Fairy Bread

It's party time here...Ava's end-of-school class party was today. She was so excited that she got to have Coke: "But I only had one glass, Mom, cause I knew you wouldn't want me to have more." It got me thinking about a staple of children's parties here in Australia, one that I had never heard of before we came to live here: fairy bread.

Ava, Nate, and now Grace, love fairy bread. They always want me to make it for their birthdays and it's the first thing they go for at their friends' parties. What is this divine confection, you ask? It's white bread cut diagonally, spread liberally with margarine or butter and sprinkled generously with candy sprinkles (often called "hundreds and thousands" here). And it is an Aussie tradition. No kid's party is complete without it. I love that it's so simple. You can just imagine some Aussie mum coming up with it 30 years ago. Maybe she forgot to bake cookies for her kid's party. Maybe she opened her pantry and tried to come up with something exciting and out of desperation grabbed the bread and sprinkles. Candy sprinkles will sell anything, I guess.

Now, just like I'm still not good at proper Vegemite spreadage, I don't think my fairy bread is up to scratch just yet. I'm probably too stingy with the sprinkles. It's one of those things that, if you didn't grow up with it, it's hard to get just right. But here's some I made for Ava's last birthday:

By the time I set the tray down and got the camera to take a picture, half of them were gone. So, as you can see, fairy bread is a big winner. Even my scantly sprinkled ones! To me, it seems like this ought to be an American invention. It seems that Americans are usually the ones to invent the sugary, fatty snacks with zero nutritional value. Twinkies, anyone? Ho Ho's? Deep-Fried Snickers Bars? But the Aussies beat us to the punch on this one. Nicely played, guys.

Nate has his preschool party on Thursday, where he gets to bring his own "party lunch". You can bet that fairy bread will be on the menu. Or else.

Dead Again. Until Popsicles.

We went to the park this morning. I love overhearing Ava and Nate playing together...everything they say sounds like a question.

"Ava--pretend we were poor? And we didn't have a house?"

"And all we had was this sandpit?"

"But we were happy? Cause we played?"

.....

"Pretend we had to build a dam?"

"I'm 15 and you're 10. And our parents are dead."

One thing I've noticed. In all these pretend-play scenarios, Jason and I get rubbed out pretty quickly. They are always scrappy orphans with absent and/or dead parents. Seriously, every time.

"Pretend our dad is at work and our mom died."

"Our parents died when we were babies and we have a puppy."

"We went to look for our mom but she had to go on a trip?"

I guess that gets us out of the way, right? Parents are boring.

I think they're happy to resurrect us, though, when we offer popsicles.

(Don't worry. The latest research indicates that 18 month olds benefit from ginormous raspberry lemon popsicles. It's hydrating. Can't you see Grace radiate health and vitality?)

Despite our demise, it was a nice morning.

So that's your opinion of me, is it?

Today Nate was playing at a friend's house, so Grace and I went out to the mall to do some Christmas shopping, or as I like to call it: feeding Grace raisins to contain her rage while I look for things that aren't actually in the stores. After we came home, Jason was there working, so I put Grace down for her nap and then went out again on my own.

The malls are already packed with people here, and there is that frenetic, half-crazed, forced-cheerfulness feeling already in the air. Driving home, I realized that I was feeling really stressed, as if it was the day before Christmas and I hadn't gotten anything done. It's a busy time of year here: combine the holidays approaching with school ending for the summer and all the stuff that goes with that. I had to remind myself that I had a couple of weeks still, that everything was fine, and basically to just chill the heck out.

When I got home, I told Jason how I'd been feeling over the course of the day. He asked me why I was stressed. I didn't know, I told him. Maybe I needed something to distract me from mom and dad leaving, I mused. "Well," he said casually,"You do like to have something to be stressed about sometimes."

What? I just love when he throws stuff like that out there. I think he does it just to mess with me, cause he knows I'll sputter and object and argue. It's the adult version of poking sticks at an anthill. And then he just smiles and goes back to emailing or sermonizing or whatever it is he's doing over there.

