Scratchy

Myrtle and Eunice described them as 'scratchy' days. The ones where from the minute you wake up, life is difficult. Everything is noisy. Nothing goes to plan. You bump and claw and drag yourself though the entire day.

The children don't help.

On scratchy days the children are diabolical. The whinging alone is like fingers down a blackboard and then you can add the squabbling. They're like cats in a barn fighting for territory. You spend most of the morning sorting out a rumble over a doll that is tossed to the side within minutes. Everyone is crying because so and so touched them on the leg or walked near their room or used the purple texta. No one can sit still for more than five minutes so the house wriggles like a bag of maggots.

The walls close in.

You throw them outside to play. They stand on the back deck smearing at the glass doors begging to be taken away from this sunshiney, fresh-air prison. "We just want to draaaaaaaaw," they whinge. You open a window and toss out a box of crayons.

A quick lie down on the couch does nothing. You can hear them bleating outside through the glass and, let's face it, it's been a car crash of a morning and you're all scratchy too. A small tear escapes.

You drag yourself off the couch. It's an effort to stand.

You know what you have to do.

You throw a bottle of water and some apples into a bag. "Get your shoes on," you screech. Everyone gets bundled into the car and off you go. They fight like Tysons the entire way there and your head almost explodes from the effort of concentrating on the road. Fuck, you think, fucking fuckety fuck.

Once there, you all spill out of the car like curdled milk. There is a silent pause as you survey the grumpiness of each other. It's the first time they've stopped talking since sunrise. "Well, go on," you urge. "Let's go and have some fun".

You explore the fire trails, ride the flying fox, push the swing 127 times, slide down a slippery dip and play noughts and crosses. They climb a tree and laugh and play and delight in each others' company once more. There is only one scuffle over whose turn it is on the slippery dip (the bruises will heal). A slight breeze carries the scent of Spring and the sound of your laughter. Life is suddenly do-able.

Scratchiness. Only fresh air can cure it.

What do you do with scratchy days?

[Image found here]

The night stalker

You know we struggle with non-sleeping children and general Twilight Sleep in Maxabellaland. I can add a further sleep disruption. The Night Stalker.

Being an annoying Pollyanna-type has it’s benefits. Before having children I was never one to suffer from anxiety, other than the cold sweat often experienced when I realised it was 11pm and an unstarted uni paper was due at 9am the next morning. Sleep-wise, I would occasionally be up all night, awake for no apparent reason, but content enough to lie there dreaming of a future and sorting out my past. I still do this from time to time, I think we all do.

But post-Tsunamis, I often find my brain is about to explode with the stress of all this worrying about things in the night. Anxiety is my Night Stalker - hidden by day, running rampant at night.

Perhaps it’s my own silly fault because generally I refuse to acknowledge a lot of the stress of parenting and working and just... life. It is a theory of mine that you only get one life to live and I refuse to live it feeling stressed to the max... as if you can choose such a thing, silly me. But generally, it seems to work as I am a relatively calm, fuss-free sort of person and happy with it all.

But, every now and then the Night Stalker catches up with me and I spend a terrible night running from my own whirligig thoughts. The next morning after getting about an hour’s sleep from dawn until alarm time, I get on with the job of sorting out as many of thing that made me anxious as I can, but in the night time... oh. my. god. The Night Stalker is relentless.

I do that thing they recommend where I keep a pad and pen next to the bed to write down what is keeping me awake in the hope that my brain will think that the matter is settled until morning. Totally doesn't work, but it makes for interesting reading. These are the things I stressed about in the middle of the night last night:

Why did I eat all that ice cream before bed?

Is The Badoo cold?

I must remember to make that appointment for Maxi-Taxi to see the specialist about his tics

Did I remember to lock the front door?

Is The Badoo too hot?

I’ll just go and check the front door but does it matter if I locked the front door because if someone really wanted to come all the way over to our place to bust in here in the middle of the night to rape and pillage would a single key lock on a french door stop them?

I can’t forget to add so-and-so to the invite list for that meeting tomorrow morning.

Poor Maxi-Taxi – why does he have to potentially have some weird neurological disorder rather than just a bunch of average kid issues?

I might just go and check The Badoo’s blanket level

I just wish I wasn’t fat but I could still just stuff my face with all the good stuff to my heart's content who decided we weren't allowed to do that?

Does Cappers have the weird neurological disorder too because she’s been doing that weird eye thing lately?

Why don’t I care enough that I’m fat even though I suppose I must care on some level because I’m lying here agonising over a bowl of ice cream and wishing I wasn’t such a pigger but then if I really cared enough I wouldn’t eat the stupid ice cream in the first place, would I? Would I?

Was The Badoo sweating under those blankets in there or was it my imagination?

Don’t forget to add so-and-so to that meeting tomorrow morning.

Must remember to make Cappers an eye appointment tomorrow because you can always live in hope that she just needs glasses.

The Badoo is probably freezing in there right now.

