Alphabet Soup

by Melissa Doyle

  I used to think these are the pictures I would hide or delete, but now I merely have a little giggle and thank God today’s fashion has improved. I no longer want to hide the evidence of what I tried or how I felt.

  But I’d still be happy to delete the fat ones.

  Cartwheels

  Who doesn’t bear a scar from their youth and wear it like a badge of honour?

  I put my teeth through my bottom lip coming off my trike while hurtling down our steep driveway. I still have the jagged scar that shows what a slap-up job the 1970s doctor did in emergency.

  I can remember once flying over the handlebars of my bike and crashing with such speed into the gravel road that my friends had to go and fetch my dad to bring me home in the back seat of the car. My bike, body and pride were so busted there was no chance of us hobbling home.

  But aren’t we all secretly proud of our war wounds from childhood?

  I remember a boy in primary school running through a fork in the tree in the playground and getting stuck. The fire brigade was called in and, as humiliating as it was for the kid in question, he earned major street cred and we all dined off that adventure for weeks.

  But so many parks and schoolyards are now without carousels and monkey bars. Some schools have banned gymnastics and handstands in the playground and running on the concrete. It’s obviously designed to protect students from injury as much as it is to protect the school from lawsuits.

  As a mum, I spend every waking moment protecting my kids. I would move mountains, slay dragons and pretty much kill to keep them safe.

  But how far do I go in keeping them safe from themselves? I feel like I need to let them face a little danger and learn that sometimes accidents are just that—accidents.

  Testing boundaries and pushing yourself are part of growing up and maturing. Sometimes, within reason, the only way to learn not to do stupid things is to do them. It’s healthy to see how far you can go before fear kicks in—climb a little higher than you think you can manage and go a little faster than you should—because, let’s be honest, as we get older most of us lose the nerve to do so, aware that a mistake now hurts so much more and recovery takes twice as long.

  Now I’m not advocating injury or dumb risk-taking, and at the first sight of blood I’m usually the one running for cover. And Mum, I’m sorry for all the times you had to patch me up, take me to hospital and darn torn stockings.

  But it kind of makes you sad when statistics show more and more schools are shying away from outdoor adventures and a quarter of Aussie kids have never climbed a tree.

  The seven-year-old son of a friend of mine once fell off some monkey bars and broke his arm. He was in the playground after school and she was with him at the time, standing less than a metre away.

  A few years later someone else did the same thing in the same playground but that child’s mother sued the school. There is now a sign saying you can’t play on the equipment after school hours and, if you do, it’s at your own risk.

  So is that it? Are the litigious few ruining it for the rest of us who accept there is an element of risk in everything we do and are prepared to live with the consequences?

  What will happen to a generation of kids who grow up cocooned in cotton wool? If the most dangerous thing you do before the age of ten is cheat at Monopoly, does that make you want to try the risky stuff when you are older and mum is not around? And is that too late to be testing your nerve and boundaries? Or are we way too frightened by then to try anything because we’ve never known what it’s like to fly down our street on rollerskates and skin our knees?

  Child psychologist Dr Michael Carr-Gregg says adults are ‘worshipping at the altar of occupational health and safety’. And we all know it’s happening everywhere, in offices and supermarkets around the country. There are obviously situations where the ‘safety police’ have changed our lives for the better—seatbelts and baby capsules, to name a couple. And there have been moments when I’ve stopped Nick from climbing on the roof to retrieve his footy and Talia from finding out if her fairy wings actually work. But I also know a spill in the playground is normal, trees are meant to be climbed and mastering a cartwheel can be so satisfying (not that I ever could).

  And I’ve also since driven past and seen that driveway from my childhood I once thought so steep is in fact just a gentle slope. But I still proudly wear my scar.

  Celebrity

  Tell me I’m not the only one who looks at pictures of Crown Princess Mary with her family and smiles at how refreshingly normal they appear. I love that toddlers will be toddlers, whether you live in a real castle or a make-believe one.

  My daughter, who thinks she is a princess, behaves no differently from a real one. She too tugs on her mum’s top at the most inappropriate times, gets sick of having her photo taken and demands my undivided attention no matter who else is around.

  It’s kind of reassuring to know whether your spoon is silver or stainless steel, some things are the same for all families.

  And kids can be the best levellers. When you are new in town and trying to make friends, kids are the ice-breakers. They can start the most interesting conversations in queues and diffuse the most tense situation.

  I even look at ‘Brangelina’ in a whole new light. Ok, they might be devastatingly good looking and successful but they too once carried a nappy bag everywhere they went and, just like the rest of us, wiped dirty bums and got up when called in the middle of the night. There is only so much their nannies can do.

  Just because they live in mansions and never worry about the price of fuel doesn’t mean celebrities don’t break up sibling fights, wipe away tears, worry about bullying and sing a little goodnight song.

  Having real diamonds in your tiara is such a small detail!

  Christmas Day

  I adore Christmas.

