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Three blind mice,
Three blind mice,
See how they run,
See how they run,
First they get chucked in an acid lake,
And then they get stabbed by a sharpened rake,
Then shut in a box with a rattlesnake,
Those three blind mice.

Three blind mice,
Three blind mice,
See how they run,
See how they run,
Get squished by an anvil until they're flat,
And rhythmically hit with a cricket bat,
And fed to a ravenous pussycat,
Those three blind mice.

Three blind mice,
Three blind mice,
See how they run,
See how they run,
Covered in layers of plastic wrap,
Then tasered 'til half of their bones go snap,
It's difficult making a better trap,
For three blind mice.

The bell rings. The kids emerge from the school gate, laughing and running, or silently shuffling, as befits their personality and the day they've experienced. My twins bounce anxiously beside me, peering through the fence for their big brother. In five short months they will be part of this mass of school kids, free at the end of a long day. They look too small.

When we see him, I give them the word- "Off you go!"

They move against the flow, squeezing through the gate, ducking kids much taller than them. My daughter always stops before the corner of the fence; her psychic leash is much shorter than her twin brother's. He is charging across the field, his short legs pumping as he chases his quarry.

My poor, beleaguered eldest son yelps and dodges. A rugby player he is not; he inevitably falls to his little brother's greeting, an enthusiastic cross between a hug and a tackle. Although nearly five years older, every day he ends up on the ground with his triumphant sibling sitting atop him, shrieking his name. His sister usually piles on, too.

I explain that his little brother only chases him because he runs. If he doesn't want to play, he can just stand still and say "Stop it, I don't like it." He never remembers. Every day it's yelp-dodge-hugackle-faceplant. He laughs, but I can see a tinge of embarrassment.

I tell the twins to stop, that he doesn't like it. They can't seem to help it. They love him, they miss him, and they want him to know. Their excitement overflows, and it's always a battle to corral them to cross the road safely.

Finally, after three months of after-school chaos, it dawns on me. The twins don't know how else to greet him. I stop in my tracks, having just crossed the road from the school, and gather them close. "Do you like being chased and tackled?" I ask my eldest.

"No."

"Let's try a different way, then." There, on the side of the road surrounded by other families walking home, I make my children rehearse saying "Hi, _____", and offering their open arms for a hug. Three or four times, we practice. I don't know what the passersby think, and I really don't care.

The next day, the bell rings. There's my eldest, way back in the pack; his little brother charges across the field towards him.

He stops. I'm too far away to hear what he says, but he gazes at his adored big brother. His little arms go out.

His hug is accepted, and returned, and they walk side-by-side towards me.

Concrit welcome

( Trigger warning )

Did you like my piece for The Missing Stair?

I could really use some votes :/

My recommendations:

alexpgp with this

alycewilson with this

belgatherial with this

crimsonplum with this

dreamsreflected with this

halfshellvenus with this

mezzominty with this

poppetawoppet with this

snarkerdoodle with this

Up and up the spiral stretches, past comprehension. Down it goes, beyond sight. Steps stretch between parallel corkscrew curves.

Each rung is complexly patterned, almost too intricate to understand. As you traverse the endless ascent, a pattern starts to emerge. Two rings on the left of the step, one ring on the right... or the other way around. Two-and-one, or one-and-two, linked through the middle, like familiar friends holding hands.

More steps pass, thousands of them. Two-and-one, one-and-two, one-and-two, two-and-one. Familiarity blurs your perspective, and a realisation hits you with the sudden clarity of a Magic Eye picture. There are different types of twos and ones, the essence of the shape the same, but with subtle variations around the edges.

Millions more steps, while you observe and theorise. It seems clear: this two is always matched with this one, whether as two-and-one or one-and-two; the other type of two matches the other one. One type has a double link in the and; the other has triple.

As you ascend the spiral stairs, you grasp for meaning. What is this place? Why are you here? There's nowhere to go but up.

You climb, one-and-two, one-and-two, two-and-one. Is there meaning in the patterns passing beneath you? Maybe they encode some vast repository of knowledge. Maybe they explain why you're here.

Two-and-one, two-and-one, one-and- you stumble, teetering at the edge of a gap, rawer and more shocking than a missing tooth. Millions of stairs, and this one is missing? What does it mean?

Somewhere outside your universe, a cell grows and divides, grows and divides, grows and divides, ceaselessly spreading with a malignant hunger...