My poor babies with the weird little mannerisms I love them so much and they are going to have a really rough time at school because kids are cruel from about 2nd grade onwards and they will stand out as being different and that just makes me want to rip every child in that mean little school who is in 2nd grade to shreds with my lion claws to keep them away from my little cubs or at least keep my cubs this exact same age when their odd little gestures don’t matter a bit.

Aaaaarrrrrggh... those nights when you can feel the Night Stalker lurking are nights when it’s just not even worth going to bed at all.

Are you visited by the Night Stalker?

What helps relieve anxiety for you?

[Image from here]

They drive a white van

I had this post scheduled to go up tonight, but I thought I'd post it earlier because there's lots going on over at Mama Mia about Stranger Danger today. I didn't edit the post, just hit 'publish' early. It may or may not be relevant to the discussion at MM.

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It always amuses me when Maxi-Taxi begins a sentence with "I can't go to sleep because..." What's he cooking up now? I think to myself. This better be good. And invariably it is.

The other night he told me that he couldn't go to sleep because he needed to run around the house ('do laps'). I said, "It's sleep time now, Max. Not time for laps." He said, "But how am I supposed to sleep in all this energy?"

The kid has a point.

Another night he couldn't sleep because his heart was too soggy. "I'm scared and when you won't sit with me, my heart gets soggy," he said. I sat with him. I'm weak like that.

He's a sensitive soul, so you have to tread carefully when issues of monsters, robbers, spiders, the moon and anything else likely to go bump in the night come up. One false move and it's matchsticks for the rest of the night. Which is why I found myself on eggshells when the issue of Stranger Danger was raised.

"They come and get you in a white van," he said. "They snatch you off the side of the road when you're waiting to cross at the lights. Even when you're good, they get you."

What are they telling them at that school? I wondered, crunching away on my eggshells. We've always had a relaxed approach to 'Strangers'. You can talk to anyone you like as long as Mum or Dad or another grown-up you know is with you. We didn't want our children growing up thinking it's okay to be unfriendly or, worse, fearful, just because they don't know someone. It's not okay to live your life in fear that a random tragedy is going to happen to you. Strangers aren't to be feared at our place, rather they often offer a lovely exchange in the middle of an otherwise frenetic day.

Of course, when you're by yourself, you aren't allowed to even notice them.

I raised the white van kidnappers at the P + C Meeting the next night. "What are you telling the kids about kidnappers in white vans?" I asked.

Mirthful looks were exchanged between teachers. "It's always a white van," one said in amazement. "We give them a thoughtful, educative chat about coming to the front office if they are not collected on time after school, they discuss it amongst themselves and the next thing you know the story about the stranger in the white van is doing the rounds again. That white van has been circling the school for decades."

Hmmm... needless to say, that bit of schoolyard folklore meant that Maxi-Taxi couldn't sleep and was threatening to boycott school the next day. I had to turn him around quicksmart by asking him why anyone would want to take a kid? Especially one that doesn't sleep, doesn't listen and doesn't eat their vegies?  He couldn't come up with a single reason.

So, the next day he goes to school and all was well. When I saw him that evening his eyes were wide and he was leaping out of himself with excitement. "Mum, Mum! MUM! A Stranger approached me today."

"Really, an actual Stranger? Where were you? What did they say?"

"I was in the playground and a lady came up and asked me where the Mandarin classes were held," he said breathlessly.

"And what did you say to her?"

"Well... I said to her 'Do you drive a white van?' and she said 'no', so I told her they were in the library."

Oh, Maxi.

How do you approach 'the Stranger thing' with your children?

Do you think they listen?

[Image via weheartit - yes, I know it's a red van and this post is about a white van, but I couldn't find a pic of a white van that didn't look like... well, a pic of a white van. It's that simple.]

Dummy parenting

Yeah, so The Badoo still has a "dummer". The only thing dummer than the dummer in this house is the parents for letting their three year old continue the habit. The rule is that it's for bedtime only, but the reality is that the bloody thing is hanging out of her mouth more often than not. She really, really loves it.

She asked for dummers for her birthday. Aside from nail polish and shoes and world peace, that's all she wanted. Who could resist?

Well, probably 99% of the good parents out there, but secretly I can't really see the harm. There's the teeth thing, of course, but she already has an overbite on her that could rival Freddie Mercury's, so I think the dental damage is done. Really, unless you're going to wean your very young baby off the dummy (or, of course, never give it to them in the first place - heelllllo first baby!), it's just a fact of life that you're going to be buying them braces at some point.

Maxi-Taxi never took a dummy. This was mainly because back before I knew what I was getting myself into with this whole parenting gig, I was adamant that no child of mine was going to have a dummy. I'm not exactly sure why, but I just knew dummies were 'bad' and parenting without them was 'good'. By the time I woke up to myself he was six weeks old and not having a bar of it. I spent ridiculous amounts of time popping the dummy in and watching it instantly pop back out - he was like the world's kindest poker machine. For the record, the kid took three months to learn how to breastfeed and then wouldn't ever take a bottle, so maybe he was just annoying in general.

Needless to say, Cappers was plugged before we even left the delivery room. "What're you lookin' at," I recall growling at the disapproving midwife (I later blamed my rudeness on the post-birth drugs, but we all know that was a lie). Cappers, who is of course the self-raising baby, spat the dummy out at about 4 months old and that was the end of that.

