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Sunday, November 25, 2012
There's pain, and then there's Lego pain...
And tonight's punishment for those who misbehave will be: Walk across this Lego forest. Blindfolded.
Fun with Phonics
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.
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| Clever 'sh' words for six year olds? |
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.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
My Life With Ethel
‘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
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
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...
Friday, September 30, 2011
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…
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…
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
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
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
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