Then comes the labour. She has the longest, the hardest and the most gruesome stories to tell. Or she pops it out in half an hour and takes great delight in leaving the ward in her skinny jeans. Her baby will undoubtedly walk at eight months and learn to read by the age of two.
Then it starts with the birthday parties. Who can hire the biggest jumping castle, the scariest reptile collection and send home the most elaborate lolly bags.
If she works, her life is the hardest; if she doesn’t, she questions the mothering abilities of anyone who does. Her kids will do more after-school activities, excel at everything and be way above everyone else in class. They will also have the most creative lunches, the coolest runners and the newest stationery.
I hate feeling so scrutinised by these mothers. It takes me right back to the playground myself when I couldn’t keep up with the cool crowd, and now that I’m a grown-up nothing has changed. And you know what? I don’t really want to try and compete.
Why is it women can be their own worst enemies? Are they simply alpha females who need to be the best at everything, motherhood included? And was it always this way?
I’ve heard horror stories from girlfriends whose daughters were selected for the netball team and had to incur the wrath of the mother whose child wasn’t. Women who lobby on behalf of their kids for the best of everything at school—and they’re still in primary. They’re either setting their kids up to rebel, or follow in their own nasty footsteps.
I don’t have the time, energy or disposition to make motherhood a competition. I’ll do it my way and seek out other mothers who respect that. I’d rather put my efforts into sharing fun times than trying to outdo each other.
Let the games be played by the kids.
Naughty Corners
We’ve all heard the debates and probably even had them ourselves: to smack or not to smack our kids.
We know that childhood experts tell us not to hit our kids and instead find alternative means of punishment. Yet we’ve all heard our parents tell us a smack on the bum did us, or them, no harm.
Frankly, I’m getting kind of sick of everyone telling me what or what not to do. Don’t feed them too little; don’t feed them too much. Don’t let them drink this, eat that, watch this, play that or hang out with them.
Surely there’s a healthy balance between the no-vaccination/ no-sugar/phosphate-free end of the spectrum and the Maccas-eating/ coke-drinking/stay-out-all-night extreme. I’m an educated woman who wants nothing but the best for my kids in terms of their health, happiness and wellbeing. Sure I read books and articles, take advice from people I trust, rely on girlfriends and their experiences and talk everything over with my husband. But in the end we have to rely on our own instincts and what we think suits our kids. At this stage, I think we’ve got them sussed.
I know punishment is a completely different issue. And we obviously all have different definitions of smacking. Some say it’s a smack across the back of the legs, and others clearly take it a lot further. And we all have different standards of discipline.
It’s not my place to tell you what to do or what might work best for your child, I can only reflect on what’s worked for ours—so far. And until they reach eighteen without a stint in jail, I still won’t know for sure I’ve succeeded.
When my kids were in nappies the naughty corner worked best. But both had different places of punishment. For my son, to be sent to his room and miss out on the action was, in his mind, as bad as it got. But for my daughter, time alone in Barbie heaven simply wasn’t a deterrent. Instead, sitting at the bottom of the steps or in the naughty corner in plain view of the family and all that she was missing was enough to get her to curb her ways.
When they got a little older, deprivation was the key. For Talia, it was taking away whatever her favourite thing was that week. For Nick, it was threatening to keep him home from sport.
Nowadays it’s losing their gadgets. A confiscated iTouch hits home with greater impact than anything else.
There is no doubt that as they get older it gets harder to make your point when they behave in a way you don’t condone, but it also opens up so many more avenues to explore.
Good old-fashioned grounding worked for me in my teenage years. That and the age-old ‘You have disappointed me’. To think about it still cuts me like a knife.
The one thing John and I have learnt though is to follow through. A threat that turns out to be simply a threat very quickly loses its power. And so do you.
I guess it’s tapping into what makes them tick and, without wanting to sound too brutal about it, knowing where they hurt. A cancelled party invite, a week without technology or a day sitting out cricket—it’s all about impact!
Network
Forget power lunches, corporate cocktails and team-bonding weekends, few jobs will ever require the level of networking as parenthood.
It will be the day when you need to get your son to swimming or daughter to ballet that you’re held up at work, and chances are when you do escape the fuel light is flashing in the car. Thank goodness for other mums.
They say it takes a village to raise a child and sometimes you also need that whole village to get them from A to B, and on time.
During one school holiday Nick did a few mornings of tennis camp and Talia chose butterfly dance camp at the local church hall. As luck would have it, they both started at the same time and finished spot on at midday as well, so another mum and I had the ‘you get the boys, I’ll get the girls’ conversation.
And lucky we did. It made our lives easier, but it also meant neither of our children was left sitting forlorn and surly long after the balls had been collected or the music packed away.
The mums’ network is a roster system based on SMSing and availability. It’s like an underground movement you are totally unaware exists until you need it.
With more and more of us moving away from our families, we are increasingly reliant on our friends and creating our own support group.
