This has to be my favourite Grady story. It's a classic. It happened back when Lindsay was in high school. One month she suffered particularly severe cramps, and I let her stay home for the day, snuggled up with a blanket and a hot water bottle.

Overheard snippet of conversation between my children.

It has been pointed out that I have been having way too much fun at the expense of my family. Although, anyone who has been following this, knows that fun is way down on the list of adjectives I'd use to describe my life. To be fair, I can take it as well as dish it out, so here goes.  Some years ago, we were visiting our aunts, one of whom owns Belgian horses. For the non-horsey people, Belgians are a really, really big breed.  It is suggested on this particular visit I take a turn at riding. Now I haven't got on a horse in over 30 years (if I say it really fast, I don't think I sound as old), but my kids love it (except Sid who took a face plant into a manure pile, which is a story for another day) so surely it can't be too bad.Getting on is the first hurdle, and after much snickering from my uncouth husband about "Gettin' yer leg over" I'm finally able to haul myself up.  So far, so good, until I look down. Add my height to that of the horse and I'm a really long way off the ground. I'm now starting to doubt the wisdom of this decision. We take off at a slow walk, Rob with the lead rope, and I did OK, managed a few laps on my own, and starting to feel pretty confident. Yay me!  Convinced now that I know what I'm doing but not wanting to push my luck, I head over to the mounting block to get off. This is where the fun begins.  Apparently, sometimes after you have saddled up a horse they will suck in their gut, and all of a sudden that saddle isn't so snug anymore. Rob and (Aunt) Ann proceed to tell me how to dismount. Sounds simple enough, keep your left foot in the stirrup, swing your right leg over the top of the saddle and hop off.

Back in the good old days ...  my little girl has all grown up and got herself a man.In the interests of preserving their privacy and saving my daughter from embarrassment, this will be the one and only blog devoted to the subject.  It would appear that when it comes to parenting a teen with a boyfriend, Rob and I are not on the same page, in fact, probably not even in the same book! We had an eye-opening conversation the other day and it went something like this:Rob: "Maybe I'm out of bounds, but now that Lindsay has a boyfriend, don't you think you should have a chat with her?  Me: (Blank look) "Huh?"Rob: "You know - That Chat!" Me:  "Oh right. Gotcha." Rob: "I just think it would be better coming from her mother."Me:  "Well, I really don't think it's necessary, she is pretty sensible, and they are nowhere near that point in their relationship, but if it makes you feel any better, I'll talk to her about using condoms."At this point, mere words cannot do Rob's reaction justice.  Bug eyed, apoplectic, clutching his chest, choking on his coffee, he sputters out "Are you kidding me? I don't want you giving her condoms, you're supposed to tell her to abstain." (There were more than a few expletives in there, but they are best not repeated). He continues, "I DON'T WANT YOU talking to her. EVER. I'll handle it myself."I must admit at that point I fell about laughing, who knew that my husband had long forgotten his own horny teenage days.  Suffice to say when I told Lindsay about the conversation later (there are no secrets in this house), she was mortified. "You're not going to put that in your blog, are you?" she asked. "As if!" I replied...... PS: When I read this to Rob - family always has right of veto with my blog - he expressed dismay. "My mother is going to read this" he exclaimed.  Right, like she doesn't remember his horny teenage years either. 

..... and the reason Sid is not my favourite ...... I was happily singing along to my music, minding my own business when she asked me "Have you ever considered entering a talent contest ?" I was actually quite flattered, but I answered that no, I hadn't. Her reply, "That's probably a good thing". Little brat. That is right up there with the time she asked me if I had been on the Titanic.

Sometimes I have to wonder. Grady calls out to me "Mum, if you need me, Sid and I will be doing something stupid outside". I'm not sure if I'm expected to rise to the bait, but I'm inclined to let them be. They can dial 911 as easily as the next idiot.

    As a stay-at-home mum, I used to face the 10-week summer school holidays with equal parts dread (alone with my children 24-7) and exhilaration (I can sleep in).  This particular year, we were only day three of the school holidays and already I was not sure I could take it. Despite several trips to the barn to do chores and feed lambs, an expensive trip to the bookstore, another to McDonald's and the ice cream store, I am still battling a chorus of the "I'm boreds".  I can't even take off and leave the little sods behind, because Lindsay has my vehicle.

More of the same. Sid and Grady got into a fight - can't remember why, and don't really care. The first indication is when I hear Grady hollering, and Sid's smug "Take that!". Oh, so not good.  Upon inquisition, I discovered that Grady had somehow upset Sid's sensibilities and in retaliation she had "punched him in the nuts". That boy really has to learn how to dodge or duck. So as Grady staggers around, dramatically clutching his nether regions, I read the riot act to Sid.  She starts to wail, totally disproportionate to the threat level.

     Have kids THEY said. It will be fun THEY said. THEY lied. Now that my children are all adults, they are fiercely protective of each other, mostly. However, it wasn't always that way, as this little ditty will illustrate.

     I used to suffer from severe arthritis, so at a relatively young age I needed to have both hips replaced. As much as I wanted to be able to walk again, I was dreading the surgery. Due to a fatal allergy to anesthetic that runs in my family, it was decided that I should only have an epidural and remain awake for the surgery. I cannot lie, that part filled me with dread. This is how it went. 

