Beers in the Teacups

Bless me, reader, for I have sinned: it’s been seven (SEVEN!) months since my last confession, lazy blogger that I am…but more on why later.

I officially became a new woman this year: not only did I enter a new decade, but perhaps even more significantly is that all my kids are – finally – at big school. That moment that I long awaited: on those dark days, I used to envision myself counting down on a Giant Calendar, like they show men doing in prison movies who are anticipating a parole date. My baby was finally heading off into the great, wide educational world. A whole new life that doesn't include you. Another cord has been cut.

As anyone who has been in that position knows, it can be met with a variety of mixed emotions: apprehension, excitement, relief, a tinge of sadness even. Our school hosts a ‘Tears in the Teacups’ morning for parents of kindergarten children, which I aptly renamed ‘Beers in the Teacups’. For me, it was mostly a celebration: I felt like it was as much my milestone as it was my five-year old’s. Most importantly, I knew he was well and truly READY. And, secondly, I had made it! I had survived my tenure as at SAHM, keeping everyone alive, clean-ish, fed and mostly dressed (myself included) without turning into a Stepford Wife. Although let the record note that the odd glass of cab sav never went astray during this era.



Remember when your kids were little and grandmotherly people would say, ‘These are the best years of your life! Enjoy them!’ You’d get that cock-eyed look that dogs do when they hear a high-pitched whistle, and have a sudden urge towards hara kiri: cold cups of coffee and play-dough sessions that take longer to clean up than your kids spent playing with it? And this is the best it gets? Cue tears (mine).



Then, you begin to encounter the people with school-age children. Sadistic buzz-kills, they were, who would smugly warn and say, ‘Oh! You think you’re busy now, just wait till they start school!’ Pffft, you’d think. This, from a woman whose children clearly wipe their own bums. How could I possibly get any busier, when at the moment, I can’t even manage a private moment to myself just to pee?



So on my fantasy would go: when they’re all at school, not only will I drink a coffee without cold milk clots forming a Pangea-shaped scummy layer on top BUT I will also have time to workout and achieve my Michelle Obama arms! Finish my novel! Save the endangered gray-handed night monkey! Clearly at some point during my tenure as a SAHM, I had swallowed the ‘When they’re all at school…’ Kool-Aid. Greedily. Like Don Draper with a Manhattan.



But now, six months in to my new phase of life – and no bicep improvement or completed manuscript to speak of – I realise that I may need to summons Mr Rouke and Tatoo to make some of those things come true. So I am just going to say it, like the buzz-killing, smug, all-at-school parent that I now am: I feel busier than ever. But let me explain.



Those ‘free’ hours between 9am and 3pm have given me time to ponder some of life’s great mysteries (including, ‘How does the earth manage to spin on its axis at double-time between the hours of 9am-3pm?’), as well as the luxury of having a private pee. But there is a trade-off (always is with parenting) for the days being filled with a relative peace: now, those after school hours from 3pm-9pm have taken on a frenzied pace that seems to require the mental energy, logistical planning and physical stamina that was at one time was only required for frantic Christmas eve present shopping. It’s a flurry of snacks, homework, sports, activities, cooking dinners, bathing rituals, heated ‘discussions’…and on and on it goes. In the good-old-days of being a SAHM, I at least knew that as demanding or uncooperative (or downright feral) as the kids may have been during the day, come 7:00, I was on the home stretch. And because they couldn’t yet tell the time, you could pull off the odd sixer for bedtime. Now some nights we’re just sitting down for dinner at the former bedtime, in complete violation of the toddler-preschooler timetable that seemingly dictates your life for soooo long. Only now am I beginning to realise how relatively short that time truly was.



And since I’m already beginning to get sentimental about something that ended five minutes ago, that brings me to my aforementioned confession: this is my final blog for Three Under 3.




Now excuse me while I go finish my coffee. While it’s still hot…Imagine!

New Year's Resolutions I Can Live With

Two weeks into the New Year is usually when - personally speaking - my resolutions start to go pear-shaped. Shame, because that’s considered the halfway point of habit forming: some research indicates that it take 30 days to form a new habit (although that time might be much shorter for, say, heroin addicts).

I’ve given up reading January magazines: I can ‘just ten minutes a day’ myself into a whole day’s worth of self-improvement activities. I'm happy to report that Oprah’s advice on decluttering my closets, applying smoky eye shadow, five-day detoxing and walking my way to a J-Lo arse will forever remain a mystery to me.

This year, I’m lowering my expectations and picking what I know will work. But in the spirit of the new year, here is a look at all possibilities: the Will-Never-Do list; the Should-Do-But-Won’t list; and the Will-Do list.

Resolutions you will never see me having, or the Will Never Do list:
1. Read the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy – Don’t worry, I haven’t converted to Mormonism in a wave of Romney Fever. And this choice has nothing whatsoever to do with the sauciness factor. It’s because this woman not only ripped off someone else’s plot, but even the characters(!), and has made an absolute fortune. And I'll freely admit, I’m a bit bitter about that. Even the author’s pseudonym, ‘E.L. James’ is another version of P.D. James, the British mystery writer. Another score of zero for originality there. I guess initials look great on a dustjacket.

2. Give up sugar in my coffee – why is everyone so down on sugar in coffee? I don’t get it. I’m sticking with it, and to compensate for that, I’ll just blow my nose an extra two times each day to work off those whopping 22 calories and enjoy my coffee in peace.

3. Alcohol – Although this quote is frequently attributed to Homer Simpson and beer, it was actually Benjamin Franklin who said that wine ‘is a constant proof that God loves us, and wants us to see us happy.’ Nice to see that in between inventing bifocals and the odometer, he had time to ponder and enjoy life’s little pleasures. Well said, Benny-Boy. I like that whole ‘why French women don’t get fat’ approach, which back in the olden days, used to be called everything in moderation.


Should Do But Won’t:
1. Meditation – wouldn’t we all love to go Eat, Pray, Love style? But that woman has no kids. If I could claim 10-30 uninterrupted minutes to myself each day, I wouldn’t spend it chanting, I can tell you that much.

2. Give up my obsession with Hugh Jackman – Drover. Academy Awards Host. Wolverine. That guy from Le Miserables. Is there anything this man can’t do?

3. Continue my quest for Michelle Obama arms – unless I have someone willing to go all Gordon-Ramsey-bootcamp on me, screaming in my face bedside at 6 a.m., this is not gonna happen. I’ve accepted my inconsistency.

4. Read thought-provoking, Pulitzer-prize winning literature – like that of any modern gal, my life contains enough complicating events, decision making and frustrations. Therefore, I don’t want to read about characters’ emotional suffering, moral dilemmas or epic tragedies. Reading is for brain candy, not for intellectual stimulation. Now I’ve said it out loud.

5. Facebook detox – an unparalleled time-sucker and designed with procrastinators like me in mind, I should just stay away. But won’t.


While not wanting to set myself up for failure, this is my proposed Will Do list for 2013:
1. Floss – simple and important, but I don’t do it enough, and I don’t want cavemen teeth. Maybe someday I’ll spring for a tooth-whitening to compensate for my coffee and merlot, but for now, I can afford the $1.99 for floss.

2. Give my children additional, age-appropriate responsibilities – besides love, stability, education, etc, the three best gifts you can give your children are a happy marriage, trust in their own decision-making ability, and self-sufficiency. This is another step towards that last one, even when it’s sooo much easier to just do the little jobs for them. (This one also relates closely to #5)

3. No more ironing - admittedly, I’ve been doing this one for years, but putting it on a list makes me feel better.

4. Purge the bra and undies drawer - what, what, what is in there? I can barely get the drawer closed, and yet…I wear the same standbys again and again. Anything threadbare, tattered, ripped, wedgie-inducing (that includes YOU thongs/g-strings) or pre-Clinton administration is going, as are those bottoms classified as ‘period undies.’ Shapeware, you are safe, and will in fact, be worthy of your own drawer soon.

5. Reclaim some ‘me’ time – needs no further explanation.


So there you have it. Now, in the spirit of resolution #5, I’m pouring a coffee, drinking it while it’s still HOT, disappearing with my Kindle and not chanting…

Keeping the Christmas Spirit Alive

It has been a week since the Sandy Hook shootings, and like many, I still find myself reeling from the devastation that this has caused. It is a source of a river of pain that branches out infinitely, flowing endlessly and in every direction.


