Would you be jealous of your son's girlfriend?

Scotto and I sat in the near blackness of the cinema waiting for Maleficent to start when I gave a sudden, startled squeal whilst digging around in my bag in search of elusive butterscotch lollies.

The two little girls sitting in front of us turned to look disapprovingly at the silly lady behind them causing a ruckus.

“What is THIS?” I continued, after glaring at the judgmental brats and extricating a long evil-looking orange, plastic coil from my bag. 

“A skipping rope?” I choked in disbelief holding the malevolent object up to the light. “Why does this keep happening to me Scotto?” I pleaded, tears welling in my eyes. “Why? Why?”

The mystery cheese which had bafflingly appeared in my bag on Wednesday had rattled me to my very core. Now this!

“Maybe your bag has become a vortex… you know, and it’s pulling things out of another dimension,” commented my geeky husband.

“What’s more likely, is some smarty pants at work put it in my bag to see how long it would take me to find,” I thought smugly. “I’ll get you my pretties.”

It is strange though, don’t you think?

I don’t mean about the skipping rope in my handbag… I mean that Scotto would accompany me to the movies to watch a little girl’s movie.

Last weekend we sat on the couch together and watched “Frozen”.

I think he liked it even better than I did.

Two Disney movies about princesses in a row…
In his defence he did bring these home from Dan Murphy’s this afternoon just to prove he’s still a bloke.

                            I just hope he doesn't start acting like Homer.

Speaking of blokes; my blokey-bloke son Hagar, won a very special award on Friday night. 

                 Most Outstanding Second Year Electrical Apprentice of the Year

His girlfriend Meggles, sent me the photo from the gala event (which I was not invited to) and apparently he even thanked the sweet girl for all her support in his acceptance speech.

Not that I’m jealous about the fact Meggles got a mention and I, the mother who slaved after him for twenty-one years, failed to come up in any conversations at all.

Remember Mitchell Johnson the cricketer's mother? 

She audaciously stirred up a big fuss in the media because he took his girlfriend to watch him play cricket in England instead of her; the mother who’d dedicated her life to making sure his cricket whites were white and sat around for a zillion hours watching the most eye-gougingly, boring sport ever invented… the very same mother who no doubt sacrificed buying herself nice things in order to pay for his play away games and coaching clinics.

No wonder women end up bitter and twisted.

NB: I speak in jest. I’m very proud of Hagar and I’m thrilled the adorable Meggles has stepped in to wrangle his wild and woolly ways.

It's not like I'm about to curse their first-born or anything...

The One Day Mothers Should Do Nothing!

The request was, my five kids all gather at 12:00 pm and supply lunch for their Mum on Mother’s Day.

Only rule was that I was doing NOTHING!
Thaddeus (24), was the first to arrive with a bottle of Champers tucked under his arm, paying homage to his precious mother on this, her one special day of the year.

Lulu (17), who’d slept here the previous night, had already presented Pinky with a floral arrangement and was busy texting the others to enquire about their tardiness.

“Who’s that on the TV?” asked Thaddeus pointing to the big screen playing music clips.

“Karen Carpenter,” I replied quickly. I love it when I know something they don’t.

“You know… if Mama Cass had shared her sandwich with Karen Carpenter it could have saved two lives!” quipped Thaddeus.

“That’s a terrible thing to say Thaddeus!” I remonstrated. “I never eat ham sandwiches in bed anymore after what happened to poor Mama Cass!”

“You know that’s a myth, Mum,” he continued authoritatively. “She died of a heart attack. It had nothing to do with a ham sandwich.”

“Yes it did!” I argued. “She choked on a ham sandwich!”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you read, Mother,” he remarked.

Ah… I thought. It seems the student has become the master.

We were interrupted by a lanky Hagar (21), sauntering in, plonking himself on the couch, thrusting a bottle of red wine at me and proffering a kiss on the cheek.

We were all starving so Lulu popped some garlic bread in the oven. Where were those other two boys? They were almost an hour late.

