This journalist made a great discovery. Lying in my hospital bed the day after giving birth, gazing down at the baby on my breast, I thought,
"Motherhood is the greatest news story of all time and I'm going to tell it."
That was the literary birth of Family Matters, which I wrote for 10 years during Justine’s growing up.
In my first newspaper column, I wrote with all my heart about the incredible experience of giving birth, the falling in love, the passionate bonding and fierce protectiveness you feel for this beautiful baby.
I really wanted a girl. With a seven and a half year old son, I knew what it was to be immersed in boy's stuff and a part of me longed for a daughter as a confirmation of myself. What a thrill it was to have a girl! I felt so blessed. Relationships between father-daughter, father-son, mother-son and mother-daughter have their unique nature.
And the child's relationship with the same sex parent is usually the most intense. A little girl growing up needs her mother with all her being. She never gets enough of her attention, approval and adoration. She is insatiable.
A girl sees herself through her mother's eyes. She forms her identity and self-image on what is reflected there; unconditional love or rejection? Copying mummy starts at a very early age. It is quite unnerving to witness your three-year-old dressing up to look exactly like you!
Justine, now seven, wears her fine blonde hair long like me and loves to wear make-up, jewellery, heels and mummy-style suits and especially likes to carry her briefcase and mobile phone!
What a daunting responsibility this role-modelling business is! I am so aware of how much detail she absorbs about me and how I am forming her concept of womanhood for the future. I want to give her positive messages that she can be whatever she wants to be!
If identity is formed through a mother's eyes, insecurities are formed through a mother's sharp tongue! I am painfully aware of the importance of communication skills with children. Criticism, put-downs and sarcasm crush self-esteem in children who believe that every word that comes out of parents' mouths is gospel.
If mum says to her daughter "You're silly, lazy, clumsy, hopeless, a hussy, a smartie pants etc" well she believes it. Disparaging words become life-long labels. Often times, such negative words are shorthand for "I'm feeling tired and would really appreciate your help." But a child can't read between the lines. They just get stung and wounded.
As for a little girl's feelings, let her have her tantrums and moods and crushes and spats without making her wrong. I have found that emotional expression is a basic human need. It keeps us healthy and problems are resolved in the clarity of that release.
As mums we need to listen, respect and validate our kids and resist the temptation to preach and lecture; having the courage to allow the growing child to form her own ideas and values, based on our clear example and intelligent discussion of issues. Sexuality is a major responsibility. Mothers please discuss sexuality and relationships with your daughters.
I believe there are three keys to a teenage girl taking control of her sexuality and having the self-respect to be discerning; that is knowledge, healthy self-esteem and boundaries and a loving relationship with her mother and father.
She won't go desperately looking for love from an assortment of guys if she's getting affection, nurturing and support within the home.
And finally there's the cruellest cut of all for mums who cherish their daughters; the art of letting go. Mothers have to allow their daughters to grow up and blossom into young women. It is the natural process of individuation to be gently assisted, not resisted.
Releasing the beautiful young woman to make her way in the adult world can be extremely painful for both parents. But if you love her you'll let her go and let her grow. And you will replace the parent-child relationship with an equal, adult friendship.
Mothers and daughters. The bond is intense and the relationship is a precious gift for life.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Dads are Role Models and Fun Guys
Although a baby will at first bond with mother, within a few months the infant discovers the other key person in its life. For the baby and toddler at home all day with mum, dad's appearance on the scene is an exciting novelty and he comes to represent the outside world.
From an early age, while mum delivers the sustenance, nurturing and emotional reassurance, dad is a figure of action. He's the one who plays the rough and tumble games and develops a little one's confidence and sense of adventure.
When we were living in the bush, Andrew would prop our six-month-old son in a rickety old wheelbarrow and charge down to the wood pile in a hair-raising ride, as the baby squealed and giggled with delight. Who else but a dad would do such a crazy thing!
Little girls rely on dad for their sense of attractiveness; flirting outrageously with daddy and competing with mummy for his attention. When I was about five, I would ballet dance in front of the old black and white telly, blocking the family's view of The Sunny Side Up Show. Convinced I was as pretty as those grown-up dancers, I desperately sought daddy's smile of approval. A little girl's relationship with her dad will determine her future relationships with men.
Little boys role model like mad on their hero dads. It is vitally important for father and son to DO things together. Their relationship is not based on talk but on learning how to function in the world; learning skills and gaining a sense of competence.
Fixing things around the house, playing sport, going on camping and fishing trips ... these are the age-old activities through which a healthy father-son bond is formed.
Yet with the onset of adolescence, the boy will need to break away from dad and confront and challenge him in order to establish his independence and manhood.
While tribal rituals celebrate the passage into manhood, the break-away is often painful in our western culture, maybe even marked by a vicious argument.
In therapy groups, adults exploring their childhoods often discover it is not so much what father does as what he fails to do which affects them in later life. The absent father can deeply scar the psyche of children who spend their adult lives driven by the need for the approval, acknowledgement, attention and affection they didn't get from dad.
The workaholic dad who believes he is doing the right thing for his family is bewildered when the kids grow up and accuse him of neglect. He has been cheated by society's lie about a father's role.
Thankfully the Absent Father Syndrome is changing as devoted dads take an active role. Every morning, just as many dads as mums take their turn at dropping off their toddlers at childcare. It is a delight to see stocky tradesmen in stubbies juggle dolls and lunchboxes as they fuss over their little treasures.
The positive trend is for fathers to broaden their self-image and realise that to be affectionate, involved and available to their children is not emasculating. It enriches their experience of being a man.
From an early age, while mum delivers the sustenance, nurturing and emotional reassurance, dad is a figure of action. He's the one who plays the rough and tumble games and develops a little one's confidence and sense of adventure.
When we were living in the bush, Andrew would prop our six-month-old son in a rickety old wheelbarrow and charge down to the wood pile in a hair-raising ride, as the baby squealed and giggled with delight. Who else but a dad would do such a crazy thing!
Little girls rely on dad for their sense of attractiveness; flirting outrageously with daddy and competing with mummy for his attention. When I was about five, I would ballet dance in front of the old black and white telly, blocking the family's view of The Sunny Side Up Show. Convinced I was as pretty as those grown-up dancers, I desperately sought daddy's smile of approval. A little girl's relationship with her dad will determine her future relationships with men.
Little boys role model like mad on their hero dads. It is vitally important for father and son to DO things together. Their relationship is not based on talk but on learning how to function in the world; learning skills and gaining a sense of competence.
Fixing things around the house, playing sport, going on camping and fishing trips ... these are the age-old activities through which a healthy father-son bond is formed.
Yet with the onset of adolescence, the boy will need to break away from dad and confront and challenge him in order to establish his independence and manhood.
While tribal rituals celebrate the passage into manhood, the break-away is often painful in our western culture, maybe even marked by a vicious argument.
In therapy groups, adults exploring their childhoods often discover it is not so much what father does as what he fails to do which affects them in later life. The absent father can deeply scar the psyche of children who spend their adult lives driven by the need for the approval, acknowledgement, attention and affection they didn't get from dad.
The workaholic dad who believes he is doing the right thing for his family is bewildered when the kids grow up and accuse him of neglect. He has been cheated by society's lie about a father's role.
Thankfully the Absent Father Syndrome is changing as devoted dads take an active role. Every morning, just as many dads as mums take their turn at dropping off their toddlers at childcare. It is a delight to see stocky tradesmen in stubbies juggle dolls and lunchboxes as they fuss over their little treasures.
The positive trend is for fathers to broaden their self-image and realise that to be affectionate, involved and available to their children is not emasculating. It enriches their experience of being a man.
Big Beautiful Ben
No collection of pet stories would be complete without a tribute to our loveable, cream Labrador Ben.
Ben entered our lives when we lived in coastal Torquay as an adorable puppy still growing into his skin; a seventh birthday present for Daniel, presented to him ceremoniously at Melbourne Airport, smuggled past the authorities wearing a big bright green bow, when young Dan was returning from yet another solo sojourn to visit nana and pa in Queensland.
Ben has been the light of our lives for six years. He has the irresistible charm and stunning good looks of a noble polar bear crossed with a cute harp seal and he uses it flagrantly to his advantage.
When those huge brown eyes look up at you from beneath a furrowed brow, whatever he wants he gets; be that the crunchiest bit of your toast, your chocolate biscuit, a hunk of choice steak from the barbecue or a big hug and wet kiss.
Ben is impossible to offend. You can growl at him for laying across the doorway and refusing to budge, parading around with your best shoe locked in his jaws or licking the suntan oil off your legs. But he never skulks off to sulk with feigned hurt; he just rebounds with his gums peeled back into a huge smile and his furry bum wagging. Our Ben has a face like it's Christmas every day of the week.
Ben has survived a savage dog fight in which his left ear was almost ripped off and had to be stitched extensively and his handsome head shaved. But the worse indignity was wearing a red bucket on his head to stop him scratching the wound.
He has also survived cross-country journeys to visit my parents, across the highway and through the creek and bush. He arrives, panting and muddy and proud, and padding around in circles switches on their automatic outside sensory light in the middle of the night! Much to my parents' surprise!
Where would a family be without a dog? Your sun lounge wouldn't stink, your patio wouldn't be covered in dog hair and your sweet little daisy bush wouldn't shrivel and die from canine whiss. You wouldn't have to be embarrassed when he greets guests with a barking frenzy and leaps and slobbers all over their new pants.
But you would never know the fun of frolicking with him on the beach or the comfort and having him lie, ever-faithful, at your feet in the home office. As you reach down to rub his tummy, he groans with contentment and looks up at you with love lights in his eyes.
Ben entered our lives when we lived in coastal Torquay as an adorable puppy still growing into his skin; a seventh birthday present for Daniel, presented to him ceremoniously at Melbourne Airport, smuggled past the authorities wearing a big bright green bow, when young Dan was returning from yet another solo sojourn to visit nana and pa in Queensland.
Ben has been the light of our lives for six years. He has the irresistible charm and stunning good looks of a noble polar bear crossed with a cute harp seal and he uses it flagrantly to his advantage.
When those huge brown eyes look up at you from beneath a furrowed brow, whatever he wants he gets; be that the crunchiest bit of your toast, your chocolate biscuit, a hunk of choice steak from the barbecue or a big hug and wet kiss.
Ben is impossible to offend. You can growl at him for laying across the doorway and refusing to budge, parading around with your best shoe locked in his jaws or licking the suntan oil off your legs. But he never skulks off to sulk with feigned hurt; he just rebounds with his gums peeled back into a huge smile and his furry bum wagging. Our Ben has a face like it's Christmas every day of the week.
Ben has survived a savage dog fight in which his left ear was almost ripped off and had to be stitched extensively and his handsome head shaved. But the worse indignity was wearing a red bucket on his head to stop him scratching the wound.
He has also survived cross-country journeys to visit my parents, across the highway and through the creek and bush. He arrives, panting and muddy and proud, and padding around in circles switches on their automatic outside sensory light in the middle of the night! Much to my parents' surprise!
Where would a family be without a dog? Your sun lounge wouldn't stink, your patio wouldn't be covered in dog hair and your sweet little daisy bush wouldn't shrivel and die from canine whiss. You wouldn't have to be embarrassed when he greets guests with a barking frenzy and leaps and slobbers all over their new pants.
But you would never know the fun of frolicking with him on the beach or the comfort and having him lie, ever-faithful, at your feet in the home office. As you reach down to rub his tummy, he groans with contentment and looks up at you with love lights in his eyes.
The Strange Life of Harmony
Daniel was four when we adopted Harmony. His formal name was Harmonious T Puss but we shortened it simply to Harms as in Keep Out of Harm’s Way. Apt for an accident-prone cat. This feline was a phenomenon with a bizarre and colourful background.
I fancied a Persian but lacked the funds so resorted to a classified for a "half Persian" for just $15. It was only after I agreed to take the pathetic scrap of beige and white fluff and handed over the grand sum that the true story unfolded of this unfortunate little kitten's entry into the world.
Mum Cat was indeed a pedigree Persian with a mass of long, brindle fur which so impressed the neighbourhood gang, they kidnapped (or catnapped) her and shaved her to resemble a lion; with a mane and tuft at the end of her tail.
As if that wasn't indignity enough, when restored to the distraught owners, it soon became apparent that the lion-cat was pregnant; the paternity of which was extremely dubious!
The owner took pregnant lion-cat to the vet who administered abortive medication but to everyone's surprise the unwelcome pregnancy continued. And, yep, you guessed right, it resulted in a motley litter of which poor Harmony was one.
It was in fact, this most traumatic in-utero experience which, we suspect, caused Harmony's brain damage. Yes Harms, in quaint colloquial terms, was a brick short of the load, a sandwiche short of the picnic basket, a kangaroo missing in the top paddock!
So much for the top end, Harmony's other end also suffered. So eager was this failed breeder to dispose of the defective offspring, she hastened weaning and introduced meat to fatten him up!
It was after three days of a clean kitty tray that it dawned on me that our odd little kitten was somewhat bound up. The vet declared it was the worse case of constipation he had ever seen in his entire career!
We figured Harmony had endured enough in his brief life and we resolved to cure him no matter what it took. We massaged his little tummy and dosed him with castor oil until the fateful day of passing and Harmony's sweet relief.
Harmony spent his life as a simpleton puss dozing in the sun all day and getting beaten up by bullying Toms at night.
He embarrassed us by squatting on guests' laps, jutting out his chin and drooling buckets of saliva while kneading and sucking on the best shirt in blissful regression. We presumed this was to compensate for his sudden weaning.
But really it was a great comfort having this dopey feline around because he was truly harmonious, always calm and tranquil in the face of any domestic drama, even if he was not the smartest cat in town.
The way Harmony departed our lives was very fitting really. Andrew and I went away for the weekend and my mother, minding the house, mistakenly locked his entry window. He got confused and never came home again. God bless Harmy, wherever his simple little soul may be.
I fancied a Persian but lacked the funds so resorted to a classified for a "half Persian" for just $15. It was only after I agreed to take the pathetic scrap of beige and white fluff and handed over the grand sum that the true story unfolded of this unfortunate little kitten's entry into the world.
