How to Call a Dog

My son has added the perfect pet to our household, an imaginary dog.  It doesn’t shed or poop, it’s VERY quiet and it has imaginary bowls for its imaginary food and water. Despite the fact that I’m routinely accused of sitting on the invisible dog, I don’t have any complaints about our new pet. When it first “appeared” I asked the Russian what he was going to call it and he announced “9, 10, 11, 12, 18, 19”.

I have pointed out, on any number of occasions, that a shorter name would make the easier to call the dog, and each time the kid just gave me one of those looks.  The entire situation finally came into focus one evening last week when we went to the park one evening after dinner.

Tying the leash to the bike.

A good time was had by all as we ran amok, and burned off some excess energy.  The dogs leash was tied to the handle bars of the bicycle as we set off for the adventure and upon arrive on the other side of the street; the dog was untied and allowed to run free in the park.

As we were herding the kid back into the house with discussions of bath and bed time, he announced that we’d left the dog at the park and we needed to go back to retrieve it.  In an attempt to outsmart the four year old, I assured him that if he calls the dog, it would come running home.  One of those long silent pauses, where you can almost see the gears spinning ensued and then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his imaginary mobile phone, flipped it open, punched some numbers and said “Dog, you come home now!.”  He then snapped the phone closed and turned back to me and said “He’s coming in a minute.”

All I could do was bite my lip and blink my eyes in an effort to not fall to the ground in laughter.  It wasn’t until later when reflecting on my day that I realized he had no idea what “Calling” the dog meant in the traditional sense.  The only calling he knows how to do was on a phone, which explains why I asked what we were going to call the dog, I got a phone number!

Battle of the Bougainvillea

Like so many of my escapades, it all started quite innocently. I went to collect the mail and noticed that the bougainvillea was again impeding access to the mail box.  Out of the respect for the postie (mailman for you yanks), I decided to grab the shears and give it a bit of a trim.

After only a few snips, I realized that the bougainvillea had reached up its gnarly tentacles and was attempting to take over a nearby tree so I went back to the shed for the loppers and it spiralled out of control from there. 

I gave the bougainvillea covered front fence a good haircut then turned my attention to the evil duo that guarded my front entry.  I really don’t mind the front fence being booby trapped by blood thirsty vines.  I have peace of mind knowing that none of the local hoodlums aren't ambitious enough to take on the vines in order to gain access and the little hoodlum that lives in my house can’t even see out through the stuff even if he did know how to scale a fence.

The ugly wall that had been covered by the blood thirsty bougainvillea.

In addition to the front fence being covered by bougainvillea, there are two guarding the very ugly wall near my front door.  When we moved into the house in November of 2010, the shrub of Satan had reached above the house and attached itself to the AC unit and electrical lead coming to the house.  It was drastically cut back at that point and gets a tidy up about every other month just to provide safe access to the front door and my nearby roses. 

The second time it drew blood sent me back to the shed for a bow saw and the fight was on!

I will admit to enjoying the vivid and long lasting blooms of the bougainvillea, but I’ll lay money that the devil himself having dreamed up this horticultural nightmare.  The thorns are needle sharp and nearly a half inch long. Trimming it only seems to encourage new growth and it has the ability to send up new shoots of over a foot in a matter of a couple of weeks.

By the time it was over I was bleeding in five places, but the Beelzebub bush had been cut to the ground.  I know it will be back, I’m guessing that I have at least of few months of respite before I get clawed in the backside while watering my roses.

I got the last laugh!

Merry Christmas to All

Christmas has come and gone and once again I’m in line for the laziest blogger of the year award.  I won’t bother with excuses, because they’re like asses.  Everybody has one; some are simply more amusing than others.

Christmas this year was way different than any of us had ever experienced.  The Russian was very concerned about how Daddy Baba (aka Santa Claus) was going to get here with no snow.  Fortunately there are several Australian children’s books cover that very topic, the most commonly agreed upon version is that Santa arrives in Oz with his reindeer and lets them have a rest while he uses kangaroos to make his deliveries in the summer heat.  Our specific version is that the reindeer were resting at Taronga Zoo in Sydney and six, big white kangaroos, known as boomers, were doing the work in the hot Aussie summer.  This works out well with the Aussie Christmas carol “Six White Boomers”.

