Conquer Kozzie

We came, we saw,
We conquered Kozzie.
No mean feat if you are three years old,
Or if you are scared out of your wits by the heights,
Encountered on the chairlift.
Funny going up was much easier,
The down will be described in all its,
White-knuckled majesty,
Later in these prose.
But for those,
I will not say of us,
Because the chairlift puts me in the same category,
As the three year old,
But for those of able limb,
The thirteen kilometre return trip is...
A 'doddle.'
Seven made the pilgrimage,
Ranging in age from six to forty eight.
The nine year old Aspergian required constant 'chivvying.'
And only completely lost it,
Near the summit.
"Too windy,
Too high up."
After all this was the highest point in 'Ostraya',
And way way too scary.
Nine year old Aspergian geniuses can count.
Four hours to dawdle and whinge six and a half kilometres.
Well that adds up to,
Too far.
"Can't we go back now?"
Luckily for us the way back is blissfully,
Downhill.
The scenery was superb,
But greatly marred by gale force winds,
That buffeted the petite six year old against the summit cairn.
Perhaps the junior Aspie had a point,
But he was hunkered in amongst the boulders.
So at pace we returned.
Only one spill on the steel boardwalk.
And at last sun and wind burned,
The time had come for the chairlift descent.
The blind led the blind.
And blind we were with our eyes tightly closed.
The three most terrified on the same chair.
At the base, walking jelly-legged,
It was then I noticed the imprints of my fingers,
Indenting the soft flesh of my children's,
Small hands.

The Tough Nut

"I go to bed when I want,

Two thirty sometimes.

I can watch whatever telly or DVDs I want,

Mum and Dad don't fuck'n care.

Yeh I just do what I like.

So you can't make me..."

He is short and stocky.

Rosy round cheeks match,

His little round belly.

He looks tough,

But his 'face' is lost,

So easily.

Don't challenge him, he'll break.

He is a grimy cherub,

With a foul mouth.

Movie Night

After dinner and teeth cleaning,
On a Friday night,
Seven attempt to sit comfortably,
On one three seater lounge.
They jostle for position.
Baby always scores the best seat,
Mummy's lap.
We have no T.V.
So laptop perched on a kiddies play chair,
Substitutes for the home cinema.
Portable speakers for Dolby Stereosonic sound.
Three dollar 'weekly hire' from the cafe.
No bandwidth for streaming,
But who needs the latest releases?
It is the latest to us.
Nightmares limit us to G ratings,
But it's cosy,
And we see most of the movie,
Between head movements.
And hear most of the dialogue,
Between the audience commentary.

Hair ties

Five daughters with silken locks,
Blonde, brunette and mousey.
Smooth and polished,
And brushed to a high lustre.
Their hair blooms like their fresh young faces.
Yet the price of this natural beauty
Hours of brushing.
Untangling of tenacious knots  .
The wriggles and squeals,
As the matted is liberated.
And of course there are the bands.
The hair-ties without metal,
Guaranteed to not to break any fragile strands,
Yet not to disappear without a trace,
Like hundreds of their contemporaries.
Somewhere within the confines of this house.

The Damaged Kids

The damaged kids cry and cry and cry.
You ask them to do some writing.
They cry and cry and cry.
The damaged kids cling.
They want to sit all over you.
Get jealous if you don't choose them,
For the first go.
The damaged kids are defiant.
Push the envelope,
And cross the lines in the sand.
The damaged kids lie.
They live in a fantasy of deceit,
Better than their real world.
The damaged kids are taut
Like springs,
They snap.
But as their teacher I remind myself,
The damaged kids are still kids,
Just damaged.

Head Lice

 Most unwelcome visitors to anyone's pate.
Quiet and insidious,
And some time you might wait,
To discover their presence.
And then with the greatest of diligence,
you must treat and fine comb,
Scratching your child's head near to the bone.
They'll squeal and grizzle and fidget about.
Unfortunately all of those eggs must come out.
So despite the best of chemical warfare,
The brushing and checking of every hair.
It only takes one or two of those eggs to remain,
To hatch, copulate and then its on once again.