Mum Cat was indeed a pedigree Persian with a mass of long, brindle fur which so impressed the neighbourhood gang, they kidnapped (or catnapped) her and shaved her to resemble a lion; with a mane and tuft at the end of her tail.
As if that wasn't indignity enough, when restored to the distraught owners, it soon became apparent that the lion-cat was pregnant; the paternity of which was extremely dubious!
The owner took pregnant lion-cat to the vet who administered abortive medication but to everyone's surprise the unwelcome pregnancy continued. And, yep, you guessed right, it resulted in a motley litter of which poor Harmony was one.
It was in fact, this most traumatic in-utero experience which, we suspect, caused Harmony's brain damage. Yes Harms, in quaint colloquial terms, was a brick short of the load, a sandwiche short of the picnic basket, a kangaroo missing in the top paddock!
So much for the top end, Harmony's other end also suffered. So eager was this failed breeder to dispose of the defective offspring, she hastened weaning and introduced meat to fatten him up!
It was after three days of a clean kitty tray that it dawned on me that our odd little kitten was somewhat bound up. The vet declared it was the worse case of constipation he had ever seen in his entire career!
We figured Harmony had endured enough in his brief life and we resolved to cure him no matter what it took. We massaged his little tummy and dosed him with castor oil until the fateful day of passing and Harmony's sweet relief.
Harmony spent his life as a simpleton puss dozing in the sun all day and getting beaten up by bullying Toms at night.
He embarrassed us by squatting on guests' laps, jutting out his chin and drooling buckets of saliva while kneading and sucking on the best shirt in blissful regression. We presumed this was to compensate for his sudden weaning.
But really it was a great comfort having this dopey feline around because he was truly harmonious, always calm and tranquil in the face of any domestic drama, even if he was not the smartest cat in town.
The way Harmony departed our lives was very fitting really. Andrew and I went away for the weekend and my mother, minding the house, mistakenly locked his entry window. He got confused and never came home again. God bless Harmy, wherever his simple little soul may be.
Exchanging The Rat
It all started when we woke up to discover Ben dripping blood all over the decking. The ageing Lab, oblivious to his limitations, had been in a stoush with the brutish, brawling hound up the street. And there it was: two deep punctures in his leg and a chunk out of his ear.
A trip to the vet and poor Ben returns sprouting tubes in all directions with a truckload of antibiotics the size of golf balls.
As if that wasn't enough animal drama for one week, Charlotte the feline was due to get her little job done.
Andrew collected the groggy beast that afternoon and when I got home and opened the laundry door to see the patient, I was somewhat puzzled. Sure she had the same unmistakable grey and white and ginger speckled coat but she was suspiciously larger with different colour eyes. And when she let out a demure little meow I knew for sure it wasn't Charlotte the squawker.
Now Justine was insistent this was indeed her cat, the real McCoy, reasoning bravely that she had just "spread out" with the operation. But big brother Daniel issued his verdict when he declared loudly: "Whose cat is that?" followed by macabre speculation that the real Charlotte had been accidentally killed on the operating table and stealthily replaced.
Final confirmation came when the placid puss wobbled forth and caught sight of Ben festooned with tubes and arched her back and hissed as startled cats are wont to do. Why only the day before the pair had been smooching up together.
That was it. The imposter was going back. At the Vets, waiting anxiously for their beloved moggy, was an elderly couple who had put in a fretful night wondering why their Cocoa had suddenly shrunk and was behaving rather badly like meowing its head off, jumping on benches and stealing food and climbing the flyscreens; all this just hours after an operation which would have left lesser creatures somewhat subdued.
The exchange was made and we reluctantly got back our little Charlotte, alias The Rat, with a nagging thought that maybe we would have been better off keeping the sweet-natured Cocoa.
I don't know what it is about our family but we have a knack for creating neurotic cats. First there was Harmony with his habit of drooling buckets of saliva over dinner guests and staring vacantly into space due to brain damage.
Harmony, who wandered off into the sunset when his favourite window was accidentally closed, was followed by Zoe, the Himalyan Persian furbag who did its business in all the wrong places just to spite us for not giving it enough attention; that being, stroking her luxuriant fleece 24 hours a day. She went to a devoted new owner who had the time and inclination to pamper and lavish her with the attention Zoe felt she so richly deserved.
And then came... The Rat. I like a spunky cat but really, scurrying up the lattice like a demented rodent then falling three metres onto its back is a bit of a nuisance, especially when all the time I'm standing there with a paintbrush painstakingly painting every bit of these lattice panels and running short on patience for such silly antics!
From Pet Madness to Home Renovator hi jinx. We courageously or stupidly, take your pick, opted to do the paving around the new pool ourselves. These past weekends have seen the normally deskbound Andrew on the end of a whacker packer compressing 55 square metres of crusher dust and vibrating his way into the Fruit Tingle Man with his fillings rattling around his head.
Next weekend we plan to lay the pavers. And what fun that will be for the whole family! "Hey kids, I've come up with an exciting activity. It's just like Legos, only the pieces are bigger and there's more of them!" I'm only hoping that the family that paves together, stays together.
A trip to the vet and poor Ben returns sprouting tubes in all directions with a truckload of antibiotics the size of golf balls.
As if that wasn't enough animal drama for one week, Charlotte the feline was due to get her little job done.
Andrew collected the groggy beast that afternoon and when I got home and opened the laundry door to see the patient, I was somewhat puzzled. Sure she had the same unmistakable grey and white and ginger speckled coat but she was suspiciously larger with different colour eyes. And when she let out a demure little meow I knew for sure it wasn't Charlotte the squawker.
Now Justine was insistent this was indeed her cat, the real McCoy, reasoning bravely that she had just "spread out" with the operation. But big brother Daniel issued his verdict when he declared loudly: "Whose cat is that?" followed by macabre speculation that the real Charlotte had been accidentally killed on the operating table and stealthily replaced.
Final confirmation came when the placid puss wobbled forth and caught sight of Ben festooned with tubes and arched her back and hissed as startled cats are wont to do. Why only the day before the pair had been smooching up together.
That was it. The imposter was going back. At the Vets, waiting anxiously for their beloved moggy, was an elderly couple who had put in a fretful night wondering why their Cocoa had suddenly shrunk and was behaving rather badly like meowing its head off, jumping on benches and stealing food and climbing the flyscreens; all this just hours after an operation which would have left lesser creatures somewhat subdued.
The exchange was made and we reluctantly got back our little Charlotte, alias The Rat, with a nagging thought that maybe we would have been better off keeping the sweet-natured Cocoa.
I don't know what it is about our family but we have a knack for creating neurotic cats. First there was Harmony with his habit of drooling buckets of saliva over dinner guests and staring vacantly into space due to brain damage.
Harmony, who wandered off into the sunset when his favourite window was accidentally closed, was followed by Zoe, the Himalyan Persian furbag who did its business in all the wrong places just to spite us for not giving it enough attention; that being, stroking her luxuriant fleece 24 hours a day. She went to a devoted new owner who had the time and inclination to pamper and lavish her with the attention Zoe felt she so richly deserved.
And then came... The Rat. I like a spunky cat but really, scurrying up the lattice like a demented rodent then falling three metres onto its back is a bit of a nuisance, especially when all the time I'm standing there with a paintbrush painstakingly painting every bit of these lattice panels and running short on patience for such silly antics!
From Pet Madness to Home Renovator hi jinx. We courageously or stupidly, take your pick, opted to do the paving around the new pool ourselves. These past weekends have seen the normally deskbound Andrew on the end of a whacker packer compressing 55 square metres of crusher dust and vibrating his way into the Fruit Tingle Man with his fillings rattling around his head.
Next weekend we plan to lay the pavers. And what fun that will be for the whole family! "Hey kids, I've come up with an exciting activity. It's just like Legos, only the pieces are bigger and there's more of them!" I'm only hoping that the family that paves together, stays together.
Catastrophes of the Pet Kind
Is it really safe to take a break from work and potter around the house? The catastrophes that unfold! Yikes! There I was cleaning the bird's cage, shaking the old seed into the garden, when Buddy the budgie from Buderim slid through the slot and winged his way to freedom.
I must confess I was secretly happy for him because I had been so depressed seeing this hapless little creature of flight imprisoned in a cage. Let's face it, he was depressed. Hunched sullenly on his perch facing the wall and jumping with fright if someone came near him. And when I tried to handle him he just sunk his beak into my finger until a big white welt appeared and I was screaming in pain. I don't think he liked me and quite frankly he was a flop as a pet! (No offence to budgie lovers.)
The wail went up. Justine was weeping and howling and thrashing all over her bed. "I want my budgie back. I want my budgie back. Now I've got no pets and Daniel's got two. It isn't fair. I suppose I'll just have to feed the cage.....I want a kitten....I want a kitten."
Well how could I disagree? A little girl can cuddle and smooch a soft little kitten. She can tickle its tummy and tease it with balls and string and wrap it in dolly blankets and mother it. But after the traumatic experience with Zoe, the highly-strung, attention-seeking pedigree Persian with extremely unaristocratic habits, we were somewhat put off cats, well at least pedigrees.
"Maybe we could try a plain old moggy, Andrew." I pleaded, when Justine's sobs had subsided. And so it was we found ourselves at the Animal Refuge that same afternoon, squatting among dozens of squawking kittens vying for a new home. We drove away with a pretty little grey with sprinkles of white and ginger purring smugly and Justine as content as a new mum. So far so good. Charlotte is a placid, peaceful puss with no signs of neurosis.
As if the new fur ball wasn't enough in the way of a new addition, the very next day Daniel picked up his electric guitar and amp, which he saved for from his holiday job at Maccas. I can tell you it’s got a GREEEAAAT sound, which seems to go on for hours.
We think we're suffering a bad case of deja vu listening to riffs from Wild Thing, Sunshine of my Love, Stairway to Heaven, Smoke on the Water and Beatles classics. Reminds Andrew of when he was the same age with his first guitar and garage thrash band. Life turns full circle.
Other strange things happen while at home on holiday. Like my brother-in-law comes to stay and plugs in his hairdryer and blows a fuse. The computers crash and even the hot water system goes down. A fact we discover when Jussy declares that the water for her bath is in fact freezing.
The only thing scarier is tackling the kitchen drawers. You’re familiar with the obligatory junk drawer that gets jammed with old lunch bags, candles, screwdrivers, wood glue, satay sticks, light globes; a catastrophe in its own right and another really fun way to spend a holiday but only after you’ve conquered the laundry cupboard full of old cleaning products. Yikes. Why do I get all the good jobs?
Such domestic challenges prepared me for my new home exercise program. Doing battle with the abdominiser and rowing machine can really work up a sweat. I alternate this with running our exuberant labrador Ben and Whisky, the one-eared Staffy, at the dog beach.
Come Saturday night I demanded that we grown-ups hit the cinema for a serve of Hollywood propaganda. Sometimes you need a good strong dose of larger-than-life fantasy to escape from the unexpected holiday horrors lurking at home.
I must confess I was secretly happy for him because I had been so depressed seeing this hapless little creature of flight imprisoned in a cage. Let's face it, he was depressed. Hunched sullenly on his perch facing the wall and jumping with fright if someone came near him. And when I tried to handle him he just sunk his beak into my finger until a big white welt appeared and I was screaming in pain. I don't think he liked me and quite frankly he was a flop as a pet! (No offence to budgie lovers.)
The wail went up. Justine was weeping and howling and thrashing all over her bed. "I want my budgie back. I want my budgie back. Now I've got no pets and Daniel's got two. It isn't fair. I suppose I'll just have to feed the cage.....I want a kitten....I want a kitten."
Well how could I disagree? A little girl can cuddle and smooch a soft little kitten. She can tickle its tummy and tease it with balls and string and wrap it in dolly blankets and mother it. But after the traumatic experience with Zoe, the highly-strung, attention-seeking pedigree Persian with extremely unaristocratic habits, we were somewhat put off cats, well at least pedigrees.
"Maybe we could try a plain old moggy, Andrew." I pleaded, when Justine's sobs had subsided. And so it was we found ourselves at the Animal Refuge that same afternoon, squatting among dozens of squawking kittens vying for a new home. We drove away with a pretty little grey with sprinkles of white and ginger purring smugly and Justine as content as a new mum. So far so good. Charlotte is a placid, peaceful puss with no signs of neurosis.
As if the new fur ball wasn't enough in the way of a new addition, the very next day Daniel picked up his electric guitar and amp, which he saved for from his holiday job at Maccas. I can tell you it’s got a GREEEAAAT sound, which seems to go on for hours.
We think we're suffering a bad case of deja vu listening to riffs from Wild Thing, Sunshine of my Love, Stairway to Heaven, Smoke on the Water and Beatles classics. Reminds Andrew of when he was the same age with his first guitar and garage thrash band. Life turns full circle.
Other strange things happen while at home on holiday. Like my brother-in-law comes to stay and plugs in his hairdryer and blows a fuse. The computers crash and even the hot water system goes down. A fact we discover when Jussy declares that the water for her bath is in fact freezing.
The only thing scarier is tackling the kitchen drawers. You’re familiar with the obligatory junk drawer that gets jammed with old lunch bags, candles, screwdrivers, wood glue, satay sticks, light globes; a catastrophe in its own right and another really fun way to spend a holiday but only after you’ve conquered the laundry cupboard full of old cleaning products. Yikes. Why do I get all the good jobs?
Such domestic challenges prepared me for my new home exercise program. Doing battle with the abdominiser and rowing machine can really work up a sweat. I alternate this with running our exuberant labrador Ben and Whisky, the one-eared Staffy, at the dog beach.
Come Saturday night I demanded that we grown-ups hit the cinema for a serve of Hollywood propaganda. Sometimes you need a good strong dose of larger-than-life fantasy to escape from the unexpected holiday horrors lurking at home.
Life’s a Beach
Barry Humphreys' alter ego, Les Patterson expressed his anguished dilemma: Whenever I go to the beach I dunno whether to lie on the sand and look at the sheilas or lie on the sheilas and look at the sand.