First off, I am not that person. Internet, I am not! I've had friends in the past who needed to have a crisis or an "issue" in their lives at all times, to provide a soundtrack to their existence. I don't seek stress out, that's for sure. Second off, (hee--anyone remember that line from Napoleon Dynamite?) maybe he can be all relaxed about Christmas shopping and kids and planning and school scheduling cause I'm stressing about it!!

!!!

Huh? Huh? What do you say to that, Calmy McCalmerstein?

Remember in A Few Good Men, when Jack Nicholson's character is all, "You enjoy the freedom I provide, and then question the manner in which I provide it? Whatever!" Or something.

You can't handle the truth, Jason. That's all it is. You're Tom Cruise and I'm Jack Nicholson. It's that simple.

I'm really feeling much better now.

-------------------------------------------

In other, less-silly news, it's my sister Becky's birthday today! It's been a year that none of us could have expected, yet she's come through it all with such grace, strength and humor. I'm so proud and inspired. Oh--and she finished her PhD, while fighting cancer. No big whoop. Go say hi and happy birthday, if you get a minute.

Happy Birthday, Beck! xoxo

Well, okay then.

Early this morning Nate, Grace and I were sitting around admiring the Christmas tree. (Actually, I was admiring. Grace was trying her best to smear her peanut butter toast on the couch and Nate was playing motorcycles.)

Nate started telling me that he didn't want any more baby siblings. "Why?" I asked. "It's a lot of work," he told me, frankly. "Yeah, it is," I said. "But if we had another baby, Grace would be older by then. She wouldn't be a baby anymore." Then he said, "I think there should just be three of us." I told him that would be fine, and that he was my favorite boy. "You're my baby, anyway," I said.

"I'm not a baby anymore," he said, leaning against me while Grace tried to shove his feet off the couch. "One day I'll grow up and move to another house." "Nope!" I said, "I'll handcuff you to the kitchen chair." He looked at me, his eyebrows raised. This was a possibility he hadn't considered. "Just kidding," I said. "You'll move away one day, but I'll come visit you a lot."

"No," he said, thinking it over. "I'll write on my phone and say, "Don't come visit me--I'll come visit you."

I think I just got dissed.

I didn't mean this to sound quite so melancholy.

Mom and Dad headed back to the States on Tuesday morning. I am trying to be a grownup about it. This means that on Monday night I chose not to take their passports, shred them into tiny pieces and bury the bits of paper in the backyard.

Adulthood is full of hard choices.

We had a great time! In spite of the stomach virus that eventually found its way to all 7 of us, we managed to do a lot together. I am so thankful they made the trip! Hugging them goodbye at the airport, I uttered my customary farewell: "I'm sorry we live 9,000 miles away." "Yeah," my dad replied, "Four or five thousand would've been bad enough."

Since then, it's been raining, and even though the weather is miserable, the first day of summer (!) was yesterday. I've set myself to decorating our house for Christmas. Even after nearly 6 years here, it is strange to get used to having Christmas in the summertime, so I like to really decorate to remind myself what time of year it is. This will actually be only the 3rd Christmas we've spent in Oz, the other times we've made the great trek across the Pacific. But this year is different. This year we have:

Grace, Lord love her, is in a trying phase at the moment. As in, she is trying to break local noise ordnance laws with her high pitched screaming and the rest of us are just trying to survive. Hopefully, she will have mercy and choose to let us live. I am not a wimp about traveling with children, but even I have my limits, and this is it. Look, I know it's a cliche to bemusedly complain about your crazy toddler. But if you had to chase her, as I did, through Target yesterday--losing your place in line and wresting a tin of breath mints from her claw-like grasp while she screamed the shriek of death, you'd be busting out the cliches too.

So, for that reason, and a few others, it's an Aussie Christmas for us! Should be fun! Christmas in summer has its charms...you should try it sometime. Wanna come see us? We supply earplugs to all houseguests, and Grace only bites if you don't offer her the food you're eating and/or your iPhone.

Christmas down under?? Think it over.

