Archive | December, 2011

Mon-stahs

30 Dec

Today I came across the Monster Engine – have you heard of it? It’s the brainchild of a guy called Dave Devries, who takes children’s pictures of monsters and interprets them ‘realistically’:

Intriguing stuff.

It made me think back on my own drawing experiences as a kid. Personally, I remember clear images in my head that it was my pens’ job (or my coloured pencils, or – bless their memory – my felt-tips) to get onto paper.

Obviously, the marks on the paper wouldn’t have matched the mental image – to start with. But (perhaps this is the magic of grown-up art too?) the concept and the art were flexible – one grew or transformed as the other did, held together by one fact: the idea and its manifestation were my creations: products of my imagination.

An important rule in our household (we all spent a lot of time drawing) was that you did not disrespect someone else’s work by scrunching it up or cutting it or adding your own bits. Which is perhaps, in a way, what this project is, on a large scale.

Here is a video of Devries talking about this stuff. In it, he makes mention of the way he works with kids – so I guess we can believe that, consciously at least (*provocatively*), the kids involved didn’t have a problem with the fact that their creations had been taken out of their hands.

‘I approach a kid and I talk to them about their ideas’, says Devries, ‘and i put all my experience and energy into it … it becomes this thing that they can see.’ He implies that this process ‘helps kids with their fears’.

I’m no child psychologist, but I do wonder … In the scheme of things, does it? Or does it simply hijack their own imaginations??

Hmm.

Daisy

What Miss Bee Wore Today

29 Dec

Miss Bee says:

People have been getting so het up recently about the whole pink versus blue thing. Well, my message to all the girls out there, whichever side of the debate they’re on, is simply this:

RED.

Pink says ‘Feed me cupcakes! Wrap me in lace! Cut my firewood and change my tyre!’ YAWN.

Red says ‘Yes, I’m a girl. And you know what else? I am a strident feminist.’ Red is the colour of power, of speed, of danger … but also of excitement! Killer lipstick! The blood of life itself! Red says ‘don’t call me baby’.

Mummy and me do red.

 

Tshirt: George from Asda, thrifted.

Overalls: some obscure Scandinavian brand, thrifted

Slippers: Miss Bee’s old faves, from Classic Sheepskins

High heels are for those oppressed by the patriarchy. Now THIS is what I call practical footwear!

Daisy

Guest daddy rant: We need a new Santa

29 Dec

It’s time for a change. Long gone are the days of jolly and fat being intertwined. Past is the time of home invasion being all good and well. Animal cruelty, slave labour and techno-fear need not be a part of our Christmas any more. It’s time to kill off the old Santa. Let’s face it, the old guy has had his time in the sun. He’s served his purpose and he has served us well, but it is now time to say good-bye.

I propose a new Santa Claus. An up-to-date Santa who can inspire and encourage our children to be good, not just for gifts, but for the greater good. Let’s rescue Santa from his overwhelming and unrewarding Coca-Cola sponsorship. Let’s snare him and take him to a day spa. Get him back in shape, fit him a new suit and give him a shave.

Lose the belly. We can all agree the belly serves no purpose. However, I don’t think we should have a chiseled abs Santa either. I don’t think a Robert Pattinson, emaciated vampire body is what we’re looking for, but we definitely want to get away from the old Marlon Brando image.  How about a George Clooney body? That’s both sexy and healthy. Yeah, let’s lock that in.

Suit up.  How about a Santa in a fitted casual suit? Something that says “I’m comfortable with who I am and I’ll accept you for who you are”. A  hemp/cotton blend that hasn’t been treated or dyed. I’m thinking earth tones, but am open to suggestions. Also, let’s make sure that suit isn’t made in a sweat shop: Santa doesn’t need that kind of press.

Why not get Mrs Claus out of the kitchen? Too long has she toiled away feeding and clothing a horde of elves. Long forgotten by the feminist movement, Mrs Claus need not be neglected anymore. Put her on the sleigh too. Isn’t that a nicer picture: Mr and Mrs Claus joyfully bumbling their way around the planet together on Christmas Eve?

