Hazel's stories

Hazel tells stories. They are short, and they are few. When something dramatic happens, we know that a new story has been born. She tells these stories again and again. It has taken months for her first story to fade away.

Alarm. Loud.
       I burnt the toast and the smoke alarm want off. We all jumped out of our skins and the girls both howled. Mum took them outside to shelter from the beeping alarm, while I ran around looking for a broom to prod the damn thing into silence, then prod the other alarm which went off shortly after.

Boy upset.
        At Baby Bunting, Ivy and Hazel were playing with the trains. A slightly bigger boy came over to join in, and he took their stuff and played with it properly - his trains ran on the tracks. The girls didn't mind, so I didn't intervene. His mum tried to convince him to share, but he didn't want to. Then his dad loomed up and shouted at him, and the boy cried and protested, and his dad angrily scooped him up and bore him away. The girls were shocked.

Ivy's glass broke. Mummy cleaned it up.
       Nothing to add here. Except that in many months of using glasses at the table instead of plastic cups, only two have broken, and I think I broke one of them.

Seal broke. Dropped it on the floor. Dropped it on the tiles.
       Trudi has some little glass animal figures on the bathroom window sill. Sometimes, for a treat, Trudi gets them down for the girls to hold. The seal slipped out of their hands as Hazel passed it back to Trudi.

Big tower. Shot tower. Little windows. Tiny. Clock.
       We visited Melbourne Central, and both girls enjoyed gazing up at the shot tower. Also, there is a dire clock that opens up and has dancing galahs and cockatoos inside it.

Dangerous bottles. Not in the mouth.
       We keep our poisons in the garage, on a shelf up high. Hazel sees them as we put her in the car. Weed-killer, acetone, turpentine, paint... all sorts of good things.

Alex.
       Hazel is really really into one of the dads at our Tuesday playgroup. He's a quiet fellow with a very nice daughter. Hazel does not care much either way about his daughter. When she sees Alex she stands still, and quietly gazes at him. He's a bit shy about it all, but he smiles back and they say nothing.

Not Hazel, not Ivy, just for Mummies
       This is used for a range of forbidden things. Currently this includes: the cupboard that contains the food processor, bread machine, bamix, etc; the toilet brush; the bath-tap handle; tampons.
      
Touched the fire. Burnt hand. Very sore hand.
       At my aunt and uncle's house, we met our first fire. It was in a coonara-style box with a glass door. We talked a lot about how it's hot and not for touching, and eventually Hazel just had to check for herself. Luckily she just scorched her hand. By the next morning there was no redness at all. She must have touched it very briefly. It still caused half and hour of crying as she sat on Trudi's lap with her little hot hand in a box of cold water. Now I can't remember which hand it was, and neither can Hazel.

Thermometer in ear. Bandaid.
       This is the story of swine flu vaccinations. It doesn't mention the actual injection - just the precursor and the follow-up. Both girls hated their bandaids.

Leo scratched the foot.
       Mum's cat Leo scratched Hazel's foot, and hoiked off her sock. Hazel had been bothering him, and he'd put up with it for a long time.

Bill looked at Hazel's dots.
       The doctor named Bill examined Hazel's rash, and diagnosed it as a side-effect of cold sores, whereas I think it was Hand, Foot and Mouth.

Nanna fell over. Dropped Hazel.
        No need to explain this one.

She tells these stories seriously, but without much emotion. They are stories, not outbursts.