I have cried. I choked out the words to my husband while he was in the bathroom – dreading hearing myself say them out loud – picking that precise moment where we would (almost) be guaranteed privacy. I have cried at inopportune times. I have cried and then had to make up pithy excuses for my crying jag to my children. I have cried in sympathy for those parents, who realised that their children’s last moments were possibly spent in terror. And there was nothing they could have done, no ‘Life is Beautiful’ game they could have played to spare them from the terrible reality of what was about to happen. I have cried about the fierce maternal instinct of those teachers, some of who weren’t even mothers, but who defended their students like a mother bear would her cubs. I have cried thinking about the parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles who will have to look at Christmas gifts they bought for their little angels.


I have managed to shelter my children from what has happened; I don’t know in America if I would have been lucky enough to have that choice, and my heart aches for those parents who would have liked to do the same for their young children, but weren’t able to: an event like this owns you and the general population, and it would be nearly impossible not to offer some explanation for the palpable sadness. It would be seen on faces of people in Dunkin Donuts, in line at the ATM, waiting for Santa photos.


Although everyone is devastated by this tragedy, when you live with a six-year-old kindergarten student, it makes it all the more real. My six-year old is the funniest person in the house, often without meaning to be. He asks questions like, ‘Do Scottish people wear pants now?’ He thinks Santa needs to get some Chinese elves, so that he can keep up with the demand for electronic goods. He thinks his snacks taste better from a blue bowl. His world is Lego, playing cowboys and getting lost in picture books. The joy of parenting reaches unseen heights when you have a six-year-old, when even they can finally laugh at the demands and frustrations of their own ancient history of toddlerhood. Adam Lanza was a six-year-old once.


While it is impossible to make sense of any of this, and questions emerge about the issues of mental health and gun control, I continue to be moved by the small and not-so-small acts of kindness that are emerging. These, too, flow out like a river, and may these acts of kindness continue until they reach the depth of the oceans. Mr Rogers tells us to ‘Always look for the helpers.’ This is God’s work, this is the Christmas spirit. Hug not just your babies tight this season, but everyone you can.


God Bless.

Dedicated to the families of Charlotte Bacon, Daniel Barden, Rachel Davino, Olivia Engel, Josephine Gay, Ana M. Marquez-Greene, Dylan Hockley, Dawn Hocksprung, Madeline F. Hsu, Catherine Hubbard, Chase Kowalski, Jesse Lewis, James Mattioli, Grace McDonnell, Ann Marie Murphy, Emily Parker, Jack Pinto, Noah Pozner, Caroline Previdi, Jessica Rekos, Avielle Richman, Lauren Russeau, Mary Sherlach, Victoria Soto, Benjamin Wheeler, Allison N. Wyatt

There's pain, and then there's Lego pain...



Add caption

And tonight's punishment for those who misbehave will be:  Walk across this Lego forest.  Blindfolded.

Fun with Phonics



Clever 'sh' words for six year olds?

 This is an actual excerpt from Ted's phonics book.  The idea was to come up with as many words as possible starting with 'sh'.  One friend commented, 'Should we be worried when they get to the 'ck' page?'

Some people may find the teacher comment disturbing...Frankly, after a day with 28 kindergarteners, it's a wonder she can even hold a pen, much less read...

My mother would say this is karmic payback for my flagrant disregard fpr the rules of Scrabble: eg, no abbreviations, slang, foreign words...and of course, no swearing.

Home with a sick child

Having had a bad run of sicknesses this winter (including some that I thought only occurred in Victorian novels: sweating, hallucinations/dreams, fevers, etc), I thought we were at the end of it all when spring in the the southern hemisphere finally arrived. 

But no.

Yet another bout came on Friday:
(Phone ringing)
Me: Hello?
School lady: Kelly? It's Judy.  Ned's just vomited all over the classroom floor. (Curtly) Can you come and get him please?
Me: Just after I finish my round of golf.  I'm on the back nine as we speak.

Anyone with a child in school knows that you under NO circumstances piss-off the lovely Admin ladies that keep the whole school ticking over.  If she says you're missing a sick note, you write one on your last check if you have to.  If she says come now, you come now, even if George Clooney has just bought a bottle of Cristal Rose for the two of you to share.  Luckily, I was close by, because vomiting + classroom full of students = evacuate the biohazard area ASAP and quarentine for the lucky vomiter.

I hope this is the end.  My weekend was spent washing sheet, towels, clothes, bodies and hands, OH! the hands.  My hands do not look like they've been soaking in Palmolive, but in lye. (Can you botox your hands?) The house is wiped out of disinfectant. Let's hope I've contained whatever this is.

My Life With Ethel

Seven is the age of reason, as the saying goes, and as it turns out, with good reason:

‘In Medieval times, court apprenticeships began at 7; so too did apprenticeships at the time of the Guilds, and in English Common Law, children under 7 were not considered responsible for their behaviour. The Catholic Church offers first Communion at about age 7; it's also when formal schooling begins in most societies.’ (Brodkin)

I have to say, as a parent of a seven year old, it is a wonderful age. I have noticed a palpable shift in our relationship this year: it’s still mother-and-daughter, but I can see a little glint of true friendship sparking just beneath the surface.

Seven for many kids, in addition to being the age of reason, is also around the time that they really start to become aware of their talents. They start to realise that maybe they are crap at sports, but man, can they decoupage. Ok, they can only draw stick figures, but they can beat Grandma at checkers. Every time. What’s better: they start to become okay with that. Phew. What a milestone from a parenting perspective. (This is also why not everyone needs a trophy for every activity at the end of the season – it’s no longer developmentally appropriate – but that’s another topic entirely.)

I suppose most parents start to tune in to their child’s talents and abilities much sooner than the child himself actually does – hence, the age of reason. In my case, I was certainly aware of where Eva’s potential interests, or perhaps even talents, might lie: considering that her life has been ‘one big dramatic performance up to this point,’* I knew that channelling that into children’s theatre would be a good thing. And I’m happy to report that it has been. Eva’s most recent role (in addition to the daily performances she gives around here) has been the tortoise in ‘The Tortoise and the Hare’. She’s got an outlet, I get to see the good side of this ability and it’s cheaper than therapy. We’re both happy.

But there is another, ahem, ‘talent’ that lends itself well to her inborn theatrical abilities, and that is Eva’s singing. Her love of singing didn’t come as any surprise, since she would sing whatever she could from a very young age, eg, ‘I’m puuuttttin’ on my UNNNdeeeeeeesss now, UNNNdeeeeeeeesss now…!’ She writes songs – not that she has any knowledge of writing music, but she’ll have a bank of lyrics ready for when she does. In fact, her singing has become so constant, I don’t know how she is able to contain her urge for the six-and-a-half hour school day. Sometimes I feel like I’m trapped in one long, plotless musical, the only escape from which is her bedtime.

I wouldn’t really call myself a fan of the genre of musical theatre either – in my experience, I just start to get into the story, just start to care about the characters and they lose me by bursting suddenly into song: I get it already, I feel your pain, you don’t need to supplement your current crisis with song. Really.

Most recently, (the gods clearly have a sense of humour) Eva’s singing has taken on this big-voiced Ethel Merman-esque quality. Every number has to be big, big, big. It’s like I’m trapped in a Cole Porter hell, although she does do a mean cover of Amy Winehouse’s ‘Rehab.’ Occasionally, mid-number, I ask Eva a question I have no interest in knowing the answer to, just to break her from her reverie. I’ve even had to introduce a few rules, like ‘No singing at the dinner table’. Sometimes, she drives her brothers crazy with the singing, and I have to be Switzerland, even though I, too want to scream, ‘Will you PLEASE just give the show tunes a freakin’ break already?!?!’

It’s funny, but as any parent will tell you, they are born who they are. Parents guide, encourage, nurture, expose to opportunity, and perhaps most important of all – tolerate. After all, ‘Everything’s Coming Up Roses.’

*(This quote is actually taken from my friend Linda’s imagined response to the question, ‘Does your child have any experience with drama or in theatre? on her own daughter’s camp application. Thanks, Lin!)

Read the full article ‘The Age of Reason’ by Adele M Brodkin, PhD, at http://www.scholastic.com/browse/article.jsp?id=7241

Returning from afar

Well, I must be the world's laziest blogger. Unfortunately, in the blogger's universe, they don't give awards for that. Aside from 'technical difficulties' I experienced with accessing my own blog (aaarrrrrgggghhhhh), I began to rethink it all: should I bother? I almost have three school-aged children and my rantings of life at home seem to be a part of another era. I have taken most of a year off from doing entries with any sort of regularity. And what a year it has been - but let's face it, they're all eventful in their own way. Perhaps the biggest challenge for me this year (which also accounts for my lack of blogging) has been the return to work. It certainly adds another layer of responsibility and time management. My house has cerainly never looked worse. And you know what: I don't care. It's not that I'm apathetic, it's just that I've stopped agonising over the little things so much. Ok, I've lowered my expectations. My parenting goals are: keep 'em clean, keep 'em fed, keep 'em clothed and keep the peace. And for now, that is going to have to be enough! Stay tuned, proper blogs will appear at random...

