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!