Coming in at number three are the ‘Guilty Copers’. These mums worry about what the kids are up to while they’re at work, but are too tired by the time they get home to be able to do much about it. They also spend too much time concerned with their image, hoping to at least look as though they’re coping even when they’re not!
The fourth group—around sixteen per cent of mums—manage the whole day-to-day balance pretty well but dispute that working really does make them a better parent. They worry less about the image of being the perfect working mother and care more about actually making it work: they are ‘Indifferent yet Successful’.
‘Aspiring but Struggling’ is next. These are usually the mums of younger kids (remember constantly telling yourself it will get better?). They find the pressure of work interferes with family life and they often turn down career opportunities to fit it all in.
The rest are ‘Indifferent and Struggling’: mums who couldn’t care less about the whole image thing and are simply too strung out between the demands of work and home to be the kind of parent they want to be.
Overall, we learn that apparently fewer than twenty per cent of us mums have got it all together. Only two in ten mums are coping, and one in ten is struggling.
Personally I think the biggest challenge would be deciding which category we fall into on any given day. Ask me on a Monday when I’ve spent the weekend washing, planning meals and grocery shopping and I’ll be feeling a lot more confident and in control than on a Friday when I’m tired and have a million domestic duties ahead of me.
Some days we all struggle and wonder what on earth we’ve done to our lives, whereas other days it all comes together in a smooth blend of laughter and home-cooked lasagne.
Like a good golf game, it’s the perfect moments that are enough to spur you on after a bad day in the bunker. As long as the number of days we are functioning and fulfilled outweighs the number where we are struggling and indifferent, we will be ok.
So maybe we are a mixture of all of the above. Some days we are racing down that pool with Olympian ease and the starting blocks are a million miles behind us; on other days we feel like we’re drowning in the wake of ‘Highly Functioning and Fulfilled’ mothers, and can only just manage to keep our heads above water. As long as we keep paddling, we’ll make it to the finish line and look back and convince ourselves it wasn’t that hard after all.
And then we can come up with a new label for that.
Little White Lies
‘He’s been!’ There is no better sound to wake you up than the kids shrieking with delight on Christmas morning, even if it is 5.30.
Finding their stocking stashed with presents is obviously the highlight, but hunting for evidence that it really was Santa who had snuck in the back door (we don’t have a chimney) and left their goodies comes a pretty close second.
Like diligent little detectives in PJ’s, they check the beer has been drunk, the biscuits eaten and the carrots munched on. The few stray reindeer whiskers left in the water bowl closed the case. Once again, there was no doubt that the fat man in the red suit had delivered on his promise.
But what happens when the investigators become less like the team from The Famous Five and more like the gang on CSI? What do you say when they start asking the tough questions and the evidence no longer stacks up? How as a parent do we explain to our son that his mate Timmy is wrong—no matter what his big brother told him—and Santa is real?
And should we?
At seven, the questions started. Until then Nick had been happy to go along with the magic of Christmas, Easter and even the Tooth Fairy.
Of course she is real, I assured him. As if Mummy or Daddy would get out of bed in the middle of the night to fish some stinky, gross, blood-encrusted tooth out from under his pillow. As if we could do it without waking him! More importantly, as if we’d even want to!
He bought it. Phew.
He has, however, worked out that eating the crusts on bread does not make your hair curly; no matter how crazy a face he pulls, a change in the wind will not make it freeze; spinach does not give you muscles; and walking on the cracks in the footpath has not harmed his back in any way.
I’m not really sure why we tell these little porkies to our kids. The injection won’t hurt; the grocery shopping will only take ten minutes; and visiting the dentist is fun. My parents spun the same stories to me. Maybe repeating them is just in my parenting DNA. Some traditions are part of who you are, right or wrong.
It’s a coming of age when our children no longer have blind faith in everything we say. While I’m glad their inquisitive minds are working overtime on these matters of international importance, part of me is sad that this chapter is coming to an end.
So we told our son Santa only comes to those who believe. No matter what your age, do any of us really want to take that risk?
There is no harm done by clinging to a little bit of the fairytale. I know he no longer believes a giant rabbit leaves chocolate at Easter, and I know he found my stash of Christmas wrapping paper that was identical to Santa’s and put two and two together. But I know, like me, he’s happy to hang on to the gorgeous fantasy.
Our biggest challenge is ensuring he doesn’t give the game away to his little sister.
Lost
One dark cold night a few winters ago, Teddy didn’t come home. We had no idea if he’d jumped out of the pram on the walk home from school or if he had decided to stay a little longer at soccer training after the kids had left the oval. Either way, we had a four year old lying in bed that night, alone, and calling out in a sad mournful voice, ‘Teddy . . . come home!’
So what do you do when the littlest member of the family is facing heartbreak? When the trusty sidekick she has held every day since birth is missing?
You turn the entire contents of the house upside down, of course. You open every cupboard, lift every cushion, search the car and double check every single hiding spot she has ever used in the past.