Off to School We Go...

Once again, I took the 'northern summer' off from blogging, since as most of you know, we took a trip back to Boston for a visit. I could blog again about travelling with children and the hilarity that ensues: boarding through Biz Class and Ted says, 'This is MY seat, riiiight heeeere...', accidentally bringing a toy gun through security, the expectation that they will be on their best behaviour while poor diet and lack of sleep creates the opposite effect. (Actually meant to be my August topic, but never mind.) However, I picked a subject a little closer to home. Enjoy...

September: I heard the collective sigh of relief all the way down here in the southern hemisphere and I recognised it instantly: the ‘Ahhhhhh…’ of mums across America as everyone returned to school after Labor Day – accompanied by utterances under the breath of ‘Don’t let the door hit you on the bum’, ‘Thank God for school buses’, ‘First chance I’ve had to [finish a whole cup of hot coffee/vacuum/make an uninterrupted phone call] since June.’ The heck with Christmas. September is the most wonderful time of year.

Although the new school year here for us is still months away (February), we had our own brush with the Spirit of Back to School recently: Ted had his highly anticipated big school interview. He was nervously excited, hair gelled, handsome clothes donned. As Ted is the middle child, this was our second time through the process, so we knew what to expect. But how do you prepare a five year old? Or more to the point, should you? Isn’t the big school interview meant to be a ‘take me as I am’ snapshot of the child, a meet and greet, an ‘I’m-not-that-scary-of-a-principal’ themed intro, before school begins to leave its own indelible impression?

Apparently not. In this case, it’s an assessment and that’s that. The first of thousands over a lifetime of schooling.

Now I’ve heard my fair share of big school interview horror stories: my niece fell asleep during hers. (Clearly, she was so advanced, she was completely bored by what was being asked of her). Or my personal favourite: my friend’s son farted during his – but not discreetly with a sheepish nod of his head. Oh, no. (Five year old boys rarely throw aside that God-given opportunity for bodily humour.) He stood up on a chair to do so, as if to put a big exclamation mark on the event, insisting no one in the room could ignore it.

While Ted's wasn't exactly a horror story, it wasn't exactly a shining moment: if it’s possible for one to fail a big school interview, then he did just that. While at first he was engaged, he quickly wanted to steer the topics of conversation to things of his interest (cowboys, Hitler) and wasn’t really all that obliging. He vacillated between boredom (sighing) and disinterest ("You talkin’ to me?") peppered with moments of nervous chatter. A couple of things he was asked to do he just replied, ‘Nah.’ Overall, he didn’t give the impression that he was really all that fussed with this big school business.

At the end of the interview, I was told by the principal: ‘He’s the only child I’ve interviewed who can’t yet write his name.’ ‘Yes, that’s why I’m sending him to you,’ is what I thought. He commented on the way Ted held his pen. ‘Is it bad?’ I asked. ‘YES!’ he said and encouraged me to get some triangle-shaped pencils for easier gripping. (Obviously, the very ones Einstein himself used.) He also said that he had some ‘real concerns’ about his readiness, especially given his age. Sheesh.

Lucky I already know the guy, or I probably would’ve been tempted to tear strips off of him. Or cry. Or at the very least, become indignant. And if Ted were my first child, I probably would’ve been gutted. Or have felt like I failed as an at-home mum for not pushing the whole Baby Einstein agenda (which I so detest), attempting to teach a woodwind instrument or becoming bi-lingual myself in the hopes of making my child ‘smarter’.

His basic concern was that he didn’t want to see Ted struggle when he got to school, and I can fully appreciate the warning. But struggle? Who struggled in kindergarten when we were kids? Who got the report sent home saying, ‘Jill just can’t seem to grasp higher spatial concepts and has regrettably failed blocks’? When did kindergarten become work? What was once an extension of preschool with some learning laced in has become learning with all too little time for play. The result? After making the expectations so high so early, we then go on to complain that they grhave become ‘tweens’ at age 10 and their childhoods are more or less finished.

As far as I’m concerned the interview was merely a formality – he’s going next year. Legally, he has to start school or I must submit a homeschool curriculum, and to me, homeschooling should’ve died with Jane Eyre’s governess job. Ready or not, here I come. I can’t hold him back any longer, nor would I want to. Who wants the five-foot tall kid in kindergarten?

According to the New South Wales government standard, he was eligible for school this year – but I delayed sending him. Not because of what I wanted to do, but because it has become the ‘done’ thing, especially with boys. (The upside to the current way of doing things is that there seems to be fewer children who have to repeat a year of school, and that is a good thing.) While the pressure is on not sending them until they’re really ready, that leaves too much of the decision in the parents’ hands.

The whole issue of ‘school readiness’ is another way we have complicated our roles as parents, all in the name of choice. We research how to get pregnant, then what to eat, obstetricians, birthing plans, prams, preschools, discipline strategies, and now, our child’s school readiness. It used to be when you were five by a certain date, you went. Period. Yes, there were variations in age and ability, but that is not something that ever changes in the course of a child’s life, educational or otherwise: there will always be those who are smarter, faster, funnier. While the government’s curriculum has changed radically over the years, the school starting age hasn’t, which creates a dilemma: some will gladly push them out the door to school at 4.5 years because it’s cheap day care; others will hold them back till they’re 6 in the hopes of giving their child every ‘advantage’.

Am I worried for Ted’s sake? Not in the least. School is still four months away. I do think keeping him at home has kept him younger, similar to the way going to uni keeps you a teenager for another four years. Although in the remaining time before school starts, I will certainly try to encourage him, I simply refuse to create a battleground for us before he has even begun his formal education. Right now, Ted writing his name has no value in his world, which at the moment revolves mostly around cowboys, Lego and army men. But all that will change once he starts school – of that I am convinced. And that used to be the acceptable way it was for the vast majority of children starting school a generation ago.

Perhaps I will have better luck teaching him to write ‘Cowboy Ted’ instead of his name…

Worst Mum in Australia?

Ok, so I did something old-school and got caught. Maybe this incident could rival that of ‘Worst Mom in America’ who let her nine-year-old take the NYC subway by himself and dealt with the unstoppable consequences, but I’ll tell you anyway: I left my kids in the car while I went into the grocery store. So now you know.

First, let me set the scene: it was the first day back to school after the school holidays, we had just got back from being away late the day before and my three kids were all tired and didn’t want to come in to the shop – not that I let them make all the decisions, but under the circumstances, I was happy to agree to let them sit in the car and wait. I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong – certainly not taking any chances.

It was what I considered to be a safe situation: it’s a small neighbourhood shopping area, close to the school, where I often see other mums doing the very same. It’s like a little slice of 1965 there: a café, a bakery, a newsagent, and a small supermarket (like they all used to be in 1965). The kids were safely buckled in the car, and I had to get – literally – a few things. It wasn’t a hot day, it wasn’t a cold day. I said hello to the librarian from my daughter’s school, who was out in front of the shop talking to a friend, right in front of my car. I had parked outside the door of the supermarket – really, a large convenience store – so that my car was in view from inside the shop.

The complicating factor in all of this was that Liam, the youngest, had started crying right before I went into the shop: a combination of the time of day, overtiredness from the holiday and anger that his brother had a Scooby-Doo comic that he really, really, really wanted. Once I left, he worked himself into a frenzy of anger that to an outside observer could easily look like fear or distress.

I raced around the shop (no doubt resembling a contestant on The Price is Right), got what I needed and was in line to pay when I heard over the loudspeaker ‘Would the owner of a…’ I didn’t even hear the rest of the description; I knew it was me they wanted. I dropped my handbasket of groceries and went outside to see if anything was wrong. As I exited, I passed by a security guard who mustered up the meanest of looks to throw at me and spat something to the effect of ‘Your kids are crying…’ I thanked him sheepishly and returned to my car. As I saw the judgement on his face, I thought, ‘I bet you don’t have children…’ I unbuckled the kids, calmed down Liam and we all went back inside so I could pay.

Fast forward three hours later: the kids have just fallen asleep, all tucked in for the night and the doorbell rings. It’s the police. Never a good sign when a pair of police officers show up at your door.

Good Cop: We’re here about an incident that occurred this afternoon at Foodworks.
Bad Cop: [Glaring]
Me: Oh. My. God…

Did you leave your children in the car? What are their ages? A witness says they were there for 40 minutes. (They weren’t: four minutes – tops, but why even argue? It’s guilty until proven innocent, as any accused will tell you.) This is when I felt my anger flare. I did tell him calmly, though tearfully, that that was an exaggeration, but he didn’t care. It’s the fact that at the ages they are, they shouldn’t be left alone at all, regardless of the amount of time. (I had to pretend to take his point.) Mean Cop still just glared, trying to size up my sincerity. Was I liar? Was I negligent? Or had I just made a circumstantial poor choice?