Finally Jonah (23), and Padraic (19), arrived and Lulu began to order pizzas on her laptop.

“I can smell garlic bread burning!” I commented quietly, making not a move to retrieve the blackening crusts from the oven. It was my day and I was doing nothing; niente, nada.

No one else made a move except for a reluctant Scotto who was disinclined to leave his self- constructed and recently reinstated Pinball machine in the corner of the lounge.

“Sit down Scotto!” I barked. “I’m not your mother.”

The boys all turned and stared at Lulu.

Did I really raise these chauvinists?

“Lulu put it in the oven. So one of you guys should get it out and serve it!” I chastised.

“You should always finish what you start,” drawled Hagar, staring pointedly at Lulu.

We all sat silently sniffing the smouldering garlic bread… a Mediterranean standoff if there ever was one. The boys were motionless, staring at the TV, not blinking… not breathing.

You could have cut the tension with a pizza wheel.

Huffing in exasperation, poor little Lulu snapped the laptop shut and flounced out to the kitchen.

‘Good luck with finding wives you guys,’ I thought to myself.

She then collected their ten buck contributions and floored it up to the pizza shop returning about twenty minutes later laden down with greasy boxes.

Like a float of crocodiles ripping into an unsuspecting wallaby unobtrusively drinking at the riverbank, the claws snapped at the boxes until all that was left were two sad shrivelled slices of barbeque chicken.

Then, before I could say, ‘pan-fried pepperoni’ the boys were standing up feeling in their pockets for their car keys and bidding me a hasty farewell.

Oh well. At least there were no barneys this year. And I actually loved every minute of it. 

But... thank the Lord I had a daughter.

Zombie Invasion in my Suburb!

                                       

The streets here in my suburb are plagued with the living dead. Large groups of raucous, staggering teens walk in a cluster, howling spontaneously with frightening ferocity and causing every dog in the neighbourhood to respond with aggressive objections of their own.

The girlie zombies; with their bum cheeks enjoying the crisp breeze and their flat unspoiled midriffs on display are tripping along with the identically singleted and cargo-short wearing boy zombies. The boys with a beer stubby in hand and the girls a vodka cruiser, are headed in one direction only; their sole purpose… self-annihilation at the music festival down the road.

I can’t say I blame them for the rebel cry. 

It’s tough being a teenager these days. The price of the entrance ticket and drinks are extortionate… they have to get wasted before they get there even though it’s only eleven o’clock in the morning. 

They’ll be searched at the gate by the fascist bastards on security so they’ve stuffed a vodka filled hip flask snuggly amongst the tackle in their jocks.

A few will be there for the music, but many will be there with the sole intention of intoxicating their bodies until they’re so smashed they won’t remember anything about the day. Too bad that a huge proportion are underage; there are plenty of older kids to buy the alcohol for them.

I hate this time of year when I watch my boys transform into driven, obsessive zealots with the single-minded ambition of going bat shite crazy with the other horde of thousands, thumbing their noses at us… the parents, the establishment.

“You don’t have to be stupid with your drinking you know!” I said to my nineteen year old son and his mate as I drove them to a pre-festival gathering.

“Anyone can get drunk. It’s not a skill. Pace yourself. You can stay at a happy level all day and enjoy yourself without ending up in hospital having your stomach pumped believe it or not.”

I may as well have been addressing my sermon to the bottle of sunscreen on the dashboard. I watched him wolf down a Bacon De-luxe from Hungry Jacks, thankful he’d at least put a lining on his stomach.

I love my son; he’s a good boy with a kind heart and a generous nature.

I’ll sit white-knuckled all day wondering what’s going down but in my heart I’ll know he’s okay. 

But, what about the other angry young men fueled up on alcohol, steroids and an overabundance of natural testosterone pumping through their veins? 

The angry young men who don’t really know what they’re angry about.

What is it with the chip on some young men’s’ shoulders? Why are their lives so disappointing they have to mutiny against the tyranny of sensibility and normal society? 

Is it that they live such an instantaneously gratuitous lifestyle they've lost the lust for life which comes from working for what you want?

