Alphabet Soup

by Melissa Doyle

  How is it kids can squabble over issues I never even knew existed? I mean really, I thought both my hands were the same.

  I tend to let them battle it out by themselves though. If I can handle the noise, or escape outside, I figure it’s up to them to work it out, find a compromise and learn the art of negotiation. We’ve all got to learn to back down some time.

  And then just as the dust settles over who gets to squirt the tomato sauce first and who had the most vegetables on their plate, it’s over. They run off and play together with no memory of the rip-roaring but trivial argument they just had. They leave me tearing out my hair with frustration and threats, their latest issue long forgotten.

  Thankfully, there are no grudges and no sulking.

  Until the next time they get into the car.

  Unity

  Like so many others, we’re a two-working-parent family. And throughout nearly twenty years of marriage that has meant a bit of give and take, occasional frustrations and the odd shift in the balance of power.

  At times my career has been through intense periods, requiring me to work taxing hours and weekends, and travel to cover news events at the drop of a hat, sometimes for a few weeks. John is the one at home managing the timetables and forced to adjust his day to fill in the gaps my absence has left.

  Other times, he’s had the pedal to the metal and I’ve done the lion’s share of running the household. He’s travelled or even spent some time commuting interstate when his company made the move south.

  Sometimes it’s worked ok, other times it’s left one, or both of us, feeling wrung out and overworked. But it’s still a choice we’ve happily made. And we’re hardly the only ones.

  Job offers, a new baby and salary levels can determine who will stay home. Athletes regularly face scheduling their lives around the playing season.

  The trick is to maintain a healthy respectful balance and not let resentment creep in. When you are a couple, one person’s success needs to be a shared success. As the saying goes, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

  We try our best to hold what we call ‘stop-and-check’ meetings to make sure everyone is managing the juggle. It makes us appreciate what we both bring to the team even more.

  I remember one morning on Sunrise I interviewed Megan Basham, the American author of Beside Every Successful Man. Basically she suggested women forfeit their own careers in order to enhance that of their husband’s.

  Now before you react like I did with wide-eyed horror, she was talking about the wives of men with demanding jobs and she cited Michelle Obama as her pin-up girl. She says Michelle quit her job as a lawyer to stay at home and be a wife and mother to support her hard-working husband.

  So despite women marching in the streets, burning their bras and working their butts off in order to have it all, she is questioning what we’ve been aiming for and is asking if we’ve got our focus wrong.

  Michelle is hardly your typical example. Firstly, she all but has to put her career on hold to keep the home fires burning—her husband’s job isn’t exactly nine to five; secondly, it’s not like she is quitting in order to stay home and darn socks. She is probably working just as hard as ever in her role as First Lady, just without her own pay packet.

  Basham says that she noticed a few years ago among her girlfriends ‘work began to seem more like an intrusion on our real lives than a vital part of it’: ‘We realised we had to start looking at our dilemma from a new angle and to start seeing our marriages as our own little business enterprises and our husbands as partners in that enterprise.’

  She talks to successful men who admit it was the support of their wives at home that helped them reach such dizzying heights in their career. She also says by standing by your man, you can help him uncover the finest man he can be.

  Well, I agree. After all, isn’t that what love is all about? Don’t we all want our partners to reach their full potential and be as happy, successful, satisfied and content as they can be? And doesn’t that include me? What if I too want to work hard at something that is my own and gives me satisfaction beyond the walls of my home? Isn’t that what feminists fought so long for—choice?

  I have many girlfriends who stay at home while their husbands work. Their family unit is happy and it works for them. Two have walked away from incredibly successful careers to devote more time to their families as they never had enough hours in the day to be the wife, mother, employee and person they wanted to be. Others worked in jobs until they got married and couldn’t wait to quit and throw themselves into full-time motherhood.

  Whatever choice you make has to make you happy and work for the family unit you have created. Enough with the guilt! We all want someone beside us who is encouraging and supportive of our choices, whatever they may be.

  And what is success? I hope mine will be measured when I die. If my children are happy and good people and I have made those I love happy then that will be a success. I can also look back knowing I worked hard at a career that brought me pleasure, satisfaction and sparked my interest every single day. Hopefully, along the way, I did some good things with my position, such as working with a few worthwhile charities to raise money and awareness .

  I’d be lying if I said getting up at 3 a.m. for all those years was easy. I wish I had more hours in the day and spent more time preparing the evening meal. On days when I was at my most tired and grumpy I imagined a life in the country feeding chooks. My house would be calm, tidy and adorned with fresh flowers. But ten minutes later I’d be hooked in by the next news story and couldn’t wait to find out what was around the corner. I am enjoying this journey as much as the next person.

  My husband has achieved amazing things in his career and I too have worked bloody hard for my breaks. Over time it will always ebb and flow. There will be times when a husband takes centre stage and other times when the wife steps to the front. Hey, take a look at the Clintons.