And then along came The Badoo. Grumpy. Third Born. Addict.

The only time it really drives me crazy is when she talks with it in.

"Urg wruf moo gun," she says.

"I love you too, don't talk with your dummy in!"

She has this trick where she twists the dummy around and around using her tongue. You'd swear you can hear the faint sounds of carnival music while she does it. Da da dah dah dah dah da da dah dah. Roll up, roll up and see the fantastical, the magical, the amaaaaaaazing three year old Freddie Mercury lookalike!

Cracks me up every time.

Anyway.

I know it's bad, but we're not even close to working our way free of this dummy vice. She likes it, it gives her comfort... where's the harm I say. Should I feel guilty about that?


[Image of the Pacifier Tree - where kids go to hang their dummies when they've finished with them (unfortunately all the way over in Sweden which seems a little far for The Badoo to travel) -  by Camilla Engman - cool blog by the way!]

The Twilight Zoned Out

I haven't written about sleep in ages, which is remarkable considering that getting the Tsunamis to appreciate it in the same quantities that I do has been a preoccupation of mine for about seven years now. One day I'll do a BIG POST telling you all about the trials and tribulations of why-we-don't-get-a-lot-of-sleep-around-here and how-that-makes-us-feel... actually, writing that post will bore me so much that I might actually fall asleep, so I'll get right onto that. But, in the meantime, this is a little post about a little bit of my sleep tribulations and it's only a little bit boring.

I want to talk about the 'half sleep' - the 'Twilight Sleep'. Mothers of newborns will know exactly what I'm talking about here. It's the sleep your body is having when your brain is actually wide awake listening for your baby to make an imperceptible noise that only you can hear at around 3.37am so you can leap instantly out of bed and be at their side in a jiffy. It's the sleep you might also start having if a loud crash awakes you in the middle of the night and your brain thinks 'oh my god, one of the darling children has fallen out of bed' but your body says 'yeah, whatever' and tries to go back to sleep. Alas, after a crash like that it's only Twilight Sleep that you'll achieve.

Recently my friend the Twilight Sleep has been visiting me when Maxi-Taxi makes his 3am stealthy entrance onto the mattress we've got set up in our room for just that purpose. Yes, he has his own temporary bed at the foot of our bed and we'll just ignore the fact that recently it's been sporting it's own feather doona with a cover that marries well with our bedroom's general colour scheme...

Judge not, it's been a very lengthy, sleepless battle to get him to this semi-independent point. The idea is that he sneaks on in and if he can get himself out of his bed, up the stairs and onto the mattress without waking us, the mattress stays. If he wakes us up, the mattress goes. It's been quite a few months now and the little mattress is working it's magic. Except of course every night the sweet little boy who comes creeping as quietly as he can wakes me up anyway because I've been in Twilight Sleep mode just waiting for him to come up every night.

That's what Twilight Sleep does to a mother. It's the expectation that our children are going to need us and they probably really don't, but we can't be sure because we're only half asleep so we hear every little sound so it sounds like they sorta do. It's a vicious circle that I'm not sure how to break. Whenever I bemoaned the fact that my babies were yet again playing up during sleep time, my wise Mum always said to me "you can't make them sleep" and she was absolutely right. Unfortunately it's true that we can't make ourselves sleep, either.

If you have any suggestions whatsoever to help a Twilight Sleeper like me just go the f$#k to sleep*, please let me know. In the meantime, if you need me, just breathe extra heavily and I'll come racing.

* My absolute favourite children's book of all time.

[Image from here]

Is eight too young for a Facebook account?

So, my reputation as a Parenting Expert is growing and I have received an email from a confused parent looking for some advice.

What tha?

My response was, in a nutshell, "Have you met me?"

Now, we all know that I'm just plain lucky the Tsunamis appear to be nourished, unbroken and, well, alive... so Dave and I decided that the best approach would be to harness the collective parenting might of the Maxabella lovelies instead. And, naturally, I get to put in my own two cents as well.

See, Dave's eight year old son wants a Facebook account. His friend has one so he wants one. He already likes playing Farmville on his Mum's account (so that's who's out there throwing pigs at each other). His Mum is happy for her son to have a Facebook account of his own, provided that it is heavily sanctioned and monitored. Dave's concern is that starting the boy up when he is too young risks exposing him to to cyber-bulling and adult content that might kill his interest in social networking forever.

My two cents is that if you have to heavily sanitise or monitor a product before giving it to your kids, the product is too old for your kids. Full stop. Why start them up so young on a product that was obviously made for an older audience (and admits that's the case by requiring that you have to be older than 13 to use it).

And Dave, it starts with Facebook at eight and then where does it go?

Over the course of three generations, 'being a child' has been squeezed down by canny marketers from being 0 - 18 (up to the 1950s) to being 0 - 12 (up to 1952 when Bill Haley and those busy American marketers invented the concept of the 'teenager') to being 0 - 7 (in the nineties when the 'tweenager' came along). There's not a lot of time allocated to just being young anymore; not involved in or even knowing about what 'society' even is. And I stress that during that time of rapid social change, it has been no secret that physically, emotionally and mentally our children have struggled to keep up with the marketers*. Keeping up with this 'society' we've created is literally killing our kids.

