Alphabet Soup

by Melissa Doyle

But, in all honesty, it’s her dad she takes after. He was the one who debated at school and dreamt of being a barrister. I was as quiet as a church mouse until I graduated from university and found my voice in front of all things, a TV camera.

  She might look more like me, but inside she’s as feisty and strong as her dad, and shares his black sense of humour. If there is a bruise, they will both poke it.

  Our son is a carbon copy of his dad physically, but emotionally he’s just like me.

  You can’t help but be proud when children inherit your finer characteristics . . . but it can fill you with despair if you see their weaknesses and know inside exactly how they feel because they were, or still are, your own.

  How do you tell your child to give everything a go, join the team, try something new or take a risk when you couldn’t yourself?

  How do you encourage them to be brave when at that same age that was the last thing you were capable of? Does that make us all the more keen to help them overcome the very things that with hindsight we can see held us back?

  How do you stop laughing when the dry humour or silly fart jokes are straight from the older horse’s mouth?

  Nick laughs at absolutely anything, just like me, but thankfully he takes after his dad on the sporting field.

  Talia leaves her shoes, projects and piles of stuff all over the house, a little like her mother, but luckily she inherited her father’s spelling skills and attention to detail.

  Funny though how parents are quick to claim the good traits as from their side of the family and dump ownership very quickly of the bad. She’s my daughter when she’s good, my husband’s when she’s not!

  And just when you think you have their personalities nailed they will emerge as individuals . . . so uniquely their own person that you marvel at their strength and wonder where they came from.

  And that’s when you have to remind yourself that they’re not extensions of us, but people in their own right.

  I love seeing Nick and Talia’s unique personalities emerge. And I marvel how two kids from the same set of parents can be different to each other in so many ways. But that’s why we’re all unique.

  As you know, we stopped after two children—two rather miniature versions of their mum and dad. I’ll always be curious about what might have been had we gone for number three.

  Girls Gone Mild

  Remember those Saturday nights hitting the town with your girlfriends, drinking a chilled West Coast Cooler and listening to Rick Astley’s smooth voice vowing to never give you up?

  This was back when getting ready to go out was as much an event as actually going out. Rather than a mad dash out the door hollering instructions at the babysitter, you spent days deciding what to wear, where to go and hoping that nice boy you met at last weekend’s party might make an appearance.

  We’d plan our outfits and the exact time and place to meet—long before mobile phones meant you could leave it as open as a vague ‘I’ll SMS when I get there’. We’d laugh about boys, swap clothes and sweet-talk our parents into picking us up.

  Nowadays, I’m told, women spend three days preparing for a Saturday night out! According to a UK study done in 2012, girls liaise with friends on what they are wearing as early as Wednesday, and follow that up with an average of ten text messages, three emails, five phone calls, eight Facebook posts and three tweets before the night even eventuates.

  Oh, to have the time again and to have such simple concerns!

  Instead of swapping clothes, my girlfriends and I are now exchanging tips on coping with sick parents. From nursing a broken teenage heart, we’re nursing each other through a split that comes with a settlement, child support and so much more baggage. Instead of cursing that silly boy for not ringing, we’re sobbing over a failed marriage and trying to manage the feelings of our children as well as our own.

  Where once the biggest decision was what to wear with our bubble skirt, it’s now talking through the pros and cons of medicating a sick child.

  The anguish I have felt over being ill-prepared for a university exam is nothing compared to the trauma of rushing a sick parent to hospital or seeing the parents of my friends, whom I have known since I was in braces, pass away. These parents were like my second family, who always welcomed me in when I couldn’t stay at home another minute. They calmed the crazed teenage girl within, they took my formal photos and loved me as their own. They have known me since the dodgy days of Passion Pop. So when it’s time to say goodbye . . . well, this is what we need our friends for.

  The girls may not be mucking up together as much nowadays, but the bonds run deeper.

  The ones who promised to bail you out if ever required are now the godparents of your children.

  The one you made wear that terribly unflattering satin bridesmaid dress is now in kitten heels because her bunions are giving her trouble.

  The support networks we relied on when breakups and bad fashion were our biggest disasters are now the ones who nurse our broken hearts and sympathise with our maxed-out credit cards.

  Nights out are a little more sedate—drinks, dinner or a movie. At our age we can’t afford a headache the next day. But time with the girls is no less important. If anything, it’s a happy release from the madness at home. I call them ‘mental health’ breaks. A coffee with the school mums, a walk after school drop-off, a cheeky little pinot noir at the local bar that’s just opened up the road.

  We all have a few more runs on the board nowadays, a few bigger issues to deal with and maybe a little more wisdom to help us.

  But we can still frock up once in a while for a good night on the town, just minus the perm.

  Gold

  If only winning an Olympic medal was like winning the Melbourne Cup where they hand out miniature versions to all the connections that got the horse across the line. The owner gets the big cup, but replicas go to the trainer and jockey.

  In handing out Olympic medals you’d have one for the coach, team manager and, most importantly, the athlete’s family.

