Every parent's reward...

My 12yo came home with two outstanding pieces of paper on Monday.

The first was his Student of the Week award for: "his honesty and for his selflessness which he regularly demonstrates"

Good grief, could I ask for anything more?

The second was a note from the office: "Dear Student, Thank you for handing in the money you found in to the office. I am now returning it to you and thank you for your honesty."

Wow. I did something right there. Or maybe not, maybe it's just him. Either way, happy Mummy!

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Checking the 3yo's comprehension...

12yo to 3yo: "What colour is a yellow bus?"

3yo: "Blue!"

12yo: "What colour is a blue dress?"

3yo: "Pink!" (Should have seen that one coming...)

12yo: "What colour is a purple turtle?"

3yo: "Green!"

12yo: "What colour is a black bear?"

3yo: "Scary!!" (Runs for cuddles with 12yo..)

How cute is she?

Interesting to note that she knows a colour response is required, but hasn't made the link between the bus being called a 'yellow bus' and it being a yellow colour. Maybe it'll come in a few months.

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For Melbournites - Birth Choices Meeting

Click on the flyer to see it. :)

From the mouths of babes, a fitting description of the Eye and Ear Hospital

12yo and I were rehashing the events following the unfortunate insertion of an agapanthus stalk into his cornea, including the atrocious treatment we got at the local eye and ear hospital, when he says, "They're like, the opposite of O'brien."

Huh?

Apparently, O'brien are really, really good at car windscreens and that's all they do. Whereas the Eye and Ear hospital only does eyes and ears, but they're really really BAD at it.

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Dear Fearless Freddie Freestyle

To the inconsiderate old fart who ruined the tranquility of my tai chi breast stroke moment in the slow lane at the pool today.

Here's a clue. If you are bearing down on someone over and over and over again you are in the wrong lane. You need to move over and swim with the faster fishies.

Here's another clue. I can smoothly sidestroke much, much faster than your splashy freestyle, and I can quietly bear down on you again, and again, and again...like a shark...without even getting out of breath. Spooky huh? And really, really, REALLY annoying (I hope).

Sent from my iPhone. Any typos or errors of grammar, anything really, is the iphone's fault.

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Growing up.

"It takes courage to grow up and turn out to
be who you really are." - e.e. cummings

As usual, just when I don't think I have any courage left, people appear out of the blue to remind me that I just might be worth having faith in.  Never ceases to amaze me, and it's quite, quite humbling.

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Dialogue with a bloke against smacking.

With his permission, I am posting here a conversation I've been having on facebook with a distant relative about smacking. His contributions are in block quotes:

He stated: I have a newfound respect for Eddie McGuire, who has demonstrated impressive insight!

"If an adult was seen to hit a mentally disabled person there would be
uproar, but is it okay to whack a mentally growing human who is not yet
near adult intellect?"
Belting kids is not discipline | Herald Sun
Source: www.heraldsun.com.au
IF EVER there is a topic that will lead to polarising views, it is child rearing.
18 October at 11:12 · Comment · Like · Share

Eddie mentions not being at adult intellect, but fails to follow through on what this implies for children and forms of discipline. That's not insight, it's flinging analogies about with a blindfold on. The guy is still a twit. Sorry :(
Mon at 11:55 · Delete

If Eddie has said or done something else (besides being friends with Sam Newman) that makes you think he's a twit that I'm not aware of, please share. :-)

I've heard some arguments that in some circumstances an opened handed smack on the bottom to a child too young to be reasoned with is in their interests as it helps them to learn to avoid dangerous behaviours. Frighten them away from the stove, running on the road, sticking things in the socket.

And yet it is wrong and illegal to hit a dog. Although they do have leashes on collars when they go for a walk so they can't do anything dangerous. I saw a family in a shopping centre once, with a toddler (age 2-3) wearing a harness that was on a leash the mother was holding - I digress.

A point Eddie McGuire makes is that adults get frustrated - frustrated at each other, and want to hit each other, but can't because its against the law.

