It can happen to anyone

Today my three and a half year old son had one of those massive, intractable tantrums that you see young children have every so often. The classic screaming meltdown. We were in the markets, sitting at a busy eatery on a major walkway intersection, next to some burly be-suited businessmen trying to eat their beef rendang in peace.

Son 3 has hitherto not been prone to the screaming meamies so I was torn between several reactions: intrigue, as to how it would manifest in his otherwise normally level temperament, pity for the men seated nearby, but also anger at their looks of disdain in our direction. I felt that momentary sensation of wanting to be sucked into a black hole. Self consciousness is a strange animal. It creates the illusion that a room’s entire energy is focused on you whilst simultaneously slowing your perception of time. So you feel like every person within earshot is staring in silence and horror at you for an inordinately long period of time, when in fact a few people would have looked at you ambivalently for perhaps ten seconds.

It took me about a minute, after pathetically and pointlessly attempting to reason with him, to accept that Son 3 was fixed in his tantrum and there was great potential for the screaming to get even more severe. So I hightailed it out of there with him on my hip and started pointing at fruits, vegetables, nuts, mushrooms, sausages, fish and funny hats until he was calm enough to talk. Removing him from the scene was the right thing to do. It didn’t take long, and being focused on him like that helped me forget about what we had just exited. Forget about the grumpy suits. Forget about the awkward stares. We were both calm. We sat back down. All was right once more.

The episode made me think about what a great world it would be if tears and tantrums and extremes of emotion, particularly in children, were accepted as part of living in a community.  Where parents, when faced with their offspring dissolving into a meltdown, could simply shrug and say “I’m not giving her the lollipop” without fear of judgement or social reprimand about their child’s extravagant display. No one likes to see an hysterical child, but we’ve all been there, either as a parent or – remember when? – as a child ourselves. It’s not great when it interrupts your lunch break, but a wry smile would always be more welcome than a frown. A wry smile that says “I live in this community too and you are welcome here”.

 

Check it out.

Missrepresentation.

I saw this doco last night and found it utterly compelling. This is something we should all do something about.

Existential crisis at 6

Poor darling Second Son. He’s been doing a lot of thinking, and he’s clearly vexed. This morning he came out of the bathroom crying. I thought it was something to do with what had happened on the toilet. Had he run out of toilet paper? Was it the curry from last night? Actually it was more serious than that. Through tears he stammered that he was afraid of only having one chance at life before dying and what if he dies when he’s not ready?

I know that anxiety about death and dying is extremely common in children. I myself had a morbid fascination with all aspects of death from a very young age thanks in part to my father’s macabre leanings, and I anticipated that at least one of my sons would inherit this trait. But now that it has emerged, I’m treading very carefully in how I respond.

There are so many aspects of parenting that you want to get right. With three boys under my charge, my top priority is engendering in the boys a respect for girls and women. As the men of the future I want my boys to be liked, trusted and admired by the women they encounter in their lives. In a way I feel that this is one future of feminism: forward looking feminist parenting that will hopefully bring to the world better men.

But what of the big existential questions that we face as parents from our young? How scary the contemplation of life and death to a six year old! How do we best respond to these so as to set those young minds on the right path for their future development? 

If you believe in a god your job is made somewhat simpler because the answers are all there. Believe in this god, do what it says while you’re alive and you’ll die when it needs you up in the place where all other people who have done as they were told go when they die. Don’t do what you’re told and you go someplace else which is nasty and very often hot. This would be quite a simple line to spin to Second Son in his anxious moments of mortal contemplation, and I do appreciate the simplicity and solace a religious approach can bring to existential questioning. Being a non believer myself, however, I just don’t think I’d do the story justice. Sure, I have spun the Santa line to the boys, albeit struggled in doing so, but feel reconciled by the fact that there is an end point to their belief in this story. They will ultimately find out the truth about the non existence of the man in red and hopefully appreciate it in the context of an imaginary embellishment of childhood. When it comes to life and death, I think I want to stick to the facts as I see them: we’re born, we live, and then we die. And dying isn’t easy, or rewarding, or punishment, or the start of some other journey. It is just what happens in life. It is the end of life: the Big Sleep. I don’t want my sons to be afraid of death, but I don’t want them to be resolute because perhaps life carries on afterwards in some other realm: I want them to be unafraid of death because it is a fact of life. But how best to explain this to a six year old in tears at the prospect of dying?

