Alphabet Soup

by Melissa Doyle

  There is nothing cuter than seeing a hundred wide-eyed four and five year olds marching through a playground, holding hands and wearing cardboard bunny ears with their names written across the front in giant junior handwriting. Their hats wide enough to shade them and a couple of extra friends, and that giant backpack . . . well, I think I’ll be carrying it for her for some time to come.

  And it’s easy to spot the mums of the kindy kids . . . they’re the ones in tears.

  When Nick started school a few years before, we had put so much energy into building him up for it that we were all convinced everything was going to be ok. He was shy and nervous so we only talked about school with excitement and confidence. By the time he was ready, so were we. I was emotional, but just so eager for him to go forth, grow up and explore the world.

  But then came number two. There is something different about sending your last born off to school. It’s because they seem so much littler or because I knew we were saying goodbye to the sweet and fun world of toddlers forever—closing the book on babies, prams and nappies. Before I know it, Talia will be testing out rude words, catching nits and focusing on her girlfriends more than she focuses on me. Maybe that’s it. I’m selfishly having a little trouble dealing with the fact that soon I will no longer be the most important thing in her world. Social groups, boys and TV actors will replace me.

  Of course I tried to hide all this anxiety because she was just so excited. It helped that she knew the school well, given she was there twice a day, dropping off and picking up her brother. And it helped that a group of her friends from preschool made the transition with her.

  She was busting to learn, to meet new people and to simply put everything together. Her little mind was frustrated that she could spell words but not quite read as she tried to catch up to her older brother. The questions never ceased. She is social, chatty, sweet and confident. And I can’t wait to see the woman she will grow into.

  I guess it just came around a little quicker than I expected.

  One-on-one Time

  Nick and John went fishing last weekend along with another mate and his boys. They caught little more than bait and a bit of sunburn, but had a fantastic time together.

  When life is so busy and schedules so packed with all the things we need to do, it’s wonderful when we can steal some time to occasionally do the things we want to do.

  Ironically, the less time we have, the more we need to make sure we find it, because it’s those one-on-one memories that last forever.

  My husband used to take Nick with him to buy coffee and the papers every Saturday morning from when he was a tiny baby. It gave me, as a new mum, the chance to sleep in, but it developed into so much more for my two boys. It was their special weekly routine—a chance to hang out together away from Mum. As Nick has grown, their Saturday morning activity has developed into sport. John is always on the sidelines cheering and serving oranges.

  Time together as a family is important, but so too is time alone with each of your children as individuals, to really talk with them and listen.

  I don’t know how Brad and Angelina manage with their brood of six, or even America’s ‘Octomum’, but, as any parent will tell you, where there’s a will there’s a way.

  A colleague of mine, himself a father of four, says he used to drive his kids everywhere. Whether they be going to sport or parties, he says when they were in the car they were his. He had a captive audience and it was a great chance to talk.

  I used to find walking my kids home from primary school opened the channels of communication. My son, who has perfected the standard ‘dunno’ shrug, seemed to open up a little more when we were walking, as though the movement of his legs inspired his mouth.

  My daughter loves to be with me when I am getting ready to go out. She sits in my wardrobe, trying everything on and earmarking what she wants one day. She slips her tiny little feet into my high heels and winds up my lipsticks, squashing the tops into the case, but she makes getting dressed so much more fun. I hope one day she does wear something of mine.

  We also read together at night. They each jump into bed with me for a story . . . Talia first, then she’s off to bed and it’s Nick’s turn.

  It’s having those few precious moments with each of them individually that I crave, and enjoy, so much. And as they get older it only gets better as they develop interests and find things we can do together.

  My daughter loves nothing more than hitting the shops (I don’t know where she gets that from) but we have precious girl-time together, try on dresses and stop for a hot drink.

  My son is happy to whip my butt on the oval with a soccer ball or a cricket bat and ball.

  It doesn’t really matter what we do. It’s just about being together and recognising them as individuals.

  Like all families, we are busy, stretched between work commitments, running the house and trying to stay in touch with friends . . . but the moments we can find to be alone, no matter how small, make all the difference.

  Organised Chaos

  As a full-time working mother of two, never in my life have I been so busy, and, because of that, never before have I been so organised!

  Organisation was not a word that sat comfortably with my name. For the first 30 years of my life I tended to ‘go with the flow’. If anyone was going to leave an assignment to the night before, be 24 hours late for a party (yep, very embarrassing) or forget the garlic bread was in the oven until the meal was over, it was me. And nor did I particularly stress about it. Assignments always got done, there was always another party and I was probably better off without the garlic bread anyway.

  But as life got busier and it wasn’t just my time I had to manage, things simply had to run more smoothly. Sunday is now my day to start the week with a little preparation.

  If I can have the weeknight meals picked, written on the calendar and the ingredients in the fridge, it takes away that mundane nightly ‘what are we having for dinner’ conversation. For some reason a cookbook on a Sunday seems so much more inspiring than the nightly fossick through the fridge. And it makes the task so much easier for me. Racing in late from cricket training midweek, I know the decision has been made and the pantry is stocked.

