The 30% Clause.

Well. I am not one of those bloggers that blogs every day. There's not too many things I do every day, actually. I have so many things that I need to cram into life, that I have to rotate them. Somehow, over the last two weeks, my usually busy schedule has reached frenetic levels and parenting these three wise ones has been something that has happened while I wasn't looking, meaning I haven't had any stories to tell.

On the bright side, this must also mean I haven't screwed it up too badly lately.

 As tends to happen, though, when things are running along smoothly, one or more of children will pop their heads up, realise that all has been quiet on the Western Front for too long already, and some NOISE needs to be made, some TROUBLE needs to be had. You can't let harmony run along for too long, it might start believing it belongs around here.

Last night, we heard a thump. Not unusual around here... unlike most folks, we don't reach for the baseball bat, we reach for The Confiscation Bag. (Clearly, since it happens often enough that we have a bag for the purpose, confiscating toys is not actually that effective. But, cut us a break, at the end of a gruelling day, creativity levels are low.)

We tiptoe down the passageway. Without the element of surprise, we have nothing. The Husband flings the door open.... and catches the three-year-old halfway out the window. Again. She is stuck. We fight the urge to leave her there overnight, and The Husband reaches out to pull her down. And gets poo on his hands. The blessed child has painted her hair with poo. I'm not going to tell you what he said, but the three year old learnt some fine synonyms for 'poo' last night.

Tonight, she went to bed without dinner. I can't remember exactly what sin led her there, but whatever it was, she wasn't happy. It's always slightly reassuring when a punishment we inflict results in a reaction - tears are good, wailing is better, but, boy, tonight we hit jackpot. Half an hour later when we took the four year old to bed, the three year old was laying down, looking resolutely at the ceiling. Her face was covered in blood. I gasped and asked her what happened. She stonily replied, "I had a blood nose."
I asked her how it started and she turned to me and looked at me with a cold, slightly satisfied expression on her face. "I put my hands on my wardrobe, and banged my nose on the mirror until it started bleeding." She then turned away with the victorious air of someone who has conquered.

Later, I phoned my friend. She works for DCP, and I figure that if I tell her all my stories and she doesn't put my kids in The Confiscation Bag, I'm doing alright. I tell her a lot of stories. She's kind of my litmus test for parenting.

I asked whatthehellIamsupposedtobedoingwiththischildofmine. She said to me that, according to some professional development she recently undertook, if we get it right with our kids just thirty percent of the time, they will be fine.

Thirty percent? All this time, and my expectations have been way too high. Thirty percent. It's like a weight has lifted from my shoulders.

So, tomorrow, I'm just going to parent like crazy until morning tea time, then they are on their own.

The One I Hope My Daughters Read When They Are Older And Hate Me.

To my daughters,

I love you. Sometimes, I wish it was that easy, that, in parenting you, I could just say "I love you" and convey in those words everything I feel about you, everything I want for you, everything I struggle with. All I ever wanted was a daughter, and I was lucky, I got two. I am a woman, I am a wife, I am a mother, and I feel so privileged to have two beautiful girls who I can help to become women, wives (or partners, I'm okay with that) and mothers themselves.

What a task. What a huge, scary, enormous task. How can I possibly define what it means to be a woman, wrap it up into a neat little bundle and feed it to you in age appropriate chunks throughout your journey to become one? How do I figure out what is really important to teach you, what you absolutely have to know, without imposing my own values unnecessarily onto you? How do I warn you, without scaring you? How do I guide you, without making you dependant on me? How do I let go, without losing you?

I really do love you. Intensely. But the dark side to love is fear, and worry, and anger, and frustration. I hope that as you look back through your life, these are not the things you remember the most. I hope you know that under it all, is a love like a slow burning fire, warming me everyday, hurting if I got too close, but beautiful, so beautiful to sit with.

You are both so different. So raw, and so vulnerable, and fierce, and joyful, and caring... but different. Four-year-old, you are my worrier. My helper. The one that needs so much from me. You wear me down, with all your questions, and demands, and the way you want everything done just right now. You love to learn, and do things, and work things out, your own way. You want me to sit with you while you figure things out, and praise you all the way to the moon and back when you get it right. You struggle with disappointment, both your own and others. You seek out the love and attention of others - your affection is hard earned, but once it is, you are fiercely loyal. Your feelings are so strong, they scare you sometimes. They scare me sometimes. You are my mirror - when I am down, you are down; when I am joyful, you are joyful. This is such a responsibility, and sometimes I react to you as if I am reacting to myself. You show me my own flaws, and I am so sorry for passing them on to you. I worry for you, because I know how hard life may be for you.... and, then again, it may not be. You are strong, and self aware, and you are not me.