The line I took this morning, and one I try to employ as my own ethos, is to respect now. I told Second Son to concentrate on immediate things: getting ready for school, finishing his breakfast, brushing his teeth. And to think how great it is to simply have today. The old adage “Live every day as though it were your last” always had a depressing air of fatalism about it. I prefer the simpler and more upbeat Appreciate Now. Think I might go get it printed on a t-shirt.

 

What’s for tea?

Culinarily speaking, this week was an epic fail.

Having decided a couple of years ago to quit my job as a project officer within a university and concentrate my project management skills on raising my sons full time, I was quite deliberate in what I was taking on. I knew there would be aspects of the job which I would master quite naturally, and others with which I would struggle. The selection criteria for raising three healthy boys are pretty broad and vast, but I felt I could tick off at least a few and the others, well, perhaps I might learn them along the way.

One aspect of the job I was not confident with, and which I’m not even sure appeared on the selection criteria at all, was the role of Head Chef.

I have been cooking the evening meal for this family for approximately 365 days of the year for over 8 years. That’s more than 2000 dinners prepared by me, give or take the odd night out or takeaway. A professional chef working Friday and Saturday nights would need to work around 20 years to build up that much experience in the kitchen.
Although self taught, by now I should surely be a pro with a pan, a natural with a knife, a dab hand with a dough. Right?
Well, sadly, no.

I am crap in the kitchen.

My repertoire consists of spaghetti bolognese, chicken nuggets, coleslaw, and an heirloom recipe for something called Chop Suey my mother donated, which involves mince meat, cabbage and rice. I can also do anything that requires opening a jar quite well, and if I’m feeling really energetic I’ll make some home made burgers. My weekly menu is clearly heavily meat based, which causes me some ideological consternation and my husband much intestinal constipation. It is also incredibly boring and predictable and is hardly ever met with approval from the boys.

So this week, in an attempt at variety and colonic cleanliness, I attempted something hitherto unheard of: a week of vegetarian meals. Roll out the pilau, spinach lasagne, cheesey cauliflower and nutballs. I slaved in the kitchen for hours attempting new recipes. I implored the boys and man to enter into this new culinary territory with the spirit of the explorers. Open minds, open mouths and empty plates. But the reports came back. The reviews were in and they weren’t kind. There were grimaces, shudders, pushed away plates and regurgitated greens.

Nobody liked a single thing I cooked.

And that’s when I realised, in a shoulder-slumped frown-mouthed moment of dejected clarity, that I actually hate cooking. I loathe it. A heavy admission in an era of food-obsessed master chefers and kitchen rulers. I find it tedious, frustrating, disorderly and time wasting. To me, reading a recipe is like reading some incredibly convoluted and boring poetry. I switch off after the second line. I have to force my brain to follow the instructions, as though I have some form of recipe dyslexia. They just don’t make sense to me. So when, after forcing myself to prepare the ingredients and follow the steps, the end product is wholly rejected, my loathing of cooking is cemented. One recipe I attempted this week claimed that the rice would be cooked in 45 minutes. 75 minutes later and I was on the verge of throwing the entire pot in the bin along with the “simple recipe” vegetarian cook book. Who knew brown rice would take 2 hours to cook and taste like dirt?

Needless to say, my well-intentioned efforts backfired and I’m back to square one: cooking spag bol and nuggets and wondering where this was mentioned in the job spec.

Who stole the holidays?