  Doesn’t every parent who’s got up at 4.30 a.m. to drive their child to swimming training also deserve gold around their neck?

  Many an athlete has credited their parents’ support as the reason behind his or her success; or that of their spouses, who run the home front and give them the space they need to simply focus on their sport. They receive food, laundry, nurturing and encouragement.

  We’re still only in the little league, but already I know how important it is to my children that Mum, Dad or preferably both of us are there to cheer them on each week at football or gymnastics.

  God forbid I miss that goal of the week! When Nick gets it in the net he immediately looks over to make sure we saw it. The pride on his face almost brings me to tears. His grin is enormous! Mind you, it’s no different to when my husband comes home from a round of golf and fills me in on every shot, every hole, every club used.

  And it’s only now I really appreciate how my parents spent years trying to find the perfect activity for me. I was kicked out of ballet for talking, found swimming too boring and was simply too slow at anything that required speed. I was never going to make it to the Olympics.

  Instead they bought me books. Sometimes we would read together, other times I would hide under the covers with a torch long after I was meant to be asleep.

  It’s these moments and passions we don’t want to miss. No matter how busy our lives are, as parents it’s so important to find that time to support our kids. It’s not always possible and sometimes duties need to be shared around a bit—particularly when there’s more than one sporting champ and you have some scheduling issues. But if it’s not John at football, it will be me. And if it’s not me, it will be a grandparent.

  So all hail every parent who has got up in the dark to take their child to the pool, stood on the sideline and frozen at a football game, sewn sequins on a leotard or cut oranges on a Saturday morning. And all hail every partner who cooks perfect low-fat, low-c
arb, high-protein meals and keeps the home fires burning while their loved ones train endless hours day after day.

  That sort of success takes teamwork. If only the whole family could fit up on the dais.

  Grandparents

  There is no one like a nonna to envelope you in a big mushy cuddle of love, and nothing like listening to a grandfather embellish stories from his youth . . . each adventure a little more daring, each win a little more triumphant at every retelling.

  My kids are blessed to still have all four grandparents, and with each they share a different and unique relationship.

  My paternal grandfather was an old bushie, a cattleman of the old school. Sadly for me he died before I was born, but I adore the stories of a stoic man who could pick a good steer with his eyes closed and the photos of him looking so comfortable on the back of a horse.

  My maternal grandfather worked as a purser on a ship and apparently held the record for stuffing the most Minties in his mouth at once. We would hide together in the spare room of my grandparents’ house giggling as he dug out his secret stash. I was only four when he died so I never learnt the secret to such an important and handy skill.

  More than three decades later, my children make their grandfather get down on his knees at one end of the hallway as they take a run up and launch themselves into his open arms. Sometimes they do a few laps around the kitchen as though the further they run the more force the hug holds.

  With three grandparents living interstate, Poppy is the mainstay nearby. While Pa couldn’t be at all their sporting fixtures because he lives so far away, one of his roles has been as keeper of the family tree. He’s done an enormous amount of work to ensure his grandkids know of their heritage—something they probably won’t appreciate until they have children.

  And while we can’t always be with distant grandparents, the birthday calls and Christmas cards make the distance seem smaller.

  Those of us lucky enough to have known our grandparents usually have pretty special memories.

  My kids have Nonna, who always arrives with lollies and a surprise hidden at the bottom of her suitcase. She cooks like only a grandmother can and spends hours on the floor playing and drawing. They have Poppy, who will happily kick a soccer ball in the backyard. When I start running short of time because dinner needs cooking or the children need bathing, Poppy has all the time and patience in the world. He is content to read the same story over and over again.

  I had a grandmother who would let me watch her get ready to go to church or lunch with her girlfriends. I watched in awe as she chose her hat, gloves and purse to perfectly complement her outfit. She taught me to be a lady, always write thank you letters and keep my shoes polished.

  My husband’s grandmother lived with him from when he was two. She played such a special and important role in his life. He always showed her his school photos and reports first, shared his happy and sad moments with her, and his earliest memory in life is crawling into her bed for a morning cuddle.

  Now that I am a parent I appreciate the unique grandparent–child relationship even more.

  I can see first hand how priceless that bond is to my children and what a light they are in the lives of their four grandparents.

  And I recognise how priceless their grandparents are to me. I couldn’t do the daily shuffle without them. They are the first people I call when I need a hand. When John or I travel it’s usually one of the grandparents who moves in. My dad lives nearby and is more than happy to stay overnight as long as I cook him a half-decent meal. Food, and the thought of two little warm bodies crawling into his bed for an early morning cuddle, seals the deal.

  I am completely relegated to second place when a grandparentarrives, but more than happy to be bumped down. Grandma’s cooking always tastes better than mine. She can convince the kids to eat anything. Meals I have tried serving for years suddenly become favourites. And the joy of a grandparent’s arrival always takes the pain out of a parent’s departure.

  Studies even show that children who spend more time with their grandparents are not only kinder but smarter, performing higher in learning scores due to the extra one-on-one attention.