We know all of this as parents, yet we continue to allow our children to do things to 'keep up' with the other kids. Big corporations who want to sell our kids stuff are pretty much deciding what the rules of 'up' are and 'other parents let their kids follow those rules, so it must be okay.'  But while we're freely handing over the responsibility of raising our children to 'other parents', they are ironically thinking they are handing over the responsibility to us. The net result is that the peer group is raising itself, following rules made up by some company wanting to make a profit out of them, while we foolishly judge the success of our parenting on whether our children are an accepted part of this ungodly mess. Like deers caught in headlights, what a trap we have found ourselves in.

Because, oh, we know that there are worse things than not fitting in. There are worse things than not keeping up with a society gone mad.

This debate has, of course, been going on for generations and each generation has upped the ante on their parents. And as much as we remember the manipulative techniques we used to pull on our own parents, we remember even more strongly that desperate longing to fit in when we were kids / teens / tweens ourselves. The outcome is that more than ever, our generation has a struggle on our hands to resist the 'but she's doing it' pleas and just say no to our kids. It's unbelievably hard because our immediate reaction is that our child will be lonely and bereft if we don't let them do what everyone else is doing.

But what if everyone else decided that enough was enough as well?  What if we all got together at our individual schools and agreed an array of things that we promised we won't allow our children to do? A formal manifesto that we promise we will do everything we can to abide by. A difficult manifesto to agree on, of course, but if we could manage it, wouldn't it take away a little bit of the steering power of the peer group and those marketers... just a little?**

While I genuinely think that most of our children are going to grow up just fine despite what our superficial, materialistic, sexualised, celebrity-obsessed society is doing to them, more and more of them won't. We need to use our brains, not our hearts on this one. Think beyond the immediate gratification of our darling children and look at what's on the road ahead. Because right now it looks to me that there's a massive pile of deranged bullshit on the road ahead and we're all in danger of hurtling right into it.

What do you think about Dave's dilemma? Is an eight year old too young?

Would you create an agreement with parents on some values you'd all agree to for your group of kids?

* This is just one article siting the damage that our society it doing to our kids. There are so many out there, it's frightening.

** I made this up, but I'm liking this idea more and more. If you agree that it's got legs, I'll expand on it and get something together that we can work on as a group. I would then be more than happy to be 'Patient X' and try out our manifesto on the P&C at my children's school... please let me know what you think of the idea.

[Image found here, source unknown.]

This week I'm grateful for... trying

We have a saying around our house: "Don't say can't, say I'll try". It's a necessary saying because if a child has ever uttered the words "I can't" more than Maxi and Cappers, I'd like to meet them. Every time they say I can't, I bang on with my favourite saying and 9.9 times out of 10, they'll give something a go (the other 0.1 times they moan something about 'not that again, Mumma').

I like to think that I'm a trier myself. I hate to think that I'm a can'ter, that's for sure. So, when I stepped out last Saturday with the intention of walking for the duration of Maxi's OT session (45 mins) and found myself running the route instead, well, I felt like I was walking the talk, that's for sure. As a matter of fact, I was running the talk and that's even better.

So, this week I'm grateful for...

133. Trying - just getting in there and giving something a go. Like we remind our kids 27 times a day.

134. Running - for the first, oh, five minutes I just had the biggest grin on my face. It had been such a long time since I'd run at any kind of pace and the feeling was absolutely joyous.

135. Rest days - after those first deluded minutes, I really had to drag my sorry self around those mean streets. And the next day, sheesh, why on earth were my inner thighs in agony? I must have such a weird run to make that happen. In my head I'm smartly running along as if I should be wearing lycra. In reality, it's a very good thing I'm not.

PS - It's the Badoo's 3rd birthday party so I apologise in advance that I won't be around much to visit you. I'd love it if you'd visit one extra Grateful blogger on my behalf today, just to show we care. I'll post about the Pink Party (yes, she just wanted 'pink' - how's my life?) on Sunday! x

So, what's making you smile today? Add your I'm Grateful For post to the list below (and please, we love you, but it really does matter that your post is a Grateful one and not just a random), add the button (grab the code from my sidebar and paste it into your post) and pretty-please add a link back to me. Then pop over to visit other bloggers who are spreading a little sunshine.





[Image by Brittney T via Flickr]

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

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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]

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]

♥ Loving Planning with Kids and Kikki K giveaways!

I've been  a mad follower of Nicole Avery over at Planning with Kids for ages now. Her blog attracted me because (a) the word ‘planning’ always attracts me because I am a planning freak; (b) she has, like, LOTS of kids (Five! Four boys! ...!) and (c) she plans those kids into a happy, harmonious existence. She is so well-plannned, in fact, that I’ve read her posts for ages and she has never once mentioned that she would like to drop those kids off at the local pound and head for the hills with her ever-patient husband, Phil.