Are we giving them too much all at once and toll free? 

Are parents making too many excuses for them and not teaching them one of the basic lessons in life… good things are worth waiting and slogging away for and that 'the rules' are there to protect them.

What do you think?

                         John Butler Trio... Good Excuse.

J - is for Just Visiting

Have you ever read The Giving Tree? It’s a beautiful story about unconditional love. The type of unconditional love a parent has for a child. I cry every single time I read it.

I went to lunch with the girls today to a restaurant called Jam Corner (which is another “J” word) and I was going to write about that but I haven’t been able to concentrate because of my darling nineteen year old son lying beside me playing what he describes as a fusion of hiphop, rap, reggae, R&B, dancehall, blues, jazz and soul on his phone whilst singing loudly and tunelessly in accompaniment.

But that’s okay… he’s my son.

“Can I borrow your phone for a sec?” he’d interrupt me. “I've run out of credit and need to text someone.” 

When I finally wrestled it back from him I noticed he’d made eight outgoing calls.

But that’s okay… he’s my son.

As soon as I rounded the corner and saw his ute in my driveway I thought how fortunate it was I’d had a big lunch and wondered if there’d be anything at all left in the fridge.

“Why don’t you buy food anymore Mum?” he grumbled, as he scoffed down my cherished golden rabbit Easter Egg. The one I’d been saving for Easter Sunday.

“Mainly it’s because you don’t actually live here anymore, Padraic!” I replied indignantly, watching as he wolfed down the prized rabbit in two bites.

But that’s okay he’s my son.

I could hear him rummaging around in the fridge five minutes later and a voice bellowed from the kitchen, “Is this chicken alright to eat?”

“It’s fine,” I sighed. “Go for it.”

“Smells funny,” he commented scornfully, tossing it back in disgust.

And it’s not just food. Our house acts as a giant warehouse full of towels, sheets, mattresses, Eskys, fold up chairs, buckets for bait, the odd external hard drive... all free for the taking. Nothing needs to be returned and rarely is.

But that’s okay. They’re my kids.

So for any mum out there reading this, please don’t fret when your kids grow up and move out. They never REALLY move out at all. 

Not until they've used up every scrap of sawdust anyway.

But as I said… it’s okay.

I - is for I of the Tiger!

                                                     

Image Credit

A to Z April Challenge!

Yes I know, eye cheated. Oh well.

If you read my post about my son Hagar traipsing off to Thailand to celebrate his 21st birthday with his gorgeous girlfriend Meggles, then you know how uneasy I was about their safety. 

Short of laying down on the tarmac in front of the plane I did everything I could to thwart his adventures.

Well… the latest paparazzi snaps to emerge on Facebook reveal the quality of drinking water should have been the least of my concerns.

The concept of Hagar becoming Fancy Feast for a couple of ravenous tigers never occurred to me. 

And the notion he and Meggles may choose to hurtle through the jungle at a great height never even entered my head.

Meanwhile, on the other hand things have been quite dull and boring here at the Poinker Ranch.

This is the type of mind-numbing conversation I had with daughter Lulu, when she was sitting on the couch biding her time before going to work.

I was off to the shops and because of the Chihuahua’s propensity to pick a fight with the German Shepherd out in the backyard, I needed to make sure my inattentive seventeen year old daughter locked the little dogs inside the house before she left.

And if you suspect I nicked this routine from a certain 70s comedy troupe you’re wrong. Sometimes life really does imitate art.

Pinky: Lulu! I’m going to the shop. Can you please make sure you leave Celine and Pablo in the house when you go out?

Lulu (playing with her phone absent-mindedly repeats back instructions):

Lock dogs out if I go out.

Pinky: No. Don’t let them out if you go out… unless I’m back first.

Lulu (still preoccupied with phone): What?

Pinky: The dogs!

Lulu: So… don’t let the dogs in until you come back.

Pinky: No! I might not come back!

Lulu (vaguely processing information): So…. when you come back, I let the dogs in.