  We deck the house in tinsel and anything else red, white or remotely festive. The kids have their photo taken with Santa every year, and I let them decorate the tree and resist the urge to step in and coordinate or straighten anything. Frankly, by the end of December, our home looks a downright mess—but I love it and wouldn’t swap the madness for anything. I was forced one year to get organised long before Santa’s arrival by the imminent arrival of my second baby, and found the fact that I had everything sorted long before December liberating. So now I’m one of those people who stash away presents throughout the year, and, as long as I remember what I’ve actually hidden and where, I find the forward planning brings me as much pleasure as the season itself.

  And I’m a stickler for traditions—but with an easy twist. We love roast turkey, but I cheat and get the rolled breast already stuffed from the butcher. I love a glazed ham, and, like everyone else, we live off the leftovers for the next two weeks. In our house, it’s a feast on the deck, a dip in the pool and an afternoon sleep on the lounge-room floor.

  Christmas can be such a happy time, but such a tense one too. Peel off the wrapping and you’ll find very few families survive the Christmas celebrations completely unscathed.

  No matter how much we think we’ve grown up and become our own person, family dynamics have a way of wiping away the years and bringing us right back to where we left off.

  We may return home with spouses and children in tow, but we return immediately to our childhood roles. It seems ancient issues last longer than Auntie Rosie’s brandied pudding and can bubble over quicker than unattended custard.

  Rivalries invariably resurface. Whether you are ten or 40, mum’s favourite never changes, daddy’s little girl will always be daddy’s little girl, and the brother who always skipped the washing up still skips the washing up. Dad is the only one who can carve the ham properly and grandma still has the seniority to insist things are done her way.

  Add to the mix new spouses, in-laws, old arguments and a few glasses of champagne and you can have one scary pot of tension.

  Then there is the issue of who goes where . . . whose family takes priori
ty for lunch or dinner on Christmas Day and who gets Boxing Day or Christmas Eve. Or how many different houses you can cram into one day, and who has to drive.

  Better still, you may be brave enough to finally host the day at your place. It’s a lot of work but the benefits outweigh all the preparations and washing up.

  I love nothing more than planning the menu, setting the table, piling the food in the centre and letting everyone help themselves and eat way too much, carols playing and everyone wearing their paper hat.

  And the smells take me right back to being a kid and doing the same. Wearing my best dress, watching my grandmother light the pudding, hoping I got a sixpence and spending the rest of the day playing with my presents.

  So if you make it through ok and come out the other side all still talking to each other and glassware intact, then take a bow. It seems Santa and stone fruit aren’t the only things we can bank on in the summer holidays.

  Chucky

  There is a great book by Paul Reiser, the actor from the nineties TV show Mad About You, called Babyhood. It starts with Paul and his wife on a plane watching a couple with their two small children. The little ones are screaming, vomiting and generally running amok, and Paul and his wife look on in horror, vowing to never go down that path.

  Spoiler alert if you plan on reading it: the book ends with a similar scene on a plane, but this time Paul and his wife are the parents and another childless couple is looking on.

  I laughed and could relate so much when I read it.

  Nick has inherited the carsick gene from me. And with the pride of a boy who still laughs at fart jokes, he can name every location he’s called for an emergency stop to chuck, or, worse still, the places where he hasn’t managed to call out in time.

  He’s chucked on planes, just as we were coming in to land, leaving me on my hands and knees mopping up noodles. I wonder if we are the only family who pinches the sick bags from planes and stashes them in a handbag. Forget the mags and biscuits.

  He’s chucked on long car trips. He’s chucked on rides. He’s chucked into his dad’s baseball cap when that was the only container available.

  Travelling with kids can be a challenge. There’s the sheer amount of stuff you need, especially when they’re babies. There are the boredom levels that kick in no matter how many fun car games you can make up. And there are the things you can’t control, like weather delays.

  Sitting in an airport late on a Sunday night, ears cocked for updates on whether our plane will even arrive, let alone fly us home to Sydney, is frustrating enough when you’re an adult. For kids it’s an eternity. As is watching the fog roll in and registering that each minute we are delayed is going to produce two very tired children and a fallout that I’ll have to deal with 24 hours later.

  Some airlines have now introduced child-free zones on board—a direct response to consumer demand.

  Before having children we all vow there will be minimal impact on our lives. We will continue to frequent restaurants and simply slip the baby capsule under the table. We’ll still go to friends’ houses because our child will be the cutest and most socially gracious toddler around. We will simply bring them up that way, to mix in an adult world and behave.

  Fast-forward to when you actually have the children and see how different it is. Anyone with a baby quickly realises it’s near impossible to just pop the capsule under the table. It’s rare that they sleep soundly and on cue to let you enjoy a romantic candlelit dinner undisturbed and undistracted. You go from being the ones looking on in horror as someone else’s child throws a tantrum in the supermarket, to being the parents of your very own out-of-control little one as everyone else’s eyes burn into you.

  You quickly realise it’s just easier to stay at home and order take-away.