Then you send your husband out to walk the streets in the dark, to retrace that afternoon’s path home just in case Teddy was lying crumpled in a gutter somewhere. He even checked the dog poo bin at the park. Now that’s fatherly love.
But all to no avail. So then I join the hunt, detouring on my way to work the next morning. I scope the soccer field with my lights on high beam at 3.45 a.m. just in case Teddy is sitting on the swings or alone on the slide.
With a bit of luck and exhaustion, ‘Ariel’ sufficed for one night, and Talia—and the whole family, for that matter—got some sleep.
And there was Teddy the next morning, sitting smug and warm at preschool. He had in fact never come home.
So when your child anoints a favourite companion, try and buy two!
Or, as we have since done, ground the bear.
Love
Can I simply love them any more?
It happens from the first moment those newborn eyes open and look into your face; when you know they understand who you are; when those tiny hands find their way around your neck as you hold them at your shoulder.
The first time squishy little arms could wrap you in their tiny determined embrace. The first time they say ‘I love you, Mummy’, and every single time after that they tell you in so many ways.
Some moments are like a soft-focus nappy ad: watching Talia skip down the back steps in her ballet gear, bun high and tight, little skirt flipping, big pink coat done up tight around her neck as she braves a winter afternoon.
Or the evening in front of the telly when Nick finds his way across the couch to snuggle closer, ever so subtly making his way into such a familiar position, still my baby boy, all gangly limbs. Young enough to still hug his mum unashamedly and sometimes hold my hand.
Plus the simple but heartfelt messages in the Mother’s Day cards they make.
It’s the force of my love for them that still takes me by surprise. I wish I could think of a stronger word, one that isn’t used when I describe choco
late and sleep-ins; a word that captures just how overwhelmed I am by the joy that I get from being with them every single day. How I can look at them in those little unplanned moments and feel so proud that I am their mum and they are my children.
I am theirs, always, completely.
Make-believe
Like a lot of women, I probably obsess about my weight a bit too much. I spend most days wishing I could drop five kilos and am forever on the quest for a pair of jeans that will make my bum look two sizes smaller.
But since becoming a mum, I now try to keep the bulk of this conversation inside my head. I have two children with fit, active little bodies. They both love sport, eat well, take an interest in what they wear and are learning to appreciate what being healthy means. I know it’s up to John and me to keep that relationship normal.
Girls in particular are bombarded by ideal body images. Talia loves flicking through my fashion magazines. She cuts out dresses she likes and pins them to her notice board. She also loves to dress Barbie and dreams of one day being a fashion designer. She’s already noticing the power of appearance. I don’t know what I will do when she stops playing with Barbie and wants to look like her.
Nick on the other hand is driven by sport. It’s all about what the body can do in his world. How fast it can run, how hard it can kick a ball, how long it can last on the field.
And this is what I am trying to teach them both—that their body is to be cared for, loved and respected. But, gosh, it can be hard sometimes.
Have you watched a music video show lately? Have you seen how Miley Cyrus dresses? Have you seen how Rihanna moves?
I remember attempting to ‘do the locomotion’ and to ‘strike a pose’. During her peak, Madonna was hardly much tamer than Lady Gaga . . . but like all things you argue in favour of when you are young, you suddenly see your parents had a point when you become one yourself. (Not that you’d ever admit it!)
We don’t watch Saturday morning TV in our house, mainly because we are racing out the door to sport. Even if we weren’t, I don’t really think I’d want my kids watching some of those music clips.
I know they are both about to face an enormous amount of peer pressure on how to dress and behave as they reach high school. I just hope my influence will be stronger than America’s.
I’ve never been a midriff-baring kind of girl—I neither had the abs nor the inclination. Talia’s wardrobe is hardly trendy (and nor is mine, for that matter). While I still have control over what she wears, it’s cute and conservative; what I think is age-appropriate. Nick is just happy if it’s a sporting brand!
Due to my job on TV they have both had a glimpse into the media’s world of make-believe. They know Mummy spends hours with a make-up brush before she heads out to host a charity ball. And they see her remove the false eyelashes and borrowed jewellery after an evening in front of the camera. Thankfully they are both learning that glamour is just an illusion, and luckily they prefer the non-glam, make-up-free version of their mother that they see on weekends. Or at least they tell me they do . . .
They know the models in magazines are airbrushed, well lit and wouldn’t in fact look like that pushing a trolley at the supermarket.
And what about body image? We are inundated with pictures of thin models with gaunt, bored-looking faces. I only hope this body shape is a trend that will pass in time, just like it did in the 1920s.
As one of the most important role models in my children’s lives, I realise it’s up to me to avoid giving them hang-ups about body shape and eating habits and avoid passing on any negative issues I may have with my own figure.
It’s up to me to tell them what is real, and what isn’t; that some women are born with the face or body to model and others aren’t, just as some men are built for rugby and others are shaped for marathon running. I tell them food and exercise is all about being healthy and strong and fit, and good food gives them glowing skin, shiny hair and the stamina to last an entire game of soccer.
