Envy Me

Another Saturday night, the third once since I have been to be precise, and I find myself with a five year old curled on my lap singing heartily along to Delta's In This Life. On repeat. Reliving all our favourite scenes of the clip (five year old's favourite is where she does a faux I'm-losing-control head shake) time and time again. This is post desecration of December's Instyle so we can cut up all the pretty jewels and summer dresses for a massive collage with more paste than is strictly necessary. In fact I think I just ate paste unwittingly.

So today I exercised my democratic right and cast my vote in an election that has failed to inspire, although has managed to polarise (take your pick, it's the lesser of two doddering old men) and galvanised only 13 million people of this fair nation to actually have a say in the future of their country. Although I will not disclose who I voted for, I will say upon hearing Kevin Rudd's searingly boring final press conference address in which he used the analogy of him and Howard climbing Mt Everest, stretching it out into a painful extended metaphor involving cunning references to weather and snow, I vowed never to let a man as insipid and irritating run the country I live in.

And, according to the live coverage, he will be.

Great.

Howard's fantasy of a fifth term has been shot, and mine of a Prime Minister who can address the public without sounding like the school geek with a secret has just exploded in my face.

Speaking of extended metaphors, tonight's story book was My Body Encyclopaedia. Five year old's chapter choice was The Life Cycle of a Baby. Starting from conception. In a clear, concise voice, the blurb beneath an artist's depiction of glowing parents cradling a baby, was read - 'It takes a man and a woman to make a baby, they are called the baby's parents.' Pause. Then, 'hang on, what does the man do to make a baby?'

And so an analogy was called for. A cake. A baby is like a cake. It needs two ingredients and an oven. The Dad has an ingredient, the Mum has an ingredient, then the baby bakes in the oven, which is the mother's belly. 'Oh,' said the little one, 'like an incubator.' Exactly. Pause. 'Tell me more about this ... cake.' It was an almost knowing tone - I had to remind myself she is only 5 and must genuinely be curious as opposed to setting me up. We followed the cake through its 9 month gestation period, all the way up until it had its umbilical cord removed. Following the ingestion of a rather graphic depiction of the four possible types of belly buttons that result from said cord removal, she then went on to inform me babies are born through a whole 'this big' and that when she had her baby, she was going to make sure she was asleep.

Is it just me or are kids far too cluey these days?

Although, children will always be children and ET will always be there to terrify them. In an effort to banish before-bed thoughts of ET riding in a bicycle basket (an image that has provoked nightmares for the past few nights) I told an elaborate tale involving a fairy called Suki who spends her days eating cupcakes and picking flowers. I realised just how bad a story teller I am when put on the spot. Thank God she was too tired to shame me, which she would have had she been more alert, with a cutting remark regarding my inability to think on my feet. (She had no qualms in asking me to stop singing last week whilst she performed her jazz routine to Blame it on the Boogie) I even had to appeal for help in naming Suki's best friend, who got the rather less fantastical name of Amy and didn't possess the same shimmering mane of golden curls (a point of much envy as the fairies age, I am sure).

My Saturday night. Jealous?