I’ve always had a tendency to over think and over engineer many of the aspects in my life; spending all day everyday with a little person is magnifying that situation.  SO – this is how we ended up with a mini blizzard in our living room in the middle of the summer in the Australian Outback.  I had seen these incredible paper snowflakes in a restaurant in Russia last year and someone there had been kind enough to show me how they were made and give me one to use as a pattern.  I have time on my hands and a serious lack to intellectual mental stimulation, so after I get Dennis and Dave tucked in at night, I stayed up for hours making a few dozen paper snowflakes.  Some were the regular ones we all made as kids, where you fold the paper then cut different shapes; others were the 3D versions ranging in size from 6 inches up to 20 inches across.  They were all strung onto fishing line and hung from the living room ceiling.  Every time the AC kicks on the flakes flutter and produce a rather magical effect.

I hosted a book club meeting shortly before Christmas and ended up running a crash course in snow flake making at the end of the meeting.

In past years we had a Christmas stick instead of a tree, but friends demanded and we agreed that the Russian needed a Christmas tree even if it was artificial.  We were gifted an such a tree by someone who wanted to clear out their spare room and with a little creativity, we did a decent job of filling our government issue home with its wonky floor plan situated in the middle of the desert in the sweltering heat with holiday cheer.

During the lead up to Christmas, the Russian was asked repeatedly what he wanted Santa to bring him and the one constant was “a cake” and often he asked that Santa come and eat cake with him.  As indicted previously in this post, I’ve been known to over think things, SO arranged to borrow a Santa costume, recruit someone to fill it and baked and decorated a devils food two layer cake with butter cream icing, decorated with Christmas trees and poinsettias and the lettering “Merry Christmas Dennis”.  Everything was organized for a Christmas morning delivery. 

On Christmas Eve, my friend Lori, who also adopted a child from Russia, called to wish us a Merry Christmas and I mentioned Dennis wanting a cake from Santa and she tells me about Christmas that at her daughters orphanage.  Like most orphanages, there wasn’t enough money for to receive gifts from Father Frost a.k.a. Daddy Baba, but he did making an appearance and handed out cupcakes to each of the children. 

By no means would I consider myself wealthy, but as a product of the land of plenty, I assumed he wanted some amazing creation; it was incredibly humbling to realize that the only thing my son wanted from Santa for was a simple cupcake.  It brought a tear to my eye and warmth to my heart to remember that the wants of many of the people in this world are so simple.

After that, the cake I had lovingly baked seemed ostentatious, but I had the bloody thing done, the required clothing and the delivery organized, SO…. on Christmas morning at about 11 am, the phone rang with a call from Santa to say that while the roos were taking their nap at the Alice Springs Desert Park, he had cleaned out the sleigh in preparation for the trip back to Sydney and he discovered a cake that he had forgotten to leave at our house. Since the roos were still a sleep, Santa asked Dave to come pick him up so that he could deliver the cake in person. (yes I know I need a job)

Our little Russian is usually quite gregarious and social, but the presence of such a revered figure in his home left him in total awe and very shy.  He didn’t utter a sound while Santa was here and wouldn’t even look him in the eye.  The excitement happened afterward and listening to him tell the story was worth every bit of the effort that went into making it happen.  As time went by, the story of the Christmas cake became more elaborate and way more creative. At one point he decided that the reindeers had made the cake and stirred the batter with their antlers.

Although all he asked for was cake, I think he enjoyed all the little extras Santa left.

HAPPY AUSTRALIA DAY

I'm working on a new post, but wanted to tell everyone  - Happy Australia Day!

All in a Days Work

We just came home from Family Day at the undisclosed location in the desert where my husband works. 

Dennis got chased by a robot, petted a horse, fired a water cannon, sprayed a fire hose, went swimming and held a python, all in 104 degree heat.  A good time was had by all and if I revealed anything else they’d have to kill me.

Christmas Spirit in the Desert

Yesterday we were twice rewarded with displays of the Christmas spirit.  It was a lazy Sunday morning at our house and at about noon, I was still wandering around the house in my PJs.  I heard a bunch of noise coming from down our ordinarily quite street and thought “I wonder what the heck is going on.”  As the noises got louder, I detected a honking horn, rings bells and shouts of “Ho Ho Ho.”  It took me a second to recall that one of the service organizations (and I apologize for not knowing which one – Rotary, lions, APEX ???) cruises town this time of year on a Sunday morning, with Santa in the back of a ute handing out icy pops (popsicles) to kids.