Pinky: Lulu, stay here and keep the dogs in when you’re about to go out!

Lulu (dreamily): Or you come home.

Pinky: This isn’t difficult Lulu. Focus. I’m going out and I want the dogs kept inside if you go out.

Lulu: Right.

Pinky (dubiously): Right. I’ll be off then.

Crickets chirrup in the distance.

Lulu: So I don’t have to do anything except let them out when they need to go.

Pinky: Yes… unless you’re going out.

Lulu: Maybe I’d better stay here until you get back.

Pinky: I think that’s a very good idea dear.

A link to that 70s Comedy troupe if you haven't guessed who it is!

F- is for Favourite. Do you have a favourite kid?

A to Z April Challenge

Take a good look at the face in the photograph above. 

This is a face that launched a thousand words… or roughly 200 000 if I’m being precise.

My son, Hagar the Horrible, was the impetus driving the commencement of the Pinky Poinker blog.

Despite bitter accusations by his brothers and sister, Hagar is not my favourite child. 

I must confess, like every mother I don’t have a favourite. Sure, sometimes I like one more than I like the others but it’s an interchangeable thing largely dependent on who happens to be giving me the least grief at the time.

I must admit I’ve always had a soft spot for little Hagar though. Arriving smack bang in the middle of five kids within six and a half years can’t have been easy.

I’d like to say it was a teenage thing with Hagar but from about the age of four he endeavoured to find trouble wherever he could.

Singlehandedly... 

Forcing our longstanding babysitter into retirement! 

Attempting to poison his little sister!

Establishing a crime scene in the family home!

Upsetting the Brits! 

Inadvertently poisoning his teacher!

Holding Illegal unsupervised parties! 

Wrecking cars!

And finally  Risking his life!    (Bonus fun video!)

… ah the list goes on and on.

But there hasn’t been too much written about young Hagar lately and the reason is he seems to have grown up a bit. 

After a shaky start; leaving in the middle of grade twelve then dropping out of his apprenticeship after only eighteen months, he’s now in his third year of a dual apprenticeship with even better prospects. He just informed me he’s been nominated again for Apprentice of the Year out of several hundred candidates.

It seems my boy is now a man.

A very sensible young man, who floored me this afternoon by handing over the money for his car registration which is due when he’s away overseas next week. Since when has Hagar thought past his next pay packet? 

I’m beginning to suspect a species of parasitic alien has invaded my son’s body.

When he first told me he was going to celebrate his forthcoming twenty-first birthday in Thailand, I panicked.

“So you want to kill your mother?” I screeched, harridan-style. 

“Don’t you know Thailand is officially the most dangerous destination for Aussie travellers! 

Do you want me to have a stroke worrying about you? 

Of all the places in the world you could have picked and you have to go there?

YOU’RE NOT GOING HAGAR!”

Anyway, as you can guess I lost that battle. No matter how many alarming printouts I left on his bed warning of the perils he might encounter he ignored me completely.

So… in the car on the way to dropping him at the airport this afternoon I armed myself with a plethora of travel advice and since he was trapped like a rat in a cage, he was forced to listen to my dire cautions.

“Don’t under any circumstances drink the water!” 

I implored. “And only drink from unopened bottles because your drink will get spiked. You like having two kidneys right?

If someone tries to sell you drugs in the street, RUN!

Don’t eat fish or meat… or salads… or ice. Don’t buy any food from street stalls.

You don’t want food poisoning. You know how you have sensitive bowels. Just eat McDonald’s for the week which should be safe enough.

Look out for pickpockets and fake policeman… and fake women. You can spot them a mile away, they have Adam’s Apples and nasal hair… the women, not the pickpockets.

Don’t walk alone at night and don’t go hiring any of those scooter things. Don’t go on any bikes or boats at all… or in any cars.

Have you bought medical insurance? WHAT????!!! Are you stupid?

Don’t go to one of those awful Full Moon parties or you’ll end up arrested and die alone in a Thai prison. 

