The coffee group mine field.

There’s one in every class…. You know, the one who’s going to do the whole birth thing with no pain relief, breastfeed ‘til school days, cloth nappies ‘til toilet trained at one, only home made organic baby food, all while studying child psychology to better understand the two year old when he/she arrives in the nursery.

The one who makes you feel woefully inadequate as a first time parent without actually meaning to.

The reason why sometimes in the pit of your stomach there becomes a knot whenever coffee group time rolls around.  You don’t know WHY she does it but you do know it makes you feel bad.

Ante Natal class is a bit like that minefield you thought you had escaped when you left high school.  Suddenly, all of the different cliques are thrown together in one big melting pot because you all have one common denominator—you all had a baby. After you have all had your babies, you need to navigate which  clique you fit into.  You may have changed cliques since high school, you might just slot back into your clique with ease. Lets refresh. There’s The Cool Mum – all “it” buggies, the “right” merinos, the casually cool seemingly effortless outfits, driving the cool car that neither says Mum Bus or compromise… then there’s the Nerds – the ones who have read and memorised every parenting book and theory, turning themselves needlessly inside out when their “Sanguine” baby turns out to be a “grumpy” baby. The Sporty Gals – the ones doing the next women's tri– are going for casual jogs just weeks after childbirth with their super jogging strollers. The Natural Mum (aka The Hippy) – all free parenting, non vaccinating and cloth nappies, The Class Clown—The mum whose glassy eyes and loud laughs belie the fact she is struggling to cope on three or four hours of sleep a night and then of course, there is the above mentioned Supermum. 

Supermum is a clique all of her own.  She is probably also known as “Competimum” The mum who turns every age and stage into some kind of competition.  Love her or hate her, you probably all know her or maybe you ARE her.  Supemum doesn't mean to be the way she is.  Supermum quite possibly takes the whole “Happy Mum = Happy baby” saying to the letter and quite possibly subscribes to the “Fake it til you make it” school of thought as well.  Clichés aside, Supermum is pretty hard to stomach when your own baby journey isn’t rocking along as nicely as you thought it might. After a 24 hour labour that ended in an episiotomy or a c section and the stiches made you yelp for weeks after, or even after an 8 hour labour during which you had gas or *shock horror* and epidural, supermum likes to trot out her “didn’t feel a thing” textbook story which ends with the baby breastfeeding perfectly first time and no past partum blues. As time moves on, cloth nappies and organic home made baby food become the next items on the list, and super baby is crawling by 5 months, teeth at 9 months and walking to the toilet on their own at 12 months.  While reciting Shakespeare in Latin.

I guess the point I am trying to make is that we all take immense pride in what we are doing, which is the hardest job in the world.  Regardless of if we breast or bottle feed, if we had “natural births” or asked for the pain relief to wear off around the Childs 20th birthday, feed your child store bought food while s/he sits in plastic nappies till age 3 we are all doing the very best job we can in the best way we know how and it might even be *gasp* different to how you are doing it. No matter which clique you slot into (and don’t say you don’t because you do—just think about it for a minute..) You will have your trials and tribulations.  Don’t judge “cool mum’ because she has “the toys” and “the look” down pat.  Cool mum has her worries, doubts and insecurities just like every one else.  Nerdy mum is a great point of reference when you need to figure out the “sleep/feed/play” thing.  Hippy mum is probably onto a few good things if you open your mind enough and Good old Supermum probably has the biggest hang-ups of them all.  Not everyone’s lives are that perfect all the time.  YOU can be the refreshing change in your coffee group.  Own up if things suck. Wear your tears with pride. Admit to disliking this lark. Admit to finding it hard.  You opening your mouth—and your mind– could be just the thing those other mums need the most.  To hear that it’s not always perfect and it’s ok to really hate the job some days. Especially Supermum.

Fat girls friends...

I have to admit, I am addicted to spending money.  I just can’t stop.  Pre mortgage, babies, responsibilities etc, I shopped for myself.  Shamelessly squandering money on whatever pretty things took my fancy, clothes, make-up, perfume and those Fantastic Fat Girl friends- shoes, handbags and wallets. I say “Fat Girl Friends” in the nicest way possible.  I am a girl of a “curvy” body type, so shoes, wallets and handbags are the three things guaranteed not to bunch or ride up in unflattering places and do not require you to forgo lunch to look good – in short, they always fit and they always look great.

Upon having Jacob, I discovered little boy’s clothes. SQUEEE!!!!!!!! So cute! Who can resist a fat little tummy in overalls? Oh, and hats! And All Blacks all in ones! I could go on.

