The difference ten minutes can make

"Where the fuck have you been?"

"I told you, I'm in the city doing some shopping."

"Well, get home immediately. I'm all alone with the kids."

"Why? What about--"

"My parents went home ages ago."

"Okay, darling, I'll head home right now."

"Catch a cab!"

"Okay, see you later."

Ten minutes later, I was home.

"Finally!"

"Aw, how are my angels? It's only been an hour or so! Mama has you for hours by herself." I tried not to be smug.

"This one's had a nap, but this one won't sleep. She wants a boob."

I looked at Munchkin, who had almost collapsed on a pillow on the floor. A little bit of quiet inattention, and she would have been out like a light. I popped Munchkin on the boob.

"Haha, look at Smurfette," I said as I flashed my other boob at the baby. "She's looking at my boob with her mouth wide open." This girl expects 5-star accommodation.

When both girls were sucking quietly: "Where's Jellybean?"

"He's still out with your parents."

"Oh. I thought you were home alone with all the kids." Prudently, I didn't give him time to reply. "You cheeky girls! Have you been bullying your poor Daddy? Have you been causing a riot?"

There was a little bit of mumbling from the other adult in the room... "And I wanted to go swimming."

"Okay," I said, watching the girls' eyes drift shut in boobylicious ecstasy, "why don't you go swimming now? I'll be fine with the girls."

And with that, peace was restored.

Ten minutes later, both girls were fast asleep, the hubby was on his way out the door, and I was opening a new book--the one I bought just before catching a cab home. ;-)

Non sequitur of the day, possibly the year

We've been conversing, and the toddler is easily distracted. I've been insisting that he looks me in the eye when we're talking. Eventually, of course, the rule will be turned on me.

"Gotta look in my eyes."
"Yeah, because it's good manners to look at people when you talk to them."
"Yeah."
There's a pause. And then...
"Are your boogies green?"
I want to laugh, but a good mum never misses a beat. "Are your boogies green?"
"No, they're white!"
"White! How do you know?"
"Because I saw it. Are your boogies green?"
"I'm not sure. I don't think I've checked what colour my boogies are."
"Are your boogies green?"
"I don't know. What do you think?"
"Uh..."
"I think maybe they are green."
He's clearly fixated. On the upside, he's looking me straight in the eye. But not for long. "Can I see?"
I oblige by lifting my head so he can inspect. "What colour are they?"
He wriggles around a bit before announcing, "Yeah, they're green!"
"What do you mean they're green? There's nothing there!"

Remind me never to eat fast-food pizza again

I feel like vomiting. This is the second time it's happened to me and, I swear, the last. Ugh!

Bilingual fun

I'm hanging around FreeRice, calling out random obscure words to The Boy, who isn't really paying much attention except when a word sounds familiar or particularly delicious to the tongue. And then:

"What is bulbul?"

"Oh," he says with the excitement of someone who thinks he's figured out the answer ahead of the class, "isn't that pubic hair in Filipino?"

Toddler teasing

"Mama," he says with voice a-quiver, "I got a ouchie."

I look at him in sympathy. I know what he wants: a band-aid. But I'm making him work for it, or we'll be spending a fortune on Wiggles band-aids and patching up every little bump.

"Is it bleeding?"

"Can I have a band-aid?"

"You don't need a band-aid. It's not even bleeding!"

The face crumples. "I got a ouchiiiie..."

"Shall I give it a kiss?"

He nods and walks over with finger outstretched. I lean over and give it a big, smacking kiss just before I make a big crunching sound.

He pulls away immediately and looks at me indignantly. "Don't eat it!"

*

"Jellybean, would you like some croissants?"

"Yes!"

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, please, Mama. May I can I have some croissant, please, Mama?"

"Okay."

"I need some fig jam, okay?"

Fig jam is my favourite croissant spread. Fig jam with creme fraiche. Mm... Jellybean didn't use to take jam with his croissant until I accidentally-on-purpose put some in his mouth. He's never looked back.