Stay away from the elephants. No elephant riding on steep cliffs for you my boy!

Did I say don’t drink the water?

Okay. That’s it then.

Do you have your passport? Licence? Wallet? Phone?

Well… I suppose it’s goodbye… I hope I see you again… in one piece.

I love you darling Hagar… enjoy your birthday and have a wonderful time…even though your mother won’t be there to celebrate with you. 

Hope you don't miss me too much!"

Pinky Blows Her Whistle.

                                     Whistler's Mother

Check out the very famous portrait by James Whistler which he painted in his London flat (1879) where he’d recently bustled his Irish model-mistress out to make room for the impending visit from his pious, prim mamma bear, Mrs Whistler.

A bit of a rebel, James had been kicked out of school for his appalling grades then fired from his job in the war office and had gallivanted off to Europe where he incorrectly assumed he’d completely cut the apron strings and could live a Bohemian existence with all the hedonistic benefits.

He was wrong.

Like all fretting, concerned mothers, Mrs Whistler hunted her son down, sailed across the Atlantic and stymied his hedonistic life style by her very presence alone.

What was going on in her head as she sat posing for those long hours I wonder?

You know, Mrs Whistler and I have a bit in common as she too gave birth to four sons and a daughter. 

That mildly sour expression on her face is one I’ve spotted many times as I’ve glimpsed my strained reflection in the shiny, Smart Phone screen when about to call one of my five pleasure-seeking mavericks.

Sitting tensely, staring at a blank wall/window with my fists, jaw and thighs clenched tightly enough to crack a walnut whilst waiting for one of the renegades to arrive home is exactly how I appear on any given weekend.

This weekend was a particularly Whistlery weekend as seventeen year old daughter Lulu, decided to go on a road trip 400 kilometres north of here with her girlfriend.

“But you’re both still on red P plates!” I beseeched. “You’ve only been driving for a couple of months!”

“We’re going mother,” she pouted defiantly.

“You won’t be able to book accommodation anywhere because you’re both under eighteen!” I cautioned passionately.

“Already booked a very nice hotel thanks,” Lulu smirked.

“What if you break down in the middle of nowhere?” I needled, tears running down my cheeks.

“Roadside assistance,” she flipped back confidently.

Then there was the threat of a cyclone hanging ominously off the coastline. What if they couldn’t get back because of floodwaters… or worse still, attempted to drive back in the rain?

I rang my parents hoping they’d have some guiding words of wisdom for me.

“We wouldn’t have been able to stop you from doing that at seventeen, Pinky,” offered my father unhelpfully.

So I sat like cranky Mrs Whistler for the greater part of this weekend waiting for the promised hourly texts which never materialised and visualising every possible tragic scenario befalling my only daughter in my mentally twisted head.



The girls are back now, safe and sound. But next time I might do what the canny Mrs Whistler did and drive up myself and check in to the room next door to them. 

That’d spoil their bloody weekend wouldn't it now?

                    Thanks to Scotto for the excellent Photoshopping!

Pinky's Organisational Tips (Give-away!)

As the five kids grew bigger and smellier, Scotto and I had a crack at instigating some level of order into the chaos. 

Tired of sorting out huge piles of laundry every day we installed pigeon holes in the laundry so that as soon as clothes were carelessly yanked off the line they were to be placed in the appropriate hole until the assigned child took them upstairs to their bedroom to be neatly hung up.

What happened was this.

Then we bought another set of allocated shelves for any school bags/books/clutter belonging to the untidy teens we found lying around the house on a daily basis.

The shelves would inevitably be overstuffed with mud-caked joggers, odd rubber thongs and a plethora of smelly football socks with the odd school lunch rotting in darkness at the back.

We took to placing signs in obvious places reminding the kids about social niceties such as flushing the toilet, not slamming doors and doing their own washing up.

It was the latter which caused the most contention.

“Why don’t you get the dishwasher fixed Mum!” they’d whinge. Lulu even dobbed on me to her grandmother, complaining about having to perform slave labour by doing the washing up because I was too cheap to spring for dishwasher repairs. In those eight years after it broke down, Lulu probably actually did the washing up… let me see… um… oh that’s right… never.