However, the older they get, the less cute the boys stuff gets.  Once they get out of baby sizes, everything is plastered in truck, skateboard, dinosaur and skulls decal or, worse still “licensed” stuff like Tonka, Bob, Spiderman, etc, and I am not a fan of the decal. No, sir. And overalls? Not so good when toilet training. Not created for ease of removal for the small boy who leaves it until the VERY last minute to go to the bathroom.

Lucky for me (as I already have a large collection of shoes, wallets and handbags) I had a baby girl. Children’s clothes have become the new Fat Girls Friends. More specifically – for me, anyhow- baby girl’s clothes.  I read somewhere on that interweb thing that the most prolific spenders on girls clothing are ladies of a curvy nature. Something about “living vicariously”? Who cares! Have you SEEN little girl’s clothes? I hoard my Pumpkin Patch catalogues from seasons past to trawl the online outlet store and furiously bid on trade me for coveted items. I sell and trade stuff to get a fix of “new”.  I count down the sleeps till the new ranges are out in the stores and I’m like what I can only imagine a crack addict must be like when I get in store to see those puppies. I cannot help myself. And not just Pumpkin Patch.  Any new seasons range of little girls clothes. I am in heaven. I carefully avoid the yucky trademarked stuff and the mini streetwalker gear and go for as much pink, purple, red, flowers and polka dots that a normal person can stomach. Oh man. And let’s not even go there about tights, hats and jackets. I haven’t bought stuff for myself in ages, well; I lie, but only out of absolute necessity.  Himself gives me some money to get something nice, so I do.  For the children….

My kids may just be the best dressed kids in town, but I haven’t changed out of a pair of threadbare wide leg jeans or ¾ pants and a long sleeve t shirt or old winery polo shirt in about 3 years now. And I couldn’t be happier.

Public Property?

I’ve often considered what would happen if I went up to some random fat lady (or man) and patted their tummies uninvited and launched into the million questions along the lines of what they eat and why and offered my own advice free of charge and unasked for.

I’d probably get a smack in the head and read my pedigree before being taken away by the police.

So why on earth do strangers think it is their God given right to manhandle random pregnant women? And then offer their advice?

I have to admit, I was a captive audience, being stuck behind a counter and being paid to be nice.

By the end of my 22 month pregnancy I had had about enough of strangers well meaning advice and had had more than enough of the stock standard questions people ask when making polite conversation with a pregnant lady, who because of her large bump, has quite obviously lost part or most of her brain, so can only talk in loud s-l-o-w sentences about babies and the like. In my last few weeks at work, I began to play a little (NEVER make a pregnant woman angry).

“So….. Do you know what you are having?” (As if I’d tell you!) To which I would reply “Well, I am kind of hoping for a new dog, but I think it’s a baby...”

“Oh! You’re pregnant!”

“No, I’m just fat!”

“Oh, you won’t need pain relief; women in China give birth in the rice paddies and just go back to work after”

“Do you get your teeth pulled without pain relief?”

Chances are, if you are reading this, you will know “The questions” and their variations.

I’ve also noticed the minefield of veiled comments, meaningful questions and well meaning but sometimes misguided advice.

The most loaded questions usually start days after birth, and usually come from an aunty or grandma…. “So… is he a good baby?” which actually means “So… is he sleeping through the night yet?” and “So… are you feeding him?” (as opposed to starving him, of course) which actually means “So… are you breastfeeding him” That question turns into “ are you still feeding him?” at around 4 or 5 months and (shockingly true) “Don’t you think its sick and disgusting to be still feeding when they can walk?” The inference is that if baby is not or you are not doing these things, then you are not doing things right.

The thing that makes me shake my head the most is that most of these veiled questions to our parenting ability is that these often come from our fellow sisters. Women. And usually ones who have themselves been on the receiving end of these endless questions that make us sometimes doubt our ability to be a good parent. So we make up or fudge a little so as not to seem completely useless. “Yes, he sleeps through. Has been since 2 weeks” (LIE!)  We are our own worst enemies in a time when we need the help and support of other women the most. Like it somehow makes us seem like better parents if we can make another woman feel a teensy bit bad about their situation. So come on Mums, lets not ask if baby is “Good” lets just say, companionably, Gosh it’s hard, isn’t it?. Would you like me to make you a drink?

Santa, are you out there?