Children still get kidnapped, even in places like this (a big country town) he warned. Yes, I know. Thank you sir, for your concern, I know you’re just following up, doing a job, and that is a good thing.

He left with all our details in his little standard-issue notebook and I was left reeling. And soon, asking myself a thousand questions.

Was the security guard who called the police really a concerned citizen? If his motives were pure, then that is a good thing. The world needs more people to take action and not be deer-caught-in-headlights bystanders. Or was he just a frustrated rent-a-cop trying to play Big Brother and wield a little bit of power over someone he misconstrued to be doing the wrong thing? The fact that he lied about the amount of time I spent in the shop makes his intentions a bit dubious.

Then I started to wonder: is there a ‘right’ age to leave kids alone? Is there a legal age that kids can be left unattended? Is there a ‘safe’ distance? Just recently I saw a child from my daughter’s class playing with a friend in another shopping centre. Her mum was inside a nearby coffee shop with friends. She was about 30 meters away and out of sight from her mother. Was that unsafe? Is it still ok to let the older children look after the younger ones (like people in large families used to do routinely) and if so, at what ages? Until recently, weren’t these decisions left up to the parent, who was guided by common sense?

What about the children I routinely see walking home from school alone: is that even considered safe anymore? Judging from the picking up and dropping off at schools, not to most parents. When I attended primary school everyone walked, twice a day: we even walked home for lunch. If there was a car outside at the end of the day, our first thought was, ‘I wonder who’s going to the dentist/doctor, etc today…’ Now, at that same primary school, the cars circle the block at 2:30. I can also remember being left in a running car outside the bank while my uncle went inside (and no, not to rob it).

Yes, children are kidnapped. But so are kids in high school, at university and beyond. In fact, in one lot of statistics I Googled, the peak age for abduction victims was during the teen years.

I certainly didn’t think for a second that I was leaving my children in a ‘risky’ situation. As the mother who let her nine-year-old child ride the subway alone will also tell you, lot of parenting is about risk calculation. For example: I’m always vigilant when I have to go inside to pay at petrol stations, due to the numbers of cars coming and going, which could provide an opportunity. We use our parental intuition to decide what is okay.

It seems that with the advent of ‘helicopter parenting’ came not only the micro-managing of childhood, but also that safety should be the top priority: it’s now playdates, indoor playgrounds and rubber on every outside playground surface. Monkey bars? Ha. And think hard: when is the last time you saw a child with a good old fashioned graze down their shin? Try finding a coffee table in anyone’s house with children under the age of five. Look at the ‘safety’ section at every baby shop: it starts almost from birth with the toilet latches and cupboard locks – which makes me wonder when did child-proof caps become not enough? Riding a bike down hill with the breeze flapping in your hair is a childhood pleasure that has become extinct. Yes, helmets are a good thing. But I still can’t recall one person from my own childhood who suffered any head or face trauma from a bike ride.

Our generational scourge as parents is the struggle to find an elusive balance - and that's once we have decided upon a parenting 'philosophy'. By hovering, wrapping our kids in cotton wool, fighting their battles, we make them think they are the centre of the universe – which we all know results in precious, dependent, entitled, obnoxious children. But allowing them too much freedom is risky in today’s world, or so the media tells us. Most parents want to raise children that are adventurous, self-sufficient, resilient, free-to-be kids: we all know how short childhood is, and the period of innocence shorter still. Only that seems to be getting harder to do.

Do I regret that I left my kids in the car or do I regret that I got caught? I still don’t think I did anything wrong or dangerous. And I don’t think the world is that much more dangerous a place than it was in the 70s and 80s when my generation was growing up - it’s mostly our perception of those dangers that has changed. Maybe that’s a good thing, we have more awareness, knowledge is power and maybe that has prevented a lot of bad things from happening. We’ll never know. Perhaps this incident has heightened my awareness. And I did feel a bit sad about it, a twinge of remorse perhaps: but not because of what I did. My remorse was for the way parenting – and not the world – has changed.

For another view on this topic, this is by freelance writer LJ Williamson and originally appeared in the LA Times:

Life Support: Let the children go on foot and on bike

…Although statistics show that rates of child abduction and sexual abuse have marched steadily downward since the early 1990s, fear of these crimes is at an all-time high. Even the panic-inducing Megan's Law Web site says stranger abduction is rare and that 90 percent of child sexual-abuse cases are committed by someone known to the child. Yet we still suffer a crucial disconnect between perception of crime and its statistical reality. A child is almost as likely to be struck by lightning as kidnapped by a stranger, but it's not fear of lightning strikes that parents cite as the reason for keeping children indoors watching television instead of out on the sidewalk skipping rope.
And when a child is parked on the living room floor, he or she may be safe, but is safety the sole objective of parenting? The ultimate goal is independence, and independence is best fostered by handing it out a little at a time, not by withholding it in a trembling fist that remains clenched until it's time to move into the dorms.
Meanwhile, as rates of child abduction and abuse move down, rates of Type II diabetes, hypertension and other obesity-related ailments in children move up. That means not all the candy is coming from strangers. Which scenario should provoke more panic: the possibility that your child might become one of the approximately 100 children who are kidnapped by strangers each year, or one of the country's 58 million overweight adults?
To read the entire article:
http://www.post-gazette.com/pg/07093/774604-51.stm

Baby Showers: Why I Hate Them

Ok, so it’s out there: I’ve said it. Now that I’ve broken the code of silence about them, feel free to join me – because I know there are some of you out there who hate them too. Despite my mother’s cajoling, I chose not to even have one. I had several reasons for doing so. First: I was living in Ireland at the time of my first pregnancy, and the thought of having more stuff to pack when we left there was too daunting. (Not to mention, I was in such denial about the whole life-altering experience of motherhood that I would try to go shopping armed with the three-page list of ‘essentials’ and leave the baby shop in hives.) Second: I was superstitious about having a room full of stuff to come home to in case – gasp – anything went wrong. Third: I had a wedding shower, then a wedding…how many more occasions could I create in a half a decade that would involve expecting my nearest and dearest to shell out cash or gifts?

What about wedding showers, you ask? First, I like kitchen gadgets, so I like to see what I can upgrade to one day, if I ever decide to upgrade my husband. Wedding showers also allow you the opportunity to see who you’re going to be doing the Macarena alongside in about a month’s time. A good meet and greet before the main event. Chances are, with baby showers, guests who attend will not get the opportunity in a month’s time to be holding hands together in the delivery room waiting for the bub to pop out.

Don’t get me wrong: I’ll go and drink my mimosa and oooh and ahh at the presents, but inside, all I’m doing is stifling yawn after yawn. Another reason I don’t want to go them: I try not to find out the gender of the baby even if the parents decide to find out; I like the anticipation and the surprise. Spoiler alert for me when I attend and all presents opened are either pink or blue. I once thought that I would enjoy them more once I had children of my own, but that has proved to be not the case. If anything, I enjoy them less: the main reason being is that the majority of the gifts given at the baby shower – even practical ones – have a relatively short life expectancy. And that’s true even if you have three kids.

For example: the Bumbo seat? You might get six months use out of it per child, depending on how hefty your child’s thighs get and how quickly. Then you’re stuck looking at this big, useless rubber seat in your garage for the next decade because you picked it, you know it cost a fair few bucks and Auntie Mary would shit herself if she saw it at your next yard sale for $5 when she paid over $50 and you’d have to endure the ‘Young People Today Have No Value for Anything, They Throw Everything Away, Not Like in My Day’ lecture for time immemorial (or until someone – likely you – puts the pillow over Auntie Mary’s face). Clothes? Best kept to a reasonable number, since you can just sit back and watch them outgrow them. The ones for the first year need to be practical, puke-proof and easy to clean (this is true of your own clothes as well). The breast-feeding pillow? Ha. You’ll use it for a couple of months with your first child – when you lay down and bond during feeding sessions, with your soft music, glass of water and nutritious snack handy – as per breastfeeding book recommendation. By the time you get to child number three, your breastfeeding with one arm and manoeuvring hot pasta towards the strainer in the sink with the other while a toddler giggles and throws marbles in your footpath. The giant pillow will be part of a fort somewhere in the backyard.