      We get up one morning, and Sid complains about the chilly temperature. Not sure why as today is the warmest day to date in this hellish never ending frigid winter we have experienced, but she does. Particularly she grizzles her feet are cold. I suggest she don her slippers, so she skips back upstairs and is gone for some time. Finally, when she returns to the kitchen, she is wearing one reindeer slipper and one purple sequined slipper (don't ask). As a general rule I do not comment on what they wear, but I couldn't let this one pass, I was far too curious. "Pray tell" I asked, "Why are you wearing odd slippers?"  "They were the only ones I could find" Sid replies.  

As you read more of my blog, you will learn of our ongoing war on mice. This is just one such example.

   I had to feel sorry for my son when he was in grade school.  One week I received a call from his teacher, to inform me that Grady had bumped his head - on another child - and had a big lump on his forehead, but he was refusing to ice it. It didn't seem too bad, and she promised me she'd keep an eye on him. If he started acting or talking strangely, she told me she would call me back. I had to intervene at this point, explaining that as talking and acting strangely was something Grady did on a regular basis, it would require something much more dire before I hastened to his side. 

This goes out to Alison, a good friend and hair stylist extraordinaire. She is also the first person to comment on my new website (Thank you!!)  and also, the reason Grady has a pet python.  She has been a brave follower of my previous blog for several years. On one visit to her salon, she was extolling the virtues of my posts to another customer.  "At first," she began "You think she must be making some of these things up, but then you meet the family, and you understand" She's not wrong. 

Today a story about my youngest, Sidney. At only 7 years old she had proved to be the most challenging of our children. Whether she is beating the crap out of her brother, or giving herself a time out from her teacher, (yes really) she certainly requires the most creative parenting.

Can you call yourself a parent if you're not actively embarrassing your children?  This happened a few years ago when Lindsay was still an impressionable teenager.

A few years ago, when we had been feeding the lambs, one evening before we ventured up we received a slightly panicked call from Alyssia, the barn manager. It turned out that two of the ponies - Ludwig and Thistle - had broken out of the paddock and gained access to the barn. Once there, Thistle had managed to open the freezer where the grain is stored and the two of them had a feast. The only problem was, part of what they consumed was lamb grain - great for lambs, not so much for horses, as it could cause serious complications. Alyssia had rung her vet - who promptly put her on hold, no doubt to laugh at her latest in a long line of predicaments - but eventually gave her a list of signs to look out for, laboured breathing, unsteadiness, bloating, and so on. 

Disclaimer: Grady was a LOT younger when this event took place!!

Sometimes my ideas border on sheer genius, and then there are others that leave me shaking my head and wondering WTF was I thinking. Sometimes I just shouldn't - think that is. This was one of those times. 

By the time I got home - windows still open - Rob was close behind me, so I left the cat in the kennel cab. There was no way in her current state that I wanted her running through the house, especially as her favourite hiding spot was under our bed. 

So we arrive at the vets. It is as cold as a witches tit, to borrow a somewhat colourful expression from my grandmother, but all the windows are open in the van, in a futile effort to escape the toxic fumes from the cat carrier. There is no vacant parking spot, so I send Sid into the vet's with the cat, whilst I wait to park the van. Even after I have accomplished this, I seriously contemplate staying in the van, after all it's not like I'm actually needed. However common sense prevails and I venture in. I explain the issue to the receptionist, and then again to a technician, a third time to another technician, and finally to the vet himself. By now in a closed examination room, the smell is so bad that Sid is coughing and my eyes are watering. The vet palpates the cat's abdomen and determines the blockage is too far up for an enema to do any good, so he decides to take the cat out back for a rectal exam. Rather him than me, and we settle down to wait. He returns a few minutes later and proceeds to shove his gloved hand in front of my face. "Look at this" he says, as I desperately try to do anything but, "This is what I found in her rectum, fecal matter and blood". Seriously, you couldn't have just told me that, you had to show me as well ?? WTF ? Is this pay back because I'm making him shove a finger up my cat's arse, rather than spring $300 for an x-ray ? If at that point I had a concerned expression on my face, it wasn't out of concern for the cat, but instead that I might puke at any minute. I don't handle those sort of things very well, that is what my husband is for. The vet disappears to gather medication and one of the technicians returns with my cat, who now looks as pained as I do. They have administered fluids under her skin, and the technician was concerned because she was "leaking". "Don't worry" she reassures me "If the leaking starts again, just hug her close and it will stop it."  I look at her in abject horror. Does she seriously think I am going to clasp a shit covered, fluid leaking cat tight to my ample bosom, when I am wearing my new winter coat. "Uh huh" I manage to squeak out. "Sure I can do that". Over my cold dead body, I will.  The cat by now, has no fight left in her - and really who can blame her, and although I am expecting another fight with the kennel cab, she couldn't get in it enough. I get the instructions for the medication - pills and syringes - jolly good fun that will be, settle up the bill, which brings fresh tears to my eyes and then make tracks for home. Little did I know it then, but the fun was just about to begin.  

 AKA "The Constipated Cat" or "Fecally Challenged Feline", oh yes, this is shaping up to be a real humdinger.