  So if your children are lucky enough to still have their grandparents, treasure every moment, nurture their special bonds and always remember the Minties.

  Groundhog Day

  It’s the cooking, washing and tidying up that must happen day in, day out that never seems to end.

  Every day I am faced with mountains of dirty clothes, as though it just multiplies inside the laundry basket on its own, hidden from view like some insidious bacteria breeding in the dark. If I don’t stay on top of it, the pile simply gets more overwhelming, and the kids quickly run out of clothes.

  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to rummage through that basket for a ballet leotard that should have been washed and wasn’t, convincing my daughter that it’s not really that dirty.

  And the cooking: seriously, every night?

  It’s not so much the preparation of the meal, but coming up with something that both appeals and will be eaten by everyone. Cooking something they don’t like is not worth the argument. Please place an order, team . . . I’m happy to oblige!

  Every single day there are lunches to be made, the dishwasher to unpack, school bags to empty and notes to attend to. Shoes to put away, beds to make, homework to be done, teeth to be cleaned, paper to be taken to the recycling bin.

  They are ‘First World problems’ as my husband tells me, and I acknowledge I sound like a right royal whinger. In fact, I’m truly grateful that these are all that I have to wear me down. But sometimes, just sometimes, the repetition of my day drives me crazy.

  I can clearly remember the first time I made my way up the five flights of stairs to my very first rental apartment, in Queanbeyan, the cheaper alternative to living in Canberra. I was twenty years old and had just landed my first job as a cadet reporter at WIN TV. I finally felt like a grown-up, doing grown-up things. I was shopping, cooking and looking after myself, even if I was eating dinner on milk crates and sleeping on a mattress on the floor. It was all such an adventure. Today it’s all such a chore.

  It’s doing the same list of tasks every single day that is the boring part of motherhood.

  There are piles of stuff left at the bottom of the stairs that never quite make it any higher during the day until John or I have one mighty big work out and go up and down twenty times in a frenzy to put it all away.

  Folding the undies and socks, setting the table, cleaning the kitchen, picking up the miscellaneous stuff left lying around.

  There does come a time though when your children can become rather handy. And while I’m not advocating slave labour, I am advocating making the most of their enthusiasm before it wears off.

  Nick, now twelve, can cook dinner. His repertoire is fairly limited . . . but he can do a mean roast chicken with baked vegetables. I’d be happy with cheese on toast as long as I didn’t have to make it myself.

  Bless all those TV cooking shows that have ignited a passion in children to find their way around the kitchen. I’ve taught my kids to make the family crumbed cutlets—as taught to me by my dad and graciously passed along. It’s hardly some secret traditional family recipe; in fact, the cutlets themselves are nothing fancy. It’s more about the process of handing down the skills I learnt—oh, and handballing another chore.

  They don’t mind helping with the grocery shopping, Nick in his Heelys (runners with built-in wheels) and Talia driving the trolley. Nick reckons a supermarket aisle is the smoothest surface to ‘ride’ on. At least if I forget something he can find it super fast.

  They are strong enough to help unload the groceries from the car, and tall enough to reach the clothes line. As long as I keep mixing the chores up, and offering pocket money, I have two compliant helpers. And hey, the more they do, the less falls on me. I can’t wait until they learn to drive and cook lobster mornay.

  But it’s no
t always this way, and sometimes I find the asking and the nagging just isn’t worth it. In the time it takes me to crack the whip I can have the task completed. So sometimes I simply take the path of least resistance. Again.

  Hair Apparent

  There are not too many things you can be in control of when you’re a kid. You’re told when to get up, what to eat, what to learn, where to play, when to be quiet and when to go to bed. So I reason that my kids need to have some control over a few key things in their world: their bedrooms and their hair.

  Look, I’ll admit I have to fight every urge in me to go in and sort it the way I want it, but their bedrooms are their own fiercely protected domains and I have to relinquish control.

  No longer can I nominate colour schemes, offer decorating tips or suggest furniture placement. It’s their world now and I have to concentrate my efforts on other rooms in the house.

  Instead of a serene, tidy, mother-friendly environment, Nick has one fire-engine-red wall and a very loud black-and-red Manchester United doona cover that he loves. Trophies, model cars, cricket balls and souvenirs cover pretty much every available surface. Posters cover another wall—bands, sport teams and their associated products.

  I see a dust trap and a challenge to clean. He sees a lifetime of fun times, happy memories and heroes. But as long as he puts his clothes away, makes his bed and keeps the floor clear, I can live with it.

  Next door, Talia has created a sparkly pink paradise inhabited by Barbies and Disney princesses. Taylor Swift, Selena Gomez and the H2O girls smile from posters behind her door. Half completed craft projects, notes from friends and numerous snippets of paper are my endless challenge.

  And the crudely written ‘No boys allowed’ sign sticky taped to the door is hers. In response, Nick has ‘No Talias allowed in my room’ on his.

  And then there is the hair.

  I am sure I don’t have the only son who has tried to emulate David Beckham in his spikey phase, Justin Bieber’s sweep or even Zac Efron’s hairstyle circa 2010.