So, as you read this, you will have probably begun the descent into Christmas Chaos, and if you are anything like me, you will be totally loving it. I am a freak for all things Christmas, and I have been known to blast my Christmas Cds for waaay longer than is considered tasteful. I now have the added bonus that my two little elves love the Christmas music almost as much as they love my “Bogan – Best rock anthems from the pub jukebox” CD – no, really!

And joy to the world! Christmas combines 2 of my favourite pastimes – Eating and spending money!

And then there is the presents. I have to admit, when it comes to husbands and presents, I have well and truly won the jackpot.  I have always received great pressies from him, although I don’t believe anything will top the pressie I got for Christmas last year, which was a diamond ticket to see Bon Jovi that was a dream come true.  This year, however, I think we are bypassing pressies as we have recently been in Fiji and are now putting in a new kitchen, so we are “on a budget”.  (I have “heard” that before, though...)

This year, though, what I want is simple, and I am sure many other mothers out there are after the same thing. It’s fairly rare, and I am told if you get one (or both, even) you are the envy of mothers the world around.

What is this gift? The uninterrupted toilet break and the unsupervised shower. Oh, yes, I long for the day I can peacefully sit on the toilet, contemplating the problems of the world without one or both of my children hammering on the door, asking for something to eat, fighting, howling, or now that he can reach, opening the door….

And shower? Wow, what I wouldn’t give to have one of those without seeing through the steam the door cracking open and two little elves appearing at the (luckily for their eyesight) steamed up shower door..its worse if I haven’t planned ahead and removed the items from the top drawer of the vanity (usefully the only one without a safety latch), because if I don’t act fast enough, the small one is off quickly to paint the carpet with toothpaste (which doesn’t come out) and the bigger one is chasing her so he can cut her fingernails with one of the 4 sets of nail clippers in there…

If, by some small miracle I can get the lock on the door to work, it ends up with the same screaming/crying/fighting scenario as the toilet door does and as an added bonus, I often can’t get out because the lock is jammed, and the phone will be ringing and if I am even luckier, the bigger one will have taken it upon himself to “answer” it…

So, Santa, if you are reading, I have been VERY nice this year, and EXTREMELY good, do you think you can wrangle this for me??? Just once???

To TV or not to TV

Ok, so this motherhood lark is all about the guilt.  We are constantly bombarded with messages, even pre conception, on what and what not to do to raise the brainiest, healthiest uber baby in the block.  Eat this, drink that, don’t go near them, read this, watch that, or rather don’t watch that…

So I’d like to put my hand up and say, I let my toddler watch TV. He doesn’t watch CSI, or Survivor, not interested in Home and Away. His tastes run a lot nosier and repetitive than that, he’s a fan of The Playhouse Disney Channel - Mickey Mouse and The Wiggles in particular.

TV was one of “The Great Evils” to be avoided, when I was pregnant first time around.  No TV for us, and I made sure he couldn’t even see it in his line of vision if I was watching it when he was a baby.  I would position his play mat, with the baby genius flash cards and all the learning toys in front of our huge solid coffee table, so he got all brainy while I watched Dr Phil or Oprah.

Then I had another baby. 

I often found it difficult to have a shower before tea time once we got past that sleep all day party all night newborn stage.

So he was the grand old age of 22 months, and out of sheer desperation, I popped the Playhouse channel on to see what would happen…. It was the Wiggles, and he was hooked. Colourful, catchy (read annoying and loud) and unfailingly happy, Murray, Geoff, Anthony and Greg/Sam soon became welcome guests in my home.

At a meeting I attended over  the winter, we were talking about what we could do with the children over the v-e-r-y long wet days of winter, when one brave soul piped up that the Disney Channel had been a real lifesaver, and, after that (shock) admission, about 90% of the mums admitted to using the TV to get much needed time out (or showers and a hot cuppa), and it made me realise that even super mum sometimes needs 4 insanely smiling men in brightly coloured skivvies to help out with the kids!

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

It took quite a while for me to make peace with the fact that not only does having a baby change your life, but that it also changes the way non baby people treat you, no matter how much you insist you are still the same person.

I always said—in that grant sweeping statement manner that only non parents can master- that having a baby would not change my life and that Baby would have to fit in with us. I had all these ideas that I would carry on as before, with my full fabulous life and that the Big Elf (who was “Elvis in the Pelvis” at the time) would just rock along with me, being a cool cruisy kind of kid that everybody adored. And then I actually HAD a baby.