"Fig jam or strawberry jam?"

"Uh ... just fig jam! But no white sauce, 'kay? I don't like the white sauce."

"No, no creme fraiche for you." As if I'd share. Creme fraiche is more scarce than gold in the local grocery. "But would you like strawberry jam instead? Strawberry jam is yummy! Wanna try it?"

"No, sanks. Just fig jam."

"Not strawberry jam? Just try it? One bite?"

"Just fig jam. No strawberry jam."

"You don't wanna try strawberry jam?" I say as though it were a huge tragedy. "Why not?"

"Because," he says in a very serious face, "it's not delicious for me."

*

"Mama, may I can I please have your tummy?"

"Sure."

When I look in the mirror and see the sad shape of my tummy after having had the twins, it's never an uplifting sight. And while I make sure that the last thought I have before turning away from my reflection is the pride I have for having given birth to three healthy babies, I can't help but mourn my pre-pregnancy (or, indeed, pre-twins) abs. They weren't flat by any means, but I wish someone had told me to go ahead and prance around in a bikini while my skin was still smooth, tummy bulge or no. Seeing as I just bought myself a Miraclesuit--look 10 lbs lighter in 10 secs!--I don't foresee any more bikinis in my future.

"Aw," the toddler croons as he lifts my shirt and lays his head on my bellybutton, "I like your tummy!"

It's strange, but I remember, as a child, listening to bedtime stories while I lay my head on Mum's tummy. It was part of my routine every night, until I stopped having bedtime stories. (And now I think, That must have been so uncomfortable for her!) So my son's affinity for my tummy brings back fond memories of my own.

"I love to kiss your tummy, Mama," he says as he showers my stretch marks and wrinkles and flabby bits with kisses.

After two pregnancies, it's lovely to know that this wrinkled, overstretched, under-exercised bit of flesh can still be the object of such adoration.

*

I'm wearing a kind of knee-length duster as we lounge about on the couch. The toddler just finished his bath, and he's wearing a singlet and his bedtime nappy.

"I want your tummy!"

"Excuse me?"

"May I can I have your tummy, please, Mama?"

"No, darling." He's adorable, but I have my limits.

"Aw," he says in a sad voice, "whyyyyy?"

"I don't have any pants on," I say as I pull him up for a cuddle instead.

And, with the indignation of someone caught in an undignified situation and the excitement of someone who has found a loophole, he replies: "I don't have any pants on!"

The Archibald

Today I finally got around to visiting the Art Gallery to see the Archibald Prize exhibition. It was fantastic. Del Kathryn Barton's You are what is most beautiful about me, a self portrait with Kell and Arella is gorgeous. I'd read about the controversy surrounding this painting, but I'd also seen it on ads scattered around Myer, so I was curious to see how I would react to it. Well, I loved it even more when I saw it for real. The detail is beautiful and yes, I've even grown to love the subjects' stange, alien eyes. To me, they look like fairies. The actual self portrait reminds me of Queen Elizabeth I.

But there were other portraits that made me go, "Aah!" Martin Ball's Neil Finn, which won the Packing Room prize, is amazingly life-like. It's about as close to a photograph as you might get. Phillip Barnes's Black: White: Red all over (Red Symmons, an Aussie entertainer), looks like photography from afar, and it's not until you're up close that you can see the texture of the materials used. And I love the lines in Peteris Ciemitis's Grabowsky (they don't translate well in that JPEG).

There were other works that didn't appeal to me, aesthetically, but which nevertheless intrigued me. Song Ling's Angelina Pwerle looks like a digital print from afar, and I was compelled to examine it up close before I could believe that it was done in paint. (The kookaburra is so cute!) Leslie Rice's Quartered, drawn and hung: Adam Cullen on public display is haunting, although for me it's too dark to be properly appreciated. It's a little too gimmicky for me. I love, love, love the effect of resin, particularly in Sam Leach's Self in uniform. Everyone around me had to take a second look and read the accompanying blurb to see what it was made of because it looked like a glossy photograph. I was so, so, so tempted to touch it. (Naughty me. Don't worry, I restrained myself.)