Free the reindeer. Santa doesn’t need them any more. Not in this age of science. Let’s put the Clauses in an eco-friendly self-sustaining carbon-neutral super rocket that not only travels at the speed of light but also feeds endangered animals as it goes. It’ll have seat warmers, satellite navigation, a dock for their iPhones and a blu-ray player in the back for the kids (yeah, let’s give them kids too).

Instead of “gifts if you’re good” how about “a gift if you recycle”. That’s a nice way of teaching them young. Lets change “He’s making a list, checking it twice” to “He’s adding names to last year’s list; he doesn’t need to write a new one.” That just always bothered me. And how about instead of “he knows when you are sleeping” we change that to “he doesn’t know if you’re sleeping or not because he stays out of your bedroom because he respects your personal space and knows he shouldn’t be in there without permission from your parents”. That has a better ring to it, and is probably easier to rhyme too.

Have a good new year and I’ll see you next Darwinmas (oh yeah, I’m changing that too)

Simon

If you enjoyed this daddy rant you may enjoy reading  A Warning

Summit of a Bitch – Climbing Mount Taranaki

29 Dec

When I wished upon a star for this year’s Christmas to have a cup of tea and a lie-down I must have been kidding myself. We are coming for you Mr MountainAny sensible parent on Boxing Day would be happy to hand over the nappies and bottles to the grandparents and go back into bed. Oh no, not I. Always up for a challenge and a sucker for punishment – when my fiancé Simon challenged me to climb to the top of Mount Taranaki I couldn’t say no.

Mt Taranaki can be one of the most dangerous mountains in New Zealand. Weather conditions can change at the drop of a hat. Many climbers who came unprepared have met their death on these slopes. Up at 5am to start the hike at 6.19, we anticipated a 8-10-hour return trip. It was freezing. As soon as we started I was already mentally giving up. The mountain valleys were still in shade, and I could feel the snow tingling and numbing my bones.

Only 1 hour in and I am knackered

One thing I love about hiking is how friendly everyone is. We met a British chap called Ronald. He quickly became our photo buddy. We spent the trip overtaking each other and helping take pictures.  Every time we made yet another stop to take photos I perked up like a puppy.  It’s all about the photoshoot … was my mountain mantra today.

View from the Huffer

At around 9.30am we reach the translator tower, which marks almost halfway. I hit a wall. I feel dizzy, exhausted and moody, and am over this bloody mountain hiking. I am busting for the toilet, and find some relief in the reeking longdrop. My head is pounding; I have the onset of what I think must be caffeine withdrawal. Fortunately my clever Simon packed a can of coke for such an event. I don’t even like fizzy drink, but I snatch the can out of his hand and sit behind Maketawa hutt sipping my coke like a sulky teenager.  I miss my baby; I wish I was in bed.

Sugar and caffeine pump through my blood. I have a new outlook on life. Things are good: we decide to push on.

After you reach Maketawa Hutt the track disappears into a combination of endless rock and stair climbs. Your face is confronted with swarms of suicidal sand-flies. Oh well, more protein for the climb, I say to myself as another gets stuck down my throat. Bear Grylls would be proud.   It seems every portion of this climb is, well, a climb. The steep incline doesn’t seem to plateau.  Just as you combat one leg of the climb you are confronted by another element that seems more treacherous than before!

After the stairs we reach the infamous bastard that is scoria. You take 2 steps forward and 1 step back, 3 steps forward and then slip and fall 10 steps back and start again. This is where MIL’s gardening gloves become very handy. Advanced climbers told me that I should try to climb in a zig-zag. Bugger that; it doesn’t f-ing  help either. Shit I need to pee again. Many a profanity was said climbing the scoria. I attempt short sprints of scaling across on all fours like some weird spider dog. This must be a joke. I look around and see a few of our climbing buddies have quit.

Out of nowhere giant clouds blow in with full force.  In just a few seconds our visibility is compromised.

