Alphabet Soup

by Melissa Doyle

  Just as your kids are negotiating, so too will you: the mum who loves a chat but can’t read your body language when you’re itching to leave; the mum who targets you because she likes or doesn’t like your child; the mum who’s always late; the over-achiever whose child is and does everything; the mum who whinges about the teachers, class placements, the principal and pretty much everything else irking her that week.

  Primary school is a relatively safe environment to learn the skills of self-preservation and negotiation. For the kids and the parents.

  Now I just have to work it out all over again as my son goes to high school.

  Pocket Money

  Global recession, bank collapses, spiralling interest rates . . . try explaining those concepts to a kid holding out for their pocket money.

  In a climate where adults are finding cash pretty tight, it seems our kids aren’t so hard done by. A survey conducted by Cartoon Network about five years ago found some children were getting as much as $100 a week! You can only assume they are in the minority.

  The average for kids aged between seven and fourteen was just under $8 a week. They also found boys who earnt more than $5 a week were more likely to have a girlfriend . . . a phenomenon that starts earlier than I had realised.

  Our kids have to earn their $5. There is a tally kept on the fridge and they earn a tick for every chore done over and above the compulsory family ones like setting and clearing the table and tidying their room. Five ticks earns $5—and they have the option to earn more.

  We’ve also discovered it works in reverse. A tick is deducted for bad behaviour. That’s led to a few moments straight from The Price is Right where the kitty steadily shrinks with every cheeky back answer. I’m the host calling ‘Four dollars . . . three dollars’. They soon grasp the concept!

  They also have the ability to redeem themselves and earn it back. Even at their age, money talks.

  Obviously the amount is different for every family, but it’s never too early to start teaching kids about money, its value and how to handle it.

  It can be a challenge when everything is paid for with plastic and children have no concept of how much you’re handing over when you simply tap in a PIN. Or the fact it’s up to you to have the money in the bank in the first place before you can make a withdrawal from the ATM.

  We’ve opened them both bank accounts and they can watch their savings grow. The rule is half their pocket money must be banked each week, and always stay there. The rest can be spent.

  My son’s first purchase was a cricket box (that’s a plastic willy protector for those of us who never played the game). At least he’s thinking about protecting his assets . . . always a smart monetary move.

  Quarantine

  Thank God for professional hairdressers able to repair a dodgy clipper job on a seven-year-old’s head, administered by a frustrated mother sick to death of nits.

  They are the evil cousin of sharing, the scourge of the playground, unsightly little buggers that jump from head to head and take up residence in even the cleanest of hair.

  I’m sorry if just reading this is making you itch, but something needs to be done before we are all tearing our hair out and kids everywhere are sporting uneven hairstyles hacked by unskilled and exasperated mothers.

  Save the Itchy & Scratchy Show for TV. Don’t send your kid to school with nits.

  Think of their classmates. They don’t want to take them home. Transferring nits to another head doesn’t mean they all pack up, move on and leave your kid alone, instead they simply infest both.

  You may think your child is the cleanest one in school, perfectly sanitised, pressed and brushed before they walk out the door. To a nit, it doesn’t matter. Any head is fair game.

  So sit down with a fine comb and a bottle of conditioner and catch the damn things, each and every rotten little one.

  Our GP recommends smothering the hair in conditioner, putting on a shower cap and letting the little blighters suffocate for a good hour.

  My friend’s daughter has had them about four times this year. Her mum keeps her home from school, diligently bombs the damn things, combs each one out, then sends her back to be reinfested.

  She is sure she knows which child is the carrier, but is powerless. The school can’t even say anything. The breeding ground might be front and centre in class, scratching her head with more than just confusion, but there is nothing you can do.

  Mums, let’s help each other out. Don’t send your child to school if they are likely to swap anything more than ideas. Keep combing, checking, plaiting and spraying—and leave the haircuts to the professionals.

