by Jessica Rowe
Where does the hum of anxiety that surrounds being a modern-day mum come from? I’ve spoken with our first female governor general Dame Quentin Bryce about this issue facing many parents. For her, the topic has come up frequently in the conversations she has had with families over the years. Dame Quentin says it often comes back to how they find it ‘hard going working out how to be a very good parent’. She thinks it’s because life has become more complex. For example, there are now more step-families, there’s the internet to contend with, plus the fact that many parents are older.
She says that another problem for mothers today is the lack of community in many of our suburbs. It’s a world where our neighbours are very often strangers. ‘A lot of the suburbs are empty now. I drive in them. I see them. I don’t see a child on the footpath and I don’t see kids playing cricket at the end of the road.’
In contrast, when she was a young mother, Quentin remembers a ‘carefree environment’ in the street where her family lived. ‘My next-door neighbours would bring my washing in if it looked like rain, and they would fold it up. And I had wonderful neighbours around everywhere.’
The internet isn’t all bad and the challenge is to filter out the online nonsense that can make you feel inadequate, such as many of those parenting, fitness and food blogs. Twitter had been a lifeline when I was stuck at home with my baby girls, as its catchy, short stream of conversation, gossip and news helped me feel connected to the wider world. Also thanks to the net, our generation has never had more information, articles, websites and manuals about being a good parent. We’ve never been more present for our children. It’s time to back our own abilities when it comes to our kids, as no one knows our children better than we do. If you want to feed them some sugar, have dinner in front of the telly and allow them to get on their devices every now and then, just do it.
But this knowledge hasn’t helped to quieten that nagging fear that we’re not ‘getting it right’. Why do we do this to ourselves? Why are we such tough taskmasters? Are we putting way too much pressure on ourselves to ‘have it all’? Yes. Are we fearful of not being perfect? Yes. Generally, I’m getting much better at being more flexible with the choices I make for our family. My philosophy is: ‘Do whatever gets you through that moment, day or night!’ And since putting that into practice, I’m far more confident in my mothering ‘skills’ and making choices based on what works for me and my family.
Now I’m more willing to change things that don’t work, regardless of what some book or expert says I ‘should’ be doing. What do I mean by this? Okay, I’ve learnt to pick my battles with my children. It doesn’t matter if they don’t brush their hair, wear the same outfit, or want to eat the same food for weeks on end. But I won’t tolerate rudeness or bad manners. It’s okay if they bicker with one another (although it’s so boring to listen to, and I don’t care who started it). But it is not okay to be unkind to one another, as kindness and compassion matter a lot to our family. These big-ticket items are the battles worth fighting for.
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
Although we are now missing that sense of community that many of our parents experienced growing up in their neighbourhoods, I’m not convinced that families were necessarily any better off during that ‘golden age’ compared with today. Were families any happier, were children any better behaved? Or was it simply that we didn’t talk about postnatal depression, anxiety and those other tough topics during those supposed halcyon times? Many of us survived our childhood purely through good luck and benevolent neglect from our less-than-present parents. There were no seatbelts and I remember sliding around on the prickly carpet in the boot of my dad’s Mini Minor. We rode our bicycles without helmets along our back laneway, unsure of how to use the pedal brakes, and stopped only by crashing into the long, itchy grass at the bottom of the hill. We were often left to our own devices; making up endless ABBA concerts and writing handbooks for secret clubs based on the Famous Five novels.
I haven’t been able to convince my daughters of the delights of reading the Famous Five but I’m still trying to turn them into ABBA fans by pumping ‘Dancing Queen’ through my car’s sound system, if I can get them to turn off Cardi B or Nicki Minaj. And the older my girls get, the more I enjoy spending time with them. It’s not as if I love them any more or less, it’s simply more fun being with them and discovering the people they’re growing into. It’s hard to articulate the never-ending, all-encompassing, aching love that I have for my girls.
‘Mumma, how much do you love me?’ asks Giselle at least once a week.
‘More than all the moons and stars in the sky, to the Milky Way and beyond, my Baby Bear,’ I reply, after adding some more words to another lullaby and before kissing her goodnight.
‘Do you love me the most? she asks, with her cheeky smile.
‘I love you and your sister the most.’
‘But I’m your favourite, aren’t I, Mumma?’
‘You are both my favourites …’
It’s impossible to have a favourite child but it’s not impossible to have a favourite time for being with your children. And for me, my favourite moments are right now as my girls grow into little women. Quite simply, I had struggled with the sheer exhaustion and monotony of having babies. I have never been one of those women who goes weak at the sight of a newborn. Hearing that mewling cry still makes my insides seize up, and I’m relieved it’s no longer my responsibility to feed and settle a baby. However, I’ve got friends who crave that soft, sweet smell of a brand-new baby. Sometimes the sight of them makes them want more children. That has never, ever been me! Even when I was pregnant with Giselle, I knew that two was my magic number.
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
Spending time with my growing girls is my priority. If I can get my eldest off her iPad, we talk about politics, fashion and why it would be a really dumb idea for her to name her own daughter ‘Paris Versace Overton’.