  The more I can do on the weekend, the better I ultimately feel. Meals planned, washing put away and the kitchen bench clear—starting with a clean slate gives me less stress in the busy days that follow.

  If I’m going to all the effort to make meatballs for dinner, I make one batch for now and freeze another for later.

  Even as I write this I am laughing at how boring it all sounds! I must have well and truly crossed into motherhood when tidiness and order thrills me as much as chaos and spontaneity once did.

  I look at it as self-preservation. I could handle a little chaos, and in fact thrived on it, when I only had myself to worry about. I left everything to the last minute. But when I start spinning out of control nowadays there are a few others who suffer. Best Mummy knows what she’s doing!

  Nothing satisfies me more than a giant summer holiday clean-out. Sorting the kids’ wardrobes and passing on what no longer fits; reining in my garden; tidying the linen cupboard; tossing the out-of-date items shoved to the back of the pantry. If I can start the year a little neater, lighter and less cluttered then I can better handle the chaos as it builds up—and build up it will.

  The endless supply of notes that come home from school, permission for this, directions on that; the art works, each as elaborate and important as the next: they all get shoved in a basket to be sorted.

  There’s a pin board for certificates, magnets on the fridge for reminders and mission control is the family calendar hanging on the laundry door.

  Each child has their own folder so class lists and receipts don’t get lost and lunch boxes and notes have to be unpacked straight away.

  Military precision!

  It runs like clockwork . . . sometimes.

  Owls

  Boy, oh
, boy, did this one sneak up on us. One minute we’re changing his nappies and the next we’re looking at our watches wondering when our son will be home!

  Of course I knew this would happen eventually, I just wasn’t expecting it so soon. I thought the ritual of sitting up late on a Saturday night waiting with lights blazing didn’t happen until the teenage years.

  To be honest, I fell asleep on the couch and John was the one who soldiered on. But how strange it felt the first time it happened.

  Nick loves his footy, so rain or hail he won’t miss a game. Even if it means hitching a ride with another family on the nights we decide to be Ma and Pa Kettle and stay in. A night game usually doesn’t finish until well after 10 p.m. so that means he gets home around 11 p.m. Even I struggle to cope with such a late night (probably why I was already asleep), let alone a seven year old!

  At least at this age, we don’t have to worry about him driving, getting in trouble or having a few too many beers. Fast-forward eleven years and it’ll be a different story. It dawns on me the anxiety I must have caused my parents.

  Bedtimes have been pretty strict in our house. Fourteen years of mum working shift work can do that to a family. I was always reliant on routine when they were babies and it hasn’t really changed. The hour may be a bit later, but I still have a no-nonsense approach to getting off to bed. There is nothing more draining than the nightly fight to call it a day.

  Sometimes when there’s a big game on, we’ll stay in and watch it on TV. If John’s away, I will sit up with Nick but end up falling asleep while he watches every minute. He’ll have his Sherrin in his hands and it won’t stop moving as he mirrors every play he sees. I’ll get the jab in the ribs when he says, ‘Did you see that mum?’ Through glazed eyes I’ll look over and wonder where my little baby boy went and think that it’s all going by too fast.

  And just when I think he’s all grown up, he’ll grab his teddy and snuggle in next to me. I’ll close my eyes again and remember when he was tiny—until the next jab in the ribs and cries of ‘Big Bad Barry Hall’s kicked another one, Mum!’

  Parent Coaching

  Who knew at 40 I’d be learning to take a mark and kick a drop punt? Or play wicket keeper and learn the proper technique to catch a cricket ball.

  Nick’s AFL and cricket clubs have both arranged parent-coaching clinics. I never really had the sporting bug (or ability) at school, but as the mother of a very sporty son, I figure I’d better get my skills up so I can at least hold my own. And not completely embarrass both of us.

  Parenthood is the perfect excuse to revisit your childhood in so many ways. You get to watch those hilarious animated movies, play with Barbie again and book a table in a restaurant at 5 p.m. without feeling out of place.

  If it weren’t for Nick, I would never run around a footy field lining up my kick. He’s even had me as wicket keeper in the summer. I was pretty shocking and let way too many balls sail past, but I must admit it was kind of fun!

  Now I just wish they would do something similar at school.

  Nick’s learning the finer details of grammar and I’m rather embarrassed to admit, but those skills are all rather scratchy. As a journalist, trust me, I hang my head in shame. But twenty-plus years out of school and spellcheck on my computer have left me a little lazy.

  I remember thinking what a complete waste of time learning algebra was. Maths was definitely not my strong point. But it’s amazing how quickly we can get rusty on the skills we spent years rote learning. I drummed knowledge into my brain for long enough to spit it out the next day during an exam. Over the years, the file has been wiped clean in order to fill with new stuff.

