"Rabies-n'-Flu...Rabies-n'-Flu...I've Gotta Watch Out For Rabies-n'-Flu"

Have recently become concerned.  Our gardener hasn't been here in days, and I shudder to think of what wildlife is thriving in the neglected lawn below.  The poor fellow has been off sick - with what we're not entirely sure - but enough to necessitate a hospital visit.

Then yesterday Kadek the Pembantu begged off early as she was looking rather feverish and her eyes were rolling in her head.  As she departed I asked whether she could drop off our laundry on her way home (we're in the midst of a severe 'pants crisis' at the moment and Egg and the husband are the only ones with a clean pair left, whilst poor Dumps and I have been having to go commando...)

Kadek just looked at me, shaking her head.  I know she must think me a complete cow - but hey, I had to ask.  Then, in a conciliatory gesture, I offered her our salad remains for her pet pig, but she just stared at me, no doubt cementing her opinion of me as a totally oblivious and/or heartless employer. 

If you consider that the husband and wife of our local restaurant have also recently been struck down with Denge Fever (the husband ascertained this once he realised that he was putting in our dinner order to the fellow via the local hospital) it does not really bode well.  That's ALL we need.

Oh yeah, and did I mention the recent outbreak of Rabies here in the local area?  Nice...

Fourteen Years of Hit-n'-Miss Marital Bliss

There are few things that can test a marriage as much as spending months upon months together with someone 24/7, in foreign surroundings.  Without a pub to retreat to with your mates or a therapeutic shopping trip and a caffeine-fuelled gossip session with some friends, a relationship can really be tested to the limits when it's just the two of you.

So bearing all this in mind, it is almost miraculous that the husband and I today celebrate 14 years of wedded bliss...in Bali of all places.  Even more miraculous is the fact that despite being cut off from friends and family for the better part of six months thus far, we not only don't appear to hate each other, but still find things to talk about.  Okay, it's often commiserating over the childcare, complaining about the mosquitos, and arguing about visas...but still.  

What is apparently clear is that we both share common goals:  keep our children alive, try not to spazz ALL our money on this adventure of a lifetime, and try and maintain at least some semblance of responsible parenting - despite the temptation to outsource it entirely to the Pembantu's....

Oh yeah - and we also know how to have a good laugh.  And that my friends, in my opinion, is the deal maker.  Despite all the trials and tribulations, our determination to achieve our creative goals whilst doing as little poo-picking-up as possible, and our mutual yearning for something outside the typical 9-5 grind - we unite in the desire to live our lives as fully as possible, with as much free spirit as we can squeeze out of this mortal coil - despite having two progeny.

To that end, we have just finished two hours of blissful massage, which was preceded by a lovely leisurely lunch (sans kiddies), which was itself preceded by a lovely breakfast and some reminiscing over a couple of creamy lattes after the school drop off.  That's the thing - it's easi(er) to be loved up in Bali.  This place is conducive to romantic vibes...be it the childcare on tap, tropical weather, or cozy mosquito draped beds.  Or maybe it's the super-affordable massages that can't help but put you in a good mood.

Whatever the case, I just want to say that I'm a lucky girl...for a lot of reasons.  And one of those reasons may have a penchant for adventure sports, fast two-wheelers and be a total internet hog - but I wouldn't trade him for anything (except maybe two extra pages in my passport...but that's another story).

"He'll Be Comin' Down The Mountain When He Comes..."

So it seems as though the monsters WILL have a father around for the foreseeable future.  The husband returned from his mountain climbing expedition in one piece.  Looking rather stunned and quite out of it (he did after all have no sleep,  climbing through the night and into the next day, and had to tack a 1.5 hour scooter drive home to the end of it), we were relieved to see him saunter in.

I was in fact lying on the bed, nursing a severe headache, no doubt brought on by the screaming I'd done earlier when Egg scaled the outdoor bathroom wall, teetered onto the ledge and once again climbed onto the roof of our villa. I nearly yelled myself hoarse as I stood on the ground below, pleading with him to come down or at least drop Bacon (he was navigating the circumference of the roof with only one hand, clutching Bacon the stuffed bear with the other).

Nearly apoplectic with rage (borne of fear) I had visions of him slipping and breaking his neck, fracturing his spine or even worse.  Kadek was beside me also frantic with worry, whilst Dumpie looked on amused - no doubt planning his future escapade and bursting with admiration for his older brother.