We have just had six weeks of school holidays.
Or so I’ve been told.
Tonight I feel strangely as though I have just woken up and time has passed but actually it is the next day. Like the thing they do in movies where they say “don’t worry, she won’t remember a thing” after a series of crazy events befalls the main character. I think it’s called “time jump” in the Men in Black movies.
How can six weeks have gone so fast? They have never gone this fast before, so what is going on? I know we went to see a couple of movies, did some swimming, went to the beach several times, watched some tennis, and even crammed in a quick family getaway, but this could have all happened yesterday.
And yet, why do I feel so… tired? Plus this strange and complex combination of emotions: sadness that the time is up so quickly; dread at having to get up early tomorrow and start it all again; and relief that I won’t hear those mangy whines of “I’m bored” for at least another ten weeks. Tiredness, sadness, dread and relief: and so ends another summer school holiday season.
I’m sure as a child I got bored once in a while. Everybody does. But now, as a parent, I am clearly living in denial as I find it hard to accept that my children get bored. HOW CAN YOU BE BORED? became a familiar holiday refrain. Our brief family getaway was tacked on to the end of the compressed-almost-non-existent six week school holiday and as there was no ipod iphone wii computer wifi within coo-ee the kids had to make do with Lego, Cluedo, hide-and-seek and the beach and they so barely managed being so…  analogue… I was practically gouging out my own eyeballs in frustration. It was almost like we had a couple of junkies at a rehab retreat, climbing the walls, scratching their skin, jittery with irritation: “What do you mean there’s no wifi?!?”
JUST GO AND PLAY FUCKING HIDE-AND-SEEK.
There were some great moments – crabbing, icecreams and yes, hide-and-seek – but we also asked ourselves several times why we had booked the holiday, and upon our return, promptly switched on the computer and logged them in to Minecraft.
Holiday? What holiday?

Whatever makes you happy

Finally I have an answer.

If someone had asked me months or even weeks ago what made me truly happy I would have had trouble answering. Not because happiness eludes me – although it may try to sometimes – but because it is difficult to pin down precisely what things or experiences in life are guaranteed surefire happiness bringers. I could say things like: going to the movies, or eating either of my two favourite foods (chocolate pudding or lemon meringue pie), or smelling the perfect rose, or watching an awesome fireworks display, or going to bed when I am truly dog tired and have nothing to do the next day. All of these experiences bring pleasure, to be sure. They’re warm and fuzzy moments. But they only scratch the surface.

They make me happy from the chest up, not from the toes.

 

This summer holiday season, with it’s beach weather, happy children, good health, and well-being vibe has clarified the obvious for me and at last I can give a definitive answer to the what makes you happy line.  

The sort of happy felt from the toes up the legs to the torso and arms and onward to the very top of the head. Hair happy. Skin happy. Bones happy.

It took an argument to crystallise it. Friction, tension, anger within my family. Fighting. Nasty and brutal, if only momentary. So soul destroying it depressed the hair, the skin, the bones. For half a day I felt the gamut of the bleak spectrum: depressed, angry, disappointed, forlorn. 

But then it was over. And we were back again. And I found myself on a warm beach, at sunset, watching my family – my darling, beautiful, precious, complex, unique, boyish little family – frolicking, zesty, alive, and happy! and there they were: those buttons, being pressed from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. Like a multitude of miniature lights turning on. An internal fireworks display. 

Not the first time, but the clearest time. The purest time. It had been there all along: so THIS is it.

What makes me happy? My family being happy is what makes me happy. As simple as it is profound.

The human race …

The human race has been set up. Someone, somewhere, is playing a practical joke on us. Apparently, women need to feel loved to have sex. Men need to have sex to feel loved. How do we ever get started?

Thank you. Thank you, Billy Connolly. This really does sum up the conundrum of male-female partnerships. Throw in small children and you have… a mess, really.

If you have been with your partner for a few years and find yourself trapped in a cyclical pattern of harmony/disharmony, take a look at your bedroom habits. You may be able to plot the need for more “intimacy” simply by how annoyed you are with one another. Are you nagging? Defensive? Nit-picking? Irritable? Bordering on divorce? Take stock and prepare for rumpy pumpy. It’s base. It’s simplistic. It’s uncivilised. But it’s more than that. It’s essential. It’s the space where we reconnect after days/weeks/months of operating in parallel universes with separate atmospheres: a vital portal. The conduit for our connectivity.