Nic’s blog and I are a match made in heaven – for me. Nic writes the posts with the great ideas and I just implement them at my place. I’m not entirely sure what she gets out of the relationship, but hey, that's just the way some great connections of the heart go, right?

Now I'm excited because Nic has authored an amazing, must-have, cannot-put-it-down-because-it’s-just-so-chock-full-of- the-good-stuff book. It's creatively titled ‘Planning with Kids’ (just so you don’t miss her).  I know what you're thinking. You're thinking how on earth does a mother of five kids find the time? Well, she finds the time because she has read her own book.

Here’s what Nic had to say about the whole thing.

So, Nic, how did you get to be so beautifully organised anyway?

Nicole Avery: My husband. I was really all over the place, living from pay to pay before I met my husband. He helped (made!) me save so I could go overseas on my own. I started learning some internal discipline from him.  I had always been organised at work and very planned in how I approached the projects I was working on, but until I met Phil, I struggled to transfer this into my personal life.

Have there been days when you’ve wanted to ditch the Planning with Kids thing and just be into, you know, Planning Without Kids?

NA: No, my corporate background before kids was performance management, call centre management and project management. While I loved the order part, sorting, scheduling and making things happen, it didn’t give me an emotional connection.  My absolute favourite thing about blogging is the emails I receive from mums who write to tell me how my posts have helped them – you can’t beat that.

What do you do when you have ‘those’ days?

NA: Music is a big part of my life and can help me keep it together. If it is one of those days and it is me who is struggling, then I go for calming music.  I tweeted recently that this is my calming song: What I thought of you – Holly Throsby.  Listening to it makes me feel better.  The whole album is great actually.  If it is one of those days and it is the kids who need calming then I will often head outside.  Four out of our five kids are boys, so when they are all going a bit mad I will head outside and kick the footy with them.  

What three things do you not leave home without?

• Nappies
• Water
• Lip gloss

What do you keep in your car for emergencies?

• Nappy wipes – is there much they can’t do?
• Change of clothes for toddler – he always needs them.
• Tissues – you can never have enough really.
• Old plastic shopping bags. Tied up for safety of course, but always find a use for them - wet clothes, vomit, rubbish, etc.
• A hidden $20 note. We have coins as well, but I sometimes get stuck without cash and it can mean I can run into the shop and get a couple of loaves of bread (one doesn’t go far at PWK) and not have to go a bank before hand.

What might be the biggest ‘planning’ mistake that a lot of parents make?

NA: To not have routines for the kids or themselves.  Routines can sound limiting, but I have found that by establishing good routines you have a really solid foundation to cope with all other aspects (crises!) of family life.

And, Nic, what’s for dinner tonight at your place?

NA: Pumpkin Soup.  Not very exciting but its easy to cook, everyone loves it and pumpkins are a great price at the moment.

I love Nicole’s work and I love her book . I’m in it, you know… page 255…up towards the top… see, that's really me in an actual book. A real book. Not just a book in my head.

Best bit is, if you're a follower of either Planning with Kids or Maxabella loves... you can WIN A COPY OF THE BOOK with me in it. And to help you on your way to becoming a Planner with Kids, I'm including some other yummy Kikki K stuff. I love Kikki K and this is all stuff I use myself. Cute stationery with swedish cheekbones!

One lucky follower will win... (apologies for the shite photography once again. I think I go okay with the composition, but the rest is just point, press and hope for the best...)

1. A copy of Planning with Kids

2.  A jar of heart paper clips for clipping all that paperwork that infiltrates our castle walls

3. A box of Family Conversation Starters to spark the dinnertime chit-chat

4. A To Do list to help get your thoughts organised.

5. A sweet little owl notebook because the owl is sweet and you can never have too many notebooks.

6. Some heart magnets because if I have a bird, I have to have a heart.

7. A shopping list and a little notebook because they were free with my purchase of all of the above.

So, there you have it!

Just leave a comment on this post revealling your best organisational tip for home or family.

Tweet this post for an extra entry (leave me a comment to let me know you tweeted).

Facebook for another one (leave me a comment to let me know you’ve faced). 

Post about the competition and you'll get two extra entries (leave a comment to let me know you've posted!).

And spread the good word about the new parenting bible Planning with Kids wherever you go because it is just that good (especially page 255).  We've all heard those fattish blokes at BBQs say ‘it's a shame this parenting thing doesn’t come with a manual’ (ho, ho). Well, buddy, now you’re not just very not-funny, you’re also very wrong. Personally I'm stocking up so I can give a copy of Nic's book to every new mum I encounter. Robin B, I'm sorry, but you're just going to have to move over and make a little room.

Have fun on this amazing journey, Nic! x

Entries close on Friday 6th May at 5.00pm Sydney time. I'll randomly draw the winner out of a hat and post their name on Sunday, 8th May. Good luck! x

Good Cop… er, Gooder Cop

So, we have a problem in Maxabellaland. We don’t have a Bad Cop. Instead we have conversations that go a little bit like this…

“Nice work, honey. You were meant to be the Bad Cop in there.”

“Wasn’t I Bad? That was my Bad.”