Life is a beach especially during the deflated week between Christmas Day debauchery and New Year renewal because there's no better place to hang out all overfed and bloated, partied-out and hung-over shielded by shades and brain-dead, than on the beach.
We might lack the magical vision of gently falling snowflakes and miss the dubious pleasure of rugging up in an overcoat and scurrying around with frostbite to the nose but we in Australia have something the Northern Hemisphere doesn't; the beach. I mean really FANTASTIC beaches!
And I swear it is the closest thing Australians have to a unique culture and, on some glorious days when I'm gazing across a turquoise ocean dotted with sails, sniffing the salt air and watching the children play on the sand, I swear it is the closest thing we have to Heaven.
All ages, nationalities, classes, shapes and sizes can enjoy the beach. It is the ultimate egalitarianism. Social pretensions are shed along with clothes as beachgoers expose oiled tummies, flabby thighs, bouncy boobs and bottoms in a blatant collective act of uninhibited exhibitionism. It is primordial and we love it.
As a mum, I love it because not only do I get to perv on the parade of human flesh and pore over the newspaper in peace, make a valiant but futile attempt to tan my shins and pretend I am sporty when I trip down to the waters edge, but I get to entertain the kids for free, without messing up the house, without arbitrating fights... and we can scoff into fish and chips straight from the paper as the sun sets.
Kids adore the beach. They can run and swim off all that excess energy. They can build entire kingdoms in the sand. I've seen toddlers absorbed in creative sand play for hours. It works some strange hypnotic magic, lulling them into a state of whinge-and-whine-free contentment.
Parents everywhere owe a debt of gratitude to the beach for such moments of peace and sanity. It is at these times (like when they are angelically asleep in bed) that we are glad we chose to be parents (or had parenthood thrust upon us). All seems right with the world.
My happiest childhood memories are snorkelling with my brother on the reefs, chasing catfish, spying starfish; doing underwater handstands and somersaults, bogey boarding in the surf for hours and fossicking in the rock pools. One of my most painful memories is sunburnt shoulders, which turned to blisters. Most Australians harbour such memories. It is what we grew up on; what we are made of.
The ocean is a treasure we are blessed with, which we have a moral responsibility to protect. My commitment, as I sit on this magnificent beach, is to help care for the beautiful region where I am privileged to live. Where ever you live, in whatever natural environment you enjoy, I hope you feel the same.
Life is a beach especially during the deflated week between Christmas Day debauchery and New Year renewal because there's no better place to hang out all overfed and bloated, partied-out and hung-over shielded by shades and brain-dead, than on the beach.
We might lack the magical vision of gently falling snowflakes and miss the dubious pleasure of rugging up in an overcoat and scurrying around with frostbite to the nose but we in Australia have something the Northern Hemisphere doesn't; the beach. I mean really FANTASTIC beaches!
And I swear it is the closest thing Australians have to a unique culture and, on some glorious days when I'm gazing across a turquoise ocean dotted with sails, sniffing the salt air and watching the children play on the sand, I swear it is the closest thing we have to Heaven.
All ages, nationalities, classes, shapes and sizes can enjoy the beach. It is the ultimate egalitarianism. Social pretensions are shed along with clothes as beachgoers expose oiled tummies, flabby thighs, bouncy boobs and bottoms in a blatant collective act of uninhibited exhibitionism. It is primordial and we love it.
As a mum, I love it because not only do I get to perv on the parade of human flesh and pore over the newspaper in peace, make a valiant but futile attempt to tan my shins and pretend I am sporty when I trip down to the waters edge, but I get to entertain the kids for free, without messing up the house, without arbitrating fights... and we can scoff into fish and chips straight from the paper as the sun sets.
Kids adore the beach. They can run and swim off all that excess energy. They can build entire kingdoms in the sand. I've seen toddlers absorbed in creative sand play for hours. It works some strange hypnotic magic, lulling them into a state of whinge-and-whine-free contentment.
Parents everywhere owe a debt of gratitude to the beach for such moments of peace and sanity. It is at these times (like when they are angelically asleep in bed) that we are glad we chose to be parents (or had parenthood thrust upon us). All seems right with the world.
My happiest childhood memories are snorkelling with my brother on the reefs, chasing catfish, spying starfish; doing underwater handstands and somersaults, bogey boarding in the surf for hours and fossicking in the rock pools. One of my most painful memories is sunburnt shoulders, which turned to blisters. Most Australians harbour such memories. It is what we grew up on; what we are made of.
The ocean is a treasure we are blessed with, which we have a moral responsibility to protect. My commitment, as I sit on this magnificent beach, is to help care for the beautiful region where I am privileged to live. Where ever you live, in whatever natural environment you enjoy, I hope you feel the same.
Holiday Mayhem
Now I could rave about how fantastic, brilliant, superb and sensational Sea World and Movie World are, as everyone who has been already knows, but I'm sure you would much rather hear the awful truth about those embarrassing mishaps of a typical family outing when you wish you had never left the safety of your doona.
First off, Andrew refused to drag his bony bum out of bed so we were LATE; setting off at 9 am (instead of 7 am) and thanks to an obligatory traffic hold-up didn't arrive at the theme park until 12 noon. So I decided to spend the afternoon in a king-size huff, snarling and spitting venom at He Who Made Us Late and positively RUINED our trip.
Then to pour salt on the wound of our timing defect, we were LATE for the last monorail to Nara Resort and had to walk back through the dark and chilly park with me muttering about "the snowballing effect of our bad start” and blaming HWMUL all over again.
It's incredible how at 4.53 pm the place is a carnival of dancing dolphins, leaping skiers, squealing roller coaster riders and thousands of camera-jangling tourists and then at 5.07 pm it's deserted. Eerie. And only WE got to see it! What a privilege!
Back at the resort that night we salvaged the day with an All-You-Can-Stuff-Down-Your-Throat buffet meal and I thought I'd top it off with a spa and sauna. It was a great sweat and I was ready to hit the sack but somewhere between the sauna and our room I lost my sense of direction.
There I was, wrapped only in a towel clutching my togs, wandering around the garden, a desperate and pathetic sight, as Japanese tourists pointed and scoffed "Stupid Aussie Girl!"
The AYCSDYT buffet breakfast was included in the special stay-over deal and we were primed to lash out and eat hearty. I was in the queue carefully selecting a delicious, steaming hot, high protein brekkie, eager to savour the crunchy bacon, when Justine announces, "I want to go to the toilet". Impeccable timing strikes again. We spend what seems like hours in the loo then return to our table to my stony cold eggs and deflated croissant. There are certain martyred moments in life when you wish you were not the only person in the room who could take a toddler to the loo.
Today we were going to Movie World and I was determined that we were going to do it RIGHT. And as Andrew's sweet reward for getting us there early enough for the first Batman Adventure Ride he was picked out of the crowd to play Superman on the big screen.
There he was, resplendent in cape and tights looking every inch the hero this Lois Lane had fallen for, going through his flying actions for all to see. I was so excited I snapped off about 14 shots at the overhead screen before I realised the photos wouldn't turn out. Later that day I spent 15 bucks on developing a dud film. "Ah well it's only money” we laughed lamely, caught up in the Movie World spending frenzy.
Daniel, who demonstrated a remarkable aptitude for a future as a professional tourist, decided to spoil his record by chucking a mega sulk because we said the Big NO to paying for a Superman video of himself in full flight.
He gives us that pubescent acid glare which says "Parents Suck" and we dart back that old faithful guilt-provoking parental classic which says "After ALL we've spent and ALL this fun, it is STILL not ENOUGH!"
So in a collective huff and all theme-parked and junk-fooded out, we hit the road for the Sunshine Coast musing all the while “Ain't it fun being a family!”
First off, Andrew refused to drag his bony bum out of bed so we were LATE; setting off at 9 am (instead of 7 am) and thanks to an obligatory traffic hold-up didn't arrive at the theme park until 12 noon. So I decided to spend the afternoon in a king-size huff, snarling and spitting venom at He Who Made Us Late and positively RUINED our trip.
Then to pour salt on the wound of our timing defect, we were LATE for the last monorail to Nara Resort and had to walk back through the dark and chilly park with me muttering about "the snowballing effect of our bad start” and blaming HWMUL all over again.
It's incredible how at 4.53 pm the place is a carnival of dancing dolphins, leaping skiers, squealing roller coaster riders and thousands of camera-jangling tourists and then at 5.07 pm it's deserted. Eerie. And only WE got to see it! What a privilege!
Back at the resort that night we salvaged the day with an All-You-Can-Stuff-Down-Your-Throat buffet meal and I thought I'd top it off with a spa and sauna. It was a great sweat and I was ready to hit the sack but somewhere between the sauna and our room I lost my sense of direction.
There I was, wrapped only in a towel clutching my togs, wandering around the garden, a desperate and pathetic sight, as Japanese tourists pointed and scoffed "Stupid Aussie Girl!"
The AYCSDYT buffet breakfast was included in the special stay-over deal and we were primed to lash out and eat hearty. I was in the queue carefully selecting a delicious, steaming hot, high protein brekkie, eager to savour the crunchy bacon, when Justine announces, "I want to go to the toilet". Impeccable timing strikes again. We spend what seems like hours in the loo then return to our table to my stony cold eggs and deflated croissant. There are certain martyred moments in life when you wish you were not the only person in the room who could take a toddler to the loo.
Today we were going to Movie World and I was determined that we were going to do it RIGHT. And as Andrew's sweet reward for getting us there early enough for the first Batman Adventure Ride he was picked out of the crowd to play Superman on the big screen.
There he was, resplendent in cape and tights looking every inch the hero this Lois Lane had fallen for, going through his flying actions for all to see. I was so excited I snapped off about 14 shots at the overhead screen before I realised the photos wouldn't turn out. Later that day I spent 15 bucks on developing a dud film. "Ah well it's only money” we laughed lamely, caught up in the Movie World spending frenzy.
Daniel, who demonstrated a remarkable aptitude for a future as a professional tourist, decided to spoil his record by chucking a mega sulk because we said the Big NO to paying for a Superman video of himself in full flight.
He gives us that pubescent acid glare which says "Parents Suck" and we dart back that old faithful guilt-provoking parental classic which says "After ALL we've spent and ALL this fun, it is STILL not ENOUGH!"
So in a collective huff and all theme-parked and junk-fooded out, we hit the road for the Sunshine Coast musing all the while “Ain't it fun being a family!”
A Plague of Santas
EVERYWHERE you turn there’s another one. It’s a positive plague of Santas, I tell you. Santas in shopping centres, Santas at the beach, Santas in the street, Santas at Christmas parties (Okay fair enough!)
And some of them, you just know are fake, the ones who every year help out the REAL Santa. You can pick ‘em; the skinny ones who look so anorexic and gaunt, like they’ve skipped lunch for the past 12 months hunched over their spreadsheets. Where is that wobbly as a plate of jelly tummy. Hmm?
And the ones with thick black eyebrows and coke bottle glasses and the ones with flat beards like Mrs Claus had a neurotic fit under the pre-Christmas pressure and insisted on ironing his beard. “Oh dear, I’m sorry darling. It’s come out a bit... umm how can I say this...flat.”
But this is after all Australia, so Santa just doesn’t arrive in a boring old sleigh with a team of exhausted reindeer. Oh no, we have Santas on utes, Santas on horseback, Santas on Harleys, Santas in surf boats and now the latest Sunshine Coast trend in the way of Santa transport, is aerial.
I took the family to the beach to escape the Santa plague. Sitting on a grassy patch at Mooloolaba, trembling in fear of another Mintie-pelting Santa, I looked up among the clouds to see this familiar red and white figure swaying and waving madly from a parachute dragged by a speedboat. A parasailing Santa! Ugh! Is nothing sacred!
Yes, but that’s nothing. NOW I have seen the ultimate. There we were, 400 excited adults and kids at the Primary School Carols By Candlelight. The tension was mounting with the imminent arrival of Himself with all eyes skyward. First came the helicopter. Can this be Him? No it was simply Santa’s very attractive helper in a red flared mini. (That tiny waistline looked like it had never seen a rumball or second helping of calorie-rich pud.)
Santa’s helper and her minstrel friend did a sterling job of entertaining us with a few bars of Santa Claus is Coming to Town but as the storm clouds brewed, the anticipation was almost unbearable. And then it happened. A tiny speck appeared off in the distance direct from the North Pole. And from a little Cessna at 5000 feet, he did it. Santa jumped. With a collective gasp of amazement, the old boy in the red suit actually jumped.
Rumour has it that this particular daredevil Santa had never parachuted before. Fancy choosing to perform your very first jump in front a huge crowd! Now that’s brave! There he was falling from the sky in tandem with a man in black Lycra who thankfully looked like he’d done it before.
Poor Mrs Lowrey. The much-adored Grade Two teacher had only two weeks earlier undergone the ordeal of giving birth. As she watched Santa (who bore a strange resemblance to her husband) plummeting to the ground, her curly locks stood on end and the blood drained from her face! She didn’t exactly need this kind of panic. I mean it was hardly the right time to become a widow!
When Santa staggered to the stage he was very pale and his words were somewhat slurred and incoherent. He was muttering something about how it was good to be in Auckland and cracking jokes about losing his presents at Mount Everest and singing about his mate, an old swaggie who jumped, not out of a plane, but into a billabong.
What a spectacular performance. The stunt Santa whizzed off in Rudolf, the red-nosed sports car with a police escort. Santas of the 90s. They’re such fun guys!
And some of them, you just know are fake, the ones who every year help out the REAL Santa. You can pick ‘em; the skinny ones who look so anorexic and gaunt, like they’ve skipped lunch for the past 12 months hunched over their spreadsheets. Where is that wobbly as a plate of jelly tummy. Hmm?
And the ones with thick black eyebrows and coke bottle glasses and the ones with flat beards like Mrs Claus had a neurotic fit under the pre-Christmas pressure and insisted on ironing his beard. “Oh dear, I’m sorry darling. It’s come out a bit... umm how can I say this...flat.”
But this is after all Australia, so Santa just doesn’t arrive in a boring old sleigh with a team of exhausted reindeer. Oh no, we have Santas on utes, Santas on horseback, Santas on Harleys, Santas in surf boats and now the latest Sunshine Coast trend in the way of Santa transport, is aerial.