In fact, I could count on one hand the amount of times any of them ever did the washing up.

Why didn’t I bite the bullet and have the bloody thing fixed?

Because I needed a place to hide things from the kids.

Now that the kids have grown up and don’t spend much time at home, I feel it’s finally time to make life easier for Scotto and me. I’m going to buy a brand new dishwasher as I’ve investigated the role of dishwashers and their ability to save energy (electrical and human).

Of course I will have to teach Scotto how to load a dishwasher properly and I foresee the odd clash of opinions but what the heck.

I have a pack of Finish Qantum Power Gel Balls to give away to the first (Australian only sorry) person to leave a comment on this post.

The second comment on the post will win a twelve year old Miele two-drawer dishwasher and this wonderful prize is open to anyone… even if you live in Timbuktu. 

*Conditions Apply



*Conditions
The winner of the Miele dishwasher must come and collect it themselves and clean up all the cockroach poo that’s been collecting underneath it for the last twelve years.

The Cats in the Cradle have Silver Spoons in their Mouths.

                  Pinky... so happy to spend time with her scowling kids.

My kids arrived seems like the other day
They came into the world in the usual way
But they cost a lot there were bills to pay

They learned to walk and soon moved away
And they’d smart mouth me back and as they grew
They’d say never gonna be like you Mum
You know I’m never gonna be like you

And the cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon
C’mon sing along cos you know the tune
"When you comin’ home son?"
"I don’t know when but it might be close to ten
You know that you're nagging me again."

My son turned nineteen just the other day
He said, “Thanks for the cash now I’m off to play."
"Can I come too?", I asked. "Not today
You’ll cramp my style." I said, "That's ok."
And he walked away but my smile never dimmed
I said, "I'm gonna always love him, yeah
You know I'm gonna always love him"


Well, he came home from Uni just the other day
So much like a man I just had to say
"Son, I'm proud of you, can you sit for a while?"
He shook his head and said with a smile
"What I'd really like, Mum, is to borrow the car keys
See you later, can I have them please?"



(Some things don’t need changing)

I've long since aged, my kids stay away
I called them up just the other day
I said, "I'd like to see you if you don't mind"
They said, "We'd love to, Mum, if we can find the time
If you take us to dinner and you shout us too
Then we might spend time with you, Mum
We sure might spend time with you.

And as I hung up the phone it occurred to me
It’s my only guarantee
My kids' love is not for free.

Linking up at Laugh Link... 

Have A Laugh On Me | Melbourne Mum | Talking Frankly |  

  26 Years and Counting

Pinky Poinker: When your kids don't need you anymore.

             Last night's Potato Pie and how much was eaten (by Scotto).

The evening meal was the last bastion of family solidarity at Chez Poinker.

For decades the nightly ritual of creating a hot, nutritious meal and placing it on the table in front of each of the five children has assisted Pinky in clinging frantically to the false self-image of a nurturing mother.

It seems even that solitary buttress has finally been smashed into the tiny shards of a broken mirror reflecting the tenuous and unsustainable lie I’ve doggedly attempted to preserve.

Even though twenty-four year old Thaddeus lives with his father and Jonah is currently residing in the big smoke; eighteen year old Padraic, Lulu, and twenty year old Hagar and his girlfriend Meggles, still live with us.

Well... they occasionally sleep here.

Early every evening, Pinky performs the same charade with the same hackneyed script.

“Will you be home for dinner tonight?”

“What is it?”

“Something delicious!”

“Okay… maybe.”

The final wretched scene of the farce however, sees our tragic heroine bitterly shoving leftovers in the fridge aside in order to squeeze in the latest abandoned offering to the Gods.

“Stop cooking for them!” Scotto asserts, while Pinky bleats on and on about wasted food, money and effort.

He doesn’t understand. Once I stop cooking dinner for them they won’t need me anymore.

For anything.