We also walked through the Sulman and Wynne exhibits, but many of these works were more obscure, so we didn't linger quite as long as we did at the Archibald. When I passed by Wynne finalist Vincent Vozzo's New Man, a marble statue of a naked fat man, I nudged The Boy, and he went, "He's circumcised!" And, with perfect timing, the lady next to me said, "Interesting." Needless to say, the statue received much attention. Pulp - show us your map of Tassie II by James Powditch includes a collage of pages that I think were taken out of romance novels. Sulman finalist Leonie Watson's Mother, siren, model, hysteric is beautiful, but I couldn't figure out what the actual subject was, and that became too distracting.

Afterwards, we walked through the free exhibitions, and I had a fantastic three hours wandering around the gallery--despite it being overrun by excitable school children on excursion. I winced every time someone stood next to a painting and pointed at it, my year 10 Art teacher's voice ringing in my head. I was slightly mollified when one of the teachers spoke to a few boys and told them not to point with their pencils because "we don't want to poke anyone's eye out, and we certainly don't want to poke a hole in the painting." There were also plentya lot of adults doing their own pointing in close proximity. It was like being surrounded by people running their nails along a chalkboard. I just couldn't relax!

It always surprises me, the way art affects people so differently, and this was evident as we lined up to vote for the Archibald's People's Choice award. The schoolboys around us consistently chose Vincent Fantauzzo's Heath, which is no surprise--I expect this to win the award. I find it haunting, but probably more because of Ledger's death than anything else, although I do think the artist captures a wonderful, terrible expression in the central portrait. I think I would have preferred a triptych. The faces on either side have equally compelling expressions and, for me, they detract from the intensity of the central figure and it doesn't quite cohere. The Boy chose Zai Kuang's The sisters - Celia and Julia because the children made him happy, and for some reason, he finds the Asian artists more to his liking. On the other hand, I find that same painting quite haunting, and gazing at the curly-haired child's face for a few seconds leaves me feeling uneasy.

My pick was James Cochran's Akira. Oh, I know it's lighter that many of the other works, but that's why I love it. As soon as I saw it, I thought, That's Akira. And the more I look at it, the more I feel it embodies what I know of the designer and his work. (Also, he looks like some members of my family, so maybe that's part of its appeal.) I love the way it comes together from afar and is deconstructed when you look closely. I love its simplicity, the colours, the light, the pose, the expression on his face--it just makes me happy and I want to smile every time I look at it. I'm still thinking about it now, wishing I could see it again. Which, I suppose, is what it means to be touched by art.

Apartment Therapy: 10-minute break

Per the timetable, I took 10 minutes today just to sit quietly in a corner of my apartment. The exercise was meant to get me out of my comfort zone and thinking about how I want the room to look. But I was sneaky and sat in a corner of the balcony and spent 5 minutes savouring the view. It occurred to me that I hadn't sat in the balcony for over a year. How dreadful, I thought, that the only time I ever get to enjoy the view is in passing, while hanging the clothes out to dry. And I started getting ideas on how to make the balcony look more lived in, starting with replacing the two plastic chairs sitting there, adrift, maybe growing some herbs and buying a decorative plant or two.

And then a large insect started buzzing too close to me and I escaped back into the house.

So I spent the next 5 minutes in a corner of the apartment next to the balcony door, trying to picture how the room would look with different furniture. Moving the desk to the living room had seemed a great idea at the time, but I tossed around the idea of replacing it with a sideboard and trying to picture an (replica) Eames rocker beside it. Or replacing the Freedom bookshelves with an Expedit, except I'm not sure it's heavy enough to withstand three children pulling on it. Or if a Tulip dining table would look too crowded in our open plan space. Or if I could get a sofa bed in through the door!

My ideas are still in flux, but it was lovely to spend 10 minutes in complete silence.