It is wrong and illegal for an adult to hit another adult who is disobedient, frustrates them, causes them to lose their patience, etc, and yet adults are capable of being reasoned with (or claim to be), so they shouldn't make mistakes that require punishment with violence should they?
Oh that's right, adults aren't perfect either.

I can't help but wonder, as someone who has never had a child of his own, what percentage of "smacks" (and that is just smacking, not including using an implement or going too far) are actually in the child's best developmental/discipline/safety interest, and what percentage result from a parent (or teacher, back when they were allowed to) who is frustrated, out of patience, cranky, running late, hormonal, headache, tired, etc.

Being able to smack children certainly must save a lot of parents a great deal of time and effort. It used to save teachers time and effort too - Eddie writes that
"Yes, it takes a lot longer to reason with a kid and explain a situation.
In my school days my mates and I would rather cop the cuts than suffer a Saturday detention. Same for the teachers.
But we all knew which had the bigger effect."

As someone who agrees is it wrong to hit another man or woman, and also wrong to hit a dog, it seems to me like some suspiciously convenient morally relative position whereby it is still ok to hit a child.

Arguments that the child should know better could also apply to other adults, right?
And arguments that the child is incapable of understanding could also apply to pets?
And yet, the maximum penalty for animal cruelty or neglect is still dismally short - 12 months in prison.

We should take the time to use words with adults, and animals are defenceless.
If the exception with children is that they are growing and capable of learning, developing brains that will be capable of understanding, what are they learning?
Mon at 12:51

Argh, I don't have time to address all of your points though I do address some of them on my BadMummy blog.

I didn't know it was illegal to smack dogs! Must have missed the memo. When our dog was biting 12yo (then 5) the vet recommended hitting him and gave us instructions on how to do it effectively and when to stop. We now have a gorgeous dog who will let children take food from his mouth. I do not regret this course of action. And having personally been picked up and shaken by a horse, both bitten and chased by a dog, and my father nearly having died from a deep cat bite I do not agree with you that animals are helpless. Though I agree that deliberate cruelty to them goes under-punished.

Adults do hit each other when frustrated, all the time, and most don't press charges. Advocates of the well timed smacking of children (like me) will always stress that you must NEVER touch your children when you are tired or frustrated and that is always the wrong reason to deliver a smack.

I've also seen anti-smackers I know shake their children, pinch them, or grab them by the arm and drag them. But that's ok apparently because you're not hitting them. And the same parents are reluctant to admit that their child was beyond reason as though that's some kind of failure. There's a pooload of hypocrisy in this debate.

I don't agree that it is always wrong to hit another adult. I can think of plenty of scenarios where hitting another adult would be morally obligatory.

I have never heard of "the child should know better" arguments against smacking? This sounds a little confused.

3yo understands that a smack means she has gone too far, so as a child who deliberately pushes the limits she tends to get more than average. She gets reminders that she needs to listen to us, then she gets warnings, with counting so that she has plenty of time to make up her mind (danger smacks are an exception, but oddly she's never had any of those!). She does not get smacked out of the blue when we are tired or angry.

She has had it explained to her that we only ever smack her when she is badly behaved and not listening, and that ONLY we can do that because we made her and it's our job to teach her how to be a good girl. She knows that no other grown ups are allowed to do this.

One day I'll have the presence of mind to video the course of events so that the anti-smackers can watch my 3yo weigh up whether or not a smack is worth the thrill of being naughty. Sometimes, despite all warnings, she goes ahead anyway and the last resort protocol kicks in. In these cases she KNOWS she is going to get smacked and chooses a course of action that will ensure it (because Mummy does not make threats she won't carry out). She's a total mystery to me.

Thank you for noting that you're a non-parent at the beginning. It sets you apart from a lot of tossers I know :)
Mon at 13:20 · Delete

McGuire's original article was a response to a debate sparked by a woman who was warned by police after her daughter told someone at school that her mother had hit her with a wooden spoon.
I mean seriously, that just sounds lazy to me, parent can't even hit the child with their own open palms, they have to extent their reach/increase impact speed with some kitchen utensil.

