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.

My Second Child: The One That Taught Me Not To Judge Other Parents.

But only silently... or I will probably live to regret it.

The other day, I was driving down the road with The Husband and the small army all tucked into their respective car seats like sardines in a can. A car drove past with a little girl standing on the backseat looking out the window. I said, "Put your bloody seatbelt on!" The Husband, thinking I was talking to one of our kids (ahem, not that I ever speak to my own blessed children like that), reached behind his seat..... and calmly clicked in the three-year-old's harness.

That is my second born. The one who continually reminds me not to judge other parents - because chances are, someone else is looking at me, shaking their head at how I could let this angelic looking child completely run the show.

She is the kind of child that trades on her looks. Lord knows where she got that from. I tried it, but sadly, all my looks have ever gotten me are some retail 'assistant', head cocked to the side, lips pursed, saying, "Try it in the black, dear, black hides a multitude of flaws." The three-year-old, however, has old ladies wrapped around her little finger, mothers smiling at her indulgently and burly men melting into little mushy puddles, rendered completely helpless by her dreamy charm.

This morning she informs us that she no longer has any need for her bedroom door, as she prefers to exit using the window. As all good mothers do when their children tell them things, I assumed she was bullshitting and rather condescendingly said, "When have you ever used to window to get out of your bedroom?"
"At nighttime," she tells me, "to play outside."
A quick check of the window reveals that sure enough, the flyscreen has been slit across the bottom and there are grubby footprints on the outside wall where she has clambered back in. The four-year-old confirms her story. "Yes, mum, she's never in the room when I wake up!" Unsure whether to berate the four-year-old for not thinking to tell me earlier, berate the three-year-old for roaming the garden at night, or applaud her resourcefulness, I glance at The Husband and we do what all concerned, responsible parents would do in this situation: we laugh. I tell The Husband that I deserve a bloody medal for parenting this child, and we try very hard to convey the Seriousness of her behaviour.

She is also the kind of kid who always looks like an orphan. I could dress her in a $100 David Jones dress and she will look like a street kid who has raided the leafy green suburbs' Salvo bin. Her hair refuses to conform to society's idea of what neat looks like, and I have seriously seen dirt fly through the air and land on her face, for no reason at all. She's not mad keen on underwear, either.

A couple of weeks ago, she went to three-year-old kindy for the first time. My kids go to our local private school, and, let me tell you, that is a lot of pressure for an already frazzled mother of three. There are rules. Not school rules, mum rules. The Husband laughed at me, when, on this first day, he got up from the drawing table after colouring in a picture with the three-year-old (yes! Just one!) and made moves to leave. I hissed at him through smiling lips, "You can't go yet!!"
"What?" he said. "Why not?"
"You can't be the first parent to leave!"

He thinks I take it all too seriously.  I don't tell him that I chose our current car based purely on how it would look in the afternoon school pickup car lineup. It's no Prado, but it's close enough.

Anyway, at the end of the three-year-old's first day, I throw some (nice) shoes on, brush my hair and try to look unfrazzled as I wait outside the kindy door for her to appear. She prances out, looking very pleased with herself, and I notice she is wearing a skirt. A pink, lacy skirt.
"Who's is that skirt?" I ask her.
She vaguely gestures towards the dress up corner. I march her back into the classroom and ask her to put the skirt back in the box. She pulls the skirt off..... and is wearing nothing underneath. Nothing. No shorts, no knickers, nothing. We hunt around and reclaim her shorts, but it seems her knickers have vanished. The teacher's aid tells me she has never come across anything like this before. Keep your knickers on unless you are in the toilet is now a classroom rule.

Sometimes I think I should be driving a panel van.

Now, I do try not to judge other mums. I am fairly sure children are aware of how little we mums like to be judged and how much we actually do it, and use that awareness to their advantage. So unless, you are this mum...

or this dad

you are probably pretty safe from me.

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. 

When Bad Days Are Normal, Censoring Is Optional.

What is a 'blog'?

Well, it's like an online journal, except it has people reading it, which means I end up censoring what I write and not saying some of the things I may be more game to if it was truly for my eyes only. I don't do 'journalling', though, I'm not sure why, or how blogging is different. I think it's the extrovert in me (or, as I am into being totally honest, it's probably got more to do with my deepseated need for validation - but anyway, that's all a bit heavy for a lighthearted blog like this.)

Today was another one of those bad days. The kind that drive me to blog, to spew it all out onto paper (or screen) and tell it like it really is... humour with a tinge of anger, because fuck! No-one told me it would be this bloody hard! We seem to go through patches where the good days are rare, and the bad days are worse than normal. I'm sure it's pretty common, I'm sure every parent feels this way sometimes, but here is what they are not likely to say out loud.

Sometimes, I don't like my children.

Sometimes, I like one of my children more than the others.

Sometimes, it feels like a long time since I liked a certain one of my children the best of all.

Sometimes, it feels like leaving would be a very easy thing to do.

Sometimes, I wonder if motherhood is really for me.

Sometimes, I am quite certain my children go to bed not having heard a single warm thing from me all day.

Don't misunderstand me. This is not how I feel all of the time. But certainly more than I would like. And the guilt that results from these feelings sets me off on an awful merry-go-round of useless, tired emotions, and useless, tired days.

