Stupid things I have done #1: Join the Brownies

Back in 1987 when I was 8 and impressionable, the sight of the older girls in their cute brown pinafores with a jaunty yellow t-shirt underneath meant I began the process of whinging to Mum that I wanted to join the Brownies.
I really wanted that uniform. I don't think I had much idea what Brownies did - I certainly wasn't the type of girl to help a little old lady across the road or learn how to tie a clove hitch in a piece of rope on a quiet afternoon - but I really wanted to stand out.
Much whinging later (Mum was demurring because she remembered her own whinging to her Mother - that she wanted to quit Brownies) enrolled I was.
That year the Guides Association upgraded all their uniforms, and instead of my cute little pinafore I had a hideous green and white spotted shirt that was too tight around the collar, a pale brown tunic and a sash, that I immediately spilt yoghurt on and never cleaned off.
It was the beginning of a lot of disappointments when it came to Brownies.
First of all there was the initiation. Everyone made a big fuss and you were the centre of attention. You pledged undying loyalty to your Brown Owl and then walked around the toadstool a few times and looked into the 'fairy pool' to see the special fairy who lived in there. Gibbering with excitement I leaned over, only to see a mirror and my own disappointed face staring back at me. The first nail in my coffin went in when I grizzled to Ms. Owl that it was just ME and how BORING. I was forever an outcast.
I got maybe 3 badges - unlike the rest of the girls who had badges sewn into the soles of their shoes. I was teased for having the 'new' uniform. I was never singled out for having the shiniest badge, even after my Sixer showed me how to polish it to a high shine on the soles of our rubber shoes. She must have taken a liking to me because she chose me as her Seconder, which meant I had an extra badge!! on my sash - sewn on wonkily and immediately stained.
The beginning of the end came with Brownie camp. The fear of God was put into me when a Brown Owl stated that if anyone lost any item of clothing or personal belongings they would have to sing a song in front of the entire camp. Of course on the first night I lost my watch. Sleepless nights ensued. A hunt around the camp had the watch turn up on a side table with a Brown Owl's belongings. Did she know it was mine? A furtive snatch and grab and a guilty conscience later, I never had to sing in front of everyone.
I did however have to dress up as a lion tamer and whip a girls' butt. Yes the big event of the camp was a Circus. We were given our roles before we left for camp and for some reason Mum decided I should wear a friend's school uniform as an outfit. This friend was also a boy. So wearing grey shorts and a grey shirt - an outfit that screams Lion Tamer if ever I saw one - I met the girl who was going to be my lion. She was all gung-ho and practising her roaring. We practised our routine for about 5 seconds and as we entered the ring I realised I had no idea what to do. My lion looked at me expectantly. I raised my wand and walked around. She immediately got into character by pouncing on my wand and rolling on the ground kicking it with her back paws. Happy to leave her to the limelight - her mane of brown knitting wool was striking - we did a couple of circuits around the ring - it was deathly quiet as I remember - and made a quick exit. I could tell my lion was not pleased with me. Where were the flaming hoops and her chance for a really good roar?
I couldn't have cared less. After a couple more half-hearted Brownie meetings - we went to some old lady's house and picked up rotting grapefruit off her lawn for our 'Do a Good Deed Every Day' - I suddenly realised I could actually be at home eating Krispies and drinking Raro and watching telly.
And that was that. I lasted a whole year and I still have my sash - yoghurt stain and all.

BATM learning the interwebs

Dad: I got this email the other day. From my friend in England. It was an Irish joke, it was so funny.

Me: Oh hm?

Dad: Yes, I have a friend in Ireland. I’m going to FORWARD it to HIM! Because he’s Irish.

Me: *facepalm*

Dad: But I can’t find the Forward button. Can you show me?

Brain fog

So today I have packed up my grumpy little son and taken him to the doctors to be injected with vaccines and inoculations in both little legs. To him this must have seemed like the biggest indignity. He gets extra hugs and cuddles from me and Rich. At the doctors the nurses coo over him and he has more big cuddles with Mum. Then whammo, he gets stabbed in the legs with a horrible stinging liquid. That's gotta suck. No wonder he's been rather fretful since we got back. I am sure he'll thank me for it one day.
Today's non-baby activity has been to buy the items needed to make my Christmas Cake. I normally make it in September so it has lots of times to get nice and mature, but you know, I was rather busy in September. The plan is to make it this weekend, in between feeds and sleeps and settles and washing and naps. Here's hoping it actually gets done! I use the recipe from the place I bought my cake box from - www.woodencakebox.co.nz. It always tastes really nice but last years was quite undercooked, so am going to cook it for an extra hour this year. I like having traditions and I hope making my cake becomes a good tradition in our family. It's funny cause I don't even like fruit cake but my step dad and father in law are both  big fans so it always gets polished off.
We recently discussed what to get Stan for Christmas this year - seems a bit ridiculous as he won't have a clue what's going on. So we decided we'd just put some money into his savings account and maybe get him a couple of shiny things - my car keys or something - and wrap them in Chrissy paper so he has something to chew on on Christmas morning. We are having it at Rich's parents this year, and with Stan being their first grandchild, I am sure he will be getting spoiled ROTTEN. Lucky little guy.
Speaking of which, I hear a squawking from the nursery...the overlord calleth.

Back in the saddle

So last night I was reading my blog archives for the first time in ages. It was strange, and sad, because I used to LOVE to write and if I may say so myself, some of that shit was fun-nay.
I've said it before that Twitter has compromised my ability to make my thought processes longer than 140 characters. So instead of racing off a well thought out, witty tweet (yes they're exactly that, all the time) I'm going to mull it, and hopefully instead turn it into a blog post.
The reason for this is that at the moment, my life is baby. That's all there is. Baby when I sleep, baby when I wake. Baby when I'm happy, baby when I'm sad. I love love love my baby, more than I could even begin to explain, but I've realised that it's unhealthy to think about babies ALL THE LIVE LONG DAY. So at least one part of my day is going to be some kind of writing. About babies, who knows. Could be about cooking. Or my garden. Or that black furry creature who lives with us (not Richard). Or about the state of the youth today. Because in my day, we didn't wear underwear as outerwear (Madonna clones excepted).
I'm also going to re-connect with my blogging pals and get reading and commenting like I used to.
Until then, here's a pic of my special little guy, being ultra cute as always.