LJ Idol Week One recommendations, in no particular order:

kickthehobbit wrote this nicely-balanced true story of a deeply unfunny joke.

belgatherial wrote this sweet story of fear, tenderness and relief.

az_starshine wrote this piece embracing the power of the pun.

abigailendersby wrote this piece about laughter in the midst of sadness.

My piece is here. You can vote here.

It's hard being seven and a crybaby. I hated the way that wordless rage would build up inside me and overflow in pitiful, silent tears, but I couldn't control it. My big sister knew it, and she knew all the ways to make it happen. Taunting, teasing, relentless pestering; I'd try to ignore it, but I'd always get mad. I'd get mad and the tears would come.

I was a coward, too. I was afraid to try new things, afraid to take the risks that more co-ordinated children breezed through. It was just another thing for my sister to tease me about. "Cry-baby four-eyes! Chicken chicken chicken!"

She never got in trouble for it, though. Somehow, she always sensed when someone was coming, in time to move innocently away.

I was a bookworm, and an easy target when I was reading; in another world, I wouldn't notice as she'd sneak up to me. Her favourite trick was to push the book so it would smack me in the face. Otherwise, she'd snatch it away and hold it out of reach, laughing and laughing with her stupid big mouth.

But I grew. I grew faster than her, and I caught up. One day she grabbed my book and held it high, but as I stood up I could see the realisation in her eyes that this trick wasn't going to work any more.

She ran. I followed. I'd had enough. I was tall enough now that I could almost keep up as she ran outside. She reached the end of the driveway and spun to face me. The road was busy, and we weren't allowed near it. As I reached to grab her arm, she looked around in desperation. She hurled my book onto the road. It flipped open and skidded across the tarseal, its pages crumpling and folding as it came to rest near the centre line.

Those damnable tears welled up again. I was mad, madder than I'd ever been. She knew it, too. I could see the faintest twinge of fear in her eyes, but as always she covered it with belligerence and bravado.

"Go and get it, then!" she taunted. "Or are you too scared?"

Too angry to speak, I shoved her. She stumbled a tiny step backwards, and started laughing at me. I turned away, looking frantically for my book through tear-fogged glasses. Mum would be furious if it got ruined. What if a car ran over it? I'd be in so much trouble. But if she saw me go on the road... and what if I got hit by a car?

I teetered on the curb, weighing up my anxieties. A chortled "Chicken chicken chicken!" decided me. I judged the traffic, scrambled to the centre and scooped my book up.

It was anger that propelled me to throw the book at her. It was adrenaline that guided my aim. She crumpled to the ground, clutching the bridge of her nose.

"What- what on earth is going on here?" It was Mum. Uh-oh. "Why were you on the road?"

My tears dried on my cheeks as my rage ebbed away, replaced by a feeling that could only be called guilty success. "Because I'm not a chicken."

I used to have a standard introduction I'd use at times like this: "I'm a mum, a software developer, a tuba player, a blogger, a baker, a board game player, and very short on time." That was in the days of one child.

Then along came the twins. I had to redefine my understanding of "very short on time."

They're four now, and I still haven't got the hang of life as a mum to three. I'm not sure I ever will. I like it, sometimes. I hate it, sometimes. I'd rather gouge my eyes out with a lawnmower than listen to one more shrieking, flailing argument, sometimes.

My life over the last four years has been a blur of sleep deprivation, never-ending toilet-training, and wilful destruction of property. My boy twin drew on my tuba last week.

LJ Idol is new to me, but way back in 2008 I was a finalist in stuff.co.nz's inaugural Blog Idol competition. I wrote for their parenting blog for four years. The blog lead to experiences I never expected, like appearing on New Zealand television, and speaking at a parliamentary select committee.

I have my own blog now, The Never-Ending Laundry. Maybe you can relate.

I had posted my 101 list on GJ. Things have changed for me though; when I wrote it I was time-rich and money-poor. Now I'm time-poor and money-poor :P I want to update it, so I figured I'd bring it over here.

The Mission:
Complete 101 preset tasks in a period of 1001 days.

The Criteria:
Tasks must be specific (ie. no ambiguity in the wording) with a result that is either measurable or clearly defined. Tasks must also be realistic and stretching (ie. represent some amount of work on my part).

Start date: Thursday, August 24, 2006

End date: Thursday, May 21, 2009