Removing the hurdle

Every now and then the responsibility of being a parent king-hits me right between the eyes. More than the usual 'am I doing this right?' angst. More than the permanent worry that one of my children might turn out to be 'that kid'.* More even than the constant quest to get the right kind of nutrients into those little bodies. More than that.

Yesterday was our school's K-2 cross country. A lap around the back oval with the long-jump pit thrown in for the 'country' bit; run to much fanfare. Neither of my children was remotely interested in participating, Cappers is quite nervous about doing anything that will be judged in front of a large group - more on that another time for this is Maxi's story.

Maxi moaned and groaned about having to actually run and come in last place because "that's just the way I turn out every single time." Very matter-of-fact, but a catch was there. A sigh.

It breaks your heart to hear your child talk like that. You can tell them time and time again that it "doesn't matter where you place, just that you finish the race." But I guess deep down we're all thinking, yeah, right. Even at seven they know that that's not really how the world works.

Well, yesterday, I learned that while that might be true, it's still, thank god, not the way that happiness works.

See, it's me with the problem.

I'm the one who's been a little bit ashamed that my son isn't the superstar sporty type. That he's the kid inspecting the grass while his team scores a goal. That's he's the one trailing behind all his friends as they race into the bush to look for treasure. I get slightly panicked about what he'll do when sport is everything to his peers and not to him.

It seems that deep down I'm a little bit ashamed of his lack of prowess and a whole lot ashamed that I feel that way.

The thing is, until yesterday, I hadn't even realised that I felt shame. I've never acknowledged it. If someone had asked me about Maxi's sporting abilities or lack thereof, I would have made a little joke that showed how proud I was of him regardless. And I was always proud of him - my beautiful, strong, lit-from-within son; but now I realise that there was a big, fat 'but' attached to that pride.

Yesterday.

Yesterday, my non-sporty son felt the fear and did it anyway. He started that race with a smile and a slap on the back from a mate and he ran that race with a smile and he finished in last place barr one (kid fell over) with a smile that would light up the moon.

Watching him run around that field, wind at his back, joy in just the doing of it, I thought my heart would leap out of my chest with pride. This was what pride without the buts felt like. Just enormous, gushing pride and so much joy in his joy and no thought about what it meant for me or about me.

It's not about me. It is never about me. None of this parenting business is. My children's achievements are their own, just as their hurdles are their own. It's about them and their place in the world and it's up to me to stand back and let them find that place, even if it's last place. To get out of the way with my ego and my pride and my little ideas about what they should and shouldn't be doing.

To just get out of the way already, and let those sweet kids run their own race.



* You know that kid. Every school has that kid. We all remember that kid.


[Image by tallthinguy]

Seriously, a dwarf?

I'm not entirely sure how we got around to the subject, but Mum and I were talking about midgets the other night, as you do. (Is the term midget acceptable? I apologise if not). I work with a woman who is a person of small stature and I was telling Mum that Leona's* young children are 'normal sized children' and taller than she is. Again, not sure how it came up, but chats with my Mum tend to cover most things.

So, on Saturday Cappers had a 'morning tea' date at her friend Sam's to make cupcakes. Which left Maxi and The Badoo alone for the first time in... well, probably forever. I said to Max, "what do you think you'll do all day without Cappers?" and he said, "I'm going to play with The Badoo for the whole entire day. She's all mine."

Fabbo, I thought.

I stopped in to see how they were going a little bit into their morning. "What are you playing?" I asked.

"Mums and Dads. The Badoo is the Mum and I'm her son."

"Sounds great, but The Badoo is a really small mother." (You can see where this is going.)

"Yes," he said, quick as you like. "She's a dwarf and I'm her normal-sized child."

Ah, I see. I don't even know where he got the term 'dwarf' from, but it was probably from the kind of dreadful person who uses the term midget.

What conversations have your children eavesdropped on lately? Incidentally, don't feel bad about sharing. I still can't get The Badoo to stop saying 'For Fox Sake' every now and then and now Maxi has introduced dwarfism into his role playing. Must be more careful!