The night before I had made the mistake of letting Egg and Dumpie sleep in our bed for a big 'sleepover movie party' while the husband was away.  They were giddy with excitement as I pulled out a giant chocolate chip cookie each, a bowl of popcorn and some little chocolate sweeties.  I meant to join them, I truly did, but as often happens, I got waylaid in cyberspace and by the time I hesitantly pulled back the mosquito curtain, I found the end credits rolling and my bed covered in edible debris.  Urgh...

The three of us slept rather poorly as I was convinced we might have an intruder outside in the garden in the middle of the night...though it was more likely a small animal foraging for food in our overflowing recycling bin.  And Dumpie ended up 'upsy-daisy down' (I'll be sad when that particular vernacular disappears)  in our bed, whilst Egg for some inexplicable reason decided to sleep vertically (sigh).

Given that it was the first night we've all been apart in months, I think it went relatively well all things considered.  The husband didn't fall off a mountain (despite his 'guide' breaking his flip-flops one hour in and climbing back down the mountain), Egg didn't fall off the roof (despite one-handedly traversing the entire circumference), and Dumpie didn't fall off the bed (despite half-hanging over the bottom edge in a sleep stupor most of the night).

And me?  Well I didn't fall out of favour with the monsters, despite technically standing them up on 'Movie Night' while I got stuck on my laptop for over an hour....and I still come out as 'best Mama in the world' simply because of the plethora of treats I coughed up.  Nice one.

"Go Climb A Mountain Why Don't You..."

So the husband has decided to go and climb a mountain tomorrow night...as you do.

I'm not exactly thrilled about this because:

a) it's meant to be a fairly dangerous climb...people have died and injured themselves climbing Mt. Agung

b) he's planning to do it without all the proper equipment - merely a pair of cheap $30 Indonesian hiking boots procured yesterday from god knows where, and a $4 bright yellow plastic pair of sunglass headlamps (reminiscent of Orbital - had they been children's telly presenters as opposed to superstar dj's....)

c) his 'guide' is just some local dude he met last week who has apparently climbed it a couple of times

d) the final ascent is meant to be a treacherous three hour straight up affair, scrambling in pitch dark, and i've heard a fair few troublesome tales relayed by apparently seasoned climbers who found it daunting/dangerous

e) the climb begins at 2:30....in the bloody middle of the night!

"Don't worry I won't take any chances" he tried to reassure me yesterday when I found out what he was planning to do.

This from the same guy who until a week ago refused to wear a helmet since we've been in Bali, despite clocking up hundreds of kilometres on a scooter, simply because he couldn't be bothered.

I find myself getting more and more angry and worried.  What if he hurts himself badly or even worse, perishes?  What if the volcano erupts while he's up there?  (A friend was regaling a story of how six months ago she went on an expedition to climb it, but it was called off on account of the usual path being unavailable because anxious inhabitants of the mountain were frantically making 'ceremonies' , given that there was a severe warning in effect).

And so, I sit here contemplating the fact that we have no life insurance, we are mere  four days away from our 14th anniversary, and I have two headstrong young boys who I most definitely cannot raise on my own.

Oh yeah - and the husband has just informed me that although he lacks the proper clothing and accoutrements necessary for this feat, he is intending to wear his pink and white striped Abercrombie & Fitch long-sleeved button down shirt.

"It's all about the layers," he's explaining to me.

Well, that's okay then.  As long as he's got that sorted....

"Salad Daze"

It appears as though Dumpie is taking his obsession with his proud, high, round little tummy a touch too far these days.  As I placed his little blue rucksack and tiny scooter helmut in his cubbyhole at school this morning, waving goodbye and forcing a sloppy wet kiss on his delectable little cheeks (only to watch him scrub it off furitively moments later), I caught a bevy of Balinese teachers gathered round the little man, taking it in turns to stroke his belly.  The fact that he was wearing his bright red and black 'I LOVE Bali' t-shirt only served to make the mental snapshot all the more poignant, as I heard a chorus of bemused, "You no fat!" issuing forth.  Oh dear.

Meanwhile, I'm having to deal with bigger issues at home.  Such as a massive salad backlog.  Nyoman our cook/housekeeper has discovered that there few better ways to illicit gasps of amazed gratitude, than by  fashioning ever bigger and elaborate salads for the woman of the house (umm...that's me).  I think I've inadvertantly hit her repeat button, and whipped her into a frenzy of culinary self-competitiveness.