Three-year-old, you are my enigma. You are a dreamer, a thinker, a creator. You live half in this world, and half in a world of your own making. But sometimes, when you think I am not looking, I see you watching, taking everything in, taking more in than you let on. You are clever, so clever, but in a different way to your sister. You come at things in your own way, in your own time. You sift through information, keeping what is important to you and discarding the rest. Three-year-old, you wear your heart on your sleeve. Your feelings are to be shared, loudly, and with great ceremony. You dance in the street, sing all day and are most comfortable in fairy dresses and Wellington boots. You are slow, so slow, and you remind to take time to notice things around me. I get frustrated at you, and try to hurry you along, but nothing hurries you unless you are ready to be hurried. You are fiercely independent, and if I intervene in your efforts to master something, you brush me away and go right back to the beginning to do it all over again. You teach me patience.

I have to parent you both differently. You tell me it's not fair - you both tell me it's not fair - but if I parented you the same, I would be missing the point with both of you. You both have your own journey, and I try to be there for each of you. I get it wrong. Sometimes I get it very wrong.  Sometimes I worry that I have gotten it so wrong, I will damage you irreparably. I know you intimately, in ways that no-one will ever know you - and yet, you both teach me something new everyday. There are days when I am heavy with the weight of you both, the burden of carrying you both through the obstacles of life, especially on the days where I find myself on a part of the journey that neither of you wanted to take. I forget, sometimes, that you are your own people. I try to shape you too precisely, and you fight me.

That's okay. Keep fighting me. Keep challenging me. Keep engaging with me, and teaching me, and loving me. If I can feel the pressure of you, then I know that we are still in it together. One day, you will be ready to move on. My role in your life will change. That's okay, too. When the time comes, I will try to be ready. I hope that you will have enjoyed your journey with me enough to revisit it from time to time.

But, for now, you are still so small. You tell me each day how big you are now, and you know, sometimes I start to believe it. I start to expect more from you than I should, and you struggle under the weight of my expectations. I will try to remember how little you are. You have been on this Earth for such a short time, and you are learning so much everyday. I will try to be your safe place, your quiet place, your soft landing. I will try to remember to carry you when you are tired, and let you walk (slowly) when your feet are ready.

So, again, I love you. I love you enough to forgive myself for my mistakes, dust myself and keep going. I will always love you, remember that, even when I am showing you the dark side of my love. I pray that I can teach you to love you, too. And to forgive. Love and forgiveness. Everything else will work itself out.

My daughters, you are my world. Thank you.

Detachment Parenting: Growing Them Up Resilient, Independent.... And, Well, Alive!

In the inevitable pram lineup that occurs whenever mums of young babies and toddlers congregate (you know the one - where you eye each others' prams off to work out where you sit in the pecking order. Best leave the $20 Big W stroller at home) my child was usually the one with a bottle propped up against a rolled up bunny rug, dummy on a string pinned to her top and a flat head from being left on the floor while I do housework. All that is missing is the flashing neon light that says "I CAME OUT OF THE SUNROOF!!"

I am not an "Attachment Parent". I'd love to have it in me, but I'm a personal space kinda girl. And the odds were stacked against me anyway, with boobs that never got the memo about why they exist, and a pelvis too small to fit my big-headed babies through. (Yep, you heard, too small - just waiting for the rest of my body parts to catch on.) When my kids started pulling themselves up to stand holding onto my trousers I'd involuntarily shake my leg like a dog when you scratch their stomach in just the right spot. The Boy is on a rotation between playmat, bunny rug on the floor with toys, bouncer and cot. Two of my most favourite parenting moments are when they learn to hold their own bottle and when they learn to swing themselves on the swingset. I wake up excited on Mondays thinking "TGIM - school day!!" I spend hours hand making toys and games and dressups for the kids but never have the energy to actually play with them.