Yesterday, the final nail in the coffin containing the demise of Pinky’s usefulness was hammered in with decisive precision.

Lulu’s father bought her a car.

Now she can drive herself to work, netball games, parties, McDonalds.

I’ll probably never ever see her again.

                         And so the fun begins...

Linking up with Essentially Jess! 
               

How Low Can a Hobbit Go?

                                Image Credit
One Christmas season tradition the eldest of my “hobbits” insist on enacting year after year, is the Boxing Day pilgrimage to the movies.

It began in 2001 with the release of the first “Lord of the Rings” movie. 

Thaddeus was eleven, Jonah ten, Hagar eight, Padraic six and little Lulu only five. My little hobbits sat enthralled, falling in love with Tolkein’s fantasy world (and one of us in particular, falling in love with the handsome Aragorn).

                                       Image credit

We arrived late for the screening of the second installment in 2002, which meant I sat in the very front row with the youngest two hobbits whilst Thaddeus, Jonah and Hagar sat by themselves dotted in various locations around the theatre.

I could identify their whereabouts by the odd snap and fizz of the illicit coke cans we’d secreted inside of my backpack.

By the end of the movie my neck had frozen in a painful lock and I made sure we arrived VERY early for the final part of the trilogy in 2003.

We continued to attend other Boxing Day premieres over the years but it never seemed the same until in 2013 the first chapter of Peter Jackson’s The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey, was released.

“Can you take us all to the movies Mum?” requested my twenty-three year old, Thaddeus (by ‘take’ he meant 'pay for' of course).

So I did, however Lulu and Hagar were too cool for school to go to the flicks with mum and siblings so it was just the four of us.

This year, Thaddeus insisted we go again to see The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug, and this time only my two eldest babies attended… my shout of course.

“I’m thirsty. Do you have any water in your bag?” whispered Jonah when the lights went out.

“No, why don’t you buy yourself a drink?” I suggested to the twenty-three year old young man.

“Haven’t got any money.”

I fished around in my wallet and extricated my last three five dollar notes.

Jonah took them and in the darkness I noticed a moth flying away into the light as he stashed the money safely in his wallet.

“Well?” I hissed. “Are you going to go and buy a drink or what?”

“No. I don’t want to waste the money on soft drink,” he replied, eyes glued to the screen.

I sat for a while in the dim theatre wondering what had just happened…

Naturally, the boys solicited a Macca's meal after the movie from me... as was our customary traditional, fifteen year old treat.

“They may be twenty-three and twenty-four years old now, but they’re still my little boys and just poor Uni students,” I thought quietly.

It wasn’t until the next day I recalled Jonah, on Christmas Day, waxing lyrical about his impending holiday when he will be flying down to Melbourne with mates to see the 

Australian Open Tennis Tournament.


It’s hard living the high life on casual wages… no wonder he has to fleece his mother out of her last cent.

Jean-Claude Van Damme's Guide to Christmas Day

                          

Who was I kidding when I said I wouldn’t write a post between December 22 and December 31? Those days are the best days of the year for Poinker shenanigans. 

I was going to save it all up and condense it all into one post but I don’t think I can… 

        Scotto bought me a personalised notebook to write down all my observations in!

Consequently, today’s post will regale you with the uncouth and hugely censored snippets of the Poinker’s Christmas Day. 

Back when the kids were little they would awaken at the crack of dawn and pester us to get out of bed so they could rip into the plethora of shiny presents under the tree. Nowadays we’re woken up by Pablo the Chihuahua’s tongue spiralling up our nostrils at six am. After dragging ourselves up and downing a couple of coffees we're obliged to ‘let the dogs out’ onto the slumbering teenagers ensconced snuggly amongst doonas in their Arctic-temperature bedrooms. 

It was eleven o’clock in the morning by the time everyone was seated, sipping champagne and orange juice and eating chocolate and stone fruit. 

Instead of the mysteriously wrapped gifts of yesteryear, each Poinker child (including Hagar’s girlfriend, Meggles) was handed an envelope containing a couple of gift vouchers and cold, hard cash. 

