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