I love my kids. No, really. But if you've been reading along you will know that I don't consider this parenting gig to be a walk in the park. Smell the roses? You've got to be kidding me. Most days I can't get the smell of poo out of my nostrils.

Yesterday, some friends and I took our collective tribes to the local pool. It's a bit of a weekly ritual for us, mainly because we realised that we had Friday mornings free and were terrified at the prospect of having to entertain our kids AT HOME, for the WHOLE DAY! We set up in our usual grassy spot, and laid back to watch our kids playing in the baby pool while we compared stories about how feral they had been. Suddenly, the local homeschooling mums, with an average tribe of six kids each, came and set their towels up - in a circle around us. It was like an intervention. A homeschooling, attachment parenting intervention. I panicked. I put The Boy's bottle away, hid his dummy in the pram and tried to think of something, well, attachmentish to say. I talked about the weather. "It's been hot, hasn't it? Yesterday it was so hot I left the car running with the aircon on for the kids while I popped into - ah shit. Um... Oh, your little one looks a bit off colour. Teething, you think? You should try using amber. Panadol? Uh, yeah, I have some - never leave the house without it... ah, bugger." The Husband joked that perhaps they were on a personal development outing - reminding themselves of why they have made the parenting choices they did. Thanks, Husband.

I'm not sure why I felt like this. I said to my friend, I would love to want to be the homeschooling, attachment-y type of parent. But something in me rebels against it. Maybe its the Universe protecting me against complete and utter failure. I mean, I find parenting hard going enough, and that's WITH the help of ABC2 and school. If I homeschooled my little angels, they'd be lucky to get through Year One alive.

When I googled 'detachment parenting', some keywords jumped out at me. Playful parenting, inspired parenting, peaceful parenting, natural parenting, unconditional parenting, scream free parenting. The insecure, paranoid part of me (which is actually quite a large part of me, come to think of it) immediately gets all defensive and whispers in my ear, "See? They think you aren't natural enough, or peaceful enough, and by the way, you scream too much." I imagine a giant checklist, with some babywearing she-god checking off my parenting qualities with a frown on her face. Smacks her kids. Values sleep over the closeness and bonding opportunities of bedsharing. Forgets about baby massage.

On the bright side, though, my detachment style of parenting has yielded some pretty incredible results. The older two both learnt to walk early, no doubt aided by me shaking them off my leg when they were just beginning. They are very comfortable with other adults - probably because I have never hesitated to leave them in others' care so I can enjoy a night off. (The Foxtel salesman looked slightly concerned when it was his turn, but, hey, he won't be knocking on my door again!) They are both very resilient, most likely due to me not mollycoddling them when they hurt themselves. (This backfired on me once: the three-year-old was howling in her bedroom one night, and I stood at her door and yelled that it had better be important because if I come in and it wasn't important you'll get a smacked bottom! Is it important? No? Well, goodnight then! Turns out she had fallen out of bed and gotten a blood nose. I was washing sheets and carpet all the next day. They now know that blood noses are important.) Both of the older two know how to use the TV remotes and they can prepare simple meals for themselves. (Sultanas and dry cereal is a meal, right?)

So, detachment parenting is my thing. When I drop the kids off at school, my slight guilt at how much I enjoy leaving them there is alleviated somewhat as I sip on my iced coffee at the cafe and watch the attachment, home-schooling mums try to rush through their grocery shopping, all six kids in tow, while they worry about getting home with enough time to manage six different curriculums and still get dinner on the table. The grass is always greener, but, on school days, I kinda like my pastures.

Oh, Honestly.

Pic stolen from here

There's a point in every mother's week where The Husband comes home and we greet them at the door, say, "Tag!" and run past them, leaving them with the carnage of the day. I've been known to pull into the driveway after a day of playdates, errands and school pickups, with three whinging, arguing children in the backseat, lean on the horn until The Husband comes running (fearing the worst, no doubt), jump out of the car, motor still idling, and be hiding in the toilet before he can scratch himself.

Some days, I start blogging about how hilariously shitty being a stay-at-home mother is..... and then need to take a break because the rage is too close to the surface. (This is my life? Are you serious? Oh my God, I used to be good at something.) Some days, it's hard to find the hilarious among all the shit.

