.

If I'd had know him any better I would have kissed him on the mouth.  Who ever said German efficiency couldn't be sexy?!

Nutella too.

My husband has many other good points, but will never appreciate that side of me.  I've learned to do it for myself though and not for anyone else.  After lots of tears.  (Funny enough, it was Lynne who talked me down off of the hypothetical ledge - or at least away from the divorce lawyer's door - during the final hours of leaving Altdorf.)

It could be worse though, as the woman at the service counter reminded me.

"We're moving next week too." she told me.  "My husband spent four hours last night trying all the extra keys we had in our kitchen drawer on every lock he could find.  In the end, he found one key that fit the door to the storage area.  He was very pleased with himself and considered it time well spent."

Pool for summer.  Trampoline for winter.

I remember the American Army engineer who wouldn't have been able to fit the items they picked up from our home in Germany into the back of his SUV without his wife's guidance.

But also fondly recall the trio of German men, a son, a father and an uncle, who came to pick up the kitchen at our old place in Altdorf.  Also family of engineers, they brought their own tools and had the entire set efficiently dismantled and in the car within an hour.

A yard to play footie in!

Such men do exist.

Problem is I think they expect a warm meal at lunchtime.

http://www.homehound.com.au/17+keats+ave+strathpine+qld+4500/
(Photos of our home since I obviously haven't taken very many yet!)

Men

(Written August 12, but left out to cool before posting!)

I'm sorry, but we still don't get it.

I AM speaking for MOST, if not ALL women everywhere. (I can see a hunter-gather woman yelling at her husband. "Honestly, can't you let the blood drain out in the field? Do I have to do EVERYTHING around here! Now I have to go back out with it - asking Anita to help me since it's a large doe - and do it myself. Might as well just go and hunt it myself too.")

We had some folks over the other week to celebrate Damon's new Australian citizenship. Surprise party and everything. Complete with Australian wine, South African wine, Califorian wine and German wine. Our friends know what we like! (In retrospect, the wine list reflected the guest list.)

11 kids total. But they played well. (Or at least we think they did. We were busy taking care of the wine!)

It was nice for Damon to have some guy pals around to back him up against me and my lady friends.

"We just don't like to be told what to do," they all said.

Which I believe we ladies all related to.

But what I still don't get, and Damon can't explain, is why it doesn't get done until he's been suggested at, asked, prompted, reminded, discussed over with, finally told and then screamed and yelled at.

Why DOESN'T "it" get done until we ARE, admittedly, throwing a crazy, hysterical hissy fit complete with tears, threats and sometimes copius amounts of medication (see wine list above) afterwards? WHY do I have to turn into a crazy person for it to get done?

We finally got rid of our couch yesterday. The brief, but fiery, argument beforehand most likely helped fuel Damon's energy in ripping the thing apart and taking it to the dump. Then he cleaned the VW we are posting to sell this week. AND he began to clear his stuff out of the room upstairs. All of which I had been all but begging him to do for WEEKS now. (I would try begging but I think he would see through that.)

I'm NOT angry. I'm a little resigned to the fact that this is just the way it is going to work. I ask for weeks until I can't stand it and blow up. He gets angry, does more than I ask. It gets done. We both get over it.

Except I've got a list of about five other things I've been asking him to look into for a few weeks. Things that are still on the nagging stage, but not fully into crazy, angry woman will make me do it stage.

To be fair, I've got a list like that for me too.

But I hate that I HAVE to turn into a crazy woman for him to take his list seriously.

I KNOW he's got other stuff to do. Little things like earning an income, settling bills (which I am SO doing again once we move), applying for jobs, and dealing with bureacracies on three continents.

But he's doing them on the bed upstairs, with a cup of coffee in his hand, and his other arm supporting his head on the pillow as he hosts a professional meeting between two other people - presumably in the same position on their ends - from India and Belgium.

Which makes me see where the differences lie.

Hunter brings home meal. Vital. Hard work. Job done. (And admittedly, this is NOT Damon's attitude at all - nor that of many close male friends of mine, but one I do see very often in other husbands. "I earned the money....you do the rest.")

(That last paragraph is going to get me into lots of trouble, isn't it? But I really am TRYING to see the other viewpoint. I was a practicing veterinarian too. I was BEAT when I came home from work. Clients suck. Please DO comment and make me understand it. You know, the boss is on your case, your coworker makes you do all the work, the other one is out on maternity leave AGAIN and the part-timers, mostly mothers, always leave their work for you to finish up and correct. THEN you have to come home, to a wife who has been eating bon-bons on the sofa all day, and help her feed, bathe and put three kids to bed. And walk the dog. Doesn't she do ANYTHING all day?!)