  Beside every successful person should be someone who loves and supports them, and wants them to be content, satisfied and reach their full potential. We all need our own cheer squad—not just the successful men.

  That’s what makes a team.

  Vale

  So there we were, the four of us, huddled under an oversized golf umbrella on a rainy Saturday morning, burying Lucy, our lovebird, in the rose garden.

  A romantic gift from my husband in the early days of our relationship (‘a lovebird for my lovebird’ completely won me over), Lucy had spent fifteen years chirping, scattering seed all over the floor and replying to every squeak of our rubber-soled shoes on the timber floors.

  But two partners later and a life of relative luxury, she literally fell off her perch, her little legs raised straight in the air.

  Of course I cried my eyes out, but the kids were remarkably composed. It was their first experience with death. How lucky we have been.

  So we wrapped her tiny little blue body in some tissue, popped her in a shoebox and gently placed it in the hole we’d dug. And then we talked about dying.

  Talia at four wanted to know how long Lucy had to be under the ground before her body flew to heaven. Nick at seven wondered what her soul looked like as it flew through the sky. And lucky she was a bird, they said, because as least she had wings.

  We have since buried at least half a dozen goldfish in the same part of the garden, the kids taking some comfort in the fact that their deceased pets are at least all together.

  Death is just one topic where you realise how terribly practical children really are. For them it’s all about logistics and the facts.

  Not long after we buried Lucy, the father of Talia’s preschool teacher died. The children had been told, so when her teacher returned, I told Talia to give her a big hug and tell her she was thinking of her. Too often death is one of those topics that leave us lost for words.

  But not my daughter. I think her exact words were: ‘Don’t worry, Alison. Your dad’s dead, but mine is still alive.’
r />   Very inappropriate, but they were the facts. Of course I was mortified to hear it, but Alison reassured me as a preschool teacher she’d seen and heard it all!

  I dread the day we have to help our children deal with death a little closer to home. Primarily because it means we would have lost someone we love, but also because it means explaining our own mortality. My parents always told me they would live forever and, so far, I am lucky enough that they have.

  Victory

  ‘Booyah!’ This is the victory cry in our house, delivered with force and glee, and usually followed up by a dance of some sort that involves fist pumping and a winner’s lap of the lounge room.

  There’s nothing like a game of Uno to bring out the competitive streak in our family. And by far the most competitive is our eight-year-old daughter.

  Mind you that doesn’t translate to the sporting field—only spelling lessons and board games. Talia tried soccer but was far more focused on her hair and whether I was watching, running the length of the field and giving me the thumbs up and a giant smile as the ball sailed past. She tried athletics but was more interested in talking. But challenge her to a game of Monopoly and winning is all that matters.

  If she’s not winning she has no problem bending the rules, changing them or attempting to cheat. She loves board games and loves nothing more than inviting a new victim to the table, smiling sweetly then proceeding to beat them soundly.

  Cue the victory dance.

  On the flip side, we’re working hard on teaching her to lose with grace. At the moment she almost chokes when forced to congratulate her opponent or watch them dance with glee.

  Nick, on the other hand, is a team player. Give him any code that involves team mates and gentleman’s rules and he excels. He’s the first to slap his victorious mate on the back and brag about their abilities.

  Teaching them to win and lose and be gracious about both is vital.

  Is there anything wrong with being competitive? As long as you’re a good sport about someone else winning, is it wrong to strive to be number one? Or are we watering down the drive to be top of the tree when schools award participation ribbons instead of first, second and third in a bid to minimise competition?

  With a numb bottom and slightly stiff legs, I sat through my son’s exceedingly long school presentation morning with the glow and patience of a parent. Every separate grade of children made it’s way onto the stage to sing their prepared piece. There were a few missed notes and the odd forgotten dance step, but it was worth it to hear their names called and watch them clutch their certificates to their chests with accomplishment spread across their faces.

  But in this era of political correctness, every child walked away with the same certificate. No one had any more, or any less. Since when did we stop rewarding the smart ones to save the feelings of the rest of us?

  I’m all for encouragement. Even the donkey needed a carrot dangled once in a while. But why doesn’t the child who works extra hard get extra recognition? What has happened to the individual achievement awards? Hard work should be rewarded.

  I understand we don’t want our children disappointed and discouraged. But is painting us all with the same beige brush the answer?

  This is not about a child failing; it’s about another one succeeding. Because someone does well doesn’t mean the person next to him hasn’t. And it’s no different in the adult world.

  Some people seem to have it all: the looks, the job and the flash car. Don’t we need to teach our kids to be happy for those we envy and see it as no reflection on ourselves?