I find myself feeling rather faint and overwhelmed by the mountain. The clouds are moving so fast I start to get very panicky. I fear it’s too dangerous to continue. Simon points out that if it was, all the other climbers who had overtaken us would be racing back down. We sit tight for a couple of minutes. He is right. As quickly as the clouds appear, they disappear. Each marker on the mountain is now a huge achievement. We continue to persevere trudging through this loose rock and ash.

Scaling the scoria

Another two hours pass; the goal is to make it up to the top by lunchtime. Motivation is wearing thin. I have devoured half the sandwiches and bumper bars already!

We reach the end of the scoria. ‘Thank F*ck!’ I say out loud.

Huffer achieved, translator achieved, endless vertical stairs achieved, Scoria. What next?

How about we throw in some vertical boulders just for fun, eh…

I didn’t know what to expect really.  While people told me it would be hard, I really didn’t think I’d actually have to do some proper rock climbing. God I am a fool. I look over jealously at the energy of a 10-year-old boy overtaking us as swiftly as a mountain goat.  Poo- pooh to your youthful body, and your lactic acid deficiency.

Despite the ample breaks I am very weary yet again. Covered in sweat, my legs are like burning jelly, my arms are fatigued. I have eaten all but one of my leftover Christmas ham and egg sandwiches.

I see a lone climber give up as his partner leaves him behind. Maybe I have gone far enough too and could wait with him? I stubbornly mope and cling to the rock face. Why, oh why am I not at home drinking wine and eating Christmas cake? Why do people do this and consider it fun? I glance over at Simon, who is a stark contrast to my sulking. He is having the time of his life.

We come across the first of the returning climbers who are making their journey back down the mountain. They assure me it’s only 10-30 more minutes to the crater. Others had given up along the way, but I’d be foolish to give up the mountain battle now.

It’s all about the photo shoot… It’s all about the photo shoot…

The final leg... I think...

We endure the last 30 minutes of climbing to reach a small crevice in the rock. The chilling winds whip my face. The cloud again forms and then clears to reveal a 40-foot drop to my right. My legs seize up, I hyperventilate and realise my fear of heights has never been more potent. I feel my sunglasses steaming… am I crying like a baby? … maybe a little.

You can do it, you can do it.

Simon grabs my hand to help me up the last rock.

BOOM! The crater is utterly surreal, at 2,518meters high. The air is cool and thin and so remarkably peaceful; it feels like a spiritual experience.

Mt Taranaki Crater

We knocked the bugger off!

Yeah Yeah Yeah

I swore that I’d never compare climbing the mountain to childbirth, but in a similar fashion as soon as we were up there the world was different.  My pain departed, my body letting a warm injection of euphoria fill my veins. I was ecstatic. Who cares about the epic hiking and climbing? I wanted to play in the snow and yelp for joy.

Happy Zelda

Why do mountain climbers do it? Because it’s there and they can! I can’t count how many ridiculous photos I took. Despite all those pictures no image seems to capture the happiness that we experienced.

Photo shoot over, Simon reminds me that there is still a sandwich left. I sit down on a rock shaped like a pig and stuff my face with the most marvelous ham sandwich I have ever tasted.

Yum yum pigs bum!

The return trip took us 9 hours and 51 minutes. Sadly, downhill was certainly no easier than uphill. Days later my calves and thighs are still suffering, but the good kinda suffering, where you feel bloody satisfied.

In the legendary words of Yoda:

Do or do not. There is no try.

Zelda

Cake wha …? Cake pops!

28 Dec

Do you know what cake pops are??

I’m feeling a little embarrassed that, up until recently, I did not. Maybe I can blame the goodly proportion of my time I spend in Eastern Europe?

This is your generic cake pop: basically, its construction involves making a cake, smashing it, mixing the crumbs together with icing, rolling that mixture into balls and decorating them. (It suddenly occurs to me that this could be a good idea to keep in mind as Plan B for all those times when you’re baking a cake and it comes out misshapen, or a bit burnt, or some manifestation of housewifely failure.)

Yum.

The genesis of the cake pop seems to be Bakerella. Since the appearance of cake pops on her site their popularity has, apparently, sky-rocketed (in all places of the world bar Eastern Europe? Although ‘everywhere’ on the internet tends to mean ‘all over the United States’). This article explains.