But I'm talking about an office job here. I had one of those too briefly. Sorry, piece of cake compared to a veterinary practice OR staying home with the kids. Quiet. Desk. And....in Damon's case....working from home.

Must be nice to be able to casually finish up the conversation, put down the coffee mug and stretch the second hand behind your head, satisfied of a job completed and well done, while still in your running pants and T-shirt.

So that when I come upstairs, also in sweaty running pants and T-shirt but not feeling quite so good about it, and he casually asks me HOW I would like him to tear apart the couch, my entire body twitches. HOW TO TEAR APART THE FRIGGIN' COUCH? AFTER WEEKS AND WEEKS AND WEEKS? I HONESTLY DON"T GIVE A RATS TAIL HOW JUST GET IT THE HELL OUT OF HERE.

And he doesn't get why I am foaming at the mouth.

Maybe because he assumes the homey smell wafting from the kitchen means that an hour of baking cupcakes with two four year olds should have me feeling at peace with the world. You know, flour on the face, two kids learning how to measure, pour and stir. Maternal bliss.

Because he's been on the phone with India and Belgium and hasn't heard the milk and flour sloshing on the floor from Aidan and Matthew's athletic stirring technique, or me wrestling the measuring cups away from one to give the other a turn, or trying to keep the uncooked batter out of their bellies....mostly to keep their hands out of the uncooked batter.

He sees the painted backs and bellies - lions this week - and the African jungle cutouts painted the color of the German flag and thinks all is right with the world. I even took picture of the paper pizzas we made to learn fractions with Ryan and Andrew to PROVE and DOCUMENT how right it is with the world.

And it IS right with the world.

It's just scary to know that I NEED help with this move this time. I CANNOT physically continue certain steps until he clears out his stuff, or helps me remove that piece of furniture. We NEED to GET STUFF OUT for me to pack what's left.

Don't get me wrong. Damon is an awesome father, friend and husband in other ways. Can't ask for a better dad for the kids or a better friend for me.

Once I lose it, once he sees I am finished and gone, he takes over the kids while I recover.

And he gets to feel really good that he's helping me out.

I just can't see how to get him to do it BEFORE I lose it, so that I don't HAVE to be finished and done.

"We don't like to be told what to do." they all said.

"You just need to ask politely."

Really? REALLY?!

I'm going to just go with the fact that this is the way it is. That men and women are wired differently. That this is what makes the whole crazy having kids and passing on genes thing work.

Honestly, sperm, eggs...pregnancy, CHILDBIRTH. LIVING TOGETHER as man and wife and raising a family? How weird is all that?

I'm just never going to understand God.

Convincing argument that He is a man after all!

Beavis and Butthead

"Poopy."

"Poopy poopy."

heh heh heh heh heh

"Poopy head."

heh heh heh

"Poopy ON your head."

heh heh heh heh heh heh heh

The problem is that this is a private conversation. Aidan and Matthew are quietly playing together in their room. They aren't doing anything wrong. They aren't fighting, bothering anyone, or using inappropriate language, really.

I DON'T like them to use that word in public, and I don't like them to use it repeatedly as a dumb joke.

But, I'm not in the room.

They find this conversation totally fascinating.

"Head on your poopy."

heh heh heh he heh heh

The weird thing is that I now finally get Beavis and Butthead.

Great. My boys laugh like Beavis and Butthead.

With the same classy sense of humor.

I don't get it.

But they've got a rapt audience in eachother.

And most of the 3 to 4 year old viewing audience.

Girls too, at this stage.

While I don't get the comedy, I do get a kick out of watching them delight and amuse one another. They are bonding.

Male-bonding.

I don't get it at my age. Why should it be any different at theirs?!

heh heh heh heh heh

Testosterone Domination

We honestly never stood a chance, Ryan and I.

I hadn't noticed it was truly gone until the other night, when I thought it'd be nice to watch an old VHS tape I'd dug up while cleaning out the cupboard. Cinderella. Whitney Houston's Rodgers and Hammerstein version, starring a black Cinderella, a Philippino Prince Charming and a cast of multiracial families - oh and lots of singing and dancing. Good fun, racial harmony and romance all in one. Pink. Polifically correct, lots of fun, and most of all pink. Girly pink.