As anyone who has had a baby knows, babies are a business – and no more so then when it comes time to buying the stuff you ‘need.’ But remember, people have been having babies for a long time, flourishing, in fact, for many thousands of years prior to the advent of the Bumbo (and before pregnancy advice included a ‘zero tolerance’ for alcohol policy; in fact, it was precisely that lack of policy that prevented human beings from becoming extinct). Most of the items on the registry lists aren’t essential. Some are totally superfluous; some might may things a bit more convenient for a while. But there are very few things you need, I daresay there’s about five at the most: a pram, a car seat, nappies, a few changes of clothes and swaddling blankets will get you started. The other stuff you can decide on what you need as you go along.

If the tradition of the baby shower is to continue, then we need to diversify our ‘essential items’ checklist. It should include things that bear in mind firstly, the mum (since it will never again be all about you) and second, childcare beyond the first year of life. Here are some suggestions of things that I would like to see added to a baby shower registry list:

1. Scotch tape – You won’t see the immediate benefits of this one, but trust me, I go through it by the gross. An integral part of any crafting experience, it does everything, from hang artwork on the wall to repair toys. Essential. Also may want to include other members of the tape family: electrical and duct. Works on sagging boobs too.
2. A good coffee maker – The best you can afford. Necessary to kick start the day, but also good for when guest drop by to visit. See also #7.
3. A spa treatment – You will need it. Skip the Bumbo: this is a need, not a want.
4. A Dyson vacuum – One reserved to suck up just the tiny bits of toys that will overrun your house all too soon – Barbie shoes, Lego, Beados, puzzle pieces and the like. The emptying and sorting will fill in many happy hours for your children.
5. Vajay jay tightener – I don’t care what they say, those pelvic floor exercises just aren’t enough if you don’t want to be peeing yourself when you’re 60. You don’t even need to go to a sex shop (although that might be more fun) – they’re a legitimate medical thing now called ‘vaginal weights’. Google it if you don’t believe me.
6. An iPod – essential to block out nightly crying/unsettled period. Also can sing along to ‘lullabies’ for baby. Later, handy to ignore tantrums/sibling fights. How can you get stressed when you’re listening to Aretha Frankin?
7. Chardonnay – An old French saying is ‘Wine makes mummy clever.’ Bless them in their wisdom. Good for unwinding after a hard day of mumming and also to offer guests. Maybe.
8. Pre-cooked dinners – These should remain in deep freeze until Baby #2 or #3 arrive, but are priceless. Even though after your first baby you’ll think you’re ‘soooooooo busy’ it will get worse when you add to your brood. In fact, put an extra freezer on the list while you’re at it, then you can fill it with your dinners. Start cooking during your first trimester of first pregnancy.
9. Book Four of the Twilight Series – after reading about a vampire birth, yours will seem like a piece of cake, no matter how hard it was.
10. Sound-proof chauffeur’s panel fitted into car – Car manufacturers, why aren’t you listening? I would rather this optional extra than a built-in dvd player. Ideally, one that goes up and down with the flick of a switch. This is a good one for your friends or family members to pool their money for. Also could provide extra safety from catapult effect in the case of a rear-end collision (but don't quote me on that one). Alternatively, could investigate buying a former taxi* or police cruiser to replace family car, as ‘sound-proof’ panel is already installed.

These are just some of my suggestions, and ones that I think would make baby showers a lot more entertaining and unpredictable. Rubber smock? Dry cleaning gift certificates? What else can we come up with, ladies? I'd like to hear what some of your ‘essential items’ turned out to be once you joined the club. But you'll have to excuse me for now - I have to go empty the Dyson.

*Can replace taxi driver’s photo on glass with one of the Yellow Wiggle, for example, if less frightening for your child.

I'm Thinking of a Person...

So sometimes we play this game called, 'Im Thinking of a Person.' Just like I-Spy, only we describe people instead of objects. I know what you're thinking already, and you're right: unless you are Giselle, this is dangerous territory to cross with a three, five and six year old.

Anyway, I gave the following description of someone:
'I'm thinking of a person. He wears khaki shirts and shorts. He has a zoo in Queensland. He helps animals, especially crocodiles...'
'Bindi's dad!' my three year old yells. (Poor Steve is probably turning in his grave that despite a career spent forging his identity as a conservationist and animal lover, he has now been reduced to just 'Bindi's dad.')

So it followed with Jeff Wiggle (purple skivvy, sleeps a lot, etc.) and John Wayne (wears cowboy hat, rides a horse, fights baddies).

Then we got to this description: this person has red hair, and wears lots of black and yells a lot and has big sharp teeth...'

AH! I know! That big sea-witch from 'The Little Mermaid'? Ursula, I think her name is! (Her hair is technically grey, but who am I to correct my three-year-old? It was still a very accurate description.)

But no. It was someone much closer to home. You guessed it: me. Sadly, it's still more flattering than some of the other descriptions my children had given me...

Home Schoolers, I Salute You!

I've often suspected that people who home-school their children are just a few cupcakes short of the bakesale bunch, but these summer holidays have for certain confirmed that.


Since my children do not listen to me about the important things – ‘Put that pole down before you impale yourself!’ – I can’t imagine that they would suddenly decide to sit up and take notice if, say, I was trying to teach them that reading really is a necessary life skill, as is subtraction. There’s about 237 other reasons why I wouldn’t home school, but the most important is that they need a break: from home, from their toys, from each other, from my dog-and-pony show.

We are all (not just me) counting the days until school resumes for the year. Despite a trampoline (‘It’s too hot!’) and a plethora of other new Christmas toys (see aforementioned post re: Lego), the inevitable enemy of every mum has set in: boredom. My six-year-old starting asking two weeks ago ‘How many more sleeps till school starts [sigh]?!’

Not to mention, my house is a total mess: my Christmas tree is still up (I’m staring February in the face) there’s drips of Popsicle on the floors, crumbs in the couches, dead gnats on the window sills. I never get around to cleaning. Why, why, why? I don’t entirely understand it myself.

But here is a typical day: ‘Today, I’m going to get caught up on the laundry.’ A modest achievement. I’m not getting up saying ‘I’m going to solve that cholera crisis in Haiti.’ For God’s sake, I know I’m not Bono. New Year’s Resolution Number 28: Set Realistic Expectations. Back to the looming laundry crisis.

To the laundry room, start sorting. Phone rings. A mum from school. ‘When are ballet lessons starting again?’ Blah, blah, blah. Must sign up for ballet today. Watch powerlessly as bag of popcorn is forced opened and flies in all directions. Blah, blah. Hang up phone. Clean up popcorn. 20 minutes later, back to sorting. Put wet load from washer onto floor so can re-load. Where is the only empty laundry basket in house? Ah, yes, my room. (Mind you, have a whole room for laundry and associated baskets, but where is laundry basket?) Better make the bed while I’m here. Scream from afar. Break up barroom-brawl-style fisticuffs – the kind with lots of rolling about on the floor. Boring corner time. Spend next 15 minutes re-building Lego creation obliterated by three-year old Godzilla during fight. What was I supposed to be doing? Laundry basket, head to bedroom again. Step on ‘Alabama’ from 50 States puzzle, then follow trail of 50 states back to my bedroom and pick up remaining puzzle pieces and put away. While here, better just load and start dishwasher. See phone on the counter. Must ring to sign up for ballet and make doctor’s appointment for Liam’s ears, better do it now before I forget. Go to office to get phonebook. How did these coloured pencils get all over the floor? Clean up myself, because I want it done quickly without cajoling others, which will end in yelling (mine). Now I need a cup of coffee…

And so on it goes. And it’s only 9:30 a.m. Come 5 pm and the bed still isn’t made, the dishwasher never got started, the empty laundry basket is still M.I.A. (had been turned into a roof of a fort out in the back yard), I didn’t get to make the phone calls and I haven’t pegged out the damp laundry that is still sitting on the floor, now smelling musty and needing a re-wash. But everyone is still alive and healthy. Clearly, aiming low is the only way to ensure job satisfaction.

So what did we do, to fill up all those hot summer days? Tut, tut, let’s not be too hard on ourselves, let’s look at the positive and see what we did accomplish. So here it is: a compilation of the good, the bad and the ugly of the ‘What We Did On Our Summer Vacation’ list, in no particular order:

* Endured 53 tantrums
* Went on first sleepover, water tube ride, and quad bike - solo
* Broke up 128 fights
* Learned to swim underwater
* Watched 91 previously viewed movies, none in a movie theatre
* Took training wheels off bike, with great success
* Snapped heads off of 15 army men
* Discovered the magic of a Slip-and-Slide with soap
* Picked up 647 Beados from the floor
* Learned to play checkers
* Answered 1, 394 questions (including ‘Can hornets make honey?’ ‘How does what we drink turn into wee?’ ‘Why do dudes wear earrings and necklaces?’ ‘Why does Julia Gillard wear skirts if she has cankles?’)
* Lost one brand-new, never worn pair of Woody flip-flops (must’ve made a run for it with the odd sock brigade)
* Did 149 loads of laundry

I am supremely thankful that summer break here is only six weeks, one of which is consumed with Christmas. The two-and-a-half month summer break I grew up with that I loved as a teacher I would loathe as a mother. Summer camp wouldn’t be a matter of choice, it would be a necessity in order to avoid having those clipboard-toting-child-advocate people involved or jail time. Or both. Either way, messy.