“Talking about putting on your cranky pants and doing a little jig is not Bad.”

And…

“What happened to Bad Cop back there?”

“I was Good Cop. I thought you were doing Bad Cop.”

“You thought kisses and cuddles and ‘ask your father’ was Bad Cop?”

So. Yes, we have a problem in Maxabellaland.

We’re definitely not the kind of parents who want to be our kids’ friends. Hell no. So we’re ready to step up and be the Bad Cop. It’s just that we’re both so easy going that we just don’t have that overwhelming FINALITY that a good Bad Cop parent has. I remember my dad in ‘hell hath no fury like a father whose children will not get out of bed on time’ mode. Man, that was BAD Cop. When there is absolutely no guarantee that your father isn’t capable of spontaneously combusting and setting you on fire, you do as your told.

Which leaves LOML and I… well, where exactly? We’ve managed to grow these Tsunamis for nearly seven years without a Bad Cop, but we can feel the need growing and growing along with their clever little minds. Without the finality of Bad Cop, we just don’t stand a chance.

So, please, have you got any suggestions to help us unleash our inner Harvey Keitel?

[Image via weheartit]

Wearing sheep's pyjamas

Okaaaaay then. I've got to get it out.

I'm judgey.

I know it's the worst possible offence of all possible worst offences, but I do judge others. Inwardly.

I wouldn't dream of being unsupportive enough to criticise someone outright, so I will nod and smile and say nothing. But inwardly...

Yesterday, for instance, I looked after six children for the day (my three plus three others). The oldest child was eight. We had a great day, but you can imagine the limp state I was in when five o'clock pick up time rolled around.

And rolled straight on by.

It was nearer to six by the time the first parent arrived to pick up her two (she had called to apologise at ten to five so all was well) and closer to seven thirty by the time the Third Child was collected by his. By then Third Child was fed and bathed and wearing a pair of Max-pyjamas, ready for bed along with the Tsunamis. Third Child thought this was just fantastic fun and, of course, at no time did I let on to him that his Mum was hours past pick-up time. In truth I had to hide my anxiety because there was absolutely no contact from his mother and no answer on her mobile despite my many calls and one or two (okay, four) texts.

I was dragging out the sofa bed when Third Child's mum finally arrived. She was apologetic (but not apologetic enough). She simply said "sorry I'm late, you know how it is."

I said: "don't worry, it happens, he's been a good boy all day."

I thought: how what is? Being two and half hours late to collect your boy without contact or explanation? No, actually, I really don't know how that is.

My main point of judgement, however, was that at no time did she say anything whatsoever to her freshly-scrubbed and proud pyjama-wearing son, apart from "Get your shoes, we're in a hurry." Not a "How was your day, honey?" or an "I've missed you all day, what did you get up to?" or even a "Look at you in your friend's pyjamas!"... nothing.

See, I'm judgey. I judge all the time and this is just one example. It's by no means a clean finger that I'm pointing with but sometimes I'm just not interested in putting my "she probably had a rough day and isn't usually like this" cap on. I'm not interested in pulling on my "not until you've walked in her shoes" shoes either. I'm not even interested in wearing my "whatever works for her and her family" pants for this one either.

See? Judgey.

I'm not going to pretend that I don't do it.

I think everyone does it, but we don't talk about it because ironically we're afraid that other people will judge us for it. 

So, we say "don't worry, it happens, he's been a good boy all day."

[Image from bluquote - I take no responsibility for the terrible grammar!]

Super Mum Syndrome

LOML is away for the week, so of course I’ve morphed into Super Mum and can’t sleep a wink.

Do you do this?

The minute I’m parenting on my own, I’m super-vigilant, super-responsible, super-patient, super-tidy and super-organised. It’s exhausting, but I can’t help it. If it wasn’t for the fact that I couldn’t possibly sustain this uber-parenting style for longer than, oh, a week, I would definitely believe that kids are better off with only one parent.

I think I cruise a little bit when there is the two of us. “Oh,” I think. “What’s it matter?  LOML can read The Badoo That Annoying Princess Book later, so I’ll palm her off for now.” Or “LOML wrestled with the Tsunamis for hours this morning, so I’ll just smile and wave at them on the trampoline while I read my book.” Then there’s the enabling: “LOML’s doing his own thing too, and he’s not worried that it’s 20 past one and the Tsunamis are rummaging in the bins for lunch, so why should I?”

That type of thing.

There’ll be none of that now I’m on my own. I’m strong and steely and endlessly cheerful. “It’s all up to you,” I think. “You’re responsible for the happiness of these children today, tonight and for the rest of the week, their lives. So, mother-up, we’re going in.”

The Tsunamis love Super Mum. She’s endlessly patient, inventive and kind. Who cares if she’s a bit over-excited and can’t seem to stop moving? She’s just very, very cheery is all. Very cheery. And, Mum, MUM!  I’m still drinking that... oh well, at least she’s not bugging us to help her clean up.

No, really, do you do this too?

[Image by tibiloo]

It’s a ratio thing

I am not a mathematically minded person by any stretch of the imagination.