Starting off with the small fact that we did our antenatal classes elsewhere, so didn’t really have a coffee group, I just carried on as usual and carried the Big Elf along with me. I was the first of all my friends to have a baby, so it was a bit of a novelty and most people didn’t mind.  After all, he was small and cute and his hair spiked up naturally in a “faux hawk” that matched his cute bandanna bib, teeny tiny baby Nikes and sweet little pumpkin patch overalls. This strategy worked well for the first month or two, then the trouble started. Once he got out of that new born stage where they sleep all the time, things got a bit more difficult and I soon realised that it would be less stressful for all parties involved if I stopped trying to “make” The Baby Elf “fit in” with me, and went with his flow for a change. I noticed Saturday morning “coffee dates” soon dried up and invites out at the weekend slowed down to a trickle as well.  I didn’t understand! I was still fabulous! Even better than that, I was now skinny! (thanks breastfeeding!) I still liked to gossip! I was still me! I had only had a baby! Nothing life changing or anything! To my complete and utter horror, I realised that my non baby friends had closed ranks and I was now the outsider. Despite my protests that I was still the same Annie, “you’ve changed” seemed to resonate really loudly everywhere I turned.  I know they didn’t mean it in a bad way, but how else can you word that phrase without it sounding bad?! Yeah, I guess I had changed. I had become a little less self centred, I had discovered that my single friends revolving bedroom door stories had me heading off to dreamland, and two beers sent me doolaly, but apart from that, I was STILL ME!

The turning point for me came, when an invite to a dinner party was issued by a good friend and work colleague.  I hummed and ha-ed about accepting it, but when my friend promised we would eat early so we could get the baby elf to bed before midnight, I decided that it was my ticket back into civilised society. The less said about that night the better, really, but driving home, in tears, starving, with a starving teenager , a snoring man of the house in the passenger seat, and an over tired baby, I had an epiphany of sorts. Yes, I had “changed”. I no longer thought that 10pm was a reasonable time to begin cooking a meal.  Wine wasn’t a good appetiser to this après 10pm meal. Babies find it hard to sleep in dark rooms not of their own when drunken shrieks pierce the air with alarming regularity and I wasn’t the same girl I thought I was.

I was upset about this night for weeks, possibly months later.  Not because of what happened, but  because it signified to me that that part of my life was, if not over, definitely different to before, and that was something that I wasn’t sure I was ready to let go of! I didn’t want to become “Elf's Mum”, wearing a uniform of tight  ponytail and a polar fleece ‘n’ crocs combo, who spoke of nothing but her offspring's toilet habits, updating facebook with every nap and fart, however it seemed that I had  been lumped into that group regardless of how cool I still thought I was.

I eventually made my peace with the fact that some people treat you like you have had a lobotomy once you give birth.  Sometimes it still bites me in the butt and I have to fight the urge to issue a slap upside the head to someone who slows down their speech and over simplifies their conversation once they find out I am “domestically disabled”.  I know a lot of you will have to do this too, at some stage,  so take comfort knowing that you are not alone and you are not domestically disabled, you are in fact a domestic diva and still FABULOUS!

Grand Statements (pub march 08)

I was sitting with a group of mums to be the other day, when the conversation turned to things they were and weren’t going to do in their parenting journey.

While I didn’t like to bring their hopes and dreams down with the mirth that was rising inside my belly, it got me thinking about the many things we find ourselves being experts about in our quest to be the best parents possible to the little critter growing slowly in our wombs.

Probably my favourite “I’m not going to…” statement is the one about how your children will just have to learn to not touch, as you won’t be moving any of your precious nick knacks out of harms way.

I’m thinking that the people who say these (unintentionally) funny gems, probably have had limited experience with the recently mobile upright.

 I have myself been in the firing line of a death ray stare at the home of a friend who was well used to my 18 month olds jammy hands on her lovely flat screen tele and glossy table, and it bothered her not a jot.  The death ray starer was at a meet up at the mutual friends place, and could not believe that I had “no control” over my toddly person and when the stares did not stop him (or encourage me to stop him) she actually muttered under her breath (but loudly enough for probably even the neighbours to hear) that there was no way her (4 months old at the time) child would be allowed to run riot like that, they would just have to learn not to touch.  I responded with the kind of look that only a harassed mother of a toddler can manage and replied that I would get back to her about that in about a years time, and our mutual friend saved the day with a lovely plate of baked things waved under our noses.

Truth be told, when our lovely little people get to “that stage”, there are many, many places we no longer go, as it becomes to hard to keep that free spirit entertained in a non destructive manner for long, and it makes outings to non child friendly places very stressful and not very fun. When we have friends and family who truly don’t care about the path of destruction, we embrace them very, very hard, and visit often.