I wasn't thinking in the context of an animal that is being violent because I don't spend any time around violent animals.
I was thinking of an animal that won't go where it is told, or toilets where it shouldn't, or destroys objects for fun.

And yes, you trained your dog, but there are plenty of adults out there who train their spouses too.

I wasn't making a "child should know better" argument, I was making a "its wrong to hit adults yet they should know better" bullshit suggestion, to demonstrate how relativistic it sounds.

I'm willing to bet that for every "anti-smacker" that then engages in some sick behaviour like pinching or shaking, there are ten "I should have the right to discipline my children PRO smackers" who go far too far, and DO smack when they are frustrated, tired, headache, hormones, inpatient, personality disorder, etc, and DO exceed the level of physical force that is appropriate - like the one i saw on the tram who full swing full speed smacked her 1yo (in the pram) right across the face. I won't say any more about that at this point.

In what circumstances should adults tolerate being hit or think its ok to hit another adult?

And if they don't complain within say, a week, to the police, do they still retain the right to complain years later when they drag the person through court and want to smear their character because the relationship "didn't work out"?

I'm not a parent, but as for bad behaviour/not listening/being naughty, would it not be easy for say, some man to adapt what you have said to an analogies about his girlfriend/wife? It is the cultural norm for men to do so in a considerable percentage of the world's communities.

Seriously, give a young fool like me an example of what a 3yo can do, and I can think of an equivalent many grown adults would do.

It seems that people can draw the line for smacking someone somewhere where it suits them best, and in this case, it seems to be "no violence, no abuse, (nevermind the slippery slope), only a JUSTIFIED smack, and only to CHILDREN, WHEN they really need it".

I'm sure most of the female "smacking defenders" would draw the line well before it reached a "justified smack" for THEM, unless they consensually enjoy that sort of thing, which is completely separate issue.
Mon at 19:12

Um, I don't have time to respond now... but I elaborate on the difference between children and adults here http://badmummysyndrome.blogspot.com/2009/10/great-smacking-debateagain.html
Mon at 20:43 · Delete

"McGuire's original article was a response to a debate sparked by a woman who was warned by police after her daughter told someone at school that her mother had hit her with a wooden spoon.
I mean seriously, that just sounds lazy to me, parent can't even hit the child with their own open palms, they have to extent their reach/increase impact speed with some kitchen utensil."

Actually, having spoken to other mothers about this, it's not about the extension of reach, or increased impact. I hear that it's because they don't want to use their hands to discipline their children. I get that sentiment. Also, a lot of the time parents are just doing what they perceive to have worked for them. The wooden spoon didn't work for us (my mother broke one on my brother, didn't seem to help her out much), but then again, nothing my mother did worked for us because she was totally inconsistent in her disciplining. She could have used a cattle prod, it wouldn't have made any difference because things that were fine one day were crimes the next. There is much more to discipline than the implement.

"I wasn't thinking in the context of an animal that is being violent because I don't spend any time around violent animals."

Sorry, I only said what I did because you claimed that animals were helpless.

"I was thinking of an animal that won't go where it is told, or toilets where it shouldn't, or destroys objects for fun."

All things a person should be prepared for when they buy a puppy. Unfortunately, as you are already stating, people are not always aware that puppies (or other animals) have special behaviours and requirements and if they are ignorant or just cruel they abuse the animal for it. Parents who are ignorant or cruel abuse their children too.

"And yes, you trained your dog, but there are plenty of adults out there who train their spouses too."

That's an odd analogy. I don't see how you can really compare the two situations. Ever tried to sit down and reason with a dog? In the spouse situation, there is a viable alternative and this makes the "training by hitting" morally wrong. I've only ever met one "train them with love" dog owner and her dogs were completely out of control, they didn't respect her at all :( And as you've just seen on the news I guess, an out of control dog is a very bad thing indeed.

"I wasn't making a "child should know better" argument, I was making a "its wrong to hit adults yet they should know better" bullshit suggestion, to demonstrate how relativistic it sounds."