That is such an understatement that I can hardly type I am laughing so hard. What I meant to say is that my whole life I have loathed Maths with the passion of a thousand burning suns… or is it 1001? I’m not certain because there is a number involved.

Once I was introduced to excel in the early nineties, this numbers business picked up considerably. Excel was The Incredible Hulk blasting straight through my titanic Maths-Block. It seems that working out how to get something else to work out Maths seemed infinitely easier than doing the Maths myself. I never looked back, to the extent that for a brief, bizarre moment in my life, I actually worked in Trade Finance in London doing Bulgarian and Nigerian oil deals. Why yes, yes I did.

I think all along I was actually a much more logical thinker than I ever gave myself credit for. You see, I’ve been a slave to ratios my whole life.

Food requires a good ratio of X to Y to taste right. If the ratio of sauce to pasta isn’t exactly right, for example, eating pleasure is considerably diminished. Ratios become critical when you’re dealing with strong flavours like onions, chilli, honey or garlic. Get the balance out of whack and the whole dish needs rescuing.

In art and design, the whole success of a work depends on ratios. The ratio of X colour to Y. Between light and shade. Negative and positive space. And on and on.

I’m rabbiting on about all of this because lately I’ve been investigating why I ever had a Maths-Block in the first place. I think it’s important for me to know because I am in danger of thoughts such as ‘Cappers is a creative person’ and ‘Maybe Maxi-Taxi will be a numbers guy?’. There’s those pesky labels again!

I think I learned at an early age that you were either a Maths person or a Creative person and I wanted to be the latter. Nowadays, I don’t think it has to be an ‘either / or’ thing (more on the ‘Golden Ratio’ in a future post). I think you can be both and I’m doing everything I can to find the parallels between the two. I think if I can find out more about that, I can help my children to learn the ‘other’ way of thinking with a lot more ease than I managed at school.

Are you a ‘Creative’ person or a ‘Maths’ person? Do you think you can be both?

Did you also struggle with a particular subject at school?

[Image via weheartit - please let me know if this image is yours so I can correctly attribute it]

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

What kind of mother?

As Max returns to school and Cappers gets ready for her big first day at Kindergarten tomorrow (!!! oh yes !!!), my thoughts turn to what being an 'older child' mother is all about. Once our babies grow bigger, meeting the physical and developmental needs tends to give way to the more organic, character building stuff.

When I think of my own mother and the way she raised me (along with my Dad, but this is about Mum), I think:

She was wise.
She really listened to me.
She liked trying new things.
She believed in me and she made me believe in me too.
She made me feel loved and secure.
I didn't want to disappoint her.

My mum is, of course, still all these things and so much more. Our relationship has grown up along with me, but the list above is how I remember my childhood with her. One thing I know, she had a special relationship with her four children both as a 'unit' and as individuals. She found the time to forge a unique bond with each of us.

I still have enormous respect for the sheer 'goodness' that has always been in Mum. She always knows what the right thing to do is. Her influence was real and genuine, a huge positive force without being manufactured or contrived. Of course, she had her flaws - this is not a Disney movie after all - and sometimes her flaws were all I could see! But not for long. She was herself and no other.

I have been thinking a lot about how I would like the Tsunamis to remember their own childhood mumma. What would I like them to think and say about me?

My Best Mum descriptors at the moment are:

She was wise
She really listened to me
She was always dreaming up new ideas and new experiences
She made me feel loved and secure.

These descriptors are the foundations for building the kind of mum I try to be. They help me to focus on what is important to me and hopefully my children. I work daily on being this Mum.

Is this something you think about?
How would you like your children to remember their own childhood mum?

[Image via weheartit]

This week I'm grateful for... new friends

I've ranged this week from 'nurse' to a 'bugged' Cappers (her words); to 'host' of an Australia Day gala; to 'cleaner' as I prepared for and recovered from said gala (such a lot of vacuuming involved when one hosts a party!); to 'proud mumma' as I watched my Tsunamis take to swimming with a vengeance; to 'stressed out and freaking' wife at a little scare LOML gave me today (nothing to worry about!). It's been grand.

I do also admit to going a bit stir crazy, as I always do when faced with a house, three children and me, just me. Not great at being a stay at home mum. I get better after a few days... I need to find my 'home' groove and dance to that. We get there.

So, this week I have lots to be grateful for, but to narrow it down...

1. New friends - how lovely to find newbies that you have lots in common with and really, really like. It's so great to drag out fave stories for an appreciative new crowd. And beyond fab to get to talk about all the stuff like 'how you met' and 'where did you grow up?'... love it.

2. Older children - at 6 and 5 years old, my two bigger Tsunamis are growing into the 'older child' bracket. The bracket where you're at a party and you don't see them for hours. You practically forget you even have children. Of course, a warm, melting Badoo on the lap on a hot day keeps it real.

3. A cool breeze at day's end - we sweltered on Thursday but then a light rain fell and brought with it a cool stirring. Sheer, welcome relief.

So, what's making you smile today? Grab my I'm grateful for... button from my sidebar if you like, add your I'm Grateful For post below and please add a link back to me in your post. Then pop over to visit other bloggers who are spreading a little sunshine. Happy day to you!