But, here's the thing. It's normal to feel this way. I know it is, because I have very good and forgiving friends and when I whisper fragments of these feelings to them, they don't look at me in disgust. They nod their heads. And they share their own stories. And after some time in their company, I begin to feel as if I could go home and keep plugging away.

I read a blog post today that took my breath away. And not just mine, judging by how quickly it's gone viral. This mother has captured how millions of mothers around the world feel about parenting their own little ones, in such an honest, insightful way. And it got me thinking.

So, I wonder if it is enough to just catch glimpses of the good days in between all the shitty stuff that happens as we parent. I wonder if it's enough that my children experience me as being warm and loving, just sometimes. I wonder if they go to bed knowing that I love them, even when the words have not fallen from my lips that day.

Mothering is damn hard work. I joke about it alot, whinge about it more, but rarely do I stop and commend myself for doing the hard slog through the bad days as well as helping to create the good days. The good days are easy! Its the bad, heavy, bickering days that we need to be congratulating ourselves for surviving!

I may not be the best mother in the world. But I am most definitely the best mother for my children, and trying to get better all the time.

Parenting Qualification #1: The Ability To Switch Off.

I went to uni for four years to train to become a teacher. Along the way, many of my peers dropped out of the course, usually after realising that even though teaching was one of the easiest courses to gain entry into, it did not automatically follow that they actually WANTED to spend the rest of their lives stuck in a classroom with other people's spawn. And that, apparently, a teaching qualification is not entirely earned at the pub.

I'm sure I'm not the first person to wonder if the world wouldn't be, even slightly, a better place if there was a similar four-year-training requirement before people were awarded the right to become parents. Pipe down, please, all you political correctness zealots, I'm not about to suggest compulsory sterilisation. But who among us has not stood in line at the checkout revelling in silent disgust at the dreadful parenting of those in line before us? (For crying out loud, no means NO! Don't say no fifteen times then hand them what they want when their insatiable whinging finally gets to you! Its been getting to ME for the last ten minutes and you don't see me shoving a chocolate in their mouth!)

So, not so much to solve the problem of an overabundance of appalling parents as to make myself feel better about co-existing with them, I have decided to write a series of blog posts outlining what I see as the necessary skills for effective parenting. Feel free to let me know if I overlook any.

The first on my list is the ability to Switch Off. This is a skill that you will need to utilise many times a day, for the rest of your life. It begins in pregnancy when you will be required to maintain an interested and grateful demeanor whenever you are offered unsolicited advice-slash-opinions about your size/sex of the baby/impending birth/future parenting style.

But it is a skill that truly comes into its own when your children begin talking.

Switching Off is particularly handy when your children engage in their frequent battles with one another. There are few sounds less harmonious than the sound of siblings shrieking at one another, unless it is the ensuing tale-telling and whining about whatever injuries they have managed to inflict on each other. Switching Off not only preserves your sanity in these instances, it also provides a 'teaching moment' to the children - that the noisier you are, the less mum cares.

Switching Off is also useful on those long car trips, particularly when your child is firmly entrenched in either the "Look, Mum!" stage of development, or the "Why....?" phase. Car trips often result in a running commentary that starts out mildly amusing but ends up ringing in your ears like the whine of a lone mosquito  emanating from the back seat. Injecting the occasional "Really?" or "Mm-hmm" into the endless drone from your child will ensure the best results.

Tools to help you Switch Off include locks on the toilet doors, headphones and loud music. Sometimes wine can help too (but only if the little darlings are safely tucked up in bed, obviously.) If you are not confident in your ability to Switch Off effectively, I recommend observing your husband while the cricket is on. They have that shit down.

Graffiti For The Soul.

I had a bad day today. This happens more frequently than I would like. I had big plans to keep the kids engaged, happy, creatively entertained. Painting pottery, sensory table activities, helping me with chores (they are still at the age where this is 'fun'.)

Then, they turned on me. Ambushed me. Things went from calm and happy to mutinous in a heartbeat. The trigger (a simple request: clean your play area, then we will start painting) was pulled, the stage was set. They caught each others' eyes, a signal passed between them, war was declared. The following three hours left me cowering in fear, rocking in the foetal position, completely and utterly beaten. The Dad was called home from work, 'discipline' was dished out, toys confiscated ('thrown in the bin'), privileges withdrawn. All this was met with indifference, approval even. ("That's ok, Mum, some other little girl can HAVE my toys. I don't mind.")

The pre-schoolers won. They always win.

Parenting books lie. They say that children are not our enemy, they do not misbehave to 'get at us'. That they are not manipulative. They lie. My children are experts in the arts of war. They know when to fight, when to submit, when to cry, when to yell. They know my weaknesses, have studied them intensively over their short lives, know how to use them to their advantage. All my tactics are rendered useless in the face of this seemingly innocent army, this grubby faced, determined opponent.

My children may not be my enemy. But they sure as hell act like it.

Blogging is like graffiti for the soul, an act of rebellion and selfishness in the daily grind of parenting. Your home may be peaceful and calm, it may be a den of conflicting strong personalities like mine. Whatever it is, step inside my bubble and either commiserate wholeheartedly with me or marvel at how one mother could continually get it so, so wrong.