  Quiet Time

  I can clearly remember when I took my first holiday alone since I’d had children.

  I went away to a health spa for four days and slept, exercised, read two books and slept some more. I came home feeling refreshed and rested, but I must admit the guilt slightly tarnished my happiness.

  I had spent ages convincing myself it was ok to go. God knows I needed a break. I was tired, snappy and worn out. But there’s something so self-indulgent about packing up and heading off alone when you have a family.

  There’s also something gruelling about running a house, cooking a meal each night, getting up at 3 a.m., working full time and coming home and hemming school pants. Your own needs tend to get bumped down the list.

  I’d dreamt about the idea for years, but never seemed to go through with it. Maybe it was turning 40 that tipped me over the edge. Maybe it was seeing a few more lines under my eyes. Maybe it was just self-preservation.

  Why do we find it so difficult to take time out for ourselves?

  Is it because there simply aren’t enough hours left once we do all the things that need doing in any given day, or is it because my time-management skills aren’t up to scratch?

  Some weeks I’ve sat down on a Sunday afternoon, planned a week’s worth of meals, done the ironing, set the house to run smoothly and even scheduled in a visit to the gym. Other weeks it all goes pear-shaped and I’m just frantic. We’re eating take-away barbecue chicken and the washing hangs on the line for three days.

  With everyone else wanting a little piece of us, it’s easier to forgo that facial for seven years than say no to reading Cinderella or kicking a footy in the backyard. And would we really want to anyway?

  My girlfriend Amanda goes for a run to relax. She serves her kids dinner and then hits the treadmill. She works the tension out, the kilos off and the kids know to leave Mummy alone for just a little while.

  I’ve always thought of going to work as my ‘me time’. It gets me out of the house, gives me something different to focus on and new people to talk to. But sometimes that’s not enough. Because when you do get a precious moment alone, it’s glorious.

  I can drive home from work with the radio off, enjoying the silence. Or I use that time to call a friend and have a conversation uninterrupted. Or I’ll duck out to the shops on a Sunday afternoon under the guise of grabbing something for dinner and take a fraction longer than necessary, savouring just being by myself.

  Or I’ll meet a girlfriend on the weekend for a walk. Ok, I’m not technically alone, but it’s amazing what a good power walk and a debrief with your best friend can do to clear your head.

  I must admit my favourite indulgence used to be a Saturday afternoon sleep. It meant I could stay awake past 8 p.m. on the only night that mattered, and although I felt guilty sneaking off to my bedroom and quietly closing the door, I also realised a rested mum equals a calm mum and that equals a happy house.

  Sometimes I will simply sit on the deck in the sun with a magazine, a cup of coffee and kindly ask everyone to just buzz off and leave me alone. Occasionally it works!

  I’m lucky I get to travel for work occasionally. A night interstate or a few days overseas, either way it’s a hotel room to myself, room service and complete silence.

  Just as important, if not more so, is couple time, but it’s usually even harde
r to schedule. No talk of phone bills, school assessments or kids’ fights. Easier said than done, I know. Sometimes it feels like those issues are all John and I ever talk about!

  We hardly ever go to the movies—that just seems such a waste of precious conversation time together. Give me a lovely meal cooked by someone else any day. No washing up and time together to remember why you fell in love.

  Our next goal is a holiday away, just the two of us, for the first time. We’ve just got to call in a few favours so that someone can mind the kids.

  We all need a little time for ourselves. ‘Me time’ before I had kids used to be a whole Saturday shopping with the girls. Now it can be as simple as buying the groceries alone on a Sunday afternoon.

  Don’t feel guilty when you walk out the door. And don’t forget to relish the simple things.

  Recycling

  If only my children’s raised voices sounded as sweet as the instruments they were fighting over.

  Unfortunately, a full-on argy-bargy over using their sibling’s things usually degenerates into a screaming match that inevitably ends in tears.