* Hi Leona!

The extra-curricular child

Mrs Woog wrote a great post today about the cost of raising children and the extra-cost of raising extra-curricular children. Hear hear, Woogsy!


The pressure on children and ourselves to be all singing, all dancing, all languages, all sporty, all musical, ‘all rounded’ uber-people is just incredible these days. I have always been very good at bypassing the kindergyming, jumping jacking, bee bop a wop bop todder classes. I just turned a blind eye to those sweet little ballerinas and the cute little boys with footy socks up to their armpits. But when the Tsunamis started school this year I found myself planning the following timetable:


Breathe in.

Mondays – (Maxi) Italian, 3.30pm at school.
Wednesdays – (The Badoo) Kinder dance, 10am / (Maxi) soceer training, 3.30pm at school
Thursdays – (Cappers) Jazz Ballet, 3.30pm at school
Fridays – (Cappers and Maxi) Brightsparks drama and dance, 3.30pm at school
Saturdays – (All) Swimming, 10 am at home / (Maxi and Cappers) Karate, 12 noon up the road / Soccer match, whenever, wherever


I kid you not, I'd even filled out the necessary 28 pages of enrolment forms I was that serious! I quickly came to my senses and talked to the children about what they really, really wanted to do. This eliminated soccer for Maxi before I even finished my sentence. Okay, so we won’t worry about pushing him into the ‘team sports’ thing for the third year in a row. Then I red penned the rest indiscriminately, arriving at the actual Term 1 2011 timetable.


Fridays – (Cappers and Maxi) Brightsparks drama and dance, 3.30pm at school.
Saturdays – (All) Swimming, 10 am at home / (Maxi and Cappers) Karate, 12 noon up the road


Breathe out!

How do you feel about all the extra-curricular activities available these days? Do you put a limit on your children’s activities? How's our taxi driving job working for you?

[Image via weheartit, please let me know if you know the original source.]

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Edit: I wrote this post this morning to publish later in the week; read Woogsy's post in the arvo; edited my post to include a link to her; and then hit 'Publish' instead of 'Draft'.  Have you ever done that? So here we are with two posts in a day! And you will note from the date at the top that Blogger thinks it's 9/2 so what's that all about anyway! Ah well, enjoy! x

Dealing with Difficult People #2: The Competitive Parent

I'm not the most tactful person in the world which is less than ideal given that I work with some of the most arrogant and annoying people on earth (see "I'm not the most tactful person..."). Ergo, I've had loads of experience picking my way through social and political minefields so I thought I'd share my top tips on Dealing with Difficult People.

Maybe they missed out on selection to the Sydney 2000 Badminton squad. Maybe they peaked in high school and just want to go back. Maybe their surname is Jones so there's a certain expectation thing going on. Whatever the reason, the Competitive Parent (CP) just makes you want to run, run, run away. Very fast.

I first encountered these Difficult People in the hospital with my pesky newborn. Day 3, C-Section smarting like a teacher's pet, rumbling down the hall with the world's loudest breast pump machine in front and the angst-ridden newborn in the trolley behind. Busy, you know?

"Oh," cooed the CP. "Breastfeeding not working out for you?"

Be fooled by neither the CP's warmth nor their question. They are not interested in you. Before I had a chance to respond ("Yes actually, it's going great. So great, in fact, that I thought I'd spend the next two and a half hours pumping out an additional 40 mls just because I can...") she launched into the real reason why she was cooing.

"It's my first baby too," she chummed. "But, to be honest, I don't know what all the fuss is about. He was breastfeeding before they even cut the cord... so easy, so natural. So right. He just found his way there like a little primate and it's been BLISS, pure bliss... sigh. Well, good luck with the world's loudest breast pump. You know, by the sounds of things last night, your baby could do with a volume switch too! Toodles."

