If you can't stand the heat...

Where ever we have lived the kitchen has always been the hub of the house. Both Michael and I love to cook and living in rented units where the kitchens have been small and old has not always been great. When buying our house we new the kitchen was spacious with a gas stove, electric oven, dishwasher and walk-in pantry. When we moved in and went to use the oven for the first time we were surprised how small the inside of it was - our roasting pan didn't fit. Oh well we thought, in a few years time we can fulfil the dream of getting a big oven, but for now we can survive. Then we went to use the oven and it took almost two hours to cook chicken wings. So instead of having the oven repaired we decided to bite the bullet and get ourselves our dream oven and put together the kitchen we've always wanted (on a tiny budget). So below is the result of what a new oven, lick of paint and a change of door handles can do to transform a kitchen.

The before photo.

Out with the old handles and in with the new.

Look at me. I can grout.

The oven.

Michael and his two painting assistants.

The finished kitchen - 1 of 3.

The finished kitchen - 2 of 3.

The finished kitchen - 3 of 3.

Goodbye winter, hello spring

I'm not really a sun worshipper, but this winter has been bitter. We have had the fire on every night in the house and I've been dressing like an eskimo. So as the first day of spring arrived bringing with it a change in temperature, I was overjoyed. At last the sun was warming the day and the breezes were not as chilly. In fact the last few days have felt more like summer than spring.

With the outdoors beckoning and a garden to enjoy it was time to make the most of it with some al fresco dining and a spot of painting.

The many moods of little Miss Mini-Me

I'm scared. Last week Milly and I had a stand off. She wanted to steal some of Henry's lunch, the same lunch that was sitting in her bowl in front of her. When I pointed this out to her she swiped her bowl off the table spilling it all over the floor with a look of defiance. I explained to her that we don't throw our food on the floor and could she please pick up her bowl. She shook her head. I repeated myself and she shook her head again and walked away. This went on for a while with my voice taking a more serious tone as I was getting nowhere. She struggled against me when I picked her up and brought her back to where her bowl sat upturned on the floor. And just to demonstrate how determined she was not to pick up the bowl she started to throw a tantrum. There was wailing, real tears, rolling about on the floor, hitting the fridge, stamping the feet. I just calmly sat on the floor looking at her............and so the battle of wills began.

If Milly wants something and the answer is no, she throws a tantrum. If she's told to stop because she might break something or hurt herself, she throws a tantrum. I know because she can't talk she's just expressing her displeasure with what she's being told, but my oh my she expresses her displeasure to the extreme. She is stubborn, likes to do things her own way, laughs at other people's misfortunes - she is just like me. And on the day we did battle I found myself looking at a mini-me and knew neither of us was going to give in.

For a good ten minutes the crying and rolling on the floor continued. Milly had worked herself into such a state she was now hysterical. I tried to comfort her and get her to calm down but she didn't want anything to do with me. She ran up the hall and back, then into a room and slammed the door. This turned out to be the deal breaker - on slamming the door behind her she realised she couldn't reach the handle to open it. There was silence, no crying, nothing. I opened the door a little and went back to where I was sitting on the floor. Slowly the door opened further and a little face peered out. I opened my arms and she came and gave me a hug and I told her it was alright. I asked if she could please pick up her bowl. Without hesitation she toddled over to her bowl and it picked up and some of the food as well.

Some parents advise picking your battles with your kids. Milly is only 16 months old. I'm scared of what she's going to be like in a few years when she can talk, and worse what she'll be like when she's a teenager. One thing is for sure. I know it was the first of many battles and I'm sure I won't win them all.