  We all have different talents and interests. I try to tell my children that some of their friends may be better at maths, quicker at reading or smarter at science. But we all have our strengths and they need to find theirs. We won’t all be Rhodes scholars, sports stars or Isaac Newton, but we can always strive to be.

  If there’s no first place or trophy to win then how do we ignite the fire in our bellies? Rather than bring the top down to the bottom, get the bottom to reach the top.

  Which is all well and good, until our eight year old beats her dad at Scrabble.

  Wasting Time

  I decided long ago to compromise: I settled for a messy home and a happy one.

  I think my standards of tidiness started slipping the day I returned from hospital with our firstborn. I can remember welcoming visitors on the second day by apologising for the chaos and pointing them to the kettle.

  Now before you conclude I’m some sort of slob, rest assured hygiene is still paramount, but clutter is not.

  I have a busy house with two children, two working parents and a few pets. The kitchen bench has morphed into a central station and the fridge is a jungle of magnets, reminder notes and merit awards. My car is a mobile kit bag with folding chairs for sport, a footy, fabric shopping bags, a first aid kit and a towel. I am always prepared.

  It was never a conscious decision to do less. Instead, time constraints and the sheer volume of things to do forced my hand. It soon became a case of what I was prepared to live with and what I could let go. Of course the clutter drives me crazy, but trying to make the place look like a showroom all the time would make me crazier. I try to tell myself it won’t be like this forever. One day in the future I will get enough sleep and I will feel in control and the kids will learn to clean up after themselves. In the meantime I can live with a little dust.

  Like any mum, I don’t have enough time to do everything, and sometimes I need to do nothing.

  In between rushing the kids out the door or nagging them to put away their ironing, we need some downtime. Sometimes we just have to stop.

  When my kids were toddlers we would spend an entire afternoon in the sandpit. John built it under a tree in our backyard because the grass wouldn’t grow in the shade. Some of our happiest moments were spent there: playing with my son for hours on end; keeping cool during December while nine months’ pregnant; playing with my two children and a bucket of water. Those moments are more important than a gourmet meal. I can remember how much fun we had. I certainly can’t remember what we ate for dinner.

  Find something special and make time for it—maybe it’s a walk to the park with your kids, or lying on the floor together and playing with toys. Treasure those moments. They are what you will remember years from now, not the taste of the dinner or the whiteness of your washing.

  In school holidays we always aim for at least one pyjama day. It’s exactly that—a day spent in our PJ’s drawing, playing Monopoly or watching movies.

  During the school term, we might walk home from school slowly, dawdle and pick a few flowers on the way, or I’ll sit on the couch with the kids and watch TV with them.

  Sometimes we all just need to waste some time. Savour the time to do nothing, not tick anything off the to-do list, let dinner be late. It doesn’t really taste much better whether I spent an hour on it or twenty minutes.

  Mind you I can only go so long. Then I’ll have a cleaning and organising frenzy! I’ll race around the house like a woman possessed to make up for the time lost—but not wasted.

  Wills

  It took nine years after the birth of our first child for my husband and me to take a real trip away together, on our own, without the kids.

  Sure we’d had the odd night away for a wedding interstate or a night in town after a particularly late function, but never more than one, and never out of the country.

  Booking was a hurdle. I’d spent weeks tossing the idea around in my head—should we, shouldn’t we—until John finally just booked our seats and said we’ll work the other stuff out later.

  Of course the other stuff was what had me procrastinating. From who would look after the kids while we were away, to who would look after them if we never made it home.

  The first part was easy. We made it a holiday for them as much as us. They packed bikes, board games, teddies and gifts and spent two days with Poppy, two days with family friends and the final two days wit
h other friends. All were more than happy to have them . . . it also gave our friends’ kids someone else to play with.

  The second question was not so easily answered.

  The advice when you have children is to update your will. Distributing your assets on paper is straightforward but the details of working out a future for your children without you in it is another.

  The most agonising decision was guardianship.

  We thought about the grandparents, but realised in ten years from now they might be a little too old to deal with teenage angst.

  We thought about our friends, and those we admire as parents. Our kids would do well to grow up in such loving homes, subject to the encouragement and discipline my girlfriends’ kids get. But that’s too much to ask of a friend: hi, I’ve left you my favourite tea set, oh, and my kids.

  In the end we decided on their godfather. He is a very dear friend who loves them as much as we do, someone they are both familiar and comfortable with, and someone with whom we know they’d be happy. It was a pretty emotional conversation to have, but thankfully I don’t think he was surprised. And we were relieved he agreed immediately.

  But even then you know that no one will ever love them the way you do, know them as well or know what is best. The fear of not being there for them was almost enough to stop me getting on the plane.

  Of course we made it home, and of course we had a wonderful week away together.

  Now I’m over the fear of leaving them I realise how valuable it is for them to see Mum and Dad having time alone together and respect the importance of our relationship.

  It also does them good to miss us occasionally!