What is needed is atmospheric preparation. The molecules need to be warmed up. Softened. This can take time. It may require technique. For Her – a loving technique. A patient technique. A night’s foreplay begins at breakfast. It might be different for Him. When we understand this profound difference we can begin to work on strategy: on the Means to reach the unifying End. It takes understanding, patience, and commitment. A good ear and a dab hand. Yes we are different, but we can connect and it is rewarding and it does sustain us. And it is worth it.

Of course there might be more going on. Problems of a deeper hue. But if, fundamentally, nothing else is broken, the “s” word might be just the grease to get the wheels back on track.

The Class of 2013

This week we found out who our teachers are for next year.

Did I say our teachers? Ahem. I mean, we found out who the boys‘ teachers are for next year. To look at the reactions of the mums in the yard you would swear it was us going into a new class. In a way I guess we are. As our kids forge new friendships and cement old ones, so too can we as adults nurture friendships and acquaintances fostered since reception. It’s a special relationship. We entrust our kids to playdates, parties and sleepovers. We support the friendships which we hope will prove to be positive influences in their young lives. It feels good to be part of a group, and it’s exciting to think that many of these friendships – both the boys’ and our own – will persevere through the years to hopefully see us through their adolescence, when we’ll need all the support we can get.

Formulating tradition

I have found it useful over the years to refer to books for guidance on how best to parent the boys. Whether it be Steve Biddulph, Robin Barker or Kaz Cooke, it is always reassuring to dip in and read their tips and stories which somehow manage to make everything seem ok. With a laugh or a sigh, their books enable me to feel like I am on the right track with this parenting lark.

But lately I’ve discovered that there is an aspect of parenting that these reference books don’t cover, but for which I desperately need clarity. Of course the books can’t help me because I am talking about my own personal approach to a cultural factor of raising children in this society: I need clarity on how to manage the many typical cultural traditions that arise throughout the year.

I need a Policy on Tradition.

The impetus for this need came this year at Halloween. This typically American cultural festival has become so popular here – and so rapidly – that I felt caught on the back foot without a chance to work out what I like about it. Do I want the kids to go trick or treating? Do I want to decorate my house with pumpkins and cobwebs? Do I want to acknowledge the occasion at all? This year we did the decorations and trick or treating but I didn’t feel in control of how it was approached. I felt swept up in a conformist tide as we ravaged the shelves at Cheap as Chips for tacky skull decor. I think there are things about Halloween that I like, but I’m not sure this was one of them.

This got me thinking about the other major cultural traditions throughout the year – Christmas, Easter, birthdays, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day – and how I, as a parent, approach them. What things do we do as a family on these days that are purely shallow, societal conformity and what are true, emotionally embedded and significant family traditions? For Halloween, I do like dressing up, the spooky elements, and have even been partial to carving out the odd pumpkin. Trick or treating? I’m still undecided. I quite like the idea of a party alternative, but I’m not sure I could be organised enough to coordinate it each year. I guess this is the thing with formulating family traditions: you have to be realistic about what you can achieve and what will be meaningful for the kids. 

With Christmas fast approaching I have been contemplating the traditions I would like to embed for my kids so they have a real sense of familiarity and grounding at this time of year. I don’t want to fall into a conformist trap again and find myself scrambling for the cheap candy canes and ugly Christmas cards at the Reject Shop. I want to have confident clarity on what this time of year means for us as a family; what our traditions are and why this time is significant.

I am not religious, but I don’t think this means that Christmas cannot be significant. Over time it has become a moniker for a time of year which is imbued with meaning and tradition which can be defined individually. Christmas lights, school holidays, summer nights, swims at the beach, jacarandas, bbqs and flies, a relaxed ambiance. These are all Christmas to me. It is exciting to think I can help shape what Christmas time is for my kids: to formulate traditions for them which will be part of a grounded foundation of familiarity and comfort as they grow up. What they choose to do then is up to them.

There. I’ve said it

It took fewer years than I was expecting. I thought it might happen at 12, 13, maybe 14. But no. 8 seems to be the Big Year for Rebellion these days, and so I heard myself say the ultimate parental reprimand:

“That attitude might be cool with your friends young man but it’s not cool with me. Capiche?”

What is this, 1950? Argh.