Irony. That's what motherhood is, a big fat vindictive case of irony. I remember in that thing I used to have called a career, I was good at dealing with difficult people and complex situations. Now I find myself daily facing off against a four year old - and losing. I remember thinking I'd never be one of those mothers screeching at their kids in public places. This week at playgroup I scared the bejeezus out of everyone else' kids when I lost patience at my selectively hearing impaired dreamchild and screamed in that voice-breaking kind of way, "THREE YEAR OLD GET YOUR BACKSIDE OVER HERE BEFORE I HIT IT SO HARD YOUR FUTURE HUSBAND WILL BE ASKING YOU WHOSE HANDPRINT YOU HAVE TATTOOED ON YOUR ARSE!!!" Come to think of it, I was going to be one of those parents who never smacks. Calm down, people. It's still legal. I checked.

I remember coming home from work some days and saying, "I hate my job." It's a little uncool to say that when your job is your kids. But, some days, I hate my job. Someone said to me today how much they love going to work. Going to work. And coming home. Gosh, I remember that. I immediately felt a bit defensive and said, "I'm not ready to go back to work, I love staying home." And I do. Sometimes. And sometimes, I don't.

I really enjoy blogging. I love that people enjoy reading along. I like picking through the good and the bad of each day, finding the stories that might make someone smile, or lift their mood, or make them feel normal, like it's okay to feel the way they feel. But unfortunately, not every day is funny, or nice, or makes me want to make other people feel okay. Sometimes, I just want to be able to write, today, I hated my job. Glad that's over. My throat hurts from the effort of not crying and I'm feeling full from hiding in the pantry and eating all the almonds. I'm tired, I'm overwhelmed at how much mess they make, I just want to go to bed but the sooner I do, the sooner tomorrow will come and to be honest, I'm not sure I want to do tomorrow at all.

So, I'm sorry this post isn't funny. I'm sorry it doesn't have a nice, neat, happy ending. Not all days in the life of a mother have happy endings. I hope that's okay. I hope it's normal. I hope my children won't be scarred by having a mother who doesn't always see the positives. I hope they know how much I love them, even when I'm not loving being around them. 

Slow Down, Take A Deep Breath, And Just Stay CALM!

Picture stolen from here

I'm currently trying out a new parenting technique. You may have heard of it - it's called Staying Calm. I've had mixed results with it.... earlier in the week it didn't go so well, but the last two days have been quite wonderful. (We did drop the kids off at their grandma's house and spend the night in a hotel.... that's right, no kids..... no, not even the smallest one.... it's called Detachment Parenting and it makes me Very Calm.)

Now that we have the spawn back again, my Calm is being tested. (As I type this, the older two are supposed to be tidying their room. It is 43.2 degrees in there and they have precisely three things to put away. So far, it has taken them thirty-three minutes. The four year old walks in whining that the three year old hit her on the head with her metal water bottle - well, chicken, you have two arms, two legs and a metal water bottle of your own. Work it out! The three year old then comes in declaring dramatically, "I can't walk!" The Husband says, "Oh no!! How did you get here then?" She looks at him disdainfully and says, "With my legs!")

Anyway, I am not one of these parents that just Stays Calm naturally. I have to work at it, and I am generally opposed to things I have to work at. My usual response to the whining/dobbing/pestering so masterfully dished up to me by my children is to put my hands in the air, close my eyes and say "I don't want to hear it! I don't want to hear it!" repeatedly until they give up and go away.

But now that I have managed to stay calm for the forty five minutes, I consider myself quite an expert and would like to share with you some of my tips on how to Stay Calm in the face of a small, determined army.

#1: Instead of yelling, sing. Turn whatever you were planning on yelling into a song. The kids will think you are being nice, and you won't get that nasty sore throat you get from screeching at them. Also, they are more inclined to do what you ask. I don't know why, but it works. Just ask Mary Poppins.

#2: Socialise.... a lot. Us mothers are ALWAYS nicer to our children when we are around other parents. No-one wants to show off the veins in their forehead to their friends.

#3: Count to three. Any more than three wines is just irresponsible parenting, but three definitely takes the edge off.

#4: Take some time out. Barbados is nice this time of the year, I hear.

#5: Play a game together. Some of my favourites are musical statues (take the time to enjoy a nice, long bath while they are 'frozen'), hide and seek (my no-fail hiding place is in the next door neighbour's chook shed - be sure to remember your book and a block of chocolate!) and the one where you throw a pack of hundreds and thousands open on the kitchen floor and tell them to pick up all the blue ones.