‘But Mum, I really love the Paris Hilton perfume that I bought from Chemist Warehouse,’ said Allegra.
She also knows that I can’t stand Paris Hilton (partly because her father has a crush on her!).
‘There are much prettier names than Paris …’ I replied.
‘And I thought her middle name could be Versace, so she’ll have something to talk to Donatella about when she meets her …’
‘Donatella will be dead by the time your daughter grows up,’ said Giselle from the back of the car.
I couldn’t help laughing, as I nodded in agreement.
And it’s the conversations, whether it’s about Paris Hilton, boys, fashion or more significant issues like why anyone would be cruel to children or animals, that I relish having with them. Gradually, I’m realising that I need to stop talking at my girls and that I should talk with them more. It’s astonishing what issues can come up when we give our kids the space to speak. A big lesson for me has been learning that silence doesn’t always have to be filled up with chatter.
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
I’ve also learnt that shouting doesn’t solve anything. No one likes to be shouted at. What are we teaching our kids about managing their emotions if bigger and more powerful people start yelling at them when they misbehave? When the girls were toddlers I used to have a ‘calming down mat’. The mat was an old pink and yellow bathmat, which was the shape of Cinderella’s carriage. The idea was to put them on the mat when they started to have a meltdown instead of putting them into their room. It didn’t work, as I spent too much time carrying them back onto the mat, which they would jump off the minute I put them onto it! Eventually, that mat spent more time in our messy cupboard under the stairs than under their chubby, little bottoms.
Over the years, I experimented with putting the girls into their bedrooms if they misbehaved. However, there was nothing in the manuals about what to do if your children kept coming out of their rooms. At my wits’ end one afternoon, I found myself pulling on one side of the silver doorknob while my young daughter used all of her str
ength to pull on her side of the door to get out! Wrestling over the doorknob, I ended up jamming Giselle’s weeny fingers in the door. She started sobbing hysterically and I burst into tears too, tired and guilty, as I comforted her in my lap. That was the last time I tried that form of ‘discipline’.
Another time I remember Giselle pinching me to get my attention. I told her to stop it, but she kept pinching my arm. My tolerance was low, I hadn’t been getting much sleep, and I pinched her sharply straight back.
‘See that’s how much it hurts when you pinch Mummy!’ I said angrily.
Her little cat-shaped eyes filled with tears as she looked at me in horror.
‘Oh, I’m sooooo sorry, Mummy didn’t mean to hurt you!’ I said, scooping my crying daughter into my arms. Then I lay Giselle back down onto the bed next to me, and while I was gazing into her eyes, she pinched me again! Yet another parenting fail and one that I can now laugh about.
Eventually, I realised that sometimes the best thing to do is to remove myself from situations when I feel my anger and frustration reaching boiling point. Many times I have gone to our bedroom and jammed my body against the door for a moment’s peace. Taking deep breaths and having your own ‘time out’ can work wonders. There are moments when you can feel out of control and undone by the stubbornness and screams of such small souls. Even my husband, who is as cool as a cucumber, has been known to rip up our daughters’ rewards chart for good behaviour when things haven’t gone to plan!
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
Handing out advice has never been my style. Instead, what I’d like to do is share some suggestions that have helped me and my family.
• I’ve learnt to say sorry to my girls. Sorry for shouting, sorry for getting angry and sorry for not staying in control. Often it goes like this: ‘Darling, Mumma is sorry for getting so cross. I didn’t mean to shout. I’m tired and I’m not perfect.’ Then we have a hug and get on with the rest of the day.
• Laugh, do silly walks and never lose your own inner child. If your little one wants your attention, give it to them. Sit on the floor with them and stop doing whatever you’re doing. No child can ever have too much attention, love and hugs.
• No baby sleeps all night, especially when they’re tiny. Small babies can be boring. Breastfeeding isn’t for everyone. Formula can be a godsend and it doesn’t lower your baby’s IQ. You will get some sleep—one day.
• Your nipples can bleed. Dummies are fine, I’ve never seen a teenager using a dummy.
• It’s okay to let your kids see you cry. But it’s more important for them to see you laugh and using your imagination.
• Lose your smartphone once you get home, then it’s harder to be tempted to check it when your kids are watching you. They’re little sponges and model their behaviour on their parents. If you worry about your kids spending too much time on their devices, stop and think about how often you use your phone. But it’s okay to lock yourself in the bathroom sometimes (if you can) and use your iPad for some peace and quiet.
• Buy a trampoline that you can zip up. That way your children are safely contained and you can sit on the lawn and watch them.
• Toast or cereal can be served as an evening meal.
• It’s okay to have your kids in your bed—they will end up in their own beds one day.
• We’re all human, we don’t have all the answers and we’re all simply making it up as we go along.
And remember, you are never, ever there yet. That is what makes life as a mother so glorious.
CHICKEN ENCHILADA CAKE
Mexican meals are always a hit with kids. Instead of serving up tacos (which are always popular), why not try this version of an enchilada? Who would think a Mexican savoury cake would work? Well it does, thanks to the clever folk at 4 Ingredients. This is another recipe from their One Pot, One Bowl cookbook. I’m a fan of this style of cooking since the cooking part is minimal!
