When will I ever learn?

I'm too personal.

I shouldn't write about others the way I do.

I say stuff lightly that others can't lift.

I wish I didn't link to Beth in my post last week. I've regretted it ever since. I was being light (and I felt light  - I loved Beth's post, which is why I linked to it) but some people didn't see it that way and I regret that.

Some of the comments on my Follows Back post also made me realise that I can be too harsh and judgemental.

I try not to be judgey. But I just am. Maybe I'm a bit of a nasty bully after all. The thought of that makes my heart soggy.*

So, apologies to my dear friend Beth. She knows I love her, but now you do too.

And apologies to the Follows Back people. I shouldn't have judged.

I'm not going to be posting for a while. I'm a bit tired of myself, to be honest.

Happy days to you!

x

* Thank you, Maxi-Taxi, for describing so well a feeling that is mostly indescribable.

[Image found (rather randomly!) here]

Smack!

I won't link to the author just now as I'm not sure she wants the debate to rage on for her, but last week a loving Mum wrote a post about her frustration with her three year old and mentioned in that post that she smacked her daughter on a day when things just became all too much.

The debate, yes it raged.

Smacking is one of those polarising parenting issues. The only other parenting choice that I know of that sees more negativity is bottle feeding. They are both 'dark ages' parenting styles that the more 'enlightened' are very quick to judge.

I can't believe I'm wading into this murky debate - and god knows I'm really over having the 'judging is so wrong' conversation - but I did want to tell you about my experience and what works for me.

I never wanted to smack. Before children I once saw a mother in a shopping centre smacking her child on the bottom saying "Don't hit your brother!"

That was all I needed to know right there.

I also knew that I didn't want to be the kind of parent that talked endlessly on and on to (at?) her young child about their naughty behaviour but did nothing to actually discipline the child. I didn't know what the middle ground was, but I was going to find out what it was and be that parent (you know how we are before children...)

I absolutely wasn't going to be a smacker.

But once upon a time when Maxi was three almost four and I felt like everything else I was doing just wasn't working any more and I was at my wit's end, I did try smacking on the advice of a few trusted people. I did it twice and each time felt extremely uncomfortable, I felt like I had failed. Mostly because, like many parenting things, I sort of stuffed up and used a wooden spoon, not my hand. Seriously, I really didn't get it, did I?

Many would think that my using a wooden spoon as a 'weapon' was tantamount to abuse immediately, not worrying about how hard the smack was or where it was. And, to be honest, I would probably agree with them. Not the 'weapon' bit, because that's just ridiculous, but the abusive bit... well, maybe. No, I don't believe I scarred Maxi for life with a couple of smacks. But I definitely believe that I hurt him and scared him and disappointed him. And I hurt and scared and disappointed myself. Because if I was that uncomfortable after one smack, why on earth were there two?

Parenting is hard.

Fact is, I didn't think the smacking approach worked any better than the 'time out' approach I had been using. I suppose immediately after the smacks the 'threat' of the wooden spoon might have saved me from the, oh I don't know, bother of a time out or two, but it didn't last long and fear of the wooden spoon certainly destroyed any hope Maxi might have had to be a chef one day.  Sorry, bad joke.

Anyway, I realised that I had done the smacking when I felt like I didn't have any other options. When I'd exhausted the techniques that I had learned and that had worked up until that point and beyond that I didn't have a plan. Smacking was reactive. I felt panicked, overwhelmed - not 'out of control' but certainly not 'in control'. How trustworthy is a mother in that state? How trustworthy is a person in that state?

What I didn't realise was that none of it really mattered anyway. This, too, shall pass. Those moments, when I was at my wit's end with my super-naughty, super-defiant, super-willful son, just... passed. I can barely even remember what they were like. New frustrations took their place, certainly - he was and still is the same super-naughty, super-defiant, super-willful child, plus, YAY, I have two more just like him - but I was different.

I never smacked again. We started to use the 1,2,3 approach* and it has worked for us for years. Partly because we're 100% consistent with it, but mostly because I have never again let my children's behaviour get under my skin the way I did in those exhausting early days. Because those moments of utter 'what am I going to do with this child'  despair, well, in the end they just don't matter enough.

So, these days, when I feel like I'm getting to that point where I'd rather quietly slit my wrists in the bathroom than hear my child defy me again (ie, most days, many times a day), I don't even think that a smack might sort that child right out. If it's not an option, it's not an option.

No, these days I always, always have a plan.

Just when I'm on the verge of losing it completely, I think 'it's time to lighten the f up before you lose it completely' and then, in the middle of a burning hot parent-child moment, I remember to take the high road. I remember that 'winning' doesn't really matter in the end and I use humour to diffuse a potentially combustible situation.