If you go to Pinterest and search for cake pops you’ll see examples of the genre that take these little beauties from home-baking experiment to high art form. (Please, though, if you’re not familiar with Pinterest, don’t go there. Or if you do, and then you get addicted and you start wasting hours of your time there, please don’t blame me.)

Mr Potato Head cake pops

I might give them a go one of these days. Found this tutorial, which gives you the basic idea as to how to do it, although it uses a cake mix and that very American thing, frosting in a can (what can’t you get in a can in the US?)

Luckily (yep, in my geekier moments I do actually thank my stars for this), we have a daughter and two small nieces, so what with birthdays, name days (it’s a Hungarian thing), etc, I tend not to lack opportunity to take girliness to extremes in my baking and other craft projects. If cake pops can’t be classified as ‘girly’, I don’t know what can.

Daisy

PS: I was trying to research how easy it is to screw these up, coz in my experience things that look perfectly cute online often look very (read ‘disappointingly’) different fresh out of your own kitchen. I searched “cake pops fail” and randomly stumbled upon this little gem …  Oh. Em. Gee.

Miss Bee’s Tuesday Page-Scrunching: Maisy goes camping

27 Dec

Miss Bee wishes all her loyal readers a Merry, liter-ARY Christmas!

Weak word play, sorry.

Miss Bee got a lot of books for Christmas from Hungarian rellies. I can’t get my head around the Hungarian children’s book business. Most of the books on the Hungarian side of Miss Bee’s shelf are generic nursery rhyme collections: there doesn’t seem to be much of a culture here of known, loved stories, as I’m used to – famous titles, famous authors, famous adventures. You know: an intriguing beginning, an amusing middle, and a predictable (rules-of-the-universe-affirming) end.

Personally, if I’ve got that right (without fluent language ability and not having had a Hungarian childhood of my own, I’m not qualified to make sweeping allegations) I’m sad; one of my favourite things about children’s literature is the cosiness of its little world: the characters, as much as the authors, that you get to know so together so intimately …

So today I’d like to celebrate the beginning, middle and the end of something that once happened to Maisy, that sweet little creature of the chunky whiskers, as chronicled by her creator, Lucy Cousins.

One day, Maisy and her friends went camping, but the tent turned out to be too small for all of them, especially once Eddie the elephant (in glorious plus-size pyjamas) tried to enter! They ended up sleeping outside under the stars, but that was a good thing. It often is, right?

Maisy’s another character (like the Gruffalo) who I didn’t personally grow up with, but whom I am glad to have discovered alongside Miss Bee.

Certain children’s book creators take delight in their ability to stretch simplicity to its utmost without sacrificing a believable story and humour that targets littlies without demeaning grown-ups (cf Miffy – there’s a similar thing going on there).

Cousins achieves it with Maisy; I’m sure she and Miss Bee will meet again, and often!!

Daisy

Guest Mummy: Aftermirth: Home is where the heart is

27 Dec

Euless, Texas → Grapevine, Texas → The Colony, Texas → Lubbock, Texas → Chicago, Illinois → Baltimore, Maryland → Washington, D.C. → Birmingham, England → Wellington, New Zealand → Melbourne, Vic, Australia

I’ve lived in over 22 residences. I’ve only lived 32 years of life. If you average that out, I move to a new flat/town/country every year and a half.

In 8 weeks I’m moving again, from Wellington to Melbourne, to follow a husband who is going back to school. What makes this move so different from the others is that this time we have a 15 month old, Lil Rubester. This should be very interesting.

Because we only found out we were moving last week and classes start in late February, this means that the next two months will be ab.so.lute.ly in.sane. Renting the house, selling our stuff, quitting our jobs, tying up a million loose ends, saying goodbye to so many wonderful friends.

I get a sick feeling in my stomach thinking we only just got citizenship in October, and here we are, moving again, to a country we couldn’t move to without that Kiwi citizenship. I feel like I’m cheating on New Zealand.

But my house is here, my child was born here, my friends and whanau are here, and we will come home…someday.