Before you judge me I must point out I put A LOT of effort into selecting appropriate gift vouchers. Remember back in September when all five of my kids forgot it was my birthday and gave me NOTHING? Well this time they managed to make some sort of effort. 

Except for one… the ‘One’ with the most money in his stash. 

“Here Mum…” the ‘One’ carelessly grabbed a fifty dollar note out of his wallet. “Do you have change for a fifty? I’d like to give you forty dollars to put in your online betting account.” 

Look... I do have an online betting account but I've probably used it twice in the last two years and besides… I didn’t feel money for my ‘betting account’ was a very thoughtful gift to offer in the true spirit of Christmas. 

“Put your money away!” I snapped at the ‘One’. Now I know why the ‘One’ has such a large bank account. 

We were all packed up to head over to my sister Sam’s for Christmas lunch. Sam lives a fifteen minute walk away from us but it was arranged that Jonah (who doesn’t really drink much) would drive the ‘One’s’ car over with the esky and take us as well. 

Unfortunately, the ‘One’ decided to take off in the car by himself and leave the rest of us stranded by the side of the road mandating a hot, muggy walk over to Sam’s in the midday, North Queensland sun. 

At this point Pinky was beginning to feel slightly pissed off with the ‘One’ even though it WAS Christmas day and you’re not really supposed to have those strong, murderous emotions gurgling away inside. 

The kids began walking ahead and by the time Scotto and I huffed and puffed our way through Sam’s front door, the ‘One’ had already stirred up a vitriolic argument with eighteen year old Padraic by taunting him about his recent haircut. 

The ‘One’ continued his merciless carry on until Padraic, feisty character that he is, began to threaten the ‘One’ with a belt in the head. 

Twenty year old Hagar, for some inexplicable reason, unwisely put his two bits worth in. 

“Do you want a rassel?” goaded Padraic. “C’mon Hagar… I bet I could beat you in a rassel.” 

“Calm down, Padraic!” warned a nervous Pinky, “And don’t you mean a wrestle?” 

“Yeah… a rassel!” 

This aggressive badgering went on for another miserable ten minutes until finally Hagar, steam emanating out of his earholes, stood up and nobly accepted the challenge. 

The Jean-Claude Van Damme action moved over to the grass out of view and while Lulu and Jonah went to document the ‘rassling match’ on their iPhones, Pinky sat gripping her wine glass, eyes clenched shut and waiting for the police and ambulance sirens to arrive screaming down the street. 

The boys both returned to the table panting, sweaty and grass stained after only a few minutes. 

Padraic sported a nasty grass burn on the side of his face but he’d calmed down having been put in his place by a body plant by the much larger Hagar. 

But still the relentless ‘One’ continued to annoy most of the gathering with his misappropriated sense of humour. 

“When’s a gnome not a gnome?” he read boisterously from a Christmas Cracker joke. 

“When is a gnome not a gnome?” echoed Greigor’s (family friend) elderly mother, visibly relieved the violent interlude had settled down. 

“When it’s looking up a pixie’s skirt and it’s a goblin,” chortled the ‘One’. 

Call me a prude but this was definitely NOT the joke from the cracker. Thankfully Greigor’s frail little mum didn’t get it. 

Pinky took the ‘One’ aside several times during the afternoon and delivered a verbal thrashing but ‘twas to no avail. 

Mercifully, he eventually crashed out in one of the bedrooms at Sam’s early in the piece so the party took on a more ‘joyful’ tone. 

I’ve never quite understood why emergency rooms cite the highest rate of domestic violence and injuries on Christmas Day more than on any other day. 

I do now and all I can say is... this year there were thankfully no emergency visits from the Poinkers. 

Next year, Scotto and I will be going on a cruise and leaving them all at home. 

       (Taken before the 'rassel') Ma Kelly and the Poinker Gang.

Tomorrow’s post will tell of our foray over to the classy side of town to visit my friend, Dolly and her family on Boxing Day.