  Slowly but surely your baby’s routine dictates your own. Life is just more harmonious that way and your little one is much more settled. And a settled baby makes for a settled family.

  How wonderful it is when suddenly one day you realise you have started to turn the corner and your child’s world is almost aligned with your own. They are a little more travel-friendly, open to trying new foods, can handle the occasional late night and approach new things wide-eyed rather than with trepidation.

  They don’t cry on planes, throw up their dinner or require you to carry a massive nappy bag stuffed with clothes, teddies, blankets and snacks.

  You can last the night without changing their clothes or yours. They can go to the toilet and wipe their own bottoms. They can eat with proper cutlery off porcelain plates and you know they won’t hurl them across the table.

  They may even smile at the waiter and order their own meal.

  It’s like one chapter ends and a whole new one begins. Suddenly they become companions, mates to explore the world with, take to the footy or the shops.

  It was about the time our kids started kindergarten that John and I felt the subtle shift. They wanted to help me prepare the meal and even set the table. They could hop in and out of the car by themselves and buckle up without being reminded. They chose their own outfits—and sometimes they were even coordinated.

  The nappy bag has been thrown out, the cot passed on, and our local Thai restaurant has come back on the agenda. Only now we book for four instead of two.

  Community

  I love being part of a close community. I know this won’t surprise you, but I chat to everyone! I chat to the butcher, the grocer, the postman, the neighbours, heck, I even used to drive through the manned tollbooth on the Sydney Harbour Bridge so I could say hi to the person collecting the coins rather than dropping mine into the automatic bucket. Yes, my husband thinks I’m crazy.

  But there is something comforting and safe about knowing you live in a little patch of the world where those around are looking out for you.

  We can come together through our kids, church, gym, local bridge club or even the local footy team. And never was that more obvious to me than when I covered the Black Saturday bushfires in Victoria in 2009.

  The Whittlesea Football Club became such a unifying focal point as the area recovered. But it was about more than a game of footy, although that was pretty fabulous. It was about giving the people of Whittlesea something tangible to focus their recovery efforts on so they could attempt to return to some sort of normal life.

  During the fires, the grounds were used as the staging post for all emergency vehicles, and the clubhouse acted as a triage centre for the wounded. But when the fires had been extinguished and the devastation was clearly apparent, it was the rebuilding that took so much effort. Watching the footy grounds regenerate and the bar reopen at the clubhouse became a measure of the community’s progress.

  It was as though the local football team’s desire to get the grounds ready for its primary purpose mirrored everybody’s need to rebuild and recover.

  And as the grass grew so did the locals’ spirits. Car horns were blaring and beer was flowing the day the oval was once again used for its true purpose.

  You don’t have to understand the rules or particularly enjoy sport to enjoy a game of footy in this country.

  I remember my dad dragging me along to Brookvale Oval on a Sunday afternoon back in the seventies to watch his beloved Manly take on arch rivals Parramatta. I was a kid who had no idea what was going on, didn’t really enjoy it all that much and could see nothing more than the back of a whole lot of heads until I finally grew taller in my teens. By then I could watch the action and actually understand how important it was to Dad when his team won and that I was there with him.

  And now it’s come full circle. I was honoured to be named the Number One Ticket Holder for the Greater Western Sydney Giants to kick off their first season in the AFL in 2012.

  I’ve been able to watch a young team grow and get to know a talented bunch of boys with big dreams, plenty of skill and the whole world in front of them.

  I’ve got an orange section in my wardrobe and now my family spends week
ends, in between my kids’ own sporting commitments, screaming our lungs out as we cheer on our team.

  I think we should be pretty proud in this country that we can go to a game with the whole family, feel safe and have a great day out. We drove to Canberra for the Giants versus Western Bulldogs game, my son sitting in the back seat in his GWS jumper, his best mate Timmy wearing the opposition’s. They learnt the other’s team song, sat together at the game and pigged out on pies. Not many places in the world you can do that without being heckled or worse.

  As a family it’s important we find things to do together. Footy may be it for your family too. No matter how bad your day is or who’s feuding with whom, if you can make it to the oval, don your scarf and cheer, most things can be forgotten, at least for a few hours.

  My cousin and her kids are mad on horses. She rides, her daughter does the gymkhana and her son cross-country. Whatever it is, find a common bond.

  And me, well, I’m just grateful I have a son who now loves Manly and is happy to hang with his grandfather at Brookvale Oval. It frees me up to watch the Giants.

  Copycats

  At the age of five, Talia would have extended conversations with someone on the other end of her pretend Tinkerbell mobile phone. She would tuck it between her ear and shoulder and walk around deep in conversation with I-don’t-know-who, about I-don’t-know-what. She would throw her head back and laugh and went so far as to wave her finger at me as a warning if I dared to interrupt her.

  My laughter quickly turned cold as I realised she was doing exactly what I do—talk on the phone way too much and tell her to wait until I’m finished.

  She will join me in the bathroom and pretend to take her non-existent make-up off. Or shuffle around my room attempting to walk in my high heels.