Chelsea

You can read all about my mummy adventures at aftermirth.com.

A square peg’s christmas message

26 Dec

Well, here we are: we’ve survived two of Hungary’s three days of Christmas. Twenty-seven hours of those we spent in non-stop total family immersion. I was feeling more than usually square peg-ish.

Now I’m in a kind of end-of-year philosophising mood. And I’m gonna say something controversial.

Motherhood has not been the hardest lesson I’ve ever had to learn, the biggest sacrifice I’ve ever made, or the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

I feel a bit like I’m breaking the rules in saying that, or revealing that I’m a bad mother perhaps – but it’s just pragmatically, unromantically true. In comparison with living in Hungary – carving out a space for myself here that will feel like home (note the future tense there; it’s far from achieved) – mummyhood is a cinch.

Every opinion, every habit, every memory, every piece of etiquette, every aspect of ‘taste’, every fact (it sometimes seems) that belongs to me … not to mention my entire mother tongue … is foreign here. And expressing any of it (or in other words, being who I am) often feels like trying to swim upstream as everyone else floats down.

I think I’d have to be a much more confrontational person or, realistically, a much more boring person to fight it – to constantly be saying ‘well, in my country …’

I can intimately understand how important it is that minority cultures have the ability to celebrate their own traditions. That’s a difficult, irrelevant, if not nonsensical, thing to do when you’re a minority of one. Over the years my honing a coping strategy has often amounted to huddling into a corner, trying to disguise the difference that felt like it was oozing embarrassingly out of every pore: a sacrifice that has been true and total.

The sacrifices of mummyhood are huge, but communal, and transitory. The light is often visible at the end of the tunnel, or the solution is a phone call (or a shot of espresso, or a Nurofen, or five minutes of deep breathing) away. And the pay-backs are so beautiful and life-affirming: in one little blue-smily-eyed moment, the hard bits seem like nothing.

The challenge of my life has been this big, stupid love affair that brought me 20,000 km from home; it still is. It has probably made me who I am, more than I know.

So anyway, you’re not going to believe me now, but the tone of this post was actually supposed to be celebratory, rather than complainy! I feel like there is something to celebrate in the fact that actually, in many ways, motherhood is easier than I thought it would be.

And there is definitely something to celebrate in the fact that fifteen sweet days from now, I’ll be on my way hoooome!!

Pip pip

Daisy

An Abundance of Christmas Wrapping Paper

25 Dec

Are you like me and wondering what to do with all this waste?

I am staring into the vast amount of left-over christmas wrapping paper. The bag is huge … it’s almost the same height as me.

Hearing the extended family talking about throwing it out, feeling guilty about the waste in this world, I am going to see if I can fit this giant bag in our car and do some paper recycling over the new year.

You can too! DIY Make your own recycled paper

Zelda

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Young glow bug and her mother

23 Dec

I can’t go breezing into a (particularly random) new post without stopping for a moment’s acknowledgement of Z’s last effort - jeez, girl! I knew it was bad at the time, but before I saw those pictures and heard the full story I had no idea of the scope of the nightmare it must have been.

If your post means that one other mummy going through it gets a little injection of solidarity, you will have Done Good.

And I found beauty in the pics you posted – maybe it’s that I could see in them the beginnings of a mummy who would sacrifice many things for the little one about to come into her life (a good night’s sleep, a body that didn’t itch like the bejeesus), would know that that little person would be ALL worth it, but would  take no crap along the way! Merry Christmas, you strong, brave, beautiful lady! I WILL SEE YOU SOON!!

On an unrelated note (ok, a little bit genetically related):

I love the art of Mary Cassatt (1844–1926), one of the ‘trois grandes dames’ (along with Marie Bracquemond and Berthe Morisot, for art geeks) of Impressionism. Her work mainly features women subjects, and particularly relationships between mothers and children. It’s lovely stuff.

I can’t remember what set me off on a trawl through Google images looking at her paintings, but imagine my surprise when I came across the glow bug in one of them! Z, do you see it, or is it just me?

Mary Cassatt, Young Thomas and His Mother, 1893

Daisy

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