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!