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Archive for the ‘expectations’ Category

paddlepopThere are some days where you just feel that you are the icy pole stick that’s been shoved up the arse of a Paddlepop.

Chocolate flavour.

 

I don’t want to sound like a huge whinge-bag (because I am really blessed with family, friends, health and incredible good looks >haha< ) but yesterday was the beginning of one of those chain-of-events-days that sometime happen in our lives…

We all cope well with one little disaster…but then another happens and another…… it all stacks up…. 

 

It began yesterday at an hour of the morning that I’d only heard of in fables…4.55am.

Between dear daughter and dear cat (known as Sam or Sam-bo or effen-friggin-cat-get-off-my-black-pants) my morning had started about two hours, five minutes and twenty seven seconds earlier than it needed to.

 

But, believe it or not, eyes riddled by old-lady-varicose-veins was not the lowlight.

Oh no…no sir…

The lowlight was finding out one of my long term employees has been stealing from me.

Jolly good. Things have to get better now…right?            Not.

 

I then took a phone call from a man whom we shall call  the ‘business associate’, but who is more affectionately known as a name even I am too embarrassed to write on here  (well to give you a clue  it has something to do with bananas and a very nasty-red-itchy-rash).

I picked up the phone (EPIC MISTAKE) and as soon as I realised it was him- I instantly wished that instead of picking up the phone I had simply taken the phone-cord and whipped myself senseless. 

 

I popped into G-mail (chosen for it’s semi-erotic name only) and quickly looked up my star sign.  Ahhhh…I thought. Now it all makes sense…. 

Gemini’s were copping a big one from Uranus.

I felt relief wash over me. I can handle Uranus!

By the crack of tomorrow’s dawn it would all be over…

 

Today I locked the cat out, fired the girl and in the privacy of my own home I  flipped the ‘business associate’ the bird. Twice.

The universe is back to normal.

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This afternoon we trolled through the garage (otherwise known as the repository for everything other than the car) looking for a case suitable for Miss 8’s impending camp.

Her first camp.

I finally found the one I was looking for, a snazzy-surfy one that her big brother had used on his first camp. I was elated. Phew! I never thought I would find it in all that junk. “But Mum…” Miss 8 said incredulously “it’s a boy’s suitcase.” I looked at it.

Yes.

She’s right it is a boy’s suitcase.

When her big brother went to camp he didn’t mind taking the old red sheet that had the rip in the centre and the Frankenstein stitches. He didn’t even mind that he had a non matching pillowcase. But now I have a whole new ball game on my hands. Don’t get me wrong she’s pulled out her old jumpers and jeans…but I’ve been firmly instructed that the pyjamas must match (tick) and may I please have new volleys (tick-and fine with me- I don’t want her taking her good runners anyway) and was it possible if I had a girls suitcase- please Mum pretty please?

Boy oh boy girls are different.

Part of me can’t justify buying another case, and another part of me wants to get the coolest-grooviest-girly-case I can find.

I remember the day my Mum told me we were going shopping for my primary school camp. I was elated. We were going to the biggest Kmart in town (the one in Burwood) and I felt like the luckiest kid on the planet- I was getting new stuff! Driving along my dreamy thoughts of new sleeping bags and fluffy socks abruptly screeched to a halt as we detoured to the… doctor’s surgery. There waiting for me was a big-fat-juicy tetanus shot.

Tonight I’ve taken a picture of the snazzy-surfy-suitcase.

Tomorrow it’s going on e-bay.

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According to my weeping daughter, who had flung herself across her bed, two girls, (count them fingers sticking up at me) two girls in her jazz ballet class got a grade higher than she did in her dance exam.

I make her sit up. We wipe the trail of snot off her pillowcase and closely examine her new trophy.

“Wow.” I said.

“I think that’s real gold.” big brother said.

“Is that my dinner in the oven?” Dad said.

 

Back last year my daughter did not have such high expectations. I had chosen this new dance studio because I didn’t like the one she had been previously enrolled in (errr the owner brings in giant dog-unleashed- to watch wee-little children dance and then says- “oh but it’s a friendly dog’…). She sat the first exam with the new studio and we were all pleasantly surprised when she received a top grade. It was very exciting. But little did I know what enormous pressure this would put on her small rounded pink shoulders the following year.

 

Her disappointment is palpable.

 

We tell her she’s great/gorgeous/talented/marvelous all to no avail. Tears keep streaming. I remind her that just because someone did better than her doesn’t mean her result isn’t fantastic. Commended does after all sound pretty impressive to me and it’s much higher than fail or pass or credit. I ask her to tell me how everyone else did and her story wafts around, facts are blurry. Clearly her perceptions are more important than reality.

I hold her close and ask her if I can facebook how proud I am. She brightens instantly. She’s social networking savvy at eight. She knows grandma and aunts and uncles and cousins will see my comment and go to her (very restricted) page and leave lov-er-ley messages for her. I show her what I write. I tell everyone how proud I am.

 

Later I creep into her room and watch her sleeping for awhile.

The mother-part-of-me wants to tell her not to be so hard on herself.

But the preparing-my-kids-for-real-life-part-of-me is proud of her for a reason other than how well she actually did in the exam.

 

 I’m proud of her for wanting more.

Sure aiming high will land us with disappointments and many reasons to blow our noses into countless tissues over the years. But it also means we don’t settle for mediocrity.

 

Last week during some random conversation I asked my daughter (who is only in grade three) if she wanted to be the Gold House Captain when she gets into grade six? She immediately answered “no.”  I was very disappointed as she attends the same school as I did and we are all mad for our Gold House. She looked at my crestfallen face and said “I don’t want to be the house captain mummy- because I want to be the school captain.”

 Stay tuned for an update in three years.

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