Parenthood is often very hard and very lonely and just when you think you have got it sussed; they go and change the rules on you.  This stage, like all of the other will pass, and it will be onwards and upwards at lightening speed to the next stage.  My sage advice to parents on anything?

DON’T RULE ANYTHING OUT!!!

Comparing apples and onions (Pub april 10)

“They” say you should never compare your children.  Now, I’m not to sure who “they” are, but I am fairly sure that they are either lying or have only one child.

It’s human nature to compare things. Handbags, boots, wines and men, all have had many hours of pros and cons debated in coffee mornings around the world.  We know that they are each different, each have unique qualities that make it “that” handbag, but we do compare and the same goes for children. The comparisons start at conception, and probably last all their lives. “Why can’t you be more like your sister” was probably something we hated our mothers saying, but find ourselves mentally thinking the same things.  Elf Two could not be more different from Elf one, Both pregnancies were difficult and plagued with morning sickness, With Elf One, an awful birth and refusing to breastfeed at all until he was 6 weeks old made things hard.  He didn’t sleep through the night until he was 3 ½ (years old, not months) and up until about 2 ½ he was hard work. Now he is a very placid, well behaved boy who is not only smart, but caring towards others and a real pleasure to take out.  Elf 2 refused to come out of her own accord after 42 weeks including three endless days of false starts, but an easy peasy birth, coupled with being placid, cruisy and a great breast feeder made her a real pleasure. She even slept through the night from about 5 weeks.  Around the time of Elf Ones transformation, Elf two was brewing one of her own. Almost overnight she went from cruisy to crazy! Lucky for her, she has an angelic face that is framed with cherubic blonde curls, so a heart melting smile from her makes up for a lot of her behavior. My big comparing mistake has been with the “Toilet Training Adventure”.  Elf one, for all his little nuances when he was little, was very easy to train.  At 2 ½ he basically he asked me to go to the toilet and has been dry ever since, accidents can be counted on one hand. Elf two was having none of this easy peasy stuff.  After a few false starts I resorted to bribery just 2 weeks before she turned three, and with the threat of not starting at Pre School with Elf one looming large, she put on big girls knickers and the accidents have not stopped. She absolutely knows, and has done for at least 6 months, how/when etc, but she just gets caught up in life and forgets. Wees not so much of a problem, but Poo?  Believe me when it comes to wiping, you want to be picky about how that gets done. To quote something I have just read written by Non PC Guru Nigel Latta “You can poop on the toilet if you want the pat on the head but to drop a log on the living room floor is more entertaining”.  I am sure that she has somehow read this quote and taken it as her mantra. Slowly she is getting better. We no longer have logs in the lounge and she doesn’t bring me a piece now to show me what she did, but there is nothing more revolting that needing to dash to the small room (sometimes just for a break, you understand) and there it is.  All over the floor. The walls.  The seat. The bowl. Inside and out. And Oh My! The stench. The hope she would take a leaf out of her big brothers book is long gone, and all I can do is prey that by school time she will have gotten the wiping down pat.

So there it is. Compare all you want, but they sure as eggs will be as different as chalk and cheese.

Don't judge a book by its cover...(pub June 10)

The Biggest Elf sat quietly playing trains in a sunny part of the lounge the other day, minding his own business, talking quietly to TedTed when Hurricane small Elf crept up to him, raised her leg and kicked him in the head. Before he (or I) had time to register surprise, shock or anger, she had disappeared in a whirl out to the sandpit, and by the time I got out there, she looked as if she hadn’t moved an inch all afternoon.

The smallest Elf, she of dainty build, angelic white curls and huge blue eyes looks like a hallmark card picture of a cherub (albeit a slim lined one) has a large and often rough personality (think V8 engine in a Mini chassis) and the largest Elf, with his smattering of freckles and his red gold hair looks like a cheeky little imp, sort of like Dennis the Menace, however he is (mostly) quiet, gentle and sensitive. I had hoped for a quiet natured daughter to read books with and play dolls, and the Man Of The House had wanted a rough and tumble lad to play rugby and wrestling with, however they switched personalities and we got just that, but different!

It hasn’t always been like that, though. A few years back, I was certain CYPFS was gong to break my door down to rescue my son from his bedroom where he spent a lot of time in time out. Usually getting the window open somehow and yelling out things along the lines of “I’m stuck in my bedroom, help!”, and “Mummy, Mummy don’t leave me in here” and the Small Elf was the quiet, placid “cruiser”. I’m not too sure when they switched roles, but you have to laugh. Or you would cry.