So, well, I put on my Cranky Pants. Yep, I pretend to put those babies on and I announce in a mock super-cross voice "Right then, the Cranky Pants are Going On". And noooobody likes it when the cranky pants go on because then Mum does the most insane cranky pants dance that is so unhinged and so silly that it's embarrassing even to a three year old and then it's really, really funny and then we're all laughing and then we're suddenly friends again AND THEN, then I say "so, do you think you could do X for your crazy mumma after all?'

And the answer is invariably... "yes". Yes, Mumma, I could do that, stop that, try that, help that, pick that up, put that down, move that... be that.

Yes, Mumma, I really, really could.

What techniques do you use to get yourself home safe under heavy fire?

Does a smack work for you? Have you, like me, ever been ashamed of something you've done as a parent? You can be Anonymous if you want. I really respect, and would love to hear, alternative views to my own.

* If you're keen, I can do a post on 1,2,3 but your mum will know this discipline method. 1 is a reminder of the behaviour we expect. 2 is a warning that if they don't change their behaviour, there will be consequences. 3 is the consequences. Certain behaviours skip the 1 and 2 and go straight to 3 (hitting is, unsurprisingly, one of them). These are all agreed as a family and are listed on our board. It is rare these days that we get all the way to 3, most of the time a 1 reminder is enough. That took a lot of work, but it's been that way for ages and I feel like we're mostly on top of things most of the time. x

__________________________________________________

Edited 23/5

Louisa is comfortable with me sharing her post that inspired my post. You can read it here.

[Image by the uber-talented Elisabeth Dunker details a much better use for the humble wooden spoon]

The day I hired a hubby

Fondly reminiscing about my encounter with Dave the Vaccum last week has reminded me about the time I hired a hubby.

In Sydney there is a company called, you guessed it, Hire a Hubby. The premise it that while your own hubby is abundantly skilled and highly motivated to do all of the maintenance and reno work about the house, he is simply too busy. If he wasn't so darn busy, that new roof would be up, the bathroom tiled and the chicken coop built quick smart. But while he's cursing his busyness, this business is here to help. They have experienced, skilled, qualified 'hubbys' on their books ready and willing to come over and do the work for money. It's like the housewife's equivalent of a prostitute, really.

Anyway, I'm sure Hire a Hubby is a very good, reliable company but I cannot vouch for that. When I 'hired a hubby' I really got one.

I was nine-months pregnant with number two and in crisis reno mode. The Nest needed an updated kitchen quick-smart because no fresh baby of mine was going to grow up thinking that an acceptable kitchen included exposed brick walls, brown tiles and cupboards, green formica benchtops and green plastic flooring. It was enough that Maxi-Taxi had already been exposed to this style desert.

The floor man handled the floors, the renderer man handled the walls, my real and gorgeous hubby LOML and his mate Ric painted every brown cabinet white and Hire a Hubby sent Michael-Call-Me-Mike to get the benchtops and tiling done.

Michael was as big as my own hubby (which is to say, very, very big). He looked very professional with his toolbelt and his measuring tape. He had pencils tucked above both ears. Things were looking good.

He ripped out the old benchtops and tore down the brown tiles as if he found them as offensive as I did. He looked so engrossed that I popped out with Maxi-Taxi for a the rest of the day to get some last minute baby wrap shopping done (you can never have enough wraps).

I excitedly arrived home to view the completed benchtop and tiles and stood aghast in the kitchen doorway, one hand clasped protectively over my belly, the other shielding Maxi's vulnerable toddler eyes.

It was a MESS. The benchtops were fitted, but a large corner section of one bench had obviously been broken off and glued hurriedly back on. The tiling job was the worst tiling job in the history of tilers (and that is a very, very long history indeed). The grouting was smeared like toothpaste and dripped out between the tiles as if they were oozing pus. They were nicely almost dry.

I was speechless. I was massively pregnant. I could have done a better job myself. Maxi could have done a better job himself. But I said nothing.

I paid Michael's bill when it arrived a week later. I said nothing. I went in and gave birth and dear LOML and my sisters fixed what they could and made it all look presentable. Bless that hubby that I didn't even have to hire.

Years and years and years later I am still livid. I have actually moved house and I am still livid. It is embarrassing how livid I still am but for some reason it is like an unscratched itc... gaping wound.

The question is. Am I furious at Michael for passing himself off as a qualified Hubby when clearly he was just a regular hubby? Am I angry at Hire a Hubby for sending me Michael in the first place? Or am I livid at myself because I said nothing?

Yes, you're right. But I will say nothing more.

[Image from here]

Shameful plug time.
I thought I wasn't 'into' these things... but it seems my ego has got the better of me.
So, if you get a moment today, can you please click on the Babble 50 badge, look me up on page 3 (maybe on page 2 if I get lucky today!!) and 'like me'?
Please like me.