Ingredients such as apple, bean sprouts, feta cheese, arugula, and fresh basil are daily being incorporated into these gourmet worthy concoctions.  Homemade salad dressings, ever more creamy and piquant - fashioned primarily from our herb garden and whizzed up on the mini CuisineArt, only serve to up the 'yum factor' to such a degree that I can honestly say that I don't think I've ever tasted better.

But here's the problem.  The monsters don't eat salad.  And the husband isn't a big fan (he loves a Ceaser it's true, and is quite partial to a rocket & parmesan, but that's about it).  So that leaves me, little ol' me, to somehow get through gigantic wooden bowls of salad, painstakingly prepared and left for me on a daily basis.  

Having lived here for over a month, that's a fair few salads.  I remember boasting to an envious mate several weeks ago, "Yes, I know i'm so lucky.  I could eat this every day!"

Turns out I am.  And I'm starting to tire of it.

To make matters worse, the past few days the husband has completely opted out of even the 'polite portions' of salad I've been trying to sneak on his plate.  Add to that the fact that we've had a couple of days of almost exclusively eating out, and my current conundrum is becoming more pronounced.

The only way I could imagine getting through all this salad (both the prepared variety and the soon to be harvested fresh ingredients threatening to burst out of the fridge) would be if I hosted a giant 'Ladies Who Lunch' convention, inviting all the female ex-pats on the island to come and sit around little wrought iron tables and have a salad luncheon whilst discussing animal rights or something.  Or I could make a bunch of new gay male friends who might love nothing more than to join me for a luncheon, decked out in crisp summer whites, pick at a salad, sip chardonnay and have a proper old bitching session.  But then again it's hard to fuel a proper bitching session without appropriate lubrication.  And the 200% alcohol taxing system here in Bali make that scenario rather unlikely.  And the laundry service here makes the thought of crisp summer whites laughable.

So I suppose there's only one option.  I'm going to have to start eliminating other foods from my diet, and focus solely on getting through some of this salad.  Maybe I should set my running alarm to go off every two hours (goodness knows with all this healthy salad eating I can probably stand to lay off the running a touch), or maybe start having late night dvd and salad sessions.  There are a lot of movies I've been meaning to watch.

Maybe I should just tell Dumpie that the best way to lose a tummy is to eat lots and lots of salad....

"E.N.B. (Excessively Naughty Behaviour)"

"Mama that is very bad you do NOT eat Eggie's cookie - that is stealing!"

This message was relayed via furitive finger thrusts to the face by my three year old this morning after he found out that I'd eaten one of two gourmet chocolate chip cookies I'd bought them.

They'd missed out on them yesterday due to E.N.B. (Excessively Naughty Behaviour).

I'd nibbled one late last night in lieu of dinner you see.

When I foolishly confessed to same, Dumpie immediately assumed that it was Eggie's cookie I'd eaten and of course not his own.  And as for the righteous anger - well I suspect that it had more to do with the prospect of being forced to halve the remaining biscuit than any great sense of fraternal loyalty.

Little Dumps is certainly not afraid to speak his mind.  In fact, I sense he's coming into his own in that regard, and is beginning to flex his verbal muscles in a way that's starting to make me very uncomfortable.

Yesterday, I overheard a conversation he was having with poor Kadek about the hirsute state of her legs.

"Let me see your legs Kadek," he suggested.  Her jeans were obediently hiked up and a calf was proffered.

"Oh no...you have too much hair on your legs" he observed worryingly.

(Cue nervous giggle from Kadek...wondering where this is going.  She's not the only one.)

"Girls not supposed to have hair on legs - only boys!" he stated authoritatively.  (I knew I shouldn't have let him watch me wax my legs).

"No, it's okay...only little hair Dumpie," offered Kadek.

"You have too much hair!  We need do waxing today!" Dumpie decided.  

I stifled a giggle and slipped upstairs.  Great.  How long until Dumps starts ordering Kadek to take of her top and show him her nipples?  This sense of entitlement has got to be nipped in the bud.  The poor woman already spends a great majority of her day constructing tent after tent for Dumps from all the pillows and blankets in the house.  I even observed him telling her off the other day when she foolishly neglected to include a toilet area.  