For all of us, the end is, indeed, in sight: February 1st sees the start of the new school year. Let me just say, home schoolers, I salute you! I’ll make sure I think of you when my real vacation begins, sipping my first child-free coffee since last year…

Charming, as defined by a six-year-old

My daughter has just discovered my crush on George Clooney. (I haven't broken to her the news that I could add to the list Edward Burns, Clive Owen – or that I'd even go cougar for Rob Pattinson. I don’t want her to think I’m loose.) I don’t know how it even came up - it might've been those posters I hung in the laundry - but it’s opened a little Pandora’s box of discovery about the different kinds of love.

'Does dad know about this?!?' was her first question. It seems to be incomprehensible to a six-year old mind that one can simultaneously be married and have a crush on someone else. 'I need to see a picture of him!' she demanded. Not like he’s really a threat to our family unit, but okay, no worries. And who am I to deny a curious six-year-old her wish?

Needless to say, Google supplied a glut of pictures of Georgie Boy. But none of them really seemed to capture his…je ne sais quoi, whatever it is he has. Eva was not impressed.

Eva: 'Him?! That's who you have a crush on?! He’s not that handsome.' Maybe she was picturing someone closer to the likes of the Bieber. Ugh.
Me: 'He's too old for you,' I find myself surprisingly defensive. I've never had anyone challenge me on this one before. 'Besides, part of his appeal is that he’s got charisma.'
Eva: 'What’s charisma?'
Me: ‘Well…it’s hard to explain, it’s like a combination of things. He’s funny and can talk to people easily and people say that when he talks to you, it’s like you’re the only person in the room…He’s charming.’
Eva: ‘Oh! I get it!’ Lightbulb goes on, excitement building now. ‘You mean when you talk to him, he really listens!’

Exactly. What a bare-bones definition of charming. And really, isn’t that what all women want? To be listened to? It’s a more basic part of our DNA than shoes or maybe even sex. Sure, it would be even better if the listener came in a package as nice as George’s, but that would be purely a bonus. I don’t know how many conversations I’ve had with my husband that entailed me saying something along the lines of, but not all at once, ‘Can you please just hear me out? Is it my turn to talk? Can I just finish what I’m saying?’ (In other words, please shut the f*ck up, I’m not done yet.)

Charming doesn’t mean Prince Charming or George Clooney – it just means we want some one to listen to us, dammit. Why is it that a six-year-old can get that and most men don’t? One for the ‘Out of the Mouths of Babes’ category.

And if you’ve ever wondered what makes someone charismatic, this for further reading:
http://www.oprah.com/spirit/The-Science-Behind-Charisma-and-Confidence

Lego Distress

Does anyone know, roughly, the melting point of Lego? 12 Days post-Christmas (I guess that's why there's a song about it - mums reach meltdown about then) and I'm ready to chuck them all into a nice, big, lit fireplace. (Due to the fighting they've caused, not from stepping on them.)

A Half Year in Review

Well, as you may have noticed, I took a hiatus from blogging for the second half of the year. Other demands got in the way…Building a house and the Twilight series among them. (Thank goodness my boss has been so understanding.)

The theme for 2010 turned out to be 'maintaining' because that's all I managed to do - maintain food in the fridge, dinner on the table, clean laundry and really, little else. Oh, and I stopped the kids from killing each other on several occasions. It was a fallow year. Sometimes you just have to do nothing and accept that that is the best you can give under the circumstances.

We owner-built our house, which meant my husband Patrick served as the general contractor or go-to man. So while he contracted out the bulk of the work to the professionals, he had an amazing amount of behind the scenes stuff to do in order to keep everything ticking along. Which he did, a huge credit to him. But it was the equivalent of working a full-time job in addition to having to maintain a real full-time job.

Like many things in life (perhaps marriage and children among them), there are some things that you simply would not undertake if you realised beforehand the amount of work involved. I would put owner-building a house in that category, and it’s given me a new sensitivity to the plight of the single parent. Then came the actual move itself, in winter, with slick mud and rain and mess. (Because we built on what used to be farmland, there was not a tree or bush or - thanks to the tradesmen's trucks - not even a blade of grass to be found.) Everyone knows that every time you move, you unpack 90% of the stuff in two weeks and the last 10% takes two years. So I’ve been chipping away at that last ten percent, slowly, in the latter half of ‘10.

The upside is – aside from the lovely house – the features in it which I most appreciate, besides the obvious of the dishwasher. First, a laundry room. For me, this is the equivalent of the male’s shed, but I don't even have to leave the house. Imagine! A whole room dedicated to the endless pursuit of laundry! Beats crawling down to the creepy basement. And if you have any job to do, it helps having the right tools and space to do it in. May as well just chain me in there with my People magazines, Edward Cullen poster (sorry, George) and mini-fridge full of ‘mother’s helper’. (And no, I didn’t mention the spin cycle in that list, so get your minds out of the gutter.) Once I get a recliner in there, it’ll be the equivalent of a man cave. Good times.

My other favourite room in the house is – wait for it – my pantry. Lame, I know, but it’s not just the storage and accessibility I love. It’s got a door that closes and I can fit easily inside, which means it also doubles as a sound-proof booth. Ideal location for making phone calls, smoking cigarettes, reading old People magazines and perusing my Edward Cullen portfolio. Also, you’ll never go hungry in there.

So in a nutshell – and in lieu of those generic, but often horribly entertaining ‘letters’ that often find their way into our Christmas cards with highlights like ‘then after Uncle Bob had his emergency appendectomy in June…’ – here are some of the other highlights for the other Shaws for the second half of ‘10:

For the Firstborn: Kindergarten completed, with all of its schoolyard politics and shifting alliances. Can read (this somehow amazes me), but she’s disappointed she STILL hasn’t lost any teeth.
Lesson for mum: I’ve realised how early the bitchy-ness starts among girls. Fickle, yes, but some of the stories she’s told me, and all I can come back with is, ‘What?! You mean ALREADY?’ I’ve also worked out who the sluts will be in Year 10 - always a relief.

Middle Guy: Constant whinging has been replaced by endless questions. Although annoying in a different way, it is a vast improvement. Now, every conversation starts with ‘Can I ask you a question?’ even when there are no questions to be asked; for example:
Him: ‘Can I ask you a question?’
Me: ‘Yes’
Him: ‘I put my own shoes on’
Lesson for mum: Clearly, he is filing away all this information acquired in that lovely, uncluttered mind of his so he can remind me when he is a teenager of just how dumb I’ve become.

Third Child: Second half of the year has seen the emergence of diva-like demands, the likes of which had not been experienced in the Shaw household since ’08. Screaming, throwing, whinging and DEMANDS are all part of the daily show. C’mon down and see for yourself.
Lesson for mum: While I had been of the persuasion that every family gets their diva, I was completely unprepared for two. And this time, I’m too old to deal, depleted from the first one. All my fight’s gone. I'm trying him on fish oil (I would try a witch's potion if I thought it would help) so I'll let you know how that goes.

For me – aside from the many rich and wonderful life lessons that my children have bestowed upon me again this year (eye roll) – having for the first time in my adult life a mortgage, a garage door opener and a permanent address has brought a certain amount of peace and stability. (Ironically, everything I was afraid to acquire during my 20s somehow just snuck up on me.) Although it meant that all my wants had to be shelved (eg, working, writing, exercising with any sort of regularity, time away from parenting) it has been a productive year in other aspects. Lesson for mum: Sometimes it can’t be about you. A hard one to admit. So right now, I’m going to go do some laundry - wink, wink.

Having Your Ego Stroked

...By a five year old, just doesn't happen. For proof, here are some quotes from the past week:

'Your stomach looks like you have a baby in it!' (It doesn't)

'Your new fringe looks nice mum! And now you can't see all those crinkles on your forehead.' (I had often thought I would never botox because I couldn't bear to lose my Angry Eyes - an important weapon in the arsenal would gone. I have been reconsidering that decision in light of recent happenings.)