*cringe* sorry I still don't get it.

"I'm willing to bet that for every "anti-smacker" that then engages in some sick behaviour like pinching or shaking, there are ten "I should have the right to discipline my children PRO smackers" who go far too far, and DO smack when they are frustrated, tired, headache, hormones, inpatient, personality disorder, etc, and DO exceed the level of physical force that is appropriate - like the one i saw on the tram who full swing full speed smacked her 1yo (in the pram) right across the face. I won't say any more about that at this point."

That woman should have been reported to the police. Did you? Did anyone? Because all the people who did nothing to protect the child are accessories in my humble opinion.

Nothing I have said condones any of the above behaviour. I pointed out the hypocrisy of some anti-smacker types. I have not, at any point, condoned behaviour where parents go too far. That is not discipline, that is venting your frustration on someone who is relatively helpless and completely dependant on you. I'm not sure what you are arguing for here. Are you arguing for discipline by smacking to be outlawed?

"In what circumstances should adults tolerate being hit or think its ok to hit another adult?"

My daughter has a habit of running ahead at the shopping centre. (We do not use a harness out of consideration for other people who want to retain their hearing.) If a bloke picked her up without my permission and I didn't know who they were I wouldn't just hit them I'd probably rugby tackle them and try to break their fucking neck. I think violence would be ok in that circumstance.

To take a milder example. My husband has less nerves than me, occasionally doesn't know his own strength, and tickles me in a painful way. I thump him to make him stop, because it's quicker than explaining (I'm in pain, remember). It was this kind of hitting I had in mind when I said adults do hit each other, and it's not reported. For that matter, siblings hit each other too, particularly if they are not old enough to be articulate about their issues, this can carry on in a milder form into their adulthood.

When I steal food from the chopping board when my step-mother is cooking she slaps my hand away when she thinks I've had enough.

A bloke at CPA had his fingers saved by a guy who pushed him (hard) away from the table saw.

I think that's enough...

"And if they don't complain within say, a week, to the police, do they still retain the right to complain years later when they drag the person through court and want to smear their character because the relationship "didn't work out"?"

In the above scenarios, I don't think the complaints would be taken at all seriously.

"I'm not a parent, but as for bad behaviour/not listening/being naughty, would it not be easy for say, some man to adapt what you have said to an analogies about his girlfriend/wife? It is the cultural norm for men to do so in a considerable percentage of the world's communities."

No, it would not. Because the girlfriend/wife is an reasoning adult.

"Seriously, give a young fool like me an example of what a 3yo can do, and I can think of an equivalent many grown adults would do."

This was the real clincher for me. I'm sure you could. But you would probably deal with their behaviour by removing yourself from the situation and leaving them to their own devices (unless you were their carer which is a different story). Parents hardly ever have that option, it is their responsibility to STOP the behaviour. The situation is utterly different. But if it helps, their are people in our society whose job it is to stop adults behaving dangerously or unsociably, they are policemen, and they are allowed to use force when the adults concerned are not listening to reason.

"It seems that people can draw the line for smacking someone somewhere where it suits them best, and in this case, it seems to be "no violence, no abuse, (nevermind the slippery slope), only a JUSTIFIED smack, and only to CHILDREN, WHEN they really need it".

That's because not all children respond to gentler forms of discipline. That is just a weird genetic personality trait type fact. Call me when you know why or have a cure.

"I'm sure most of the female "smacking defenders" would draw the line well before it reached a "justified smack" for THEM, unless they consensually enjoy that sort of thing, which is completely separate issue."

Most coherent smacking defenders would not indulge in the kind of behaviour that attracted a smack in the first place. Again, we are talking about the behaviour of children, not adults.

I would love to post this exchange on my BadMummy blog with your permission. It's fascinating.
Mon at 21:58 · Delete

thanks for your responses.
please post the conversation on your blog if you like,
I won't clog up our facebooks with any more on it.
Tues at 12:22

That's a shame. I don't get to lock horns on this issue very often. Most people I know personally agree with me. The one person I'm in vague contact with (internet met) who doesn't hasn't spoken to me about it.
5 minutes ago · Delete

Ask a silly question...