#6: Try meditation. It relaxes you, and with any luck, while you are sitting cross-legged on the floor humming, the kids will tire of waiting for a response from you and leave you alone.

I hope these suggestions help. You may look a bit silly sitting in the neighbour's chook pen, singing the words of your favourite book while shovelling chocolate and wine into your mouth, but at least you will be Calm!

Parenting Qualification #3: Surviving Witching Hour.

Witching hour is the biggest myth about parenting out there. Parenting books will have us believe that our children are mildly unsettled for an hour or so right about the time that we are attempting to serve three versions of the same wholesome, delicious meal, catering to each child's particular tastes, whilst supervising bath time. Here is the truth. Witching hour begins when your child wakes from their afternoon nap, and continues right up until bed time. Which, lets face it, is probably going to be an hour after you planned it to be.

Witching hour actually goes for Four. Freaking. Hours.

I'm not too sure where the term 'witching hour' originated from but I suspect it involves fleeting visions of burning the little darlings at the stake. Or perhaps it has more to do with the otherwordly shriek that mothers use to communicate during the last few hours of wakeful parenting each day.

I dread witching hour. In my house, it's the time of day most likely to see me hiding on the toilet with the laptop, while The Husband is left to wrangle the spawn through dinner and into bed. I have tried establishing a routine to make things run a bit more smoothly, but the sad, sorry truth is that my children often climb into bed unshowered, in various states of undress and, more often than not, with that evening's dinner still clinging to their hair.

Last night, witching hour began before The Husband arrived home from work. The kids' god-awful Fairies DVD had been on a constant loop and let me tell you those songs are bad enough when performed by whiny, underpaid university students being whored for the junior masses, let alone when re-enacted by two slightly off-key fairy wannabes. Through gritted teeth, I informed the three- and- four year olds that it was quiet time now and the TV was going off. The TV went off..... and so did the fairy wannabes. (I always managed to convince myself that my kids didn't watch too much TV..... until the three-year-old's birthday party invitation wishlist resembled ABC for Kids' afternoon line-up. I'm sorry, honey, I really don't think Angelina Ballerina will be able to make it to your party. Once you're inside that TV, it's damn hard to get out again.) 

I resisted the temptation to join in the wailing, and herded them off to the bedroom to tidy up before dinner, while I attempted to rummage up something halfway nutritional, colourful and appealing to everybody in the family. Jamie Oliver promised it would be easy and my family would love it. The kids came to me screaming something about pulled hair. I sent them away to 'work it out'. They came back arguing over who has to put the knickers away. I poured myself a glass of wine. The four year old worked out that closing her sister's fingers in the door could be classed as an accident but still guarantees a very satisfying reaction. I told Jamie Oliver where to shove it and stuck some two minute noodles in the microwave.

The Husband walks in and I mumble something vague about it being his turn now and take off into the bedroom for some space. I spend ten minutes cooing at the youngest who I am very afraid will grow up being hated by his big sisters because he never gets yelled at. I reassure them from time to time that I spoke nicely to them as well when they were babies and I'm sure he'll get his fair share of being screeched at when he learns to talk.

I eventually surface from my voluntary exile just in time to see the three year old try noodles out as a new hairstyle, as the four year old knocks her drink onto the floor during a particularly exuberant ballet twirl. I send them off to get their pyjamas and they walk a trail of noodles into the carpet, get to their bedroom, forget why they were there and come back emptyhanded.

I speak. very. slowly. They move. very. slowly.

The three year old finally comes out dressed for bed in yesterday's t-shirt. I sigh and check it for obvious food deposits. The four year old announces she is going to bed naked, which is more about her laziness than the weather. They argue over the three year old's toothbrush, they argue over which book to read for bedtime story, the Boy chooses now to screech for a bottle.

We finally get them into bed and shut the door on their procrastination. I spend two minutes in the passageway outside their room silently shouting all the swear words I had bitten back during the evening, then get dressed to go for a walk. As I leave the house, both girls are standing on the windowsill doing their best impersonation of naked starfish. I check that none of the neighbours are observing, use sign language to demonstrate that they will be in Big Trouble if they are still awake when I get home, and I Get The Hell Out Of There.