[Cute little gingerbread image by C-L-K]

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Don't forget to pop over to the Fibro's SENSATIONAL giveaway. You can win a 5-week online writing course with the Sydney Writers' Centre! Brilliant stuff! Click on the image below.

Dealing with Difficult People # 5: Toddlers

I am not one of those mothers who smiles sweetly at the wild-eyed newbies frantically rocking their selfish newborns and shrieks "enjoy the baby stage, just you wait until they're TWO."

No, I'm not one of those. I can't stand those know-it-all mothers who just have to share (but more on them in a later post). Besides, I think newborns are the most difficult creatures known to woman.

But toddlers, ah Toddlers, are a very close second.

Ruthless, cunning; dear god they're accountable to no one. If you've never eyeballed a Toddler on the Verge of a Naughty Breakdown, you've never viewed a true enemy. Once a Toddler has something in their sights, they will stop at nothing, absolutely NOTHING to get it.

Enter the Terrifying Toddler Tantrum. 

Mothers have been broken. Supermarkets have been trashed. Dummies have been lost.

But fear not, I've got their number. Most toddlers will try the major full-blown TTT, but most will hang out the white nappy after a single incident* when they come up against their natural born enemy: The Prepared Mother. Pop these tips in your arsenal and get ready to return fire.

1. Ignore
It's a constant refrain here at the Difficult People Files. Whether the bad behaviour is coming from a smug shop assistant, an Olympic Parent or a juiced-up Mr 2 in aisle five... the strategy is the same: IGNORE THEM. Quietly (but in a voice loud enough to be heard over the screeching... this takes practice) say, "I don't like the way you're behaving, Mr 2. I'm going to head off and you can join me when you're feeling quieter."

Step over the little tyke if you have to (avoid stepping on fingers, but they can generally take some subtle foot-to-the-butt treatment as you go by) and hide yourself nearby. Monitor out of your peripheral vision, only looking at them directly if you are certain they can't see you.

Note that while you are ignoring Mr 2 you will most probably have to ignore the tsk-tsking of general passersby as they judge you for being a cold, heartless mother or wonder what you're doing hiding behind the biscuit display. IGNORE them. If you so much as make eye-contact with one of these Concerned Citizens, Mr 2 will have won.

2. Be patient
They don't show this on Supernanny due to editing, but ignoring takes lots and lots of time.

Just keep waiting and Mr 2 will at some stage work out that you are not around for his grand performance, get even more hysterical, come looking for you, find you behind the biscuits, throw himself at you dramatically and cling like a demented barnacle to your disinterested skirt. Keep ignoring. Resist the urge to kick the hysterical little cling-on off like a used pair of undies. Mentally run through your shopping list. Mentally run through your 'To Do' list. Mentally run through your 'Life Goals'** list. Remind yourself that no child ever died from crying***. Ignore Concerned Citizens.

3. Do the walk
Allow Mr 2 to exhaust himself sobbing. You will need him fairly droopy for this next stage. This is the 'I'm really leaving' stage. You have to walk as if you mean business - with confidence, purpose and vigour. You have to do this while dragging a screaming child along, clinging to the edge of your skirt.

Oh, make sure you always wear a non-elasticised skirt to the supermarket. That should have been Tip 1.

4. Bring out the big guns

By this stage you've been hanging out in aisle five so long that they're rotating the use by dates on the food. Most toddlers will have eased to a dull roar by now, but if you've got one of those stubborn ones, you will need to bring out the big guns.

"Mr 2, if you don't calm down, I am happy to leave you right here. I don't hang out with screaming children."

"Do you want to stay here tonight? Well, calm down please."

Start to walk away again. Repeat the threat of abandonment until tantrum has subsided (don't panic, things are generally faster now they're facing a night hanging out with the store packers).

5. Hug and praise
Once the tantrum has gone and you are left with a red, heaving sludge that used to be Mr 2, get down on the floor with him (he will absolutely be on the floor. Prone.) and say, "That's a nice boy now, I'm so glad we're friends again. Shall we keep going with the shopping?"

The answer to that question, by the way, is "No." Do not keep going with the shopping. Move at lightening speed through the check-out and get the hell home.

Yes, it's taken time, yes it was a long haul. You should feel battle weary, but smiley. Exhausted, but satisfied. For you, my friend, have won the war against the Toddler. Now, you can do anything.

How did / do you handle your own children's tantrums?

* I mean it when I said that they will only ever have one using these tips. Each Tsunamis had exactly one. My only glitch was Cappers - she was never a screamer, she was a leg dropper (you know, suddenly the legs cannot possibly bear weight and the child is stiff as a board). She used to watch you disinterestedly as you walked and walked and walked away and eventually you were faced with having to start walking backwards lest you find yourself crossing roads. Really needy that one...

** If, of course, you are self-absorbed enough to have such a list. I will not judge.

*** This claim is not substantiated. It is possible that one or two healthy, loved children have cried themselves to death at some stage in history. Please do not forward sad children-dying-of-crying stories. I will not read them.

[Image via Revoluzzza's amazing monster fest]