As my daughter grows up, I tell her fashion is about style and often what you can’t see is far more attractive than what you can. And I’m trying to teach my son to appreciate a woman for her inner beauty. Mind you, he’s more impressed by her goal-kicking tally than anything else at this stage. Long may it last!
In the meantime, I’ll keep my chocolate binges private, and I’ll buy more Spanx and tell them I’m going to the gym—even if I’m not.
Making Friends
I have to admit I’m pretty awful at remembering names. The older I get the harder I try and the more I repeat them over and over in my head. Sometimes it works, to the delight of Jill at my local supermarket, Visuka at the post office and Jack the car park attendant.
Other times, like at school pick-up, it fails dismally.
Kids have such a delightful way of bypassing the whole terrible memory dance. In her very first week of school, Talia made two new friends. But as only a five year old can get away with, she had no idea of their names. She knew one was in the yellow class and the other in the blue class, and she had obviously spent a few lunch times in their company and chatted happily, but when I asked her their names she said ‘I don’t know!’ as though their names were irrelevant. They had decided they were friends and, at that point in time, that was sufficient.
Still to this day, I’m in a similar situation, but I don’t think I can get away with it with such ease. All the mums mingle outside the classroom waiting for our cherubs to burst out when the bell goes. We all smile and most afternoons make idle chatter such as ‘Isn’t it hot!’ and ‘What a nice teacher we have!’
But unlike the kids, we don’t wear nametags. If you are not careful, the time to ask someone’s name quickly passes. Before you know it, too many afternoon conversations have been had to admit you have no idea who you are talking to. Or if you are like me and introduced yourself on day one but have completely forgotten a name by day three, how long can you bluff for?
We all usually know the kids before the parents, so you can easily step in and say, ‘How is Ella enjoying school?’ You have established you know who they are mum to, without revealing you have no idea who they are. Then hope you can find that class list at home and put names to faces!
The kids have been a wonderful way for John and me to make new friends. With similar interests, lifestyles and timetables, you find yourself spending a lot of time with the parents of your children’s friends and team mates. Your lives are oddly parallel, and, mostly, if you like the kid you’ll like their mum and dad.
In fact, the vast majority of the friends we see most regularly have come into our lives via our children. Through years of sport, learning and shared experiences we’ve formed some close and what will be lifelong friendships.
The soccer dads regularly hold what they call ‘strategy meetings’ at the pub and the mums can extend a quick afternoon school pick-up into a lovely long catch-up in the playground.
Given they usually live locally, you can stop by for a cup of tea and a whinge about the teachers, you can take turns doing the Saturday morning soccer run, and often find someone equally bored to talk to during those long, long hours of summer cricket.
And if you’re lucky you’ll find a special one or two who transcend your kids’ friendship . . . almost a kindred spirit in the daily perils of parenting, someone who understands exactly what you’re going through because she’s going through it herself.
And if you’re extra lucky, she’ll be much better at remembering names and might prove rather handy at school pick-up time.
Maternity Leave
My husband had grand plans before our children were born to design a pouch that could hang on the front of his golf bag to carry a baby. He dreamt parental leave would be a mix of lazy afternoons on the golf course and time spent tinkering around the house.
Needless to say, reality was very different. I took six months off when Nick was born. He was a power napper, which left me with little time to get very much done at
all.
John would come home from work and find me sitting on the couch in the dark, a sleeping baby in my arms and a faithful dog sitting at my feet. Nick had finally fallen asleep that way and, like any first-time parent, I wasn’t game enough to risk waking him by getting up and turning on the lights. I was too scared to move an inch.
I only had three months off when baby number two arrived. John took a month off when I returned to work to ease the pressure, but with a two year old to wrangle the time wasn’t what either of us had imagined.
Luckily shift work meant I could make the 3 a.m. feed, head to work and be home for the 11 a.m. feed. I was exhausted and hormonal but so grateful to have two healthy children and a way to make it all work.
Maternity leave can be a big decision. It depends on your family circumstances, your finances and very often the baby itself.
Some parents take a year and enjoy every moment. Others find working for a small company or running their own business doesn’t give the flexibility a big multinational with paid maternity leave and an onsite crèche does.
Around 40 per cent of mothers return to work at some stage within the year after having their first baby, and take a little longer after subsequent children.
Of course every family circumstance is different, and decisions can be determined by everything from finances to childcare costs, working hours and yours or your baby’s health.
One of my girlfriends gave birth prematurely at 35 weeks—clearly a scenario she hadn’t expected. It meant that all plans went out the window as she focused solely on her vulnerable newborn.
But with the rising cost of living, just how you will manage is becoming a bigger decision for families. And more and more companies are doing what they can to keep good staff.
Just a few years ago Caltex Australia introduced BabyCare, an initiative that included bonuses, emergency childcare payments and purpose-built breastfeeding rooms. It was a strategy to retain talented staff and increase morale.
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