There are some things I do very well.

Critique video games.

Get into trouble and not know or care I’m actually in trouble.

Critique my husband. Which is probably something I shouldn’t even put in writing because I know it will be used as evidence against me sometime in the near future. Evidence that’s readily and easily accessible via his mobile phone, which is already doing far too many things as it is to be merely called a ‘gadget’.

You are always trying to change me!

No I’m not! Why do you think that?

Well, you said so yourself! And HERE IT IS!

Damn you, new developments in telecommunications and information technology!

Anyway, what I wanted to get to in this roundabout manner is that there are things that I don’t do well in, at all.

Meeting new people, for one. Which is strange for someone who used to meet strangers almost daily and interview them. I could do it. I just don’t do it very well.

While socialising without making a moronic first (or second or third or fourth) impression is clearly one of the areas I greatly need to improve on, I am not as apprehensive about meeting little children. Mostly because I know they don’t really care that I’m fat or that I speak funny or that perhaps I might stutter and accidentally spit on them when I get excited about blue yogurt that you can eat without a spoon.

But what I think it is, is that I have this gift for nonsense that children warm up to. This, Lokes will gladly attest to because he thinks it’s my most endearing quality yet. That little something that makes rescuing me, instead of his mother, from a raging ocean just a teeny bit more important. And usually, all it takes is some good news. Like maybe our offer came through (no jynx, NO JYNX!! Ptui kiri! Ptui kanan! Choi choi choi!). That would put me in the best of nonsensical spirits all week long, for several weeks maybe even.

Today is the first day Karli and I made our long-planned ‘second child exchange’ as to facilitate the fulfilling of our commitments at the preschool our older girls attend, so as not to burden our working husbands as we’ve so irresponsibly done last year.

It is hard to believe that we only did one test run before this Big Day, because Zibbit, who’s almost a year older than Skyler, was just the bestest little girl I could’ve had to ‘break’ me into this babysitting business. We played. We giggled. We put tiny plastic toys into rows and ‘blew’ them over with our musical instruments. We made book dominoes and then turned them into wigwams. We hid Hello Kitty and her friends and Hurricane Zibbit took away all the furniture in their house and Miss Jenn ate a toilet and a bathtub.

See what I mean?

If you’re anything like me, i.e. where those blasted parenting skills don’t come naturally, you celebrate with gusto and an eight-course meal the one thing you have that helps you get through to your children. For me, it’s to surrender to the voices of my marvelous magic marbles and to do their bidding, in say, making up completely nonsensical lyrics for songs I should feel embarassed listening to but aren’t because I don’t know I should be. Or break into a dancing fit right in the middle of an otherwise dull afternoon so as to get my children to stop squabbling for the one toy guitar and instead focus their collective attentions on their loony mother.

It’s good that we’re moving away soon (crossed fingers!) because I’m pretty sure more than one of my neighbours have seen my alarming antics and reported me to the au-thorities.

Tomorrow, it’s Skyler’s turn to visit at Karli’s place while I take the Rae and Babs to school. I’m pretty sure she will scream her head off the moment I leave (Skyler, not Karli). So you best be ready to get down, sister!