Ingredients
1 enchilada kit (it’s easier to buy one of these at the supermarket as it already has 8 corn tortillas plus enchilada sauce)
2 cups of shredded barbecued chook
1 bag of grated cheese (it could be tasty, mozzarella, pizza cheese—whichever you prefer)
Method
Preheat oven to 200 degrees Celsius. Line a 20 cm (8 inch) round cake tin with baking paper. (I have no idea how big my tin was so I don’t think size matters here, as long as there’s enough room for the tortilla).
Now it’s time to layer upon layer—starting with tortilla then enchilada sauce then chicken then cheese. Then start your next layer starting again with the tortilla, and keep layering until you’ve used up all the ingredients.
Bake in the oven until the cheese is completely melted and the sauce is bubbling. This should take around 30 minutes.
Success rate
Three out of four family members enjoyed this Mexican meal! Isn’t there always one ‘No, I don’t like it!’ though?
11
Fashion
More is more and less is a bore.
IRIS APFEL
Clothes have always brought me such delight. Sparkles, sequins, satin, fringing, tulle, leopard print, faux fur, fiery red, blushing pink and all the colours of the rainbow burst out of my wardrobe. Each day I’ll dress depending on my mood, or the mood I want to project onto the world. And that is the transformative power of fashion. It’s not about the latest trend or forcing yourself into outfits that will never suit you—it’s about wearing a costume for the day. For me fashion is simply playing dress-ups for grown-ups. And that is why I’m obsessed with the excess of accessories, oversized glasses and confidence of style icon Iris Apfel. I could never subscribe to Coco Chanel’s advice to take one thing off before leaving the house. Add something more instead!
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
‘Pussycat, where are you going?’ my husband asked as we walked out the door together.
This morning Peter was wearing his preferred uniform of Nike hoodie, shorts and a navy cap, and white sports shoes. In comparison, I was wearing a green, glittery jumper, light-indigo jeans and silver-sequinned sneakers. Already the rainbow lorikeets were cheekily spitting out their leftover nectar breakfast from the branches of the bright-red bottlebrush tree that stretches out over the roof of my car. I stepped gingerly over the remains of the bottlebrush, so the flowers wouldn’t stain my sneakers.
Our daughters were already in the backseat, yelling for us to stop talking. It’s interesting how quickly the tables had turned, as it had been only the day before that we were nagging them to get out the front door and into the car.
‘I’m going exactly where you’re going, Petee!’ I laughed, as the pair of us carried our daughters’ ridiculously heavy school backpacks to the car.
Although we share the same moral code, we are mismatched on most of the more flippant things in life—he’s the yin to my yang.
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
My fashion sense has always been amplified. On our second date I dressed as a mermaid, giving Peter heart palpitations for all the wrong reasons.
‘You look, ah, breathtaking …’ he stuttered, as I opened the door to my beachside unit.
He had done the gentlemanly thing, picking me up to take me to a birthday dinner with my family and friends. Especially brave given he had never met any of these people before, and I’m sure he had second thoughts when he saw my aquatic birthday outfit. My good friend Annebelle, who was also the wardrobe mistress at Channel Ten (where I was reading the news at the time), had made me a shimmering blue asymmetrical cocktail frock, with a giant sequinned flower, trailing blue-, green- and opal-coloured sequins stitched onto the top strap of the dress. Remember, this was the age of the Sex and the City TV series when Sarah Jessica Parker used to rock up with similarly styled giant flowers pinned all over her outfits.
Another friend Nikki, who was my favourite make-up artist, teamed blue eyeshadow, loose glitter and fabulous fake eyelashes to complement my birthday get-up. I
loved my look and was excited that Peter would be joining the celebrations. I hadn’t met a good man in a long time and despaired that I never would since all my friends were getting married, or already had long-term partners. Thankfully, Peter wasn’t scared away by my over-the-top costume and he didn’t sense my desperation. He also politely pretended not to hear my excited friends who frequently told me, in not such soft voices, that Peter was ‘such a catch!’ At this stage I don’t think he believed in the magic of mermaids.
During our courtship I proceeded to shock, surprise and startle my conservative boyfriend. My outlandish outfits continued and he was happy to stand by my side in his uniform of jeans and a pink polo shirt. Although we’ve been married for over fifteen years, neither of us has shifted much in our sartorial style. He keeps it simple; dressing up in a blue Hugo Boss shirt and navy chinos and RM Williams boots, while I keep pushing the fashion envelope further with fringes of sequins, rainbow pleated skirts and green and pink faux fur jackets.
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
Although I’ve always had a weakness for clothes, I don’t have many high-end labels in my wardrobe. Fancy, logo-covered handbags have never been my style. Instead, I’d rather save up for a few cat-printed coats and dresses.
Peter still doesn’t know how much I spent on a Miu Miu pink pussycat coat, even though I kept reassuring him that thanks to a fashion stylist friend I was getting a large discount on it. It had taken months of research to hunt down this distinctive pink, red and burgundy coat.