I remembered when we bought if for Ryan, for Christmas right before she turned four. And then we gave it to her early, at Thanksgiving time, when she was suffering from a bad fall off a tricycle at kindergarten and a bout of the stomach flu. We'd had to take her to the emergency room when she started vomitting a few hours after the fall just to be certain. And, bruised around the nose and eyes, she looked just as terrible as she felt. She was really sick.

And so I whipped out the Cinderella movie as a special treat and sat with my daughter on the couch for two days, cuddling and bonding, and rinsing out the throw up bucket placed strategically at the foot of the couch. I don't know what the boys (Andrew and Damon) did. Could it be possible that even miserable, screaming Andrew just wasn't as much of a handful as the three of them together are now? He was only one, but he was walking at seven months. What WAS he doing that entire time?

There is no forgetting them now. Mad whirling dervishes of almost maniacal energy, bursting forth after days of enforced hibernation due to rain. These boys need to get out!

The other option appears to be street-dancing in front of the TV to a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical. Damon is not amused. Neither am I. This is a LOVE story, for crying out loud. SIT DOWN and WATCH THE TV! Did I really just say that?!

The three of them were really cute popping and spinning and striking a poses. But it just wasn't the same.

There are just too many of them.

I was never a girly girl. Ryan either. More of a jeans and T-shirt kind of crowd. With horses rather than dresses. But still, it'd be nice to have SOME sort of feminine aura in the house. Scented candles that aren't carried around the house due to some sort of male fascination with fire. Bubble baths that aren't used as a competition to see who can slide down the side of the tub into the bubbles the farthest. Or the fastest. Or whatever. With the end result being bubbles on the floor, bruised kids in the tub, and oh yeah, no scented candles since they were carried off for fire worship just the other morning. Forget the feminine aura. Peace and quiet would be nice too.

All action, all the time. Just what I wanted about twenty years ago. Surrounded by loads of interesting men, just dying to impress me.

Watch what you wish for.

Boys Will Be Boys

I remember my daughter, Ryan, running to greet me one afternoon when she was 18 months old with a fistful of flower petals in her little palm. She - and her father- were beaming with pride. "How beautiful!" I dutifully exclaimed, before she pretended to sneeze and scattered the petals all over the floor. Like snot. So much for father-daughter bonding.

Definitely a guy thing, and it soon lost its charm, but now I have three - no sorry, four of them in the house, and the times are getting ugly.

As we recently sat down to a family meal - all six of us at the table and the dog at our feet - Ryan and I were entertained by a cacaphony of fake belches from all sides of the table. Okay - two fake belchers; Andrew by now has mastered the art of the real thing. It would have been disgusting if it wasn't so funny. The little guys are obviously so proud of themselves. And they think they're hysterical. Belch. Hysterical laughter. Belch. Hysterical laughter. They could have amused each other for hours. The were like toddler versions of a fraternity house. I finally put a stop to it, imagining them all in ten years, each of them the size of my husband, doing the same thing. Lovely.

I've never understood humor based on bodily functions - the so called poop and fart jokes. But it seems to be ingrained in my men at least. How did it start that when I asked one of the twins if he had a poop in his diaper, that he turns to me and says, quite clearly, no, MOMMY has a poopy? And laughs and laughs and laughs. I just don't get it, but the boys consider it the height of entertainment. A "who tooted" dialogue can go around for hours. "Matthew tooted." "No Aidan tooted." "Ryan tooted." "Andrew tooted." You get the level of sophistication at our house. I still don't get why I'm always the punch line, but it has the rest of them rolling on the floor - and Ryan rolling her eyes. Thank God, I have one girl.

I'm waiting for puberty, but so far Andrew isn't impressed with the boy- girl thing. When we recently let him watch Pirates of the Caribbean, the last one, we were worried about graphic images of gore and violence. He hid it eyes for a few scenes at the end - the ones where Orlando Bloom and Kiera Knightley make out. "I just can't see this AGAIN," he exclaimed in disgust.

But there ARE signs. At the swimming pool the other day, a family of four joined us at the kiddy pool. The parents looked to be about 45, the teenage daughter about 16and then there was a two year old granddaughter, I'm going to assume was the 16 year old's niece. Both women - mom and daughter - were strikingly beautiful. Really, I could barely keep my eyes from them. And they had breasts the size of Dolly Parton. I tried not to stare.

My boys were checking out the family too. I figured they had their eyes on the two year old. But no. Aidan finally walked over to me and very somberly reached up to grab my breast. "Booby", he stated, and then stared back over at the family, still holding on to reassure himself that he too, had some, if a small part, of the treasure.

Whatever. I still think our family can take them on the fart jokes.