I took the family to the beach to escape the Santa plague. Sitting on a grassy patch at Mooloolaba, trembling in fear of another Mintie-pelting Santa, I looked up among the clouds to see this familiar red and white figure swaying and waving madly from a parachute dragged by a speedboat. A parasailing Santa! Ugh! Is nothing sacred!
Yes, but that’s nothing. NOW I have seen the ultimate. There we were, 400 excited adults and kids at the Primary School Carols By Candlelight. The tension was mounting with the imminent arrival of Himself with all eyes skyward. First came the helicopter. Can this be Him? No it was simply Santa’s very attractive helper in a red flared mini. (That tiny waistline looked like it had never seen a rumball or second helping of calorie-rich pud.)
Santa’s helper and her minstrel friend did a sterling job of entertaining us with a few bars of Santa Claus is Coming to Town but as the storm clouds brewed, the anticipation was almost unbearable. And then it happened. A tiny speck appeared off in the distance direct from the North Pole. And from a little Cessna at 5000 feet, he did it. Santa jumped. With a collective gasp of amazement, the old boy in the red suit actually jumped.
Rumour has it that this particular daredevil Santa had never parachuted before. Fancy choosing to perform your very first jump in front a huge crowd! Now that’s brave! There he was falling from the sky in tandem with a man in black Lycra who thankfully looked like he’d done it before.
Poor Mrs Lowrey. The much-adored Grade Two teacher had only two weeks earlier undergone the ordeal of giving birth. As she watched Santa (who bore a strange resemblance to her husband) plummeting to the ground, her curly locks stood on end and the blood drained from her face! She didn’t exactly need this kind of panic. I mean it was hardly the right time to become a widow!
When Santa staggered to the stage he was very pale and his words were somewhat slurred and incoherent. He was muttering something about how it was good to be in Auckland and cracking jokes about losing his presents at Mount Everest and singing about his mate, an old swaggie who jumped, not out of a plane, but into a billabong.
What a spectacular performance. The stunt Santa whizzed off in Rudolf, the red-nosed sports car with a police escort. Santas of the 90s. They’re such fun guys!
Babies Make their Own Point at Christmas
Daniel was 11 months old when he fronted up to his first Christmas. The humidity was so high the sweat from our brows ran in rivulets into our mouths as we quaffed through several courses, the bon-bons went limp and soggy in our palms and even the fake silver tree wilted.
The only relief was to swig cold beer while soaking in the little fella's new wading pool under the dubious shade of the banana trees. With the adults hogging the pool, our naked infant was left to play with the hose. He squirted Pa a bewdy in the bi-focals.
Christmas morning found little Dan buried alive in new toys and scrunched-up wrapping paper and wild with excitement at his unexpected haul. Nana always believed Christmas just wouldn't be Christmas without noise so to ensure that a fitting cacophony got underway at 5am she had masochistically clued up Santa to bring a drum, a shrill, off-key whistle and twangy toy guitar.
Dan threw himself into his one-man band act with gusto; wailing and shrieking, bashing and bopping with glee while proud Dad snapped his way through six rolls of film.
Although only too happy to join in the mad adult festivities, babies often miss the point and discover a point all of their own. Poor Nana. I don't know who was more deflated when Dan, instead of riding it, attacked his cheery little blow-up car with a nappy pin. And the bandaids didn't really help either.
But villainous Dan's ultimate act of villainy was peeling the dog's nose. Poor Jem. He's a docile, inoffensive Cocker Spaniel with an irresistible button nose. Dan decided it might come off with the help of the vegetable peeler. It was a massacre. A tragic sight. Blood all over the kitchen and Jem just sitting there looking up to heaven with his big, sorrowful eyes.
My friend Helen was hugely pregnant and due any day. Sure enough Dustin decided to arrive in the middle of the Christmas pudding. Well not literally but certainly on that auspicious day. Their surname being Meyer, his nickname quickly became Messiah Meyer. He was a hearty 10 pound caesarean after a protracted labour. The Good Lord by all accounts did not have such a troublesome entry down in the manger.
Although prawns and tossed salad is more suitable fare for our climate in the Land Down Under, we could hardly pass up that great English tradition of Chrissie Pud. The magic of finding coins buried in the custard-drowned steaming treat was lost on Dan the first time round but come his second Christmas he really appreciated the fairies' flagrant favouritism of giving him a dozen or so silver coins while poor old Pa got a solitary two cent piece (obsolete now of course). That was a riotous joke. By the age of three he realised his $3.70 could earn 16.6 per cent interest on the short-term money market.
How Christmas changes with every passing year. Where once a toy drum brought joy to his beaming little face now only the latest Rollerblades, bogey board, electric guitar or down payment on the Ferrari will meet with approval.
I will never forget the year Santa stood by her principles against violent toys and refused to succumb to the ultra-agro Voltron hailed by advertising copywriters as Defender of the Universe. Dan tried to act appreciative when he unwrapped Mr Potato Head. But no matter how we rearranged his features this peculiar little obese character failed to present the same macho demeanour. To this day Mr Potato Head remains our family's very own unlikely Defender of the Universe. But Santa has never been forgiven.
The only relief was to swig cold beer while soaking in the little fella's new wading pool under the dubious shade of the banana trees. With the adults hogging the pool, our naked infant was left to play with the hose. He squirted Pa a bewdy in the bi-focals.
Christmas morning found little Dan buried alive in new toys and scrunched-up wrapping paper and wild with excitement at his unexpected haul. Nana always believed Christmas just wouldn't be Christmas without noise so to ensure that a fitting cacophony got underway at 5am she had masochistically clued up Santa to bring a drum, a shrill, off-key whistle and twangy toy guitar.
Dan threw himself into his one-man band act with gusto; wailing and shrieking, bashing and bopping with glee while proud Dad snapped his way through six rolls of film.
Although only too happy to join in the mad adult festivities, babies often miss the point and discover a point all of their own. Poor Nana. I don't know who was more deflated when Dan, instead of riding it, attacked his cheery little blow-up car with a nappy pin. And the bandaids didn't really help either.
But villainous Dan's ultimate act of villainy was peeling the dog's nose. Poor Jem. He's a docile, inoffensive Cocker Spaniel with an irresistible button nose. Dan decided it might come off with the help of the vegetable peeler. It was a massacre. A tragic sight. Blood all over the kitchen and Jem just sitting there looking up to heaven with his big, sorrowful eyes.
My friend Helen was hugely pregnant and due any day. Sure enough Dustin decided to arrive in the middle of the Christmas pudding. Well not literally but certainly on that auspicious day. Their surname being Meyer, his nickname quickly became Messiah Meyer. He was a hearty 10 pound caesarean after a protracted labour. The Good Lord by all accounts did not have such a troublesome entry down in the manger.
Although prawns and tossed salad is more suitable fare for our climate in the Land Down Under, we could hardly pass up that great English tradition of Chrissie Pud. The magic of finding coins buried in the custard-drowned steaming treat was lost on Dan the first time round but come his second Christmas he really appreciated the fairies' flagrant favouritism of giving him a dozen or so silver coins while poor old Pa got a solitary two cent piece (obsolete now of course). That was a riotous joke. By the age of three he realised his $3.70 could earn 16.6 per cent interest on the short-term money market.
How Christmas changes with every passing year. Where once a toy drum brought joy to his beaming little face now only the latest Rollerblades, bogey board, electric guitar or down payment on the Ferrari will meet with approval.
I will never forget the year Santa stood by her principles against violent toys and refused to succumb to the ultra-agro Voltron hailed by advertising copywriters as Defender of the Universe. Dan tried to act appreciative when he unwrapped Mr Potato Head. But no matter how we rearranged his features this peculiar little obese character failed to present the same macho demeanour. To this day Mr Potato Head remains our family's very own unlikely Defender of the Universe. But Santa has never been forgiven.
Birthday Extravaganza
Justine has just celebrated her fourth birthday in lavish Child of the 90s style. Festivities stretched for an entire week. Piece De Resistance was the cute Himalayan Persian kitten she named Zoe.
Other gifts included the new party outfit, new clothes and video from Nan and Pa, assorted books, a visit to the circus (how considerable of them to be in town just for us!), a cake shaped into a four at childcare, numerous cards and booty from distant relies with the whole extravagance culminating in THE birthday party extraordinaire.
Now as every Super Mum knows you must really steel yourself for such an act of fortitude and courage when a dozen little darlings in party mode descend.
With Numero Uno I went through the dreaded Healthy Food Phase and even tried it on at his third birthday party. Be warned. Kids can sniff out carob and wholemeal a mile off. What an abysmal failure. Mountains of nutritionally sound food left untouched while the token fairy bread was eagerly devoured by the discerning party animals.
The next year I caved in to pressure and swung to the other extreme with full-on artificially coloured cordial, jelly, lollies, sickly cakes...the works. "Thanks Mrs Priestley, that was just great," muttered mothers picking up their green-around-the-gills kids, gearing up for the big heave when they got home.
You will be relieved to know I have now settled on the moderate, middle ground with a few simple foods; the traditional mini frankfurts and sausage rolls, the essential fairy bread interspersed with a few happy plates of celery and carrot sticks, cheese and fruit.
I put Andrew in charge of party games, him having had frontline training as a primary teacher. Play Musical Chairs at your own risk. With older kids it tends to get extremely rough as the killer instinct is triggered by the scramble for the scarce. I once played this game with a room full of manic adults hell-bent on proving their personal law 'I must win at all costs'. I was left in with one other ageing desperado. Both in a lather of sweat with deadly focus on the sole remaining chair, we made a reckless dive. He won. The rat. I will never forget or forgive.
Anyway with four year olds, the opposite happens. Players tend to drift out of the game leaving an excess of chairs and the competitive edge is somewhat blunted. The game just sort of flopped with everyone getting a prize for well sort of being in it.
Pass the Parcel can whip up a frenzy of excitement with the mystery prize becoming an object of wondrous desire. The Birthday Girl couldn't stand the fact that someone else won (it being HER special day) and made off with the chocolate giving it a devilish squeeze.
Silly Dancing to their favourite music was great except that mum won the prize for the silliest dancer. How embarrassing. I do tend to lose control when I hear the strains of Playschool's One Grey Elephant Balancing.
Well we survived for another year with the usual earnest vow to do it on a smaller scale next year. Sure we will.
Other gifts included the new party outfit, new clothes and video from Nan and Pa, assorted books, a visit to the circus (how considerable of them to be in town just for us!), a cake shaped into a four at childcare, numerous cards and booty from distant relies with the whole extravagance culminating in THE birthday party extraordinaire.
Now as every Super Mum knows you must really steel yourself for such an act of fortitude and courage when a dozen little darlings in party mode descend.
With Numero Uno I went through the dreaded Healthy Food Phase and even tried it on at his third birthday party. Be warned. Kids can sniff out carob and wholemeal a mile off. What an abysmal failure. Mountains of nutritionally sound food left untouched while the token fairy bread was eagerly devoured by the discerning party animals.
The next year I caved in to pressure and swung to the other extreme with full-on artificially coloured cordial, jelly, lollies, sickly cakes...the works. "Thanks Mrs Priestley, that was just great," muttered mothers picking up their green-around-the-gills kids, gearing up for the big heave when they got home.
You will be relieved to know I have now settled on the moderate, middle ground with a few simple foods; the traditional mini frankfurts and sausage rolls, the essential fairy bread interspersed with a few happy plates of celery and carrot sticks, cheese and fruit.
I put Andrew in charge of party games, him having had frontline training as a primary teacher. Play Musical Chairs at your own risk. With older kids it tends to get extremely rough as the killer instinct is triggered by the scramble for the scarce. I once played this game with a room full of manic adults hell-bent on proving their personal law 'I must win at all costs'. I was left in with one other ageing desperado. Both in a lather of sweat with deadly focus on the sole remaining chair, we made a reckless dive. He won. The rat. I will never forget or forgive.
Anyway with four year olds, the opposite happens. Players tend to drift out of the game leaving an excess of chairs and the competitive edge is somewhat blunted. The game just sort of flopped with everyone getting a prize for well sort of being in it.
Pass the Parcel can whip up a frenzy of excitement with the mystery prize becoming an object of wondrous desire. The Birthday Girl couldn't stand the fact that someone else won (it being HER special day) and made off with the chocolate giving it a devilish squeeze.
Silly Dancing to their favourite music was great except that mum won the prize for the silliest dancer. How embarrassing. I do tend to lose control when I hear the strains of Playschool's One Grey Elephant Balancing.
Well we survived for another year with the usual earnest vow to do it on a smaller scale next year. Sure we will.
One Day I'll be a Capital P Parent
Through the week they are bank tellers, managers, builders, salespeople, doctors, secretaries and teachers. Come the weekend, professional roles are divested and they morph into Parents, with a capital P.
These responsible adults assume a whole new persona as simply Sarah's Dad and Jamie's mum. That's how we parents recognise the same breed and greet each other with uncertain smiles on soccer fields, at ballet classes, on the sides of swimming pools and waiting outside the disco.
It is kinda quaint and kinda spooky how playing the role of Parent unsettles one's confidence. Some working parents like me, bursting with confidence on the job, cower in the capacity of Parent, unsure of the Rules, uncomfortable with conversation revolving around report cards, schoolyard rumbles and where the kids’ team is on the ladder.
Yet there are doyens of the Parent set. They are masters at sideline politics, regulars at P and C meetings and tuckshop. They always read their school notices. And know when sports day is on before it happens, not a week later like me. I envy them. As a Capital P Parent, I often don't make the grade, though I once grasped a piece of chalk in my trembling hand and recorded times at a swimming carnival.
On another occasion, fed up with my kid wearing the most pathetic costume (like a stocking stuffed with newspaper for a kangaroo tail), I plucked myself up and went the whole hog on a wizard costume for a Halloween Party. My toddler was resplendent in star-studded cape, pointed hat, jewellery, sparkling face makeup, blue hair and magic wand. The only hitch being that none of the other parents bothered. My poor little OVER-costumed fella was painfully embarrassed!