As for Eggie, while Kadek has been under the watchful eye of the Little Despot, Egg has been constructing little challenges for himself. I'm actually too scared to venture inside the artists studio here and see what effect the Little Professors unsupervised experiments have had on the formerly pristine workshop.  I reckon an apology letter and a fistful of notes upon departure will take care of the worst of it but still...the owner is a painter and is likely to be rather precious about his art work....(sigh).  I'm not sure what he'd make of the fact that his former studio is now a six year olds' "Inventor's Workshop".

Yesterday after grocery shopping the husband and I returned to find Kadek almost in tears chanting, "I so fraid...I so fraid!" and the housekeeper beside her shooting sympathetic looks (she is her auntie after all) as we trudged up the path.

Turns out we'd just missed the spectacle of Eggie climbing outside the upper floor window onto the thatched roof of the villa and precariously side-stepping the entire length of the house while the women vainly tried to get him to step back inside.

No such luck.  And to make matters worse, Egg doesn't exactly possess the innate agility of Dumps (who could scale a tower with ease) and hence I imagine it must have been a terrifying spectacle for the poor women to helplessly observe.

The husband has concluded that we really shouldn't leave Kadek in charge of the monsters anymore while we go out.  I disagree.  We just need to rig up some sort of restraining device on the sofa by the telly, ensuring they have a decent supply of apple juice and oreos cookies to hand, and then it should all be fine.

Kadek can then put her time to good use downstairs by teaching herself how to construct the mother of all temples out of cushions.

"Professor Egg and the Amazing New Muesli Maker"

Egg has decided that he's sick of Bali and doesn't want to go to school anymore.  We suspect that this might have something to do with his recent addiction to the Cartoon Network and being yanked away from an especially engrossing episode of Tom & Jerry this morning.  

This upsets the husband and I, not only for the long term implications of his scholastic career, but because we weekly have to fork out £100/week for the privilege of sending the monsters somewhere they apparently aren't that keen to go.

(For that amount of money the husband and I could procure approximately one hundred lattes...or put another way, seventy homemade gelato's).

Egg might just be going through a difficult stage at the moment.  His current favourite movie is "Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs' and he utterly idolises the main character, an inventor by the name of 'Flint Lockwood'.  He has taken to begging us daily for a white lab coat and the husband and I are already imagining how we're going to have to get him fitted up in India for one for Christmas.  In the meantime however, Egg is quite happy using the husbands big white t-shirt as a temporary replacement, and as such, has been spending a lot of time in the artists studio here, pretending it's his lab.

His first invention is to be "A Muesli Maker".  He has drawn out the invention and included detailed point by point instructions for constructing it.  I don't know whether to be impressed or horrified that my son is so obsessed with this overpriced, imported contraband $7 a packet granola cereal as to be attempting to set up his own supply.  Bless.

Things reached crisis point the other day when Kadek the Pembantu (nanny) came running upstairs to where I was trying to work on the computer, holding aloft the last remaining bit of cereal and being chased by Egg who was wielding a heavy wooden stick and trying to knock it from her grasp.  

It was all a bit frighteningly 'Children of the Corn' and I know for a fact that poor Kadek does not get paid enough to have to put up with such monstrous behavior.  Even Dumpie was getting in on the action, pulling up the rear with his light sabre and chanting 'moosli....moosli....moosli!'

Personally I think the monsters are going to have one huge reality check when they're eventually back in London, no longer have a Pembantu to order around, and have to become reacquainted with the British state school system.  

Somehow I think they'll recall fondly their school trips to 'Bali Fun World' and having science lessons that consisted of chasing butterflies round an ethereally pretty garden.  

And as for school dinners?  With the first hefty slap of mushy peas proffered up on plastic plate, I suspect a inward tear or two will be shed when remembering the 'prepared fresh daily' Indonesian delights that were to be had for a mere dollar a day in the outdoor bamboo canteen...

"Does My Tummy Look Fat In This?"

The other night at dinner, Dumpie pushed his plate away and refused to eat anymore.

"I don't want to be fat" said my three and a half year old.

"WHAT?!" I exclaimed, hoping I had somehow misheard.

"I.  Don't.  Want.  To.  Be.  Fat." repeated Dumpie, this time pausing dramatically between words to make sure I got the message.

"But my darling, you are NOT fat!  Why would you think you're fat?"