12yo got a questionnaire from his future high school today. One of the questions was: What do you want to get out of Year 7?

His off-the-cuff answer?

"More than I put into it."

An honest account of motherly anger? About time.

Well this is slightly topical given my last post...

Film-maker Julia Black, a BAFTA and Grierson nominated independent documentary maker, is making a film about motherly anger. As a mother of two, she is interested in shifting the taboo that surrounds a mother's anger towards her child or children and wishes to research into how many mothers, like her, have been shocked by the level of anger they experience.

Please take a few minutes to fill in this online questionnaire. All answers are entirely anonymous and cannot be traced to your e-mail address.

www.survey.ingenious2.co.uk

I did it, and it can be done in ten minutes or so. There's also room for the more loquacious of us to comment at the end which was nice (for me anyway!).

The great smacking debate...again...

Ah Eddie McGuire is weighing in on the belting of children. The trouble is, he's confusing children and adults...

To compare hitting adults and smacking children is flawed reasoning. Sure we wouldn’t smack an adult for running onto the road, but then, we expect an adult to know and remember that this is a risky thing to do. Most parents successfully reason with their children about the risks of roads, but for those children who can’t be reasoned with a short sharp smack is a good way to make it clear that this behaviour must never, ever happen again. A good way to think about this form of smacking is retrospectiively - which would you rather, a child hit by a car? or a shocked child with a sore bum? When put this way the choice is obvious.

We want to treat our children as though they are people, and we should. By all means remember that they’re human beings with likes and dislikes and that giving them a warning before you leave the park is much nicer for them than being dumped back in the stroller for the homeward trip without warning (how would you like it?). We assume that most adults will take the news that they have to leave a party early with a modicum of grace, we would be shocked at an adult who threw a tantrum. But would we be shocked if a child did? Of course not, because they are a child, they are still learning things like, how to control their emotions and what is appropriate social behaviour. We don’t expect adult behaviour from them.

Yet, certain members of the community seem to think that we should expect them to reason like adults when it comes to disciplining them. This is a gross error and I think that to treat children as adults is to do them and the community a grave disservice as the children who do not respond to adult type discipline will not be disciplined at all. But what is much more serious is this: To treat children as though they are adults is to make assumptions that will end up endangering them.

Again for emphasis:

To treat children as though they are adults is to make assumptions that will ultimately endanger them.

I do not assume that my daughter understands the grave difference between running out of the back door without permission and running onto the road. She’s too young to appreciate that she could be dead if she does the latter. She is, however, old enough to want to avoid the consequence of a smack. In this case treating her like the child she is (rather than the adult I hope she will be) and smacking her when she runs onto the road may save her life. The road is not the place to practise being an adult those places are scenarios where she can’t be hurt or killed — when she chooses the colour of her socks in the morning the mismatch will not harm anyone except for those with symmetry issues.

There is a huge difference between the well-timed smack after several warnings and a whipping with the buckle end of a belt. In my experience, parents who are of the anti-smacking persuasion haven’t been the unfortunate parents of challenging children. Having been blessed with one angel child (who has totalled 3 smacks in twelve years and those for dangerous behaviour) while the other seems to channel Satan on occasion, I challenge any of the anti-smacking brigade to spend a month with my extremely active and recalcitrant three year old without giving her at least one well timed, calmly delivered smack on the hand to keep her behaviour within acceptable boundaries. In other words, keeping her and those around her safe and sane. In a healthy home, a smack is usually the last resort for children who cannot be reached by reason or the withdrawal of treats or priviledges, time-outs or naughty corners. Those children are far more common than most people think and their beleagured parents, who are only trying to keep their kids safe, need to be given a break.

What do I want?

Good food, good drink, to be warm in winter and not too hot in summer, to have moral, well-rounded and content children, to have a small circle of good friends who get my jokes, a devoted partner who can make me laugh even in my blackest moods, a vegetable garden and to figure out what makes humans, well, human. I want to have all this while living in an equitable society.