Now sport is another thing. Not being a really Physical Type myself (I prefer to think of myself as cerebral rather than sedentary), I invented this convenient notion that Daniel should be a sporting dilettante and try all manner of sports rather than limit himself to one. Well, the idea was infinitely more appealing than getting up at 4am every morning to take him to serious swimming training.
Dan The Adventure Man has dabbled in everything including fishing with Pa, archery, karate, Aussie Rules football, Scouts, golf, cricket and snorkelling and has the confidence to throw himself into any new experience, even if his parents are not quite stayers in the sporting arena.
Yet I'm about to get serious when it comes to Little Nippers because it appeals to my logic. What makes more sense than water sports in our hot, coastal environment? What could be more fair-dinkum Australian? I like the versatility of ocean swimming and paddling, beach sprints and the fact Lifesaving also performs a community service; giving meaning to the activity and teaching kids responsibility and concern for others. That’s my theory and I’m sticking to it.
Who knows, I might even take hold of a whistle and blast a few 12-year-olds into line. I quite fancy myself graduating to the ranks of Capital P Parent at last. However my hopes were dashed after a few Sunday morning training sessions in the blazing sun, when Daniel announced he’d had enough of diving headfirst into the beach and eating sand! Who could blame him! A strange activity, really. It’s back to sitting in the shade reading a book for me!
These responsible adults assume a whole new persona as simply Sarah's Dad and Jamie's mum. That's how we parents recognise the same breed and greet each other with uncertain smiles on soccer fields, at ballet classes, on the sides of swimming pools and waiting outside the disco.
It is kinda quaint and kinda spooky how playing the role of Parent unsettles one's confidence. Some working parents like me, bursting with confidence on the job, cower in the capacity of Parent, unsure of the Rules, uncomfortable with conversation revolving around report cards, schoolyard rumbles and where the kids’ team is on the ladder.
Yet there are doyens of the Parent set. They are masters at sideline politics, regulars at P and C meetings and tuckshop. They always read their school notices. And know when sports day is on before it happens, not a week later like me. I envy them. As a Capital P Parent, I often don't make the grade, though I once grasped a piece of chalk in my trembling hand and recorded times at a swimming carnival.
On another occasion, fed up with my kid wearing the most pathetic costume (like a stocking stuffed with newspaper for a kangaroo tail), I plucked myself up and went the whole hog on a wizard costume for a Halloween Party. My toddler was resplendent in star-studded cape, pointed hat, jewellery, sparkling face makeup, blue hair and magic wand. The only hitch being that none of the other parents bothered. My poor little OVER-costumed fella was painfully embarrassed!
Now sport is another thing. Not being a really Physical Type myself (I prefer to think of myself as cerebral rather than sedentary), I invented this convenient notion that Daniel should be a sporting dilettante and try all manner of sports rather than limit himself to one. Well, the idea was infinitely more appealing than getting up at 4am every morning to take him to serious swimming training.
Dan The Adventure Man has dabbled in everything including fishing with Pa, archery, karate, Aussie Rules football, Scouts, golf, cricket and snorkelling and has the confidence to throw himself into any new experience, even if his parents are not quite stayers in the sporting arena.
Yet I'm about to get serious when it comes to Little Nippers because it appeals to my logic. What makes more sense than water sports in our hot, coastal environment? What could be more fair-dinkum Australian? I like the versatility of ocean swimming and paddling, beach sprints and the fact Lifesaving also performs a community service; giving meaning to the activity and teaching kids responsibility and concern for others. That’s my theory and I’m sticking to it.
Who knows, I might even take hold of a whistle and blast a few 12-year-olds into line. I quite fancy myself graduating to the ranks of Capital P Parent at last. However my hopes were dashed after a few Sunday morning training sessions in the blazing sun, when Daniel announced he’d had enough of diving headfirst into the beach and eating sand! Who could blame him! A strange activity, really. It’s back to sitting in the shade reading a book for me!
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Heading North
Let me share some personal family history with you. My parents and big brother had moved north from Melbourne at the end of 1975 when I chose to go my own way at 19 and moved to Geelong to undertake a degree at Deakin University. I completed the three-year course and was one year into my cadetship when tragedy struck. My brother, aged 24, was killed in a car crash. I was 22.
In a fit of shock, confusion and pain, I threw in my job, sold up my possessions and rushed north to pour salve on my parents' hearts. I was inadequate for the task. Anyone would have been. The agony of losing a child is beyond all soothing. After a few months I slunk back to the flimsy comfort of familiar surroundings.
No one is prepared for the sudden death of a loved one. When it happens is hardly the time to start analysing the correct way to behave. Other cultures at least offer some guidelines for mourning. Lock yourself away. Weep and wail. Wear black. But I inherited no such customs. I plastered a smiling face over a frenzy of emotions and continued like nothing had changed. It was bizarre.
There are patches in your life when everything, I mean everything, goes wrong; crisis unfolds upon crisis. I fell pregnant; unplanned, unprepared. I was terrified. In fact it was Life struggling to right itself. It would take many years before I could see it that way.
Daniel Steven was sent direct from Heaven to restore faith. Without his birth my parents and I would never have recovered from the unbearable blackness cast over our lives by Steve's death.
Three years later through therapy I unleashed the cataclysm of rage, denial, guilt, regret and desperate longing for my soul mate who had abandoned me. It was not as simple as an adult grieving for the loss of an adult. The little girl inside me had to cry for the big brother with whom I curled up watching Superman and sipping hot Milo after school. He was the hockey champion I idolised from the sidelines. He was a typical brother who teased and taunted but underneath loved me fiercely.
Little Dan thrived and brought happiness to my parents every holiday. Sometimes my father slipped up and called him Steve when they were fishing but the pain in saying his dead son's name lessened with every year. The healing process was underway.
Mum and I have always believed we have our own Guardian Angel and Daniel reckons Uncle Stevie takes care of business too. We tell him about the uncle he never got to meet and his sporting achievements; karate, sailing, scuba diving. His eyes widen. We beam with pride and feel, finally, a sense of acceptance.
When our baby girl, Justine was born last year the healing process was complete. Love and joy erupted like Spring flowers. Andrew and I decided the time was right to move interstate to Queensland to live close to mum and dad.
I used to dream that Steve would come home. In the dream he had been away on a trip and got lost. The painful absence had all been a terrible mistake. Of course Steve will never return but here is one daughter who has made a homecoming.
In a fit of shock, confusion and pain, I threw in my job, sold up my possessions and rushed north to pour salve on my parents' hearts. I was inadequate for the task. Anyone would have been. The agony of losing a child is beyond all soothing. After a few months I slunk back to the flimsy comfort of familiar surroundings.
No one is prepared for the sudden death of a loved one. When it happens is hardly the time to start analysing the correct way to behave. Other cultures at least offer some guidelines for mourning. Lock yourself away. Weep and wail. Wear black. But I inherited no such customs. I plastered a smiling face over a frenzy of emotions and continued like nothing had changed. It was bizarre.
There are patches in your life when everything, I mean everything, goes wrong; crisis unfolds upon crisis. I fell pregnant; unplanned, unprepared. I was terrified. In fact it was Life struggling to right itself. It would take many years before I could see it that way.
Daniel Steven was sent direct from Heaven to restore faith. Without his birth my parents and I would never have recovered from the unbearable blackness cast over our lives by Steve's death.
Three years later through therapy I unleashed the cataclysm of rage, denial, guilt, regret and desperate longing for my soul mate who had abandoned me. It was not as simple as an adult grieving for the loss of an adult. The little girl inside me had to cry for the big brother with whom I curled up watching Superman and sipping hot Milo after school. He was the hockey champion I idolised from the sidelines. He was a typical brother who teased and taunted but underneath loved me fiercely.
Little Dan thrived and brought happiness to my parents every holiday. Sometimes my father slipped up and called him Steve when they were fishing but the pain in saying his dead son's name lessened with every year. The healing process was underway.
Mum and I have always believed we have our own Guardian Angel and Daniel reckons Uncle Stevie takes care of business too. We tell him about the uncle he never got to meet and his sporting achievements; karate, sailing, scuba diving. His eyes widen. We beam with pride and feel, finally, a sense of acceptance.
When our baby girl, Justine was born last year the healing process was complete. Love and joy erupted like Spring flowers. Andrew and I decided the time was right to move interstate to Queensland to live close to mum and dad.
I used to dream that Steve would come home. In the dream he had been away on a trip and got lost. The painful absence had all been a terrible mistake. Of course Steve will never return but here is one daughter who has made a homecoming.
A Really Spaced Out Family!
More than the Republican Debate or Capital Punishment, it is a topic everyone, but everyone, has an opinion on, a fact I discovered when pregnant with Number Two when Number One was aged seven. The burning issue is age difference between children.
"Oooh that's a big age difference!" they exclaimed and then the stories would unfold: "My sister was 20 months younger than me and I was SO jealous..." "I have a grandson who is a middle child and he can't keep up with his big brother and teases his little sister" and "I know this couple with two teenagers and anyway she's pregnant again!"
Only in the last two or three decades have couples enjoyed the luxury of choice about how many children to have and when. In pre-contraception generations, children were commonly spaced about two years apart- allowing nine months for pregnancy, 12 months of breastfeeding (a natural contraception albeit unreliable!) and about three months of luck. No wonder so many older women are amazed by the modern variations of the family.
Psychologists term it family placement or birth order. It was Alfred Adler who first studied birth order and drew some interesting personality profiles: adults who grow up as the Only Child are ambitious and self-assured but reluctant to compete, negotiate and co-operate.
First-borns are high achievers, good bosses and like to uphold the status quo.
The Middle Child is ambivalent about his position in the family and can feel insecure, 'squeezed' or that he 'doesn't fit in' however he will exhibit good social skills and creativity.
The Youngest Child tends to remain 'the baby' throughout life and likes to be taken care of. He or she can also be charming, a show-off or a rebel. The Baby profile explains a lot about both Andrew and myself!
Family circumstances vary. Some women prefer to have their children close so they grow up with playmates and then plan to re-enter the workforce once the last is happily ensconced at school.
Other women who wait until their 30s choose to have them rapid fire before the biological clock winds down while blended families can result in an assortment of children of all ages.
Every combination has pros and cons for both siblings and parents. Being aware of the dynamics, parents can highlight the positives and minimise the negatives.
In my case I opted to resume full-time work when Daniel was three and a half - a time when many parents are considering a second. I wanted to give my career an uninterrupted stint and to consolidate finances so we could afford to finish renovating our little old house and take on a bigger better mortgage (a financial stretch which paid off eventually).
On the emotional front, the thought of starting all over again, having just survived the endless slog of breastfeeding, toilet training and bedtime ordeals, sent my nervous system into a spin. By having a break and becoming human again with romantic dinners, an adult social life and holidays, we would be refreshed and ready to take on the demands of a newborn again.
There are practical bonuses in having an older child around. Daniel acts like a 'mini parent', ever willing to fetch the baby powder or make sure she doesn't roll off the bed when I dash to the phone. We have our own resident baby entertainer and Dan has a fan who will ALWAYS laugh at his antics!
Daniel has reaped the benefit too. Right through the crucial formative years he enjoyed all the perks of the Only Child, tagging along with mum and dad to concerts, dinners and trips away. Mixing with adults developed his intellect, confidence and social skills. He got to bask in the sunshine of parental and grandparental attention lavished solely on him.
And yet, as parents of an Only Child will admit, Numero Uno can't help cruising through life believing he is the Centre of the Universe! Dan's egocentricity took a healthy tumble with the tardy arrival of a sibling. Instantly he has learned sharing, nurturing and responsibility.
However his dethronement occurred at a time of burgeoning independence so there isn't the insecurity, rivalry and jealousy often experienced by the displaced toddler.
And Justine will always have an adoring Big Brother with the protectiveness to match King Kong. Let no bully ever dare kick sand in her face!
Such an age difference is like having an Only Child twice! Each child is an individual in their own right but they enjoy the best of both worlds - all the sweet rewards of the Only Child Syndrome plus mateship with a sister or brother.
The visual contrast between a strapping lad and a tiny baby at times strikes me as funny. And admittedly I sometimes ponder wistfully about the Middle Child who could have been.
But all up, for parents considering a gap of five, six, seven or even more years there is only one major hazard; the constant remarks about the big age difference. I have learned to grin and bear it and enjoy the advantages!
Postscript 2009
When we made the decision to space out our family, we didn’t think ahead. When Daniel left home at 18, Justine was 10 and became an only child at the other end of her growing up (as he had been at the start). A sociable little girl who longed for sisters, she had friends sleeping over every weekend! By the time Justine left home at 20, we had been parenting for 28 years. The long break between babies ended up extending our parenting stint. We might as well have had two more babies in between! Such wisdom in retrospect!
"Oooh that's a big age difference!" they exclaimed and then the stories would unfold: "My sister was 20 months younger than me and I was SO jealous..." "I have a grandson who is a middle child and he can't keep up with his big brother and teases his little sister" and "I know this couple with two teenagers and anyway she's pregnant again!"
Only in the last two or three decades have couples enjoyed the luxury of choice about how many children to have and when. In pre-contraception generations, children were commonly spaced about two years apart- allowing nine months for pregnancy, 12 months of breastfeeding (a natural contraception albeit unreliable!) and about three months of luck. No wonder so many older women are amazed by the modern variations of the family.
Psychologists term it family placement or birth order. It was Alfred Adler who first studied birth order and drew some interesting personality profiles: adults who grow up as the Only Child are ambitious and self-assured but reluctant to compete, negotiate and co-operate.
First-borns are high achievers, good bosses and like to uphold the status quo.
The Middle Child is ambivalent about his position in the family and can feel insecure, 'squeezed' or that he 'doesn't fit in' however he will exhibit good social skills and creativity.
The Youngest Child tends to remain 'the baby' throughout life and likes to be taken care of. He or she can also be charming, a show-off or a rebel. The Baby profile explains a lot about both Andrew and myself!
Family circumstances vary. Some women prefer to have their children close so they grow up with playmates and then plan to re-enter the workforce once the last is happily ensconced at school.
Other women who wait until their 30s choose to have them rapid fire before the biological clock winds down while blended families can result in an assortment of children of all ages.