And (my personal favourite - bear with me, this one takes some setting up)

Eva: 'We had a another teacher at school today and she was young.'
Me: 'Was she nice?'
Eva: 'Oh yes, she played with us. But she had big big, nostrils. Even bigger and rounder than yours.' (I have no hope, since ears and noses - cruelly - never stop growing.)

Sigh...As if getting older isn't already a drag, I now have constant reminders from a source other than the mirror.

Signed,
Your favourite big-nostriled, pregnant looking blogger with the newly hidden wrinkled forehead

Let's Get Clinical...Or Not

(Note: Apologies to my small but loyal following for whom I didn't do an April post. Life got in the way. Second, the information written below may be offensive to some. If so, too bad. You shouldn't have had kids.)

True story #1: We’re on the way to ballet a couple of weeks ago, with a friend’s daughter, who I’ll refer to as Cate. As yet, Cate doesn’t have any brothers. One of my boys (being a boy) made a ‘willy’ joke – since in the Shaw household, we’re well and truly mired in the era of ‘It ain’t funny unless it’s toilet humour.’ Then Cate asked, ‘What’s a willy?’

Before I could complete my simple-yet-effective answer of ‘It’s how boys do pee,’ Eva launched into ‘Well, it’s got these two sorta BALL things underneath, with a big long TUBE on top and that’s got a HOLE on the end and – OH! THAT’S where the wee comes out!’ (So full of information are five year olds.) Obviously my description was severely lacking. After registering this information for a second, Cate says, ‘Oh! You mean a doodle!’ Luckily, I was driving and no one cared about my muffled laughter.

Now every parenting book or article I’ve read advises against this – using slang terms to refer to private parts. Among the slurry of advice we’re given, we as parents (more pressure) are encouraged to use the proper names for body parts from Day One.

Recently I stumbled upon a parenting magazine with a glibly titled article called ‘Private Schooling’ which discussed the importance of using ‘proper’ names to refer to these certain body parts. (I should mention that this article was alongside ‘Life After Purees!’ – which is to say that it is obviously geared to new, first-time mums who logically have high, unrealistic expectations, and who are still swearing they will do everything by the book, will never let the kids eat in the car or watch t.v. until they’re five. Ha.)

I understand the main argument behind this is that it’s a way of keeping children safe. However, if your child came to you and – God forbid – said so-and-so tried to touch his willy, I think you’d get the picture. So would a court of law. (She mentions these legal ramifications in part of her article: but, really, if it’s gotten to that point, don’t you have bigger worries than making sure your child uses the correct anatomical names for a jury?) By this extension, does this mean that we need to have one universal word for underwear (as opposed to knickers, undies, pants, panties, jocks) in order to keep our children ‘safer’?

Let’s dissect the rest of this advice, shall we? As the article begins, the writer says, ‘An arm is an arm and a leg is a leg, just as a penis is a penis.’ But don’t we often use words such as tummy for stomach and pointy for the index finger, doggy for dog, and the like? Yet that’s not seen as misleading or confusing. She goes on: ‘For boys, use the word “penis” initially and then add “scrotum” and “testicles” as they discover these parts.’ At 37, I feel I can admit to you all that I don’t think I’ve once used these words in an appropriate context. Ever. Nor have I ever heard a man (unless they’re a doctor) refer to said parts by these words either. Usually, when the latter are being mentioned, it’s in the heat of the moment as in ‘OWWWWWWWWWWWWWW! That hockey puck just hit me straight in the balls!!!’

For girls, the advice is even better: ‘“Vulva” is the correct term for the vaginal area [as] the vagina is located internally.’ Do they need to know that there is an internal area at age three? I understand the safety issue, but…well, see my above example. If so, then when do we introduce the clitoris and its primary function? (And while we’re on that subject, is it CLIT-oris or cli-TOR-is? No matter which way I say it, it sounds wrong. Perhaps that is a toe-MAY-to, toe-MAH-to argument.) All I could think of when this vulva bit was mentioned is the Seinfeld in which Jerry dates the girl whose name he forgets, but knows that her name rhymes with a female body part. ‘Mulva? Movary?’ George asks. Mitoris? Sounds like a Greek goddess. And what about the lowly bum? Is that to become buttocks? Glutes? Anus? Sphincter? More confusion.

I must again apply this same ‘principle’ to the fluids that come out of those said holes. Encrusted mucus to replace snot and boogie, or my personal favourite hybrid, snoog? Flatulence? Another word I’ve never used in its appropriate context. Does ‘Oh no Johnny! You’ve just peed on my handbag!’ now have to become ‘Oh no Johnny! You’ve just urinated on my handbag!’ What about cooing to your infant, ‘Did someone make some faeces in their nappy?!’ And the classic potty training books ‘Everybody Poops’ and ‘Once Upon a Potty’– should they be renamed ‘Everybody’s Anus Excretes’ and ‘Once Upon a Toilet’? Sorry, buy they just can’t muster the same bang.

True story #2: Another friend has the smartest child I have ever encountered. (Knew colours at 18 months, for a start, without any coaching.) One day I said to her, ‘Oh, hello Lilly,’ to which she replied ‘I have a vagina.’ ‘Yes, you do, you’re a girl,’ I said. It was funny and we all laughed and the discussion was over. But it came from Lilly, who clearly is the type of kid for whom the answer ‘It’s a hoo-hoo’ just wouldn’t suffice. Some kids are ready for that information at age two. But I don’t think most are. I have to admit that often when I hear a two-year old using clinical words, I cringe. I find it almost disconcerting, for lack of a better word.

And once again, I’m left unconvinced by the ‘expert’ advice as to the actual advantage of inflicting adult vocabulary into their worlds from the start. We complain about them growing up too fast. Why can’t we let their childhood extend into their terminology, even if it’s just for a little while? Let our kids be kids.

When more questions start, I’m prepared to answer. But for now, I’m sticking with what works. And it ain’t va-jay-jay…Oh, there I go again…

Old-School Mum Betty Draper: Why We Love Her

(For Stacy)
I’ve recently become addicted to the TV show Mad Men. Nerdy, I know. In fact, I can almost hear you uttering ‘get a life’ under your breath right now. But when the summer TV doldrums hit, I went to the video store and innocently enough hired the first ‘Season One’ dvd and I was hooked. However, it wasn’t the antics of the Pee-Wee Herman Pete character, or Christina Hendrick’s admirable-even-if-you’re-a-woman cleavage or even the dashingly handsome Alpha male Don Draper that kept me hooked; it’s his long-suffering wife Betty. And I continued watching in the name of research and in hope of gaining some insight into parenting like its 1960. Here’s what I’ve learned, thanks to Betty Draper.

1. Sending the kids off to watch TV is okay. Wouldn’t it be good to have lived in the era when TV was the latest, greatest invention and there was not yet in existence a library full of research about the detrimental effects of too much time in front of it? There is more than one occasion when Betty orders the kids to ‘just go and watch the TV’. Ok, so her marriage was having some problems and maybe she just needed some ‘me’ time. But since this was pre-Sesame Street days, it means the kids were probably watching soaps. Therefore, we can stop feeling bad about letting our children watch TV shows that have been designed by a fleet of early education experts and actually make an effort to teach something. So there. Now go put on Dora and read your magazine.


2. Don’t fret over the kids’ nutrition. From what I’ve gathered from my close watching, Betty seems to dish up mostly meat and three veg with some convenient food mixed in: fluffernutter on Wonderbread, mac and cheese. Fretting over what our kids will and won’t eat has become an overly-inflated concern of the worried well. How many times have you been at the playground and overheard some yummy mummy yabbering away on her iPhone something along the lines of ‘I just can’t get Ethan to eat soy burgers OR brussel sprouts. I’m so worried I called my nutritionist today…’? Or ‘I can’t bear to even think of letting Jayden/Brayden/Hayden have anything with red food colouring/xanthum gum/preservative 21 until he’s at least seventeen.’ Well ladies, according to Dr. T. Berry Brazelton, here are the daily nutritional requirements for a toddler: 2 cups of milk or its equivalent in cheese, yoghurt or (LOVE this one!) ice cream; 2 oz. of protein (meat or egg) or iron-fortified cereal; 1 oz of orange juice or fresh fruit; 1 multi-vitamin, to cover for uneaten veggies. One ounce! Rest easy, mamas. Here’s my three-prong nutritional advice, and I think Betty would agree: worry if your kid’s in Haiti right now. Make them eat everything they should first – and I mean make ‘em. Don’t let them eat too much processed stuff. The end.

3. Her house is not overrun by toys. There are no toys visible in the Draper household. I did see Don building a cubby house and drinking 87 beers in one episode and this was the era when it was still considered safe to let your kids play outside mostly unsupervised. But the only toy I’ve seen on the show is Bobby’s robot, which Don later throws against the wall and breaks. People just didn’t have as much stuff back in 1960 and that includes toys – and you know what? They didn’t miss it. This should be a reminder to all of us that just because stuff is cheap doesn’t mean we need to fill our houses up with it. Pass up that bargain next time.