I’ve very nearly got them all. Australia is slowly getting there. I haven’t planted anything this year but planning to be raring to go for autumn and the 3yo is slowly getting the all important “Do unto others” maxim. It’s the penultimate one that’s going to be the corker. What makes humans human? What are humans anyway? What are we? WHO are we? What on earth are we for? and most importantly (for me anyway), how do we work?

I’ve done a science degree majoring in biological molecules, I’ve explored the world of plants, microbes, insects, reptiles and mammals and it still amazes me that something as complex as an ant could emerge from an exquisitely organised cluster of molecules let alone a thinking, feeling, acting human being capable of immense wonders, dire atrocities and love that makes my heart flip every time I encounter it.

When I crumble homemade compost through my fingers I wonder: how can we be made from essentially the same stuff as this? It is naught but luck that some of the carrots in our house turned into compost and some into human via hungry kiddie tummies. No wonder people invented a divine creator (apologies to those who don’t think the creator was an invention) - something to stop the wondering that could drive most men mad. Fortunately for me I’m not most men (I don’t envy them their genitalia to be honest and seriously, if there is a creator, I think they’ve got some explaining to do in that area) but the question is driving me mad. Not because I don’t like the wonder, but because (despite my husbands Herculean efforts) I get to spend so little time devoted to it.

Parents simply don’t get to swim in entrancing questions the way people can when they do not have caring commitments. And when the question is one of human consciousness, there’s a great deal of swimming needs to be done. So what do I want? I don’t want a Nanny, I like my children most of the time and they need their parent around. Maybe I’d like an extra 72 hours a week just for me. Yep, that’s what I want. A little speedy time capsule so I could nab an extra 72 hours while the others slept. I might age a little faster than my husband, I might use some of those extra hours for sleeping, who knows? The point is they would be just for me. Some guilt-free hours just for me, that’s what I really want.

Oh FFS Coles...

... It's f@&cking October.

Sent from my iPhone

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12yo is home alone....

...so being the worrying type, I call him to see what he's up to. I worry less that he's going to get into trouble and more that he'll spend all day on the couch with the play station.

Me: "Have you been outside today?"

12yo: "No, but I've spent some time playing in my bedroom with my axe."

Oh well THAT's ok then.

What was she doing in there?

Yesterday we took the family to the pool for a rare swim together (while Mummy got some quick laps in). As anyone unfortunate enough to spend any time in public change rooms will know, the showers are all on timers now. You press a button and get three to four minutes worth of drinking water to wash your hair in. Everyone forgives the odd restart - we're all human and no one wants to be left in the lurch with their hair full of lather. But yesterday I heard a woman restart TEN times.

What was she doing in there? Was she in labour? Was she having earth-shattering sex? Does she only shower once a week? Because those are the only reasons I'd accept for a shower of that magnitude.

Oh, and how do I know this? What was I doing in the change rooms for that long? I'm cursed with curly hair. It's a thing...

Some of the things I overhear...

The 12yo is home. Hooray! But of course he must have his Halo fix :(

When I listen to the exchanges between 12yo and his stepfather though, I have hope.

The best so far is, "Oh sweet Nellie! I just fell off a cliff!" (in a high pitched voice coming from a big bloke = hilarious)

and the carguments:

"No, you can't drive.... you'll just tip it over again... Ok, but if you tip it over.... hey!!! don't move yet... hey!!! Emma, he's making me chase the car!!!"

and the advice to stepfather from the Halo veteran: "If you see two guys, just play dead." "Oh yeah, you're supposed to be stealthy here." and "It's not night vision, it's a torch, you didn't know you had a torch?"

and the advice to 12yo from gaming veteran stepfather: "12yo, when you yell, OVER THERE! and run off. That's not teamwork." and similar...

and the random:

"Now THAT'S how you cross a stream."

Laughing, "Hey dude, you found the tree!"

"Quick, get in the car! no the other left!" etc etc.

Since they play with the sound right down, it's easy to forget if you're not looking that it