Every combination has pros and cons for both siblings and parents. Being aware of the dynamics, parents can highlight the positives and minimise the negatives.
In my case I opted to resume full-time work when Daniel was three and a half - a time when many parents are considering a second. I wanted to give my career an uninterrupted stint and to consolidate finances so we could afford to finish renovating our little old house and take on a bigger better mortgage (a financial stretch which paid off eventually).
On the emotional front, the thought of starting all over again, having just survived the endless slog of breastfeeding, toilet training and bedtime ordeals, sent my nervous system into a spin. By having a break and becoming human again with romantic dinners, an adult social life and holidays, we would be refreshed and ready to take on the demands of a newborn again.
There are practical bonuses in having an older child around. Daniel acts like a 'mini parent', ever willing to fetch the baby powder or make sure she doesn't roll off the bed when I dash to the phone. We have our own resident baby entertainer and Dan has a fan who will ALWAYS laugh at his antics!
Daniel has reaped the benefit too. Right through the crucial formative years he enjoyed all the perks of the Only Child, tagging along with mum and dad to concerts, dinners and trips away. Mixing with adults developed his intellect, confidence and social skills. He got to bask in the sunshine of parental and grandparental attention lavished solely on him.
And yet, as parents of an Only Child will admit, Numero Uno can't help cruising through life believing he is the Centre of the Universe! Dan's egocentricity took a healthy tumble with the tardy arrival of a sibling. Instantly he has learned sharing, nurturing and responsibility.
However his dethronement occurred at a time of burgeoning independence so there isn't the insecurity, rivalry and jealousy often experienced by the displaced toddler.
And Justine will always have an adoring Big Brother with the protectiveness to match King Kong. Let no bully ever dare kick sand in her face!
Such an age difference is like having an Only Child twice! Each child is an individual in their own right but they enjoy the best of both worlds - all the sweet rewards of the Only Child Syndrome plus mateship with a sister or brother.
The visual contrast between a strapping lad and a tiny baby at times strikes me as funny. And admittedly I sometimes ponder wistfully about the Middle Child who could have been.
But all up, for parents considering a gap of five, six, seven or even more years there is only one major hazard; the constant remarks about the big age difference. I have learned to grin and bear it and enjoy the advantages!
Postscript 2009
When we made the decision to space out our family, we didn’t think ahead. When Daniel left home at 18, Justine was 10 and became an only child at the other end of her growing up (as he had been at the start). A sociable little girl who longed for sisters, she had friends sleeping over every weekend! By the time Justine left home at 20, we had been parenting for 28 years. The long break between babies ended up extending our parenting stint. We might as well have had two more babies in between! Such wisdom in retrospect!
Show and Tell Secrets Reveal All
There are exposes in newspapers and exposes on television but parents beware the most dreaded expose of all; on the classroom floor for Show and Tell.
My husband was a primary school teacher for several years and as such privy to great secrets only now to be revealed. He was a naive student teacher in the roughest part of town when little Kylie, or was it Craig, first spilled the beans.
"Mr P, Mr P, my dad got a new car last night but he didn't like the colour so he spray painted it straight away."
And later that month from another excited child: "Guess what. Dad's got a garage full of TVs but he won't let us watch them!"
Often mum and dad had long since suffered a parting of the ways and kids like Melissa would enthusiastically report: "Uncle Dave came round the other night then Uncle Brian came around the next night then last night Uncle Brian came and he was in bed with mummy and then Uncle Dave came round too and then they had a big fight on the front grass and Uncle Brian didn't have any clothes on and mummy was yelling at Uncle Dave to go away. And mummy told me and Scott to go inside."
The Grade One kids would sit cross-legged earnestly nodding with understanding and hanging on every word. Familiar with the awkward scenario, they would offer advice on what to do when two uncles showed up at once.
It was a high crime area and by the time the kids reached Grade Six, indoctrinated by their parents, they had formed a most hostile view of the police service. The local cops decided to improve their image with the infants by paying a friendly visit.
So the divvy van was parked in the yard and all the kids got to inspect it up close. The young officers left beaming, confident they had made a positive impact on potential criminals. They promised to make regular visits to keep up the rapport.
But they were back sooner than anyone expected, somewhat red-faced and crestfallen, enquiring after the policeman's hat, clipboard and two-way radio handset which mysteriously went missing from the van. Show and Tell the next morning was a riot but no one was dobbing!
However it was later in Andrew's intrepid career, just when he thought he had seen and heard it all, that the ultimate Show and Tell event was staged. Young Kenny was proud of his old man who worked as an engineer at the Air Force Testing Base.
Kenny had found an interesting book of aeroplane diagrams in dad's briefcase and brought it along to show his classmates. The kids were keen to photocopy the drawings and colour them in but Mr P discovered that the document was marked 'classified'. A quick phone call had an extremely alarmed Dad speeding across town to seize the plans to the latest top secret hornet and missile guidance system.
And YOU thought YOUR secrets were SAFE!
My husband was a primary school teacher for several years and as such privy to great secrets only now to be revealed. He was a naive student teacher in the roughest part of town when little Kylie, or was it Craig, first spilled the beans.
"Mr P, Mr P, my dad got a new car last night but he didn't like the colour so he spray painted it straight away."
And later that month from another excited child: "Guess what. Dad's got a garage full of TVs but he won't let us watch them!"
Often mum and dad had long since suffered a parting of the ways and kids like Melissa would enthusiastically report: "Uncle Dave came round the other night then Uncle Brian came around the next night then last night Uncle Brian came and he was in bed with mummy and then Uncle Dave came round too and then they had a big fight on the front grass and Uncle Brian didn't have any clothes on and mummy was yelling at Uncle Dave to go away. And mummy told me and Scott to go inside."
The Grade One kids would sit cross-legged earnestly nodding with understanding and hanging on every word. Familiar with the awkward scenario, they would offer advice on what to do when two uncles showed up at once.
It was a high crime area and by the time the kids reached Grade Six, indoctrinated by their parents, they had formed a most hostile view of the police service. The local cops decided to improve their image with the infants by paying a friendly visit.
So the divvy van was parked in the yard and all the kids got to inspect it up close. The young officers left beaming, confident they had made a positive impact on potential criminals. They promised to make regular visits to keep up the rapport.
But they were back sooner than anyone expected, somewhat red-faced and crestfallen, enquiring after the policeman's hat, clipboard and two-way radio handset which mysteriously went missing from the van. Show and Tell the next morning was a riot but no one was dobbing!
However it was later in Andrew's intrepid career, just when he thought he had seen and heard it all, that the ultimate Show and Tell event was staged. Young Kenny was proud of his old man who worked as an engineer at the Air Force Testing Base.
Kenny had found an interesting book of aeroplane diagrams in dad's briefcase and brought it along to show his classmates. The kids were keen to photocopy the drawings and colour them in but Mr P discovered that the document was marked 'classified'. A quick phone call had an extremely alarmed Dad speeding across town to seize the plans to the latest top secret hornet and missile guidance system.
And YOU thought YOUR secrets were SAFE!
OPKs not AOK with this Hysterical Mum
I have never had much luck minding Other People's Kids (OPKs). That's an understatement. Mine is a record of disasters.
Take the case of my son's little three-year-old mate, Tristen. Yes it was plain stupid. We should never have let the kids play there in the first place. We were renovating and the yard was strewn with timber and rumble. But then Tristen was the kind of kid who would find a feather and trip over it! This fateful day he found a brick. Splat on the head. Blood gushing everywhere. Much howling, panic and chaos.
In my characteristic reaction to a crisis (especially where blood is involved) I began screaming hysterically. Quite obviously I missed my calling as a nurse. Guilt-stricken, I rushed the injured over the road to his mum who was known to be Cool, Calm and Collected (CCC). Although hugely pregnant with Number Three, she was serenely composed, pacified us both and whisked the little fella off to Casualty for stitches.
Undeterred by this mishap, some months later I invited Tristen to stay over. After agonising over what to serve my fussy toddlers I settled on fish. The instant the dish was placed before him, we watched in horror as Tristen's face swelled and turned pink, his eyes puffed, his throat constricted and he emitted the most unholy wail. Tristen was allergic and of all the foods in the culinary world, I had to choose fish!
Then there were the Rambo Brothers; tough little dudes in black t-shirts with spiked hair and faces a mass of freckles. The youngest Rambo had met with misfortune and split open his forehead the previous week. The stitches had been removed that very morning. I volunteered to take the gang to the park. Well of course they would be careful as boys always are!
Whack in the head with a swing. Cut opens. Copious blood. Much howling, panic and chaos. Rush home to CCC Mum who philosophically declares the stitches were taken out too soon anyway.
Out of luck with boys, we opted for a sedate Sunday picnic with our well-behaved twin nieces. Usually a health food fanatic, this day I relented and magnanimously shouted chips, coke and ice-cream. I wish the shyest little girl had shouted before she vomited in the new Volvo. Inspired by her sister, the other joined in just as we pulled up outside their home.
It was a fine piece of timing as CCC Mum quickly came to the rescue with bucket and dishcloth while I fled retching and shrieking in the other direction.
With my track record I hardly qualify to give advice however as popular wisdom states, we learn best from our mistakes. With that in mind I offer the following tips to all eager novice minders.
You are entering dangerous territory. Never underestimate an OPK's ability to sustain injuries by splitting his/her head, breaking an arm or getting attacked by sand flies, mosquitoes or cane toads. OPKs are prone to vomit without warning and possess strange medical conditions like allergies and inexplicable loss of speech when he/she wants a wee-wee. They tend to blubber incessantly at 3 am "I want my mummy".
Therefore never be complacent about safety precautions. Here are the rules…
Allow OPKs to play only in padded rooms.
Dress OPKs in protective suits and helmets.
Attach a monitor to OPKs which bleeps when vomitting is pending.
Never feed OPKs.
Never let OPKs stay overnight.
However, if you relent on the sleep-over, demand a complete medical history and legal disclaimer for offloading parents.
If all this sounds daunting, do as I do. I have given up minding OPKs. I leave the job to Mums certified Triple C.
Take the case of my son's little three-year-old mate, Tristen. Yes it was plain stupid. We should never have let the kids play there in the first place. We were renovating and the yard was strewn with timber and rumble. But then Tristen was the kind of kid who would find a feather and trip over it! This fateful day he found a brick. Splat on the head. Blood gushing everywhere. Much howling, panic and chaos.
In my characteristic reaction to a crisis (especially where blood is involved) I began screaming hysterically. Quite obviously I missed my calling as a nurse. Guilt-stricken, I rushed the injured over the road to his mum who was known to be Cool, Calm and Collected (CCC). Although hugely pregnant with Number Three, she was serenely composed, pacified us both and whisked the little fella off to Casualty for stitches.
Undeterred by this mishap, some months later I invited Tristen to stay over. After agonising over what to serve my fussy toddlers I settled on fish. The instant the dish was placed before him, we watched in horror as Tristen's face swelled and turned pink, his eyes puffed, his throat constricted and he emitted the most unholy wail. Tristen was allergic and of all the foods in the culinary world, I had to choose fish!
Then there were the Rambo Brothers; tough little dudes in black t-shirts with spiked hair and faces a mass of freckles. The youngest Rambo had met with misfortune and split open his forehead the previous week. The stitches had been removed that very morning. I volunteered to take the gang to the park. Well of course they would be careful as boys always are!
Whack in the head with a swing. Cut opens. Copious blood. Much howling, panic and chaos. Rush home to CCC Mum who philosophically declares the stitches were taken out too soon anyway.
Out of luck with boys, we opted for a sedate Sunday picnic with our well-behaved twin nieces. Usually a health food fanatic, this day I relented and magnanimously shouted chips, coke and ice-cream. I wish the shyest little girl had shouted before she vomited in the new Volvo. Inspired by her sister, the other joined in just as we pulled up outside their home.
It was a fine piece of timing as CCC Mum quickly came to the rescue with bucket and dishcloth while I fled retching and shrieking in the other direction.
With my track record I hardly qualify to give advice however as popular wisdom states, we learn best from our mistakes. With that in mind I offer the following tips to all eager novice minders.
You are entering dangerous territory. Never underestimate an OPK's ability to sustain injuries by splitting his/her head, breaking an arm or getting attacked by sand flies, mosquitoes or cane toads. OPKs are prone to vomit without warning and possess strange medical conditions like allergies and inexplicable loss of speech when he/she wants a wee-wee. They tend to blubber incessantly at 3 am "I want my mummy".
Therefore never be complacent about safety precautions. Here are the rules…
Allow OPKs to play only in padded rooms.
Dress OPKs in protective suits and helmets.
Attach a monitor to OPKs which bleeps when vomitting is pending.
Never feed OPKs.
Never let OPKs stay overnight.
However, if you relent on the sleep-over, demand a complete medical history and legal disclaimer for offloading parents.
If all this sounds daunting, do as I do. I have given up minding OPKs. I leave the job to Mums certified Triple C.
The Fatal Question
My friend had a neat nine to five job. She had no children. She had absolutely no idea. So it was with genuine innocence that the crushing question fell from her lips: "What do you do all day?" I stared into her curious, rosy face, like staring down the barrel of a gun.
Ugh! Sob. How could I explain? Where to start? Did I have the energy to put two words together? Why bother? These were the questions which swamped my weary mind.
Well, you asked. Welcome to my day.
You see, my baby liked Farax and apple last week but this morning she's gone right off it. The mush ends up all over her face, the highchair, my t-shirt, the floor. I'm down on my hands and knees wiping up. She's bopping to Sesame Street and simultaneously filling her pants!
Still fired with enthusiasm for the new day, I muse: "I'll quickly hang out this laundry so I can get on with my work." Intrepid toddler spies the doggy doos and makes a rush for it. "No. No. Dirty. Yuck!" I swoop just in time. I turn my back and she's racing gleefully toward the same canine's food bowl. Straight in the mouth. I scoop it out. Thump on the back. Return to task.
She's suddenly in the garden covered in dirt. Adds water. Covered in mud. Carry her to the bath, scrub all over. Dump pile of muddy clothes in sink. Attempt to get her dressed again. She's thrashing and shrieking in protest. I feel the nervous wreck syndrome setting in.