4. Teaching your children their way around a drinks cart is okay. Betty knows the secret to successful entertaining is keeping everyone liquored up. While you’re busy with kitchen duties, mother’s helper can be mixing the drinks. After all, nothing is more fun when you’re eight than a pressurised bottle of soda water. (Is it any wonder that as a society, our interest in food has risen now that we can’t drink as much? We used to get too drunk before the food was served to care what it tasted like – but now we need our tower of fig and gorgonzola lasagne with a burnt ashtray reduction. Although this was a golden era of ignorance and denial, there is a lot to be said for a good stiff Manhattan to whet the appetite – and dull the tastebuds. Betty knows the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, especially when it’s gin-soaked.) The point is, as Betty knows, it’s okay to have your kids be a part of the entertaining duties, only now with trays of canapes instead of Old-Fashioneds. It gives them a sense of responsibility and makes them feel a part of the action. One caveat – just make sure they know when it’s time to go to bed: an overly precocious child is never a substitute for good adult conversation.


5. Uses line ‘Wait till your father gets home!’ Ok, so I don’t use this one. This is a little old-school even for me. My justice is swift, a la the hand. But it shows that Betty and Don are a united front. Even if they fight about how they discipline the children, which they do in one episode, at least the kids think both their parents are playing on the same team. Very important, since most kids work out the old ‘divide and conquer’ approach sometime during their second year of life.


6. Allow yourself some ‘me’ time. Wine with dinner. Riding lessons. Lunch with the ladies. Ok, so once again, Betty has the advantage because she was just on the tail end of the era when (white) people still employed domestics to help them. (Try springing this one on your man the next time complains about how good the Don Drapers of the world had it back then. Make sure to add that he doesn’t have the same smouldering good looks either.) Make some time for yourself, even if it means you have to lock yourself in the toilet to read your People magazine once a week. This is a hard one for a lot of us, but we need it. Husbands, are you listening? Our pedicures are not frivolous and indulgent, they are necessary in order to prevent us from killing either you or your offspring. Now do you get it? Me Time is the secret to Betty looking so fresh - that, and the 37 relaxing cigarettes she sucks down each day.


7. Look nice for your man. Even though in Betty’s case he’s a cheating bastard, she still loves him. But that's another discussion. Most importantly, look nice for yourself. We can’t all do this everyday. But you will feel like you’re doing a more worthwhile job this way – and being a mother is a more important job than that of any CEO considering your product is another human being. I’m not suggesting combing through second hand shops for Doris Day dresses and aprons, but make a little effort. Yes, you can stay in your sweatpants all day because no one sees you. But don’t. As Jerry Seinfeld once had to remind George, sweatpants say to the world that you have given up on life. Now go put some lipstick on.

8. She knows how to deliver a good bitch slap. Seriously, how many times have we wanted to do this to someone, someone who insulted your abilities as a mother? In other words, someone who no doubt deserved it with a capital ‘D’. Having the looks and class of Grace Kelly means she didn’t even come over all ‘Springer.’ What more can I say? Betty Draper, Old-School Mum, we love you!

The Great Black Hole of Kindergarten

Although my brain still says Groundhog Day and Black History Month, here in the southern hemisphere February means back to school time. And this year, we hit the big time: big school. Full. Day. Kindergarten. And can I just say ‘WOOOOOOO-HOOOOOO!’? I no longer have three at home. I made it. I survived.

Let me tell you, it has been no small feat having full-time responsibility for a diva, as any of Naomi Cambell’s handlers will gladly confirm. Eva was and continues to be the most work of my three children. This had been something I thought would subside as she aged and matured (read = ‘mellowed’); but this is not to be. This past year in the run up to school has been a lot about my acceptance of who she is – I was reluctant to realise that some of the traits she has I cannot punish, beat or time-out out of her. She is her own woman already. So the give and take continues.

The first day of school was a day that seemed to forever loom large and far away and I was as keenly aware of it as a man on death row is of his doomsday. However, unlike that man on death row, my counting down was in no way melancholy, or full of sorrow, regret, or any of those other therapy-inducing emotions. Oh no. Mine was pure excited anticipation, as was hers. I was ready and more importantly, so was she.

I remember my own first day of kindergarten. I had no nerves and was excited. When I got there and I saw kids screaming, clutching mom’s legs, my antennae went up: what did they know that I didn’t? Why the tears? And for Eva and I, it wasn’t nearly as emotional as it is for some. In the lead up and even on the actual day, I kept waiting to feel wistful or have that ‘It’s the end of an era’ feeling wash over me. But it didn’t. In fact it was so easy that I almost started to feel a little guilty that I wasn’t sad or it wasn’t more difficult for one of us to let go. But all I felt was relief – and no one had prepared me for that.

Now, three weeks in, I realise that I also wasn’t prepared for how shut out I am from her secret school life – and maybe that’s why I didn’t know to be sad. Without going all cheeseball Hallmark card, it really is the first letting go milestone. And as I’ve quickly discovered, I also cannot be there to solve every problem, fight every battle, supply every answer.

With preschool, although I wasn’t there, I would come at the end of the day and have a look in the giant book the teachers had pieced together during the day: ‘Today we discussed fairies. We drew pictures of fairy homes. Sally asked, “What do fairies like to eat?”’ etc. Plenty of material there. I had inroads. I had discussion starters.

Now? Well, now I got nothin’. All that’s in my arsenal of questions is ‘How was school today?’ You can guess the answer to that one. My other question is, ‘What did you do in school today?’ Here are some actual discussions (or not) about the goings-on from our first few weeks.

Day One
Me: How was it?! Was it fun?
Eva: It was the best day EVER!
(We have nowhere to go but down…)

Day Two
Me: How was it?! Was it fun? How’s your teacher?
Eva: She’s nice. Her name is MRS. Lawlor. Mum, mum, you CAN’T just call her ‘LAWLOR’, okay?!? It’s MRS. LAWLOR.
Me: Yes, because I often make a habit of calling people solely by their last names. A hangover from my years as an Army staff sergeant. Thanks for bringing that to my attention before I embarrassed myself. How did I ever get on in life without your sage instruction?

Day Three
Me: How was your day?
Ted: We had a doughnut!
Eva: A DOUGHNUT?!?! AAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!
Me: Oh for God's sake! It’s not a pony we’re talking about. (Note to self – do not mention any ‘fun’ activities from our secret life.)

Day Five
Me: So…How was it? What did you do today?
Eva: I played with the Play-dough.
Me: For six hours?
Eva: No…and the tea set!
Me: And what about the other 5 hours and 22 minutes of the day?

Day Nine
Me: So…what did you do today? Did you do any of your letters?
Eva: No. I don’t know. We just did some numbers, OKAY? (In that perfected, 15-year-old, ‘I’m just telling you this to shut you up’ tone of voice)

Day Twelve
Me: So, how was your day?!
Eva: [Exasperated] I don’t want to talk about it. (With the snippy disappointment in her voice to indicate that she was actually talking about blowing her call-back audition for the starring role in the latest Andrew Lloyd Webber musical)

I’m stonewalled. And fascinated. How do they actually teach them to read or add or anything else for that matter? And, for the sake of pure curiosity, how does one even manage to keep 27 five-year olds entertained for six whole hours? It’s all shrouded in mystery.

When my kids were all babies together and I was bleary-eyed with cracked nipples, there were always those completely insensitive but well-intentioned older ladies (who had clearly romanced their early years) who would say things like, ‘Don’t wish it away – these are the best years of your life!’ Three kids shitting in nappies who fight and bite, va-jayjay farts during my weekly yoga and preparing three dinners a night and this is the best I have to look forward to in my life? This would usually make me want to reach for my sharpened dagger and commit hara-kiri on the spot: this is as good as it’s ever going to get? People said that about high school too. And while I enjoyed high school, I wouldn’t say it’s ‘the best’ and I don’t want to go back. (Except maybe to be the-cool-chic-in-a-John-Hughes-film sorta way.)

And now, for all my anticipation – poof – it’s gone. For 30 hours a week she is someone else’s responsibility entirely. When you consider that there are 164 hours in a week, roughly half of which are spent asleep when you’re five, our time together has nearly been cut in half. And five has been a magic age. I feel like I just got her nice and it’s time to send her off into the world – a preview for the teen years, no doubt. So maybe when my next one goes off, I will be sad. I’ll let you know in two years, but in the meantime, I have go and set my countdown clock…