I didn’t cotton on to the fact that this had happened, until one day when neither of them could see me, I watched while they played.  Large elf was sitting doing a puzzle. The small elf waddled over to him, reached down, yanked a good handful of his hair then lay down on the floor shrieking after he swatted her away. Now, to see it from her point of view, her lying on the ground, shrieking as if Armageddon was here would mean that the large elf was somehow at fault and therefore to be told off and put into time out after being made to apologise to his small sister. This is what had usually happened when I hadn’t seen the fallout.  Small elf got the shock of her life when she was swiftly picked up and made to “cuddle” her big brother sorry (she wasn’t quite at chatting stage yet) and she herself was put into time out.

Mostly, now, when there are tears, she has been right at the centre of it. One of her “tricks” is to hold up her fists and ask her victim “Do you want this one or this one?” all the while rocking that angelic look and battering her long eyelashes at any poor unsuspecting male that looks in he direction. I pity the fool that takes her on, I pity the fool.

Im never having Children...yeah right (pub sept 10)

I have a confession to make. Nothing unusual for Naughty corner, the place of some of my darkest secrets. I hope that making this confession, I can make some of you who may have felt the same feel normal! And these aren’t the confessions that people go randomly spouting at coffee groups or music classes. So settle down with your cup of tea and read on.

I never ever wanted to have children.  That was the one thing I was absolutely sure about.  I had chosen my partner “well”, he had been married before and had a son, and no desire for more. I was on the upwards at work. I had never ever had a moment in my life when I had ever felt maternal.  When friends had children, I gave them the same regard I would a new kitten or puppy. They are cute, fun to buy stuff for, but not for me. I had always felt this way. I didn’t judge my friends for choosing motherhood, but it was never something I desired for myself. So when I went to the Doctors because I thought I had diabetes and came out pregnant, I was shocked, scared and angry. Really angry. And I was bleeding. Heavily. The Doctor thought I was in the throes of a miscarriage, however the symptoms that had sent me racing for her advice in the first place weren’t disappearing and my HGC levels weren’t going down as they should.  Suddenly I was in a new place.  I wasn’t sure if I wanted to lose this baby I had never thought I wanted.  The weekend was full of discussions and plans for a future that might include someone else. I could not believe my body had betrayed me like this! We had a deal! We had seen each other through some wild times, and now it had totally let me down! I had to take some time off work because I was just so shocked!  My partner, to my horror, had been talking for some time before “this” happened about having a baby, and my response had been that I wanted a dog, and if I didn’t kill the dog in a year’s time, then I would think about it.  We had gotten the dog the week before, so having not killed her in the first week didn’t really feel like the practice run that I had thought it might be. Come Monday, with my HGC levels rising again, The Doctor thought it might be prudent to have a scan.  I went along, thinking I was about 6 weeks pregnant, and there was this flickering little heart, this funny little alien body and it was 11 weeks old already, and strong, healthy and not going anywhere for another 6 months. Wow. Suddenly new waves of feelings were flooding my body, and I wasn’t quite prepared for some of them.

Telling people our news was an education in itself. Some were delighted. The “I told you so, I knew you would change your mind!” comments came thick and fast. Some were shocked. “How did that happen?” – and for the record, if at some stage in your early 30s you don’t know how “that” happened, I suggest you go and have a wee chat with your mother! There were also the disappointed. Including myself. That was one of the hardest things, keeping my own disappointment under wraps when a promotion at work was coming up and knowing it should have been, would have been mine, if only, the strong childless friends who I had somehow let down by “conforming” and the friends and family who’s moral values were rocked by the “out of wedlock” pregnancy – like we were in some kind of made for TV drama set in Pleasantville, 1955. One “good friend” of my Partner said to him – and in front of me – “Well, she’s really got you trapped now, mate. I hope you have everything tied up with your lawyer”.

The entire pregnancy seemed to be plagued with issues. Not only my own doubts about not only my ability to be a good Mother, but whether I would bond with this baby and if s/he would be scarred for life with my negativity towards the pregnancy. My Dad got diagnosed with cancer, My stepson entered his teenage years with a vengeance and I suffered terrible morning sickness and pre pre eclampsia where my entire body blew up with fluid so bad, I had to wear jandles in the middle of winter with my business suit as none of my shoes fit.  Finishing work a month out was a relief.  I spent a lot of time reading and preparing mentally to meet our baby, and when I went into labour almost textbook like in the early hours of my due date, I just knew that me and this baby were going to get along just fine, and s/he obviously knew that I hate to be kept waiting! When that tiny elf was placed on my chest, any doubts, fears and insecurities I had about making the choice to carry on with my pregnancy, melted away. I just had to look into his big blue eyes to feel my heart expanding a little more to fit him in and I now couldn’t imagine my life with out him, or, indeed, his small sister. Even if there are days – like today – that I could cheerfully give them away! Never say Never

The one where the Elves go to Church (pub july 10)

One of the cool things about having small people is that you now have a “get out of jail free” card for any occasion that you may wish to avoid.