It must be time for her sleep. I breastfeed for what seems like forever but she refuses to drift sweetly into Teddy Land. I am rocking her, dancing, singing. We say bye-bye to every soft toy 10 times. Two hours later I emerge like a punch-drunk fighter. I trip over a bucket of blocks and crash into the wall.
I pick up a squillion toys. I wipe up a puddle of juice. I glance at the sink. A pile of dishes has mysteriously materialised. I get that sinking feeling.
I have it easy, really, with only one toddler at home. I salute all you Super Mums out there caring for two, three, four or more.
The job of Mother is fraught with frustration. One of the hardest aspects to come to terms with is lack of control. Mothering teaches patience, tolerance and infinite flexibility. If you don't learn patience, you're done for!
It is a basic human need to be creative, to complete a task and see the results of your labour. Yet mothering is revolves around repetition. You no sooner complete a task and it is undone. You wipe up umpteen messes a day, pick up the same toys over and over, continually change the same little bottom.
At the end of the day, it is easy to cast an eye around and ask: "What have I done?" Caring for kids at home can be grotty and unglamorous and the drudgery can assault your self-esteem.
A toddler, aged one to three, is beset with curiosity to explore but lacks a sense of danger. The constant vigilance in protecting the little thrill-seeker is nerve-racking. Ever poised to spring to the rescue, who can relax?
The suburban sprawl is largely to blame in isolating one adult within four walls with one or more toddlers to care for. Often all that is needed is another adult to keep a watchful eye while Mum gets on with it. In other cultures, mothers are surrounded by family members, so child care is less stressful and demanding. Australian mums can ease the pressure by enlisting the support of community services, family, friends and fellow mums.
The job offers no status, no power, no recognition and no money within mainstream society. But don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. I freely chose motherhood because, despite the frustrations, the deeper emotional rewards are great: to love and be loved, to have a depth of purpose to one's life and the delight and satisfaction in helping a new human being develop and blossom.
Just don't ask me "What do you do all day?" I'm too exhausted to explain.
Ugh! Sob. How could I explain? Where to start? Did I have the energy to put two words together? Why bother? These were the questions which swamped my weary mind.
Well, you asked. Welcome to my day.
You see, my baby liked Farax and apple last week but this morning she's gone right off it. The mush ends up all over her face, the highchair, my t-shirt, the floor. I'm down on my hands and knees wiping up. She's bopping to Sesame Street and simultaneously filling her pants!
Still fired with enthusiasm for the new day, I muse: "I'll quickly hang out this laundry so I can get on with my work." Intrepid toddler spies the doggy doos and makes a rush for it. "No. No. Dirty. Yuck!" I swoop just in time. I turn my back and she's racing gleefully toward the same canine's food bowl. Straight in the mouth. I scoop it out. Thump on the back. Return to task.
She's suddenly in the garden covered in dirt. Adds water. Covered in mud. Carry her to the bath, scrub all over. Dump pile of muddy clothes in sink. Attempt to get her dressed again. She's thrashing and shrieking in protest. I feel the nervous wreck syndrome setting in.
It must be time for her sleep. I breastfeed for what seems like forever but she refuses to drift sweetly into Teddy Land. I am rocking her, dancing, singing. We say bye-bye to every soft toy 10 times. Two hours later I emerge like a punch-drunk fighter. I trip over a bucket of blocks and crash into the wall.
I pick up a squillion toys. I wipe up a puddle of juice. I glance at the sink. A pile of dishes has mysteriously materialised. I get that sinking feeling.
I have it easy, really, with only one toddler at home. I salute all you Super Mums out there caring for two, three, four or more.
The job of Mother is fraught with frustration. One of the hardest aspects to come to terms with is lack of control. Mothering teaches patience, tolerance and infinite flexibility. If you don't learn patience, you're done for!
It is a basic human need to be creative, to complete a task and see the results of your labour. Yet mothering is revolves around repetition. You no sooner complete a task and it is undone. You wipe up umpteen messes a day, pick up the same toys over and over, continually change the same little bottom.
At the end of the day, it is easy to cast an eye around and ask: "What have I done?" Caring for kids at home can be grotty and unglamorous and the drudgery can assault your self-esteem.
A toddler, aged one to three, is beset with curiosity to explore but lacks a sense of danger. The constant vigilance in protecting the little thrill-seeker is nerve-racking. Ever poised to spring to the rescue, who can relax?
The suburban sprawl is largely to blame in isolating one adult within four walls with one or more toddlers to care for. Often all that is needed is another adult to keep a watchful eye while Mum gets on with it. In other cultures, mothers are surrounded by family members, so child care is less stressful and demanding. Australian mums can ease the pressure by enlisting the support of community services, family, friends and fellow mums.
The job offers no status, no power, no recognition and no money within mainstream society. But don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. I freely chose motherhood because, despite the frustrations, the deeper emotional rewards are great: to love and be loved, to have a depth of purpose to one's life and the delight and satisfaction in helping a new human being develop and blossom.
Just don't ask me "What do you do all day?" I'm too exhausted to explain.
Confessions of a First-time Mum
Poor little fella. He had the misfortune of being introduced to the wonderful world of food during my Healthy Phase.
The fateful day arrived for Daniel's first taste of solids. Determined that no cow's milk should pass his innocent lips, I mixed the rice cereal with cooled boiled water to an offensive, bland paste. Predictably his little face contorted and the mush was instantly ejected to slither pathetically down the kitchen wall.
That was the first salvo in a protracted food fight which lasted around five years. As if his first brush with the dreaded glug wasn't enough, there was more torment in store for our little hero. I had one of those whiz-bang blenders and would mix up the most delightful concoctions. “Um, now, potato...pumpkin... carrot...too boring, I would muse to myself. I'll just sneak in a bit of red pepper, a sprig of parsley for some extra vitamin C and yes some nice, nutritious silver beet. He won't notice!” The joke was on me and so was the green mush from head to toe.
I swiftly fell victim to the Parental Backlash Syndrome. Here I was a committed vegetarian and there was my 12-month-old son cadging sausages and chunks of steak at every barbecue we dared to take him to. So embarrassing!
So much for solids, my back still hasn't recovered from the Sling Phase. Little Daniel was spirited around in his very own womb with a view; at the clothesline, out shopping, at rock concerts; you name it, we were there; an inseparable, comical pair.
He may have derived immense comfort from the experience but all I got was a pain in the back.
Lugging the little blighter around all day was insufficient devotion for this willing martyr. Much to my husband's abject horror, I insisted on having him sleep in our bed in the Let the Baby Sleep in Our Bed Phase.
Do you know just how much space a tiny body can take up when it sprawls out? We didn't get much sleep clinging to the edge of the mattress and I dozed through a fog of anxiety about him falling out.
I flew into hysterics that night my worst fear was realised when we awoke to a spine-chilling thud followed by a piteous wail. The panic-stricken exchange went something like:
"Oh my God, Andrew...He's fallen out...Oh no...Oh God...Oh he's screaming. Oh God."
"Well pick him up. Just get out of bed and pick him up!"
No broken bones; just another testimony to the apt expression bouncing baby.
We lived on a country property. I got to indulge in my Earth Mother Phase and Daniel got to defy death on a daily basis. In spite of being idyllic, this property was also fraught with hazards; a river, two ponds, a generator, an underground cellar, kicking cows and venomous snakes.
Daniel discovered mobility and I became a nervous wreck. Experts say that between 12 months and two and a half is the most dangerous developmental stage. I can tell you the experts are right.
Parents may joke about how kids ever survive the exploratory stage but as I now know, safety precautions are indeed paramount. Toddlers can drown in mere minutes and succumb to any number of horrors.
The mini-human who has just found his legs possesses all the curiosity and zest for adventure of great explorers and thrill-seekers coupled with absolutely no sense of caution.
We were lazing in the sunshine playing guitar when our friend Jamie glanced up to see Daniel hanging deftly by his tiny fingers from a beam over a three metre drop into the concrete wine cellar. Jamie, a folkie who doubles as a doctor, calmly strode over and swooped him up!
I thought my toddler was playing in the next room but little Dan, the Danger Man had escaped. I found him waist deep in the pond. But that was nothing compared to the day I desperately searched the entire acreage and broke down sobbing fearing he'd been swept away in the river. He appeared from the cow paddock grinning all over his face.
The day we left our peaceful country retreat we found a rabbit with its head blown off by the generator and a Joe Blake (that’s Aussie lingo for snake) in the woodpile where Little Dan had played happily!
In retrospect I reckon cots, playpens, harnesses, safety gates and suburban fences are brilliant inventions and the great outdoors should be reserved for baby animals and their mothers. I sincerely recommend a Neurotic, Over-Cautious Phase for all parents of intrepid toddlers!
The fateful day arrived for Daniel's first taste of solids. Determined that no cow's milk should pass his innocent lips, I mixed the rice cereal with cooled boiled water to an offensive, bland paste. Predictably his little face contorted and the mush was instantly ejected to slither pathetically down the kitchen wall.
That was the first salvo in a protracted food fight which lasted around five years. As if his first brush with the dreaded glug wasn't enough, there was more torment in store for our little hero. I had one of those whiz-bang blenders and would mix up the most delightful concoctions. “Um, now, potato...pumpkin... carrot...too boring, I would muse to myself. I'll just sneak in a bit of red pepper, a sprig of parsley for some extra vitamin C and yes some nice, nutritious silver beet. He won't notice!” The joke was on me and so was the green mush from head to toe.
I swiftly fell victim to the Parental Backlash Syndrome. Here I was a committed vegetarian and there was my 12-month-old son cadging sausages and chunks of steak at every barbecue we dared to take him to. So embarrassing!
So much for solids, my back still hasn't recovered from the Sling Phase. Little Daniel was spirited around in his very own womb with a view; at the clothesline, out shopping, at rock concerts; you name it, we were there; an inseparable, comical pair.
He may have derived immense comfort from the experience but all I got was a pain in the back.
Lugging the little blighter around all day was insufficient devotion for this willing martyr. Much to my husband's abject horror, I insisted on having him sleep in our bed in the Let the Baby Sleep in Our Bed Phase.
Do you know just how much space a tiny body can take up when it sprawls out? We didn't get much sleep clinging to the edge of the mattress and I dozed through a fog of anxiety about him falling out.
I flew into hysterics that night my worst fear was realised when we awoke to a spine-chilling thud followed by a piteous wail. The panic-stricken exchange went something like:
"Oh my God, Andrew...He's fallen out...Oh no...Oh God...Oh he's screaming. Oh God."
"Well pick him up. Just get out of bed and pick him up!"
No broken bones; just another testimony to the apt expression bouncing baby.
We lived on a country property. I got to indulge in my Earth Mother Phase and Daniel got to defy death on a daily basis. In spite of being idyllic, this property was also fraught with hazards; a river, two ponds, a generator, an underground cellar, kicking cows and venomous snakes.
Daniel discovered mobility and I became a nervous wreck. Experts say that between 12 months and two and a half is the most dangerous developmental stage. I can tell you the experts are right.
Parents may joke about how kids ever survive the exploratory stage but as I now know, safety precautions are indeed paramount. Toddlers can drown in mere minutes and succumb to any number of horrors.
The mini-human who has just found his legs possesses all the curiosity and zest for adventure of great explorers and thrill-seekers coupled with absolutely no sense of caution.
We were lazing in the sunshine playing guitar when our friend Jamie glanced up to see Daniel hanging deftly by his tiny fingers from a beam over a three metre drop into the concrete wine cellar. Jamie, a folkie who doubles as a doctor, calmly strode over and swooped him up!
I thought my toddler was playing in the next room but little Dan, the Danger Man had escaped. I found him waist deep in the pond. But that was nothing compared to the day I desperately searched the entire acreage and broke down sobbing fearing he'd been swept away in the river. He appeared from the cow paddock grinning all over his face.
The day we left our peaceful country retreat we found a rabbit with its head blown off by the generator and a Joe Blake (that’s Aussie lingo for snake) in the woodpile where Little Dan had played happily!
In retrospect I reckon cots, playpens, harnesses, safety gates and suburban fences are brilliant inventions and the great outdoors should be reserved for baby animals and their mothers. I sincerely recommend a Neurotic, Over-Cautious Phase for all parents of intrepid toddlers!
Keeping Abreast of the Matter
The celebrity doctor, who just loves to shock, declared on national television that his two favourite organs were the breast and the uterus: the first for its ability to convert blood into milk, the second for the way it can stretch and grow to 10 times its original size.
I too cannot help but marvel at the workings of the female body. I know the male body can perform some pretty neat tricks but, let's face it, the female has five biological functions related to reproduction: the monthly cycle, intercourse, pregnancy, childbirth and lactation. Males have only one!
How does the breast perform this remarkable feat of producing food for infants? During pregnancy the placenta takes over hormone production from the pituitary gland and ovaries producing oestrogen, progesterone and prolactin. These hormones lead to growth of alveoli within the breasts, which are little sacs lined with milk-secreting cells and ducts which transport the milk to the nipple. To make milk the alveoli take nutrients from the bloodstream and convert them to the correct composition.
When the baby sucks, she stimulates the release of oxytocin, which leads to the let down reflex. The cells which surround the alveoli and duct walls contract pushing the milk to the nipple.
If there is one issue nutritional experts agree on, it's that breast milk is the perfect food for babies. Mother Nature has really outdone herself with this little piece of engineering!
Human milk contains all the essential nutrients in the exact quantity needed. The main ingredients are water, fat, special milk proteins and milk sugars together with a range of vitamins, minerals and trace elements. Just after giving birth the mother produces colostrum which contains live cells and antibodies, which protect the newborn from infection.
Furthermore breast milk adapts to the baby's needs during each feed. The watery fore milk is designed to quench thirst while the fat rich hind milk satisfies hunger.
Amazingly, breast milk alters its composition as the baby grows. Milk produced by a mother with a six week old is different from that produced by a mother feeding an eight month old.
While the adult gastro-intestinal tract can cope with an extraordinary range of foods, the infant's system is designed to cope with one delicately formulated food; mother's milk, which is crucial for lifelong health.