  Some things simply have to be shared between kids. We’re not crazy enough to spring for two drum kits or glockenspiels. In fact, we reasoned when Talia followed her older brother into the school band and decided to also play the drums that the economies of scale made our initial instrument purchase a little easier to swallow. That and the fact an electronic drum kit and matching headphones is probably a lot quieter than a French horn or an ill-played flute.

  Bicycles were once in the do-not-touch category too . . . until Nick’s legs grew so long he had to get a new bike, and hand his prized possession over to his little sister. Pimping it up to look a little more girly just seemed to rub salt in the wounds so the handlebar streamers soon came off. But she happily rode it until her legs grew longer and she got a brand new bike of her own.

  I once tried bedazzling Nick’s old jeans, still in perfectly good condition, so they could be passed on to Talia, but that failed. She flat out refused to wear ‘boy’s jeans’ no matter how hard I tried to bling them up.

  What can’t be passed on to his sister makes its way to friends or charity. And my cousin has three daughters younger than mine, so she has become our go-to for Talia’s used clothes and toys.

  In fact, favourite garments that my daughter can’t bear to part with no matter how small they are only get let go if they are guaranteed to go to her cousins.

  And now she’s eyeing off my wardrobe, hoping that when I ‘grow out’ of things they will be hers. I told her they will one day, but I’d rather not ‘grow’ anymore.

  Getting extra mileage out of things has long been the domain of a practical parent. We inherited a cot and pram and then paid it forward when our time came to cull. School gear can easily have a new nametag sewn in if it’s generic enough to cover both genders. If it’s not, then the clothing pool will find someone who appreciates frugality.

  I admire my girlfriend with two daughters and two sons. In her family there is a natural progression for goods and a double hit out of most purchases.

  In the meantime, I’ll keep trying to buy generic items, sew on patches or hope they continue to play the same instruments, no matter how noisy.

  Red Carpets

  One minute I’m polishing the kids’ school shoes or ironing a mountain of shirts, next moment I’m discussing the advantages of silk over georgette and what drapes better.

  Like a bride on her wedding day, walking the red carpet at a big event is the culmination of a lot of preparation, a tonne of hairspray, lashings of body shimmer, killer heels, borrowed jewels and some well-placed Spanx.

  For an event such as the Logies, the preparations begin months ahead.

  Picking a frock is the first step. I have been lucky enough to stand in the room of a couturier and have calico draped around me as he draws, pins and adjusts the initial frame of the dress.

  It’s an incredible process to be a part of and only because of my job have I been privileged enough to participate in such luxury. Not that my best friend’s auntie in country NSW who made my wedding dress wasn’t as talented as Christian Dior, but let’s just say it wasn’t until I was given the chance to represent a TV network that I could indulge in such finery.

  It’s our network stylist who is across what everyone is wearing, making sure that no one doubles up, and coordinates the loan of jewels and clutches.

  Come the big day my network colleagues and I spend the Sunday afternoon getting ready like a giggly bunch of teenagers heading off to the school formal. We girls spend hours getting our hair and make-up done. And it’s also a bit of fun for our regular team of hair and make-up artists to do something a little out of the ordinary. They can ditch the natural TV look for false lashes and big hair.

  Showtime: the car drops me off at the end of the red carpet and as I step into a sea of flashbulbs I hear fans screaming out for their favourite soap star. Then it’s a daunting walk down the carpet, past PR minders with clipboards, stars posing and young fans with autograph books.

  There is nothing more intimidating that following one of those gorgeous young things who know how to work it for the cameras and pose just so. Feeling like a clumsy cousin, I wander along behind them, and simply stand and smile. Seeing my picture printed a few days later, I clearly lack the flippant air of the seasoned poser who has mastered the subtle come hither smile or the sexy backward glance. There I am looking shy and awkward, but hey, in a gorgeous dress!

  We are then ushered into the ballroom and seated for dinner, each relegated to the table that reflects the network we work for and our program’s pecking order.