Oh, yes, my Elves have been used to get out of many an occasion when ordinarily I would rather pull out my toenails with rusty tweezers but have been obliged to go.

The down side to that is that now they are getting bigger – read “more socialised” – I now have to “bite the bullet” and at least attempt to take them to things.

With the Big Elf having just started at the local Catholic School, and the small one attending the adjoining preschool, I thought it was high time I started taking them to church outside of weddings and christenings.

My first inkling that it might not go as well as I had hoped was during Mr 5’s second week at school, when in preparation for the once a term all school Mass, the class had spent the morning in the Church and Mr 5 had gotten in trouble for his constant chatter and was eventually removed from his friends and made to *gasp* sit next to his teacher.  Wow, his 5 year old classmates almost knocked me flat in the rush to tell me that my Big Elf had been a “baddie” at Church in the morning and had gotten his small self into trouble and by the time I reached the class room to talk to the teacher, I was worried we would be expelled for enrolling a small heathen into this lovely school. Our lovely teacher reassured me that it was completely normal behaviour for new entrants and promised me all would be well on the day. Turns out that I had nothing to worry about, Big Elf was perfectly behaved during the entire thing. While the Mass went well, the large Elf proclaimed that he thought the “The man in the dress was a bit boring” so thus I decided at that moment to begin taking the Elves to mass on a more regular basis to avoid a similar commotion towards the end of the next term.

My first few attempts at Sundays didn’t work out one way or another, however when speaking to the parish Chaplin, I discovered that there was Mass at 5 pm on a Saturday evening and I happened upon (what I thought) was a ingenious idea! I could drop the Man Of The House (who refuses to set foot in a church, lest it cave in) at the pub in time for happy hour, take the Elves to mass, bribe them with McDonalds to behave and make it home to see the headlines of the news.

Great idea in theory, however I hadn’t reckoned on school mass having such a deep and lasting effect on the Big Elf.  When we arrived, he said at the top of his wee voice (and the acoustics of our beautiful church are fantastic, so it travelled nicely) “Awww Mum that man in the dress is here and he’s BORING” and followed that wee gem up with “Mum this song is BORING” and finishing with a round of “Mum this is BORING can we get McDonalds now?” all the while playing chasey under the seats with the Smaller Elf. Giving them money to put in the collection plates proved a disaster as well, with the Small Elf wondering (again, loudly) how we could get McDonalds if we give “all our money to the man”. Conversation with Father was cut short when he spoke to us at the end as I could see the word “Boring” forming on the Large Elf’s lips, and I hot tailed it out into the carpark and headed for the golden arches, that altar of mass production and trans fats. Needless to say were home with our McDonalds in time to see the news. I have yet to come up with a more fool proof plan to get the children to mass without the hysterics, however we won’t be attending this week, as I have toenails to remove…

A mothers' loves a blessing (first pub feb 09)

Often, once we have had children, we become the experts, and any advice our Mothers give us becomes old hat. Pooh Poohed at, rubbished and fodder for coffee group sessions- “you’ll never guess what my mother told me to do…”

I’m the first to put my hand up and say guilty as charged.  My own Mother has said some absolute pearlers, however she always finished off those incredible words of wisdom with “well, that was what we did in our day, anyway. It’s all different now.” Her way of conceding that perhaps, her way wasn’t the right way, but she too had been there.

Really, though, not that much has changed. We still birth our babies out of the same place (or the sunroof, which was a bit larger 35 years ago, but still a sunroof), we still nurture our babies with our bodies, or prepare our milk formulas with the same care and attention to measure, still pace the hall in the middle of the night with our little insomniacs, and become insomniacs ourselves when they do sleep all night. We still cry when we can’t fix their hurt, laugh when they discover some exciting new thing, and love with all our hearts even though sometimes we have to look very deep for that love. We delight in their outfits, coo over curls and want to eat up the cubby legs and arms of the “bonny” babies. We remember every moment of the birth, first smile, word, step, and as each birthday passes we go back and forth with pride that we have made this beautiful amazing little person and sadness that every year they get older, they move a little further out of our laps.