Every breastfeeding mum is well aware of the practical advantages. Her own milk is warm and sterile, ever-ready, convenient, portable (the original fast food) and definitely cheaper than formula and easier than fumbling around with bottles in the middle of the night.
Another major plus for breastfeeding is the emotional satisfaction it gives to both baby and mother. The baby’s rapacious nursing, blissful enjoyment and drunken satiety is a source of delight. The growing baby stares lovingly into her mother's face as she nurses. She plays at the breast, fiddling with a button, patting her gently, smiling out of the corner of her mouth, reaching a tiny hand up to her lips to be kissed. It is a grand love affair.
Feeding offers an intimate respite in a hectic day. The closeness, contentment and flow of maternal love can provide a sense of security for life.
And yet some women feel repelled by breastfeeding. Granted, like pregnancy, such intimacy evokes paradoxical reactions. At times the pregnant woman, reeling from the powerful changes occurring inside her, feels invaded. Sometimes she can feel like a human incubator and consider the foetus an insidious parasite. Such feelings are as normal as positive ones. Likewise breastfeeding can be a harrowing drain on a run-down, harassed mother.
And breastfeeding is not without embarrassing moments. If it doesn't develop your sense of humour nothing will. Like getting that tingling sensation when out to dinner at a posh restaurant and realising you've forgotten to wear nursing pads. As you watch with dismay little wet patches appear on your sexy evening dress, you instantly understand the true meaning of the term let down!
Then there is waking up in the morning with a chest to rival Dolly Parton and witnessing a hungry baby make molehills out of mountains! How deflating!
Nursing mums get to make a unique punk fashion statement with a baby sick stain on one shoulder of a tatty old t-shirt, a poo stain on the thigh of your trusty track pants and tell-tale wet patches over each boob!
Breastfeeding is Mother Nature’s master stroke! Emotionally gratifying, highly nutritional and extremely practical, however glamorous it's not!
I too cannot help but marvel at the workings of the female body. I know the male body can perform some pretty neat tricks but, let's face it, the female has five biological functions related to reproduction: the monthly cycle, intercourse, pregnancy, childbirth and lactation. Males have only one!
How does the breast perform this remarkable feat of producing food for infants? During pregnancy the placenta takes over hormone production from the pituitary gland and ovaries producing oestrogen, progesterone and prolactin. These hormones lead to growth of alveoli within the breasts, which are little sacs lined with milk-secreting cells and ducts which transport the milk to the nipple. To make milk the alveoli take nutrients from the bloodstream and convert them to the correct composition.
When the baby sucks, she stimulates the release of oxytocin, which leads to the let down reflex. The cells which surround the alveoli and duct walls contract pushing the milk to the nipple.
If there is one issue nutritional experts agree on, it's that breast milk is the perfect food for babies. Mother Nature has really outdone herself with this little piece of engineering!
Human milk contains all the essential nutrients in the exact quantity needed. The main ingredients are water, fat, special milk proteins and milk sugars together with a range of vitamins, minerals and trace elements. Just after giving birth the mother produces colostrum which contains live cells and antibodies, which protect the newborn from infection.
Furthermore breast milk adapts to the baby's needs during each feed. The watery fore milk is designed to quench thirst while the fat rich hind milk satisfies hunger.
Amazingly, breast milk alters its composition as the baby grows. Milk produced by a mother with a six week old is different from that produced by a mother feeding an eight month old.
While the adult gastro-intestinal tract can cope with an extraordinary range of foods, the infant's system is designed to cope with one delicately formulated food; mother's milk, which is crucial for lifelong health.
Every breastfeeding mum is well aware of the practical advantages. Her own milk is warm and sterile, ever-ready, convenient, portable (the original fast food) and definitely cheaper than formula and easier than fumbling around with bottles in the middle of the night.
Another major plus for breastfeeding is the emotional satisfaction it gives to both baby and mother. The baby’s rapacious nursing, blissful enjoyment and drunken satiety is a source of delight. The growing baby stares lovingly into her mother's face as she nurses. She plays at the breast, fiddling with a button, patting her gently, smiling out of the corner of her mouth, reaching a tiny hand up to her lips to be kissed. It is a grand love affair.
Feeding offers an intimate respite in a hectic day. The closeness, contentment and flow of maternal love can provide a sense of security for life.
And yet some women feel repelled by breastfeeding. Granted, like pregnancy, such intimacy evokes paradoxical reactions. At times the pregnant woman, reeling from the powerful changes occurring inside her, feels invaded. Sometimes she can feel like a human incubator and consider the foetus an insidious parasite. Such feelings are as normal as positive ones. Likewise breastfeeding can be a harrowing drain on a run-down, harassed mother.
And breastfeeding is not without embarrassing moments. If it doesn't develop your sense of humour nothing will. Like getting that tingling sensation when out to dinner at a posh restaurant and realising you've forgotten to wear nursing pads. As you watch with dismay little wet patches appear on your sexy evening dress, you instantly understand the true meaning of the term let down!
Then there is waking up in the morning with a chest to rival Dolly Parton and witnessing a hungry baby make molehills out of mountains! How deflating!
Nursing mums get to make a unique punk fashion statement with a baby sick stain on one shoulder of a tatty old t-shirt, a poo stain on the thigh of your trusty track pants and tell-tale wet patches over each boob!
Breastfeeding is Mother Nature’s master stroke! Emotionally gratifying, highly nutritional and extremely practical, however glamorous it's not!
The Agony and the Ecstasy of Birth
It was during a particularly excruciating contraction that the thought crossed my mind: “How could any sane woman, knowing the pain of labour, ever deliberately go in for it AGAIN?”
The first day after giving birth, I was physically wretched; so sore with stitches from the episiotomy it hurt to shuffle six steps. When my milk 'came in' my hot, engorged breasts almost burst and every time the baby sucked I braced myself for stabbing pain from blistered nipples and the blinding 'after pains' as my uterus contracted.
Such agonies and indignities remain the secret rites of women who give birth. Outsiders are seldom privy to the gory details especially in the media whose business it is to report horrors of a much grander scale.
But that evening as I tuned into the news, I felt compelled to lift the lid on the profundity of it all. Suddenly world events seemed trivial. I was awestruck with the realisation that women in every culture throughout the world, throughout the centuries, had endured childbirth and continued to do so every second of every day. This was the biggest news story of all time! Overwhelmed with admiration for the mothers of the world, I felt united with womankind.
Over the next few days the answer to that question I had posed to myself during labour began to unfold. The mind plays a trick on us women in the interest of the procreation of the species; you forget the pain oh so quickly. On Day One to recall the labour meant reliving it in every fibre of my body but within three days it had faded to a vague memory for filing in some dark recess of the brain, to be retrieved when comparing notes with other mums over a cuppa.
If the mind is ingenious, so the human body is remarkably resilient. By Day Four I sprang from the hospital bed to stretch and cavort; ecstatic at my body's ability to heal and thrilled at reclaiming my pre-pregnant agility after months of lumping around my clumsy bulk and convinced, as some cruel joke, I would remain pregnant forever!
However the over-riding, all-consuming reason why a woman would ever again contemplate the ordeal of labour is something quite different and wrapped up in a bunny rug. Nobody knows how a heart can love until they have a child! I just can't help myself...I feel an euphoric, wild passion like none I've ever known.
Parental love surpasses any rapture experienced between lovers. I have indeed fallen in love. I gaze besotted at her ineffably beautiful face, go all warm and tingly as her floppy little arms drape around my neck and delight at her cooing noises as she feeds, lost in baby bliss.
To ponder the fact that this miniature human being grew inside me and now continues to thrive on milk produced by my body is a constant source of wonder- a privilege of my gender; both humbling and ennobling.
Feelings toward other people's babies are no indication of how you will feel toward your own. I once vowed I would never have kids. I viewed them nervously as intimidating little aliens. But one's own fragile, dependent baby elicits a fierce devotion and protectiveness. Nature endows the newborn with adorable features to ensure a nurturing response - and it works!
Bonding is Nature's neat trick; an inexplicable phenomenon. If mother and baby are allowed uninterrupted time together from the moment of birth for the first few days of life a magical symbiosis is woven and a mother becomes intimately attuned to her infant's needs.
Adding to the potency of emotion is the immense relief and gratitude in having a normal, healthy baby. Every pregnant woman experiences anxiety about her unborn; will it be stillborn, disabled, diseased, defective? The worry plays relentlessly on the mind until that exquisite moment of caressing the warm, damp creation. Pregnancy is one of the greatest acts of faith I know.
To have the gender one favours is an added blessing that heightens the elation. Having a gorgeous son, I admit my heart was set on a girl. My mind had been obsessed with pink the entire pregnancy. What is it with pink and blue?
And then circumstances play their part. For me, this baby was keenly desired, strategically planned and ridiculously prepared for. I had all the baby gear ready in the first trimester!
We had at last a strong marriage and being a second baby I was over the terror of the unknown yet, with a seven year break, Motherhood Take Two loomed as a fresh novelty (having fully recovered from broken sleep, the nappy regime and walls spluttered with mush from the first time round!)
I concede it is much harder to be ecstatic when the pregnancy is unwanted and you are alone, scared and broke. However in the case of our first, circumstances were far from ideal and yet love for our baby son eventually conquered all.
Something else happens when you hitch on your new status of parenthood. You instantly join a universal club of fellow travellers who share the same dotty passion and you forge an unspoken understanding. A new baby draws out love in other parents, rekindling their own pleasure in their children: something you find beautifully expressed in the multitude of heartfelt cards, gifts and kind wishes.
And suddenly you rediscover your own parents with the realisation: “Did they really love ME this much?” To share with my mum and dad delight in their grandchildren has brought us closer than I could ever imagine.
So this is the main reason we women endure the transitory pain of labour, not to mention the discomforts of pregnancy, disruption to paid employment and a lifetime of fretting and caring: it’s all for the love of a child.
The first day after giving birth, I was physically wretched; so sore with stitches from the episiotomy it hurt to shuffle six steps. When my milk 'came in' my hot, engorged breasts almost burst and every time the baby sucked I braced myself for stabbing pain from blistered nipples and the blinding 'after pains' as my uterus contracted.
Such agonies and indignities remain the secret rites of women who give birth. Outsiders are seldom privy to the gory details especially in the media whose business it is to report horrors of a much grander scale.
But that evening as I tuned into the news, I felt compelled to lift the lid on the profundity of it all. Suddenly world events seemed trivial. I was awestruck with the realisation that women in every culture throughout the world, throughout the centuries, had endured childbirth and continued to do so every second of every day. This was the biggest news story of all time! Overwhelmed with admiration for the mothers of the world, I felt united with womankind.
Over the next few days the answer to that question I had posed to myself during labour began to unfold. The mind plays a trick on us women in the interest of the procreation of the species; you forget the pain oh so quickly. On Day One to recall the labour meant reliving it in every fibre of my body but within three days it had faded to a vague memory for filing in some dark recess of the brain, to be retrieved when comparing notes with other mums over a cuppa.
If the mind is ingenious, so the human body is remarkably resilient. By Day Four I sprang from the hospital bed to stretch and cavort; ecstatic at my body's ability to heal and thrilled at reclaiming my pre-pregnant agility after months of lumping around my clumsy bulk and convinced, as some cruel joke, I would remain pregnant forever!
However the over-riding, all-consuming reason why a woman would ever again contemplate the ordeal of labour is something quite different and wrapped up in a bunny rug. Nobody knows how a heart can love until they have a child! I just can't help myself...I feel an euphoric, wild passion like none I've ever known.
Parental love surpasses any rapture experienced between lovers. I have indeed fallen in love. I gaze besotted at her ineffably beautiful face, go all warm and tingly as her floppy little arms drape around my neck and delight at her cooing noises as she feeds, lost in baby bliss.
To ponder the fact that this miniature human being grew inside me and now continues to thrive on milk produced by my body is a constant source of wonder- a privilege of my gender; both humbling and ennobling.
Feelings toward other people's babies are no indication of how you will feel toward your own. I once vowed I would never have kids. I viewed them nervously as intimidating little aliens. But one's own fragile, dependent baby elicits a fierce devotion and protectiveness. Nature endows the newborn with adorable features to ensure a nurturing response - and it works!
Bonding is Nature's neat trick; an inexplicable phenomenon. If mother and baby are allowed uninterrupted time together from the moment of birth for the first few days of life a magical symbiosis is woven and a mother becomes intimately attuned to her infant's needs.
Adding to the potency of emotion is the immense relief and gratitude in having a normal, healthy baby. Every pregnant woman experiences anxiety about her unborn; will it be stillborn, disabled, diseased, defective? The worry plays relentlessly on the mind until that exquisite moment of caressing the warm, damp creation. Pregnancy is one of the greatest acts of faith I know.
To have the gender one favours is an added blessing that heightens the elation. Having a gorgeous son, I admit my heart was set on a girl. My mind had been obsessed with pink the entire pregnancy. What is it with pink and blue?
And then circumstances play their part. For me, this baby was keenly desired, strategically planned and ridiculously prepared for. I had all the baby gear ready in the first trimester!
We had at last a strong marriage and being a second baby I was over the terror of the unknown yet, with a seven year break, Motherhood Take Two loomed as a fresh novelty (having fully recovered from broken sleep, the nappy regime and walls spluttered with mush from the first time round!)
I concede it is much harder to be ecstatic when the pregnancy is unwanted and you are alone, scared and broke. However in the case of our first, circumstances were far from ideal and yet love for our baby son eventually conquered all.
Something else happens when you hitch on your new status of parenthood. You instantly join a universal club of fellow travellers who share the same dotty passion and you forge an unspoken understanding. A new baby draws out love in other parents, rekindling their own pleasure in their children: something you find beautifully expressed in the multitude of heartfelt cards, gifts and kind wishes.
And suddenly you rediscover your own parents with the realisation: “Did they really love ME this much?” To share with my mum and dad delight in their grandchildren has brought us closer than I could ever imagine.
So this is the main reason we women endure the transitory pain of labour, not to mention the discomforts of pregnancy, disruption to paid employment and a lifetime of fretting and caring: it’s all for the love of a child.
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