Next to "futile" in the dictionary

Today, Mom and I took the kids to the park. Mom has a nice camera and I wanted to try and get some good photos of the kids together.
Please notice that I said, "try".
It was crazy-making, to say the least.
Can you get a sheep dog for children? I have seriously wondered about this.
Someone who may or may not have been me may or may not have gotten a little Mommy Dearest with them. I threatened, I bribed, I threatened to retract my bribe. I reinstated my bribe.

"Act happy, kids, or we'll move in the middle of the night and Santa won't know where to find us!"

I'm sorry you had to witness that, Mom.

I figured I'd gone too far when Nate told me at one point, "I'm not gonna be your friend, Mom!" That was a high point.

And then it started raining. Here's what Grace thought about that: "Fiery darts are falling from the sky. Why does everyone hate me?"


So we went to the bakery.
The End.

I'm no chicken

When I was about 12 or 13, my dad made a wager with my sister and me. Trivial Pursuit was big in our family, and he bet us that he could answer every question correctly on a predetermined number of cards. I think it was 10 or 15 cards--I can't remember the exact number, but it was enough to seem impossible. We thought he could never do it! Over 50 questions! All those Sports and Leisure ones--obscure golf questions and the like! No chance, we told him. You're going down, we said.

We were so young. As Don Henley sang, This is the end of the innocence.

Cause you see, we didn't realize then that Dad doesn't make a wager unless he's certain he's right. He's not so much a gambling man as a give-you-enough-rope-to-hang-yourself man.

And when he answered the last question correctly on that last card, Becky and I shrieked in horror. Cause the agreed-upon outcome of the wager was that if Dad won, we had to go outside in the freezing January night and plunge our arms into the pool. We had an above-ground pool, and it was cold enough that there was a thin sheet of ice covering the water.

Did Dad have mercy at the last minute? Was the wager merely an exercise to teach us a lesson? Nope. He led us outside by our wrists, Becky and I half laughing, half screaming, and plunged our arms through the ice into the water. You know how freezing water just takes your breath away, makes you ache, how ten seconds feels like minutes? I still remember that vividly. Lesson learned: don't make wagers with Dad.

Which is why I don't know what came over me the other day. Mom, Dad and I were having lunch at a shady outdoor cafe and chatting. Now, can you pardon me if I get all Bible Geek on you for a moment? It's an occupational hazard. Dad brought up a quote from the Bible--when a character in the Old Testament dies, the Bible says that despite his old age, his "natural forces were unabated". We've always snickered a bit at that line--like, "Oh yeah, you the man!" The Bible is a bit cheeky at times, you know. Anyway, Dad said it was Moses that the Bible was talking about and I, for some reason, was sure it was Caleb.

I was so sure! And his confidence irked me. Pushing my sunglasses on top of my head, I said, "You're wrong." Dad threw down the gauntlet: "Shall we make a wager?" And it was on.

And, Reader-- I was wrong! Dang it, he was right. Moses--you manly man! The agreed upon consequences were that the loser had to fully impersonate a chicken in a public place for 30 seconds. That was Dad's idea, by the way.

So here's me, clucking like a chicken at Bondi Beach, one of Sydney's most crowded beaches.

And here I am afterward. Ava and Nate weren't sure how to take it all. I think Ava was more embarrassed than I was.
Full Disclosure statement: Dad would like me to tell you that, although we were at Bondi, on a path with literally hundreds of people strolling back and forth, he let me go down a little side path, where only a few people were around. And he also maintains that I flaked out halfway through, and only gave about 15 seconds of good, quality chicken. I say why take 30 seconds to do what you can get done in 15? I was clucking, I was bobbing, I was scratching. What more can one girl-chicken do?

I would like to add that I do not know why I am poking myself in the boobs in that first picture. I clearly did not think that through. Posting these photos is slightly more embarrassing than the original event. But my family tells me that I'd be a chicken if I don't.

Speaking of poultry, happy Thanksgiving! I won't be eating turkey this year, but I'll be counting my blessings for sure.