Too tired to Dance

Miss five in her oversized school uniform,
Bag almost as big as herself,
Trundles out the school gate.
I hold her hand,
Which emerges from a rolled jumper sleeve,
Also too big.
Happily she climbs into the car,
Chatting continuously of her day,
She attempts to remove her shoe.
She should be concentrating on the seat belt.
I hurry her because we do not have time to spare.
The banter continues.
We are all buckled in and ready to go to dance lessons.
Miss six, the bigger sister and veteran of year one shares her days happenings.
I hear no other sound from Miss five,
Bar the heavy breathing of slumber.
The day has been too big,
Life too full and interesting,
And we are too tired to dance.

Running Late

Why is it when you're running late:
Your daughter decides to drag her feet,
Then starts crying and sits down on the wet grass,
On strike.
Then the dog gets out and chases the kids to the bus stop.
You, in your nighty with bare feet must pursue the whole party across the paddock.
The grass wet and icy whipping your bare legs.
With renewed attention the little girl slows her pace and screams louder.
Nothing to do but grab the dog,
And encourage the recalcitrant with threats, should she miss the bus.
Her siblings, save the oldest have gone from sight.
She relents and moves quicker but still wailing.
I return to the house annoyed,
That this has happened,
And that I feel like a callous, insensitive parent.

The Child Cave

They screech and chatter like monkeys.
Whoops and calls of unbridled infant revelry.
We have paused at a town playground.
Modern play equipment in bold primary colours is ignored.
Rather, the children have discovered the steam-powered grader and stationary engine,
Over which they clambour unperturbed by the lack of soft-fall.
Excited primates in darkened hedge habitat.
They clambour over low branches and find their secret nesting spots.
Hide and wait in excited apprehension of discovery.
When found, their silence is broken by peels of screeching joy no longer contained.

Homecoming

Filled to the brim with social engagement,
Bad food, and the stimulation of new places.
My children regroup in the three hour car journey.
A few 'grizzles' on route.
The odd altercation.
Generally quiet resting prevails.
Then arrival,
Slowly pile out disheveled,
From a car of disorganised detritus.
Then the loathsome job of unpacking when you are tired.
But the kids;
Well like I said;
'Regrouped!'
Ready to start the party.

Student Free Day

Today was a student free day.
Student free, but not of course teacher free.
Conversation less restrained.
No packed lunch.
Holiday stories exchanged.
Timetables adjusted and curriculum planned.
Enrolments speculated.
Managing recalcitrant and demanding parents?
Strategies discussed.
Lessons and excursions organised.
Resources located.
Post opened.
Classrooms readied
And in your minds eye,
As you are driving home,
You see them before you,
With eager faces and new uniforms,
Your students.

The Chaos of Return

We're all back.
The whole family.
Together again.
Bang and crash,
Bodies and belongings,
In through the back door.

Sunburn, bee sting
And dirty washing.
Tired and overexcited.
Running inside
Squeals and screams
Too many requests

"Can I .....?"
"Could I.....?"
"Could you....?"
"Not right now, we aren't even in the door."
"I've got to make dinner."
"You've got all day tomorrow."

Then, as one by one,
The chaos of childhood retires
 I take a moment at the kitchen table.
The dinner dishes.

Yes, I've got all day,
Tomorrow.

Midsummer Days

Too, too hot,
On these Midsummer days.
My children are inside retreating from the scorch.
For a while they read in various contortions of repose.
Then precariously they play a card game.
Until inevitably competition causes tears and fists of retribution.

Then outer clothing is replaced by splendid embellishments.
Expressive dancers slink to the beat of an ' eighties ' crooner.
Two fairies and a ninja live in an elaborate, fantastical world of their own creation.

On goes the pump to water the garden.
In knickers, jocks and singlets,
 Ear piercing squeals join the chorus of the petrol motor.
The shock of cold water on warm skin is too much.