  And just like anyone else, I then spend the night checking out everyone in the room . . . oohing and aahing over frocks, tans, diamonds and a bit of not-so-subtle cosmetic surgery. No matter who you are, everyone in that room is bound to see someone who leaves them feeling like a young fan—be it a sports person, music star or favourite TV actor. But everyone is trying to act cool, at least until the after party.

  For me, it’s off to bed as soon as the broadcast is over. I wait in line for a cab with aching feet and fading make-up. Knowing I have to be up and at work in about three hours, I am smiling, cheery and definitely not due for a hangover.

  More often than not, the following afternoon I’m madly pushing a shopping trolley around my local supermarket before school pick-up . . . still with a pretty great hair-do, but the sparkle of the night before fading with my energy.

  Nine-and-a-half times out of ten though, I’m on the outside of the ropes at special events with my name on a lanyard around my neck. And from that side, the carpet certainly appears a lot more magical, glamorous and fun.

  I can honestly say of all the big events I’ve covered, the Oscars is one of the most exciting. I know there are more important things happening in the world, but to be swept up by the magnificent dresses, beautiful people and screaming, adoring crowds, even for a few hours, is an experience to remember.

  In 2013 I covered my first Academy Awards and Sunrise was broadcasting live from the red carpet in the hours leading up to the ceremony. The cameraman, producer and I spent three hours walking the path that would soon be taken by some of the most recognisable faces in the world, mingling with international journalists and giving our viewers back home a sense of the building excitement. Then at the stroke of 2 p.m. (9 a.m. in Australia) we were swiftly moved into our positions behind the barricades by men in black suits and curly cords at their ears.

  The other side of those barricades is not what you might expect. My area was about one-metre wide and two steps high. I shared it with four other journalists from the US, the UK and Spain and two cameramen. I wore a floor-length, custom-made gold lamé Steven Khalil ball gown, and I spent most of the night with the skirt bunched into one hand so it didn’t get trashed in the crush.

  The idea is that when the stars walk past you scream their name and hope they come over. There is a p
ecking order within your holding area and it’s up to you to establish your credentials during the course of the afternoon. There are those who yell the loudest and get the talent, and those with superior film knowledge who happily interview the obscure directors the rest of us don’t even recognise. They’re the ones who walk past with their publicist leading the way holding a sign with their names and actually asking if you want to speak to them.

  And there is a pecking order on the red carpet too. There are three channels: the one farthest from the media is for executives and invitees with no public profile; the narrow one in the centre is for the big-name celebs who don’t want to stop for interviews; and the channel closest to the media is for those who do.

  It’s a lesson in perseverance, hollering and pot luck. It also shows that sometimes God just has a really good day: Charlize Theron, for instance, gliding down the middle channel in white, looking willowy, graceful, and breathtakingly beautiful. She didn’t stop to talk but she did walk past twice.

  Some smile as though they’d love to stop and chat but their feet keep moving. Others work the crowd like a charm. George Clooney shook hands, Jane Fonda gave a regal wave. Sometimes it’s their minders who play the bad cop, taking the blame for keeping them moving, while others, like Hugh Jackman, won me over for life. By calling my name, coming over and greeting me with a kiss, Jackman instantly catapulted me up the media ranks. My value in my journalist pack suddenly skyrocketed and even my cynical seasoned cameraman was impressed.

  Of course we didn’t go inside for the awards. Instead the media filed into a function room, helped themselves to the buffet and watched the telecast like everyone at home.

  When it was all over, I dashed back downstairs to catch some of the stars leaving. Kristen Stewart hobbled past on her crutches, Salma Hayek left with her husband’s tux jacket wrapped around her tiny frame, and a gorgeous Jennifer Aniston in a swooping red dress clutched the hand of her fiancé. Suddenly they looked like normal people . . . very, very beautiful normal people, but as cold and tired as I was.