I'm halfway around the block when I realise... bugger. They went to bed unshowered - again.

I did a Google image search for 'witching hour' and this is what I ended up with. Seriously, Google, that's the best you've got?? I don't think Mr Google has kids.

Grocery Shopping: Extreme Sports For Mothers.

When my children began walking and talking, the fortnightly excursion to fill our pantry stopped being called grocery shopping and instead became GROCERY SHOPPING. Just like that, in big letters. I now write the shopping list with a big glass of wine. It's that much of a big deal.

Us mothers all have different tactics to help us survive the GROCERY SHOP, and yes, we all get together sometimes to talk about it. Debrief, if you like. Share survival tips, swap war stories, offer advice after particularly traumatic experiences. I told you, it's a bloody big deal.

Some mothers only shop late at night, when dads are home to watch the little ones; some mothers 'pop down' every few days for just a few items at a time; some really clever metropolitan-area-dwelling mothers use Coles online, and all of us rural mums are VERY JEALOUS of those mothers.

I don't tend to do things the easy way, so I do the GROCERY SHOPPING in one big go, once a fortnight. This is serious business. It involves planning, time and a bloody big trolley.

A few days ago, I did the GROCERY SHOPPING with all three children, for the first time. The Boy is eight weeks old now, and the kids were getting sick of eating weetbix and dry crackers. Something had to give, and it made sense that it would be my extreme fear of shopping with all of the terrors in tow.

Naturally, I chose a 38 degree day to undertake this grand outing. I piled the kids in the car, left my re-usable bags sitting proudly next to my front door and drove to the butcher/greengrocer. Some very considerate soul had left a shopping trolley right next to where I parked my car. (This happens a lot in our town. Considerate souls are always leaving trolleys right where the next person might need them.... at the end of the shopping centre carpark, at the doctor's surgery, outside Centrelink, at the bottom of the river.....) I balanced The Boy's capsule on top of the trolley, dumped the three year old in the trolley seat and marched the three of them into the shop. I was halfway through teaching the four year old to select good apples (you can't start too young, I feel. It won't be long, and I'll be able to send her to do the GROCERY SHOPPING while I sit back in my rocking chair with a gin and tonic) when the three year old started wailing, "I'm stuuuuuuuckkkk!". I look up, and the dear child has managed to get her knee jammed in the leg hole of the trolley seat. I note with interest that she is knickerless once again, and calmly tell her, "Yes, darling, you are supposed to be stuck." The green grocer looks mildly alarmed at my apparent lack of concern and comes round from his counter and offers to help extract her from her predicament. He, far more gracefully than I would have done, coaxes her knee free and sits her back down in the trolley. She throws him a dirty look for not setting her free to roam the store.

We complete our fruit and vegetable shopping and discover that the shop's EFTPOS machine is not working. "Never mind", I tell the grocer, "I'll just pop across the road to the ATM." He looks relieved and grateful at not losing out on our $150 sale until I say, "I'll just leave the kids here. Be back in a minute!" His face falls, and I flee the shop before he can protest. I consider popping in for a coffee at the cafe next to the bank, but remember that I have frozen meat in the trolley that will defrost and waste me $50.

We eventually make it to the supermarket and by the time I have unloaded them all, selected a trolley big enough to handle a baby, a toddler and a motherload of shopping, I'm red faced, panting and dripping sweat. The terrors sense my weakening spirit and lie in wake for the kill. They wait until I am precisely halfway through the shopping list, and the three year old says, "I need the toilet."

You what?

I consider my options. Rip open a packet of training pants and whack one on her? Tell her to wee slowly in the trolley seat as I walk quickly around the shop? (Surely people are less likely to notice a trail of drips than a rather large puddle...) Leave my trolley half full, give up entirely, go home and feed them more dry crackers while I enjoy my bottle of wine?

I snarl at her, "Hold it in" and finish the shopping in record time. I'm over budget by $100, but I'm not about to go through my bags to decide what to leave behind. I get back to the car and analyse which order I am supposed to load the car. I finally decide to load the groceries first because I am pretty sure that any thief worth his salt would prefer to steal a trolley full of groceries than three snot-faced children. We all make it into the car alive and I finally realise why bottle shops have drive through service.

It's for mothers who have finished the GROCERY SHOPPING.