  I thought my cramming was so clever at the time, and although it’s placed me in good stead for my job as a journalist, I’m not laughing now that Nick is asking me if ‘wet’ is a noun or a verb and I have to seriously think about it.

  It was embarrassing enough at his school assembly when it was pretty obvious the vast majority of parents didn’t know the second verse of the national anthem. The first verse was sung loud and proud, but it quickly petered out and the song was finished at half strength with only the children’s voices.

  Kids are an endless source of questions and I’m fast realising that answering ‘rabbits’ just doesn’t cut it.

  So we’ve stuck a times tables poster to the kitchen wall and we practise together. I’m learning the basics all over again—everything from the three Rs to onomatopoeia to singing the national anthem.

  Oh, and now I look slightly more confident on the footy field, even if I still can’t catch the ball.

  Parents

  Sitting in a non-descript consulting room taking notes as a doctor delivered some devastating news to my father was one of those goalpost-shifting moments in my life.

  Suddenly, I was the grown-up. No longer daddy’s little girl.

  With one swift diagnosis of cancer the responsibility had shifted to me. I found taking charge softened the shock and gave me something to focus on, a simple way to help.

  As we age, so do our parents (if we’re lucky). But suddenly noticing your dad is no longer the big, tough, invincible man he once was can be a pretty startling moment. Or when your mum starts to buy shoes for comfort and wear her glasses more.

  Your parents will start to ask you to talk louder, forget your birthday and have more doctors appointments in their diary than social outings. In fact, all they seem to talk about are doctors, tests and body parts not working properly. Their golf game slows down and the pill bottles line up at the dinner table.

  I was so focused on watching our kids grow up, and so determined to ignore that I was getting older, that it came as a shock to notice my parents had aged faster than us all.

  We’ve always asked them for help and as grown-ups it doesn’t stop, but it’s another dynamic entirely when they ask you.

  And that can take a fair bit of adjusting to on both sides.

  It’s like watching Superman fold away his cape.

  As their child, you have to walk a delicate line, knowing they are feeling vulnerable but fighting it.

  I can’t show my frustration when my parents forget something or tell me the same story. I must find patience when asked to repeat plans or speak slower. I have to remember that, as hard as it is to watch someone decline, it must be even harder to be going through it, to feel your body slow down and ache, your eyesight and hearing fade, and watch gravity pull down and youth pull away.

  But it can also be a subtle shift in power that gives you the chance to show appreciation for all the years your parents wiped your bottom and stayed awake at night.

  Now we get to do the driving and they can sit back and relax, confident in the knowledge they are the ones who taught you to drive.

  Sometimes though you have to take a little more control. As when my husband helped his parents make the decision to downsize from the family home to over-55s living.

  Packing, culling, moving and adjusting was a major life change to undertake so late in life. They had to consolidate a lifetime of memories into a smaller unit and make new friends—a tough ask at any age.

  But it beats the alternative: frocking up in black as I drive my dad to yet another farewell for one of his buddies.

  I am grateful I can take charge, but also appreciate the moments when I can grab Dad’s hand and quick as a flash I’m still his little girl.

  Playground Politics

  If you thought the bearpit of federal politics was harsh, wait until you encounter the politics at the school gate. There may be a little more perfume, and gym gear instead of dark suits, but trust me—the alliances, lobbying and factions are just as powerful.

  Some mothers love a committee. They have the time and the desire to help. And just as a company board attracts a range of talents, so does the said committee. Some like to talk, others like to act; some like to play games and assert power, others drag their feet.

  And then there is the politics in the playground as
eight-year-old girls jostle for supremacy. They haven’t yet learnt the subtly of power play, and make it brutally honest who’s in or out of favour that day.

  Or there’s the politicking among pre-teen boys, who have the bodies of young men but the maturity of twelve year olds.

  The alpha kids are pretty easy to spot as early as primary school, and teaching your kids to handle them is one of the life lessons unique to a schoolyard.

  It’s not just reading and writing they need to master before they head off into the wide world of grown-ups.

  The playground is a little social cauldron where we make friends, deal with enemies and avoid the nasty kids. You find your position on the totem pole, learn that not everyone will like you and you won’t like everyone else. Nor will you be invited to everything.

  Some kids have the confidence to move between groups, spending time with different friends from sport or art classes. Others tend to pick and stick, and are shattered when there is a falling out. As a mum, I encourage my kids to widen their friendship base. And if they are not invited to a party, nominated for class captain or called up on stage to collect an award at the end of term, that’s ok. Not all of us are.

  I’m sure that most of the time the kids get over it a lot quicker than their parents.

  This is where sport teaches us that sometimes life can be unfair. One week in cricket they can score a century, the next they’re out with a duck.

  School is where they learn to put up with the teacher they don’t like, because chances are they will one day have a similar boss. And some years they will have a class full of their best friends, the next year they will have to start again, alone without a familiar face, which can be daunting, but challenging.