the Great Frog Incident of Twenty Sixteen

I spot Eldest from across the school car park and beckon to her. The diminutive figure of my eight-year-old precariously picks her bare-footed way along the gravel path towards the car, backpack shouldered and shoes in hand. This is normal because she attends a Montessori institution nestled against a mountain on the property of a wine farm. The children are surrounded by nature and happily for me this means that school pick up involves the collection of wild-haired and dirty children; sometimes bleeding but always grinning from ear to ear.  Today, however, she’s carrying a box. And the box has holes poked in the lid.Read More

on Kids, a Wife and Pets: An introduction to us

I have entered a blogger’s challenge (Wife’s idea). Today is Day One and the prompt is “Who am I?”  Now, as the throngs of avid readers of my blog and the jostling horde of my eager subscribers (yes, that’s a shout-out to the five of you – love you guys) may well already know, I am not particularly forthcoming when it comes to divulging certain personal particulars on the web, and I like it that way. So this challenge, well, sucks for me. Anyhoo, a challenge is called a challenge for a reason, so here goes…

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Splitting Hairs

Splitting Hairs

I get the message at work:

“Guess what your child has done.”

It’s just after one ‘o clock in the afternoon, so it’s obviously to do with Youngest.

I’ll just get to it.  My four-year-old, at school, had decided that a particular chunk of hair was the source of such irritation that it deserved the full wrath of her ire and thus be sentenced to  permanent separation from her head. The weapon of her justice: a tiny pink pair of blunted kiddies scissors.Read More

Finding Patience

Conversation overheard in my house:

“Mom it’s not where you said it is.” That’s Eldest, my eight-year old.

“Yes it is. Just look properly and you’ll see it. On the desk.”

“I AM looking properly! It’s not here.”

“If I come up there and find it . . .”

“Come look. It’s not here.”

Footsteps stomping up the stairs. . .Read More

when they stop breathing

I am about to share the worst moment of my life with you.

Three years ago my Youngest stopped breathing.

My two girls had fevers that day. It was a Sunday. We had covered the lounge floor with pillows, the girls atop them were watching movies with the Wife on the couch and I was nearby, just outside the patio door. It had been raining off and on that day.

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