The advice from the experts may have changed somewhat, we may feed our children solids later and toilet train later, we may use more man made fibres on our little angels who must be slept on their backs, and use daycare centres more and families less. Our coffee groups may have become our new families, but one thing remains the same. All we need is love.  All THEY need is love. Regardless of if we parented in the 70’s or we are parenting now, we have experienced the same heartaches and joy that our mothers and mother in laws also experiences, and that newly deepened bond is something that lasts a lifetime.  My own dear Mother shifted to the other end of the Island a week ago.  Very sick and frail, about to lose a leg to diabetes, she wanted to “share” the ever increasing burden of her care with her sister, two brothers and my brother, as here in Blenheim there had only been myself and my wee crew. The Elves miss her terribly, the smallest one is reduced to hysterical crying if anyone so much as mentions her dear “Hiya” and the biggest Elf keeps asking if we can go to the airport and get “Hiya” back off the plane now.

As I sat here today, over deadline, staring at this blank word document I got a phone call that shook me to my core.  My dear mother had collapsed in a chemist somewhere at the other end of this island. Her heart had stopped beating and she had to be brought back to life with those paddles I have only seen on ER.

So waiting for news, I only have this to say. Laugh with your mother over her insistence that you were toilet trained at 9 months old, sleeping all night at 4 weeks and never had tantrums, but thank her for all the times she sat with up through the night when you were sick, hugged you when you got teased at school, kissed your scraped knees and loved your babies with all her heart, because YOU are her heart.

The Name Game

Names…. The one thing EVERYONE has an opinion on. When you are pregnant you hear everything from the sublime to the ridiculous. You agonise and possibly argue for hours over the perfect name to fit your little cherub. The moniker you choose will stick with your beloved angel for the rest of the life, so the gravity of this duty is immense. You need to get it just right. You need to make sure the initials don’t spell anything unfortunate, that nicknames such as Scabby Abby won’t eventuate and that every member of the extended family is satisfied. So the pressure, as you can imagine is intense.

During my pregnancy, my oldest friend visited from Melbourne to see me before I had the baby and to beg me not to “saddle” Elvis (as the bump was known) with a made up or weirdly spelt name. Her name is Carlamia, a name which her parents made up after watching some vampire flick in the 70’s with a villain named MiaCarla and while I think it is a beautiful name, she told me of the misery of having a name that must be spelled all the time and followed up with the story of how it came to be.

There was to be no argument from me on that. I wasn’t keen to have a name the required spelling or misspelling (as my seemingly common name Anne is often ) and apostrophies and Y’s and K’s randomly included in “youneek—the alphabet threw up over your birth certificate” spellings make my head hurt.

Choosing a name for the Big Elf took about 5 months and many arguments. Some people know the names they will have for their future children at 12. As I wasn’t planning on having children, those types of thoughts never crossed my mind. I bought baby name books and scoured magazines for names I liked. Since my husband is 12 years older than I,. His choice of names was a little more old fashioned than mine..and not in a good way. Eventually we had a shortlist.  We eventually settled on Jed for a boy a week out from D Day and subjected it to the “Yell from the back porch” test—a scientific study in which a name is yelled loudly from the door way to call children home to test for “good sound”. Un fortunately Jed failed this test as every time we even said the name, our dog went CRAZY, barking and turning circles and going by the amount of yelling that happens here, our neighbours would have called for her extermination years ago!

We settled on Jacob, which could be shortened into Jake and Sienna and Indianna were eliminated for Jaimee should the first Elf be a girl. I should note at this point I read a lot of “women's” mags and watched a lot of soap operas.

After Jacob was born and the second Elf was on the way, a scan to reveal the sex of Elvis #2 at 32 weeks pregnant so we could tell my dying father what his next grandchild would be meant that we had to make the decision fast. Our previous choice Jaimee was passed in as I decided I didn’t want to be spelling it every time I said it (It’s Jamie, spelt the feminine way, J-a-i-m-e-e) Also Britney Spears teenage sister Jaimee had just become hot news by being 16 and pregnant and  I wasn’t keen on people thinking I named my prefect angel after Britney et al. Charlotte was decided on, relatively painlessly, and I was able to whisper her name in Dads ear not long before he passed on. She now answers to Charly, or Horsey—which I’m not so sure would be a great name for a high court judge, however, going by the names I read in the papers, if she stuck with Horsey, she would be in good company form the unusal name brigade!