Since I was in my ratty PJs, I rushed Dave and Dennis out of the house to chase Santa down the street.  It was well worth the effort, because our little Russian bounced back to the house with eyes as big as saucers and grinning from ear to ear.  We couldn’t figure out which excited him more – seeing Santa or getting the Icy Pop; either way it made his day. 

Later in the afternoon, we went to the home of friends to share some holiday cheer. Dave and I both wanted to partake in the consumption of liquid cheer and because our status in the country comes with a zero tolerance for legal infractions, plus we have that whole responsible parent thing going, we didn’t drive ourselves to and from the event.  As we often do with this group of friends, the hosting couple picked us up and we took a cab home. 

As we ventured home in the cab, Dennis began to ohh and awe at the Christmas light displays along the way and the driver slowed down for the little guy to get a good look.  As we got closer to our house, the driver flipped off the meter and announced that there were some really good ones just a little way out of the direct route home.  I think the driver had as much fun as Dave and I did watching and listening to Dennis exclaim his delight at all the lights. 

In a world that just keep getting more jaded, hectic and impersonal, it was heartwarming to encounter a stranger that was willing to commit such a simple act for the sake of bringing joy to someone’s day.

Thank you Mr. Taxi Driver.

Why I had a martini after dinner:

During the course of the day, I suspected that my child was trying to push me over the edge of sanity. This morning when I made his bed before school, I discovered one of the decorative decals that had been on the wall of his bedroom, stuck to the bed sheet. The wackiness began in earnest when I was asked to help him sing Happy Birthday to everyone whose name he could recall and everyone got their own singing of the first verse. I was scolded when I tried to group several people together. We wrapped it up while pulling into the preschool parking lot with a chorus of “Happy Birthday other kids”.


After running errands in the rain for a couple of hours, I picked up the Russian and came home. He opted to stay outside and play in the rain while I whipped up lunch. He came to the sliding glass door in the living room and wanted to come in covered in wet sand. I wouldn’t let him in and told him to around the house to the back door and take his shoes off. I walked through the house to the back door and found the Russian standing outside the back door with his pants down around his ankles and he proudly announced “Pants off!” Somehow I kept a straight face, while recommending that he take off the muddy shoes before trying to remove the soggy pants.

During lunch, we got to discuss how he wanted to be “big and strong like that guy” in reference to the plumber working within hearing range of our kitchen table. I also got to hear how his eyes, nose and ears were going to get “really big” from drinking all his milk. He also explained loud and clear that he couldn’t sit up straight in his chair was because his butt was itchy. Since the water was turned off while the plumber was working, we had to discuss why his teeth weren’t going to fall out if he couldn’t brush his teeth after lunch. He did reassure me that he wouldn’t pick his nose or pee his pants during nap time and that he would love me “ever ever.”

Post nap, he was in the living room and I heard the fireplace doors open and close and the foot stool being turned over. Upon questioning of the suspect, I learned that he was baking cookies for mama in the fireplace and cooking shrimp under the foot stool. My living room was in complete disarray but it’s hard to blame a guy who’s whipping up calorie-free cookies and prawns for you.

Much of the rest of the afternoon followed with him tiptoeing on the line of acceptability and every time I even looked at him, he threw his arms around me and shouted - hug!!!! At one point I did reprimand him for something and he stomped off to his room to pout (I love a good long SILENT pout!) Eventually I went to check on him and when I peeked in his room and asked what he was doing the response was “Dennis eat this book”.

He asked for an afternoon snack and chose a pear, insisting that I not cut it up or remove the peel. He then proceeded to scrape the entire peel off the pear and announce he was full.

At the dinner table, he delighted in reminding Dave and I keep our left arms in our laps and elbows off the table. We spent way too much time discussing how big he needed to get before he could have wine with his dinner. When he burped and reminded him to say “excuse me”, he asked if he asked if he should say “excuse me” when his butt burped.

AND that is why I had a BIG martini after dinner.  I might not have been sober at all when Dave got home from work, but I’m still taking Tylenol to treating my throbbing knot on my head  that resulted from standing up and ramming my head into a cupboard door that had been left open; plus there’s that whole responsible parent thing.......