Yes, CPs are scary creatures, but I'm not afraid. Try these pointers the next time you encounter one:

1. Don't engage
You'll notice in the convo above that even though I didn't get a word in, I was going to respond. Rookie. I haven't made that mistake since. Don't talk to these people. They may ask you a question, but it's okay to look down and spend the moment picking off the crusted Weetbix* on your baggy t-shirt. They will have the same conversation whether you talk or you don't - they don't need your feedback. Let them get whatever miraculous deed their child has done today off their chest and then just calmly walk away.

2. Don't encourage
Often normal parents will make the mistake of oohing a little. A bit of 'good for her', an occasional 'well done' for added effect as Tenor's school report is given the blow-by-blow by a proud mama.  Under normal circumstances this is expected and harmless. But you're not dealing with a normal parent here and every 'good for her' translates as 'future banker' and 'well done' just adds 'at Macquarie' to the portfolio. Just listen quietly and get working on that Weetbix.

3. Don't take it out on their child
It's tempting. If you spend morning after morning at the Kindy school gate hearing about Rainer's future career prospects, you kinda don't like him.  You may find yourself trying to get dirt on Rainer via your child ("So, um, how did, say, Rainer go with the colouring in? Lines, no lines?" ) but it will all be fruitless. Rainer is not at fault here, he's really just an impeccably-dressed innocent bystander. Relax, with a name like Rainer he will get what's coming to him.

4. Don't take it out on your child
Like any victim, you listen to enough of your oppressor's version of reality and pretty soon their incredible child becomes your reality. Before long, your own child's achievements start to look, well, a bit lacklustre. Horrifying, impossible, never-on-my-watch, but true. No matter how tempting, don't ever start a conversation with "Did you hear that Tayhlia was picked as the prettiest ever contestant on Australia's Next Top Model?" as it will only end in tears.

5. When all else fails, fail
If weeks have gone by and the silent treatment is not working, lower the bar. As the Libby Lenton of parenting, the CP is completely disinterested in the paddling pool.  So for every achievement, counter attack with an under-achievement. "Reilly was first in her class for spelling" / "Sam can spell Sam"; "Reilly got a medal for running" / "Sam got told off for running"; "Reilly is on level 23 for reading" / "Sam can read Sam".  Believe me, the CP will soon be off to deeper waters.

Oh, hush. Don't worry, no real harm done. You're just pretending your child is below par, remember? We all secretly know that there has never been a child quite as golden or as smart or as beautiful as your child...

Know any CPs? How do you handle them? Are you prepared to admit to being one?

* The hardest substance known to man.

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[Image by Suse Bauer of some of her many amazing Revoluzzza monster softies!]

That every kid in the class thing

Maxi Taxi came home from school the other day munching on a gingerbread man and holding a crumpled card in his hand. "Merry Christmas, Max. Love Elliot".

Oh no, I thought. They're doing that 'every kid in the class' thing. I dreaded that thing. Now here it is and it's only Kindergarten.

Elliot's mum has twins Maxi's age and an older boy. She's managed to do the every-kid-in-the-class Christmas thing with three classes to cater for. Three.

Of course, always one to rise to a challenge, I dug out some old seed packets, a heart hole punch and a weird little banner punch that I bought long ago and never remembered why. Last year's batch of received Chrissy cards were duly punched through to make some snazzy decorations. Then I borrowed Paola Zakimi's little birdie gift tags which were a freebie from the awesome magazine Gifted. I had already used her image to make my Christmas cards (all sixty seven of them posted in the red box at the end of our street today... phew!).  I popped a whizz fizz into each seed packet, punched a few holes, strung on the gift tag and viola! I know I'm supposed to painstakingly cut out each swing tag but, you know, these kids are six years old. Surely, the details are less important when you're six? Surely!

I read Life in a Pink Fibro's Chrissy card post last week and it went nuts. What is it about the giving and receiving of Christmas cards that sends us into a frenzy? 

* I vow that next year I am going to learn my way around a camera!!