The mums’ network is like a barter system for transport and child-minding. You put your hours, skills and available duties up for grabs and see who bites.
All through my children’s primary school days my résumé would have described me as out of action in the mornings due to work, but available most afternoons. I was always more than happy to mind a friend’s child after school. It gave my kids someone else to kick a ball around with and bought me a few credits for when I was stuck at work and had to call for help.
We even used to plan ahead to avoid the double shuffle when one child was at school and one still at preschool. A few of us had children at both so we’d often grab an extra child and swap.
Nowadays the network is at its most valuable during the crazy afternoon calendar of ballet, soccer training and band practice. It’s inevitable that one child needs to be dropped off at a suburb far from where the other is waiting to be collected, and mine are still too young to wait patiently and confidently on their own.
AFL training on those cold nights, midwinter, is complicated. Four of us have a roster going and we share the drop-offs and pick-ups, giving each one a turn once a fortnight to brave the chill and the evening traffic.
Befriend other mums . . . and do a deal! There’s always one willing to take an extra to midweek training in return for a sleep-in on a Saturday morning.
All those years when I was the mum who couldn’t volunteer for the 9 a.m. reading group or the midmorning canteen prep, I could provide plenty of scrap paper for drawing, clean up at the afternoon art class and happily supervise afternoon sport.
Nor can I go on the school camp or supervise the running group, but I can bake for the school fete and muck in at the annual working bee.
Instead of us feeling guilty about the shifts we can’t do while others feel burdened by all the shifts they are left with, why don’t we get the old-fashioned networks up and running and share the load a bit more?
And the network is not just about managing
our kids. A group of like-minded mums can be a valuable team to have behind you.
Twenty-five years after last encountering a medicine ball, I found myself just one of a rather motley bunch of soccer mums, throwing balls, skipping ropes and attempting push-ups.
Motivated by the fit one in the group, we decided to hire a personal trainer for ourselves while our kids trained for soccer on a Wednesday afternoon. So while my daughter and her posse of younger siblings held court near the slippery dip and the boys practised their skills on one side of the oval, we were on the other side trying to find ours.
We numbered about eight in assorted shapes, sizes and fitness levels, a number that ebbed and flowed each week depending on who had the time or whose kids were sick. Luckily we found a patient trainer because he was constantly losing one of us at ten-minute intervals to take our kids to the loo, top-up their drinks or tend to the odd scraped knee.
He also understood that after so many years out of the system, we were a little rusty. Our star jumps failed to spark, our speed was shot and our coordination wasn’t exactly graceful.
But it was a fun way to make the most of a spare hour, keep warm on a cold winter afternoon, tone up the tuck-shop arms and impress the kids. And get to know the other mums.
Everyone needs a good support network, and sometimes the strongest can come from those who are living a similar life to yours.
There’s nothing more reassuring that a good chat at school pick-up, even the odd coffee or play in the park after the 3 p.m. bell.
You’ll probably find there are other mothers in exactly the same boat as you, and just waiting for someone else to reach out. It’s just that none of us is game to be the first to ask.
New Year’s Resolutions
I think it’s about time I give up on my annual resolutions to lose five kilograms by March, keep on top of the garden maintenance and stop dumping my stuff on the kitchen table (although this one is more for my husband’s sanity than any real desire on my part). Next time 1 January roles around I will celebrate what is good and be happy with what I’ve got.
Maybe as I get older I’m more realistic about what I can achieve, and when.
So what is it about the beginning of the week/month/year that makes us suddenly resolve to change things in our lives? Is it just that we like the symmetry of a fresh start on a Monday, or do we really think changing our ways in January will work better than if we started in December? Maybe it has something to do with a January diet coming fresh on the heels of a decadent Christmas—one final gorge before the fast begins.
I have a little snippet from an interview with Cindy Crawford stuck to my notice board. (Who would have thought a supermodel could be so inspiring? Funnily enough, John and I agree on Cindy being an inspiration but I suspect for slightly different reasons.)
She said, ‘If there is something you don’t like about yourself, work at it. If you are unable or unwilling to put in the work, accept it.’
Hmm. Is this a cop-out or can I embrace this philosophy and finally come to terms with the fact I will never be as skinny, super fit, perfectly organised or tidy as I would like? Mind you, I’d happily accept being Cindy too.
Instead of trying to start the new year with a bang, I have decided to make small adjustments I can deal with. Maybe just eat a little healthier more often; occasionally walk instead of drive when we need milk; and clutter the kitchen table by all means, but maybe sort it at the end of the day instead of the end of the week.
The last promise I made myself was to see my friends more—and for once I achieved it.
Like most busy families we tend to spend more time with our friends who have kids and lifestyles compatible with ours. We see them at school pick-up and Saturday sports and a weekend barbecue simply becomes easier when the kids all get along.
But like everyone we have friends across town or interstate, and others with older children or none at all. These are the people I’ve known half my life and sometimes seeing them requires a bit more organising. With one family, we nominated the first Saturday afternoon of every second month. We laughed at the absurdity of it, but it actually worked! With old friends you always pick up where you left off and the comfort of their company is always worth it.