Dumpie hopped down from the table and stood before me, jutting his gorgeous Winnie-the-Pooh-esque belly toward me and lifting up his shirt.

"See.  Big tummy."

We looked at his precious little tummy together and I stifled a giggle. He was serious.  I just wanted to kiss it.  Where on earth has this recent preoccupation come from??

Eggie joined in and said, "I don't want to be fat either.  Am I fat Mama?"

A long and serious conversation followed whereby I attempted to maintain a straight face and explain that they were both skinny and had absolutely no reason to be worried about their weight.  Watching them pull up their respective t-shirts and measure tummies mid-speech was priceless...especially as Dumpie, still only three, has a high, round tummy and Egg a svelte one.

Thinking this issue had been put to rest, I was most disconcerted to be asked last night by Dumpie, totally out of the blue, "Mama, how can I get skinny?"

Urghh.

"The Halfway Mark"

Yesterday marked the halfway mark of our 'Year Abroad' (or as I like to think of it, 'In Search of A Meaningful Life By Way of the Beach Bum Ethos').

Six months to the day that we crammed all our valuables into cheap cardboard boxes (i TOLD the husband not to scrimp and get the cheap ones), frantically raced from room to room cramming last minute objects into any available luggage space (which would explain the Chanel Nail Varnish and 'Fried Green Tomatoes' dvd, both of which inexplicably made their way to SouthEast Asia), and boarded Kingfisher Air, the 'King of Indian Beers' airline, not looking back even once.

Are we happy?  (Yup)
Are we glad we're not taking our scheduled return ticket back to the UK this month?  (Yup)
Are we bored of the constantly perfect weather, divine affordable eateries and picture perfect beaches?  (Nope. You kidding?)

See, the thing is, although we do occasionally pine for London (the pub, Waitrose, my oven, red wine, my clothes, a mosquito-free bedroom, etc.) we know how darn lucky we are.  Despite being domesticated to the extent of having two dependents, the husband and I are still 'living the dream' that we did years ago when traveling the world as crusty backpackers.

Every day is a mini-adventure, and today felt like one of those textbook days which just leave you feeling nothing but grateful:

8am - wake up
9am - freshly brewed coffee in magnificant garden
10am - London mates swing by for a quick goodbye en route to airport
12pm - lunch in garden
1pm - scooter around town with husband and purchase new helmets
3pm - afternoon snack in garden
5pm - hour long massages for each of us here in our home
8pm - dinner delivered from local 'warung'

In between all this we had two lovely local ladies making our beds, doing our dishes, feeding our children, taking our laundry to be washed, doing our grocery shopping, mopping the floor, playing with the monsters and dealing with Dumpies late afternoon 'accident'.

And you ask why we're greedily jumping at the chance of six more months of this...?

"The Manifold Uses of The Common Household Broom"

It's become abundantly clear that I'm going to need to put myself through some sort of 'domestic decompression chamber' before re-entering normal life in approximately six months time.  

Why do I say this?

Well take this morning for example.  The husband, searching for his least offensive smelling shirt to wear on our snorkelling trip today, happened to glance underneath the bed.

"You should check out  the two dead cockroaches under there."

"What?  Eew.  That's disgusting.  I don't understand why they don't clean our room here," I complained.

Gingerly I got out of bed (a raucous but amazing beachside dinner with our London mates last night ended with one greatly depleted duty free gin bottle and rather high spirits) and stepped over the detrius on the floor:  Mentos wrappers, dead flies, Ritz crackers crumbs, a dangly earring, etc.

Yuck.

A short while later, Egg came running up from the beach where I'd like to think he was collecting shells, but was more likely hanging out at the bar talking someones ear off.  He grabbed a broom from outside our door and went tearing off with it on some mission or another.  

Then it dawned on me that he had a broom in his hand.  And that the broom has been sat outside our door for the past six days.  And not once have I even thought to pick it up and use it.  

That part of my brain which when at home, automatically fills spare units of time with domestic tidying, as if on autopilot, is broken.  I mean, I definitely clocked the broom, and I most certainly knew it was there for someone to use it, but when I realised, around three days in, that there was no 'housekeeping' per se here at our bungalow, it never even occurred to me to use it myself.

I am ashamed.  What's happening to me?  How am I going to eventually handle going from a staff of three to a staff of me??