So is dragging ourselves off the couch on a Saturday night every once in a while. Given our busy weeks and my many years of 3 a.m. starts, it was always easier to stay in and crash early. But when we do get out we are always glad we did.
So next year I have decided to take baby steps . . . do a little tweaking around the edges instead of all-out change. And instead of New Year’s resolutions I will make New Year’s affirmations. Let’s improve what we want to or can, otherwise embrace who we are, what we have and go a little easier on ourselves. What a great way to start the year.
Thanks, Cindy.
No
Funny how a word so short can be one of the toughest to say: no. But it brings with it guilt, judgement and the fear of hurting someone else’s feelings. And they’re pretty strong emotions to reconcile.
As you may have gathered, I’m a big advocate of the mums’ network. The juggle is a lot easier, and a lot more fun, when we help each other out.
But while support is one thing, what do you do when you start feeling used? How do you say no when your goodwill is clearly being taken advantage of and your patience is running out?
I’ve made my fair share of urgent ‘I’m stuck in traffic!’ calls to girlfriends, asking them to mind my kids for ten minutes until I arrive. I’ve even asked them to take my children home with them on the odd occasion when there is no way I will make it on time.
I’ve also taken just as many calls from girlfriends in the same situation, and I’m more than happy to return the favour and share the load. In fact, I’m keen to offer as much as I can in order to store as many brownie points in the bank as possible!
Urgent favours, prearranged play dates or offers to pick up a child from after-school sport come without expectations. It’s when your services are assumed, and abused, that you can start to get narky.
So what do you do when someone calls on you over and over, and expects you to say yes? How do you say no?
I don’t know about you, but I find it one of the hardest words to use. Maybe I’m afraid I’ll offend, appear callous or even lose a friend.
I struggle to say no to my dad when he calls asking a favour on a day when my diary is already packed. I find it hard to say no when the dentist rings and wants to reschedule the kids’ appointment to a time that really doesn’t suit me.
I get myself stressed and tied up in knots because I am too gutless to be assertive. So I’m trying a little harder. When I am simply too busy, I say so.
And when the reason is I simply don’t want to, I say so too. Instead of coming up with some weak and obviously cobbled-together excuse as to why I can’t have someone else’s child over for a play that afternoon, I’m trying the honesty path. Sometimes my children and I just need a quiet afternoon at home together. Given for so many years I didn’t see them in the mornings because I was at work when they woke up and I already share them with ballet, soccer training, band practice and homework, there are moments when I just really want them all to myself after school.
Now at times I simply tell my dad it’s impossible and suggest we pick another day when my diary is a little clearer.
I also want my kids to learn the importance of standing their ground. Saying no when a friend wants to make a trade in the playground. Refusing to hand over their favourite card will hopefully empower them years from now when more tempting but alarming incentives are at stake.
I’m slowly working out it’s not so hard to say no. And people don’t seem to mind as much as I feared. I feel better, less resentful and a little less stressed and I’m actually more inclined to want to offer more when I know it’s appreciated.
Nudie Rudies
We are a house with a ‘no boobies at the dinner table’ rule.
B
efore you laugh out loud and assume I am outing myself as a nudist, I can assure you I am not.
It’s my daughter. When she used to come home from school the first thing she did was whip her uniform off and run around in her knickers. Luckily she was five and cute as a button, but I had to draw the line at her being topless at the dinner table.
On a hot sticky summer afternoon, I’m sure there’s nothing more delightful than the freedom of not wearing clothes. But just in case not everyone agrees, when the doorbell rang I asked her to dash into her room and cover up so she didn’t flash at our unsuspecting visitor.
Just as there is an underground movement of adult nudists, it appears there’s rather a lot of little ones out there too. I have a friend with an eight-year-old son who gets his gear off at any chance. Another friend’s six-year-old daughter started walking out the front door one afternoon to collect the mail . . . naked.
With time and gravity on their side it was still cute . . . but age eventually broke the habit. Or maybe winter did.
Or maybe it was simply growing up.
I must admit to feeling a little sadness when my children started becoming self-conscious. When my son started closing his door when he was dressing and my daughter finally used her robe to leave the bathroom, it was another snippet of innocence gone. As a parent, learning to respect their privacy is so important. I figure if I want them to knock before walking into the bathroom on me, then I should do the same.
But at least we can have guests over for dinner—modesty intact.
Off to School
The memory of my sweet little five-year-old daughter in her oversized brand new school uniform is enough to make my eyes well with tears. In her crisp white collar and blue checked dress, she suddenly looked so tall and grown-up. The ribbons in her plaits were blue instead of pink, her giant black shoes and white socks so much less individual than her sparkly little pink ones. With one change of outfit she went from being Mummy’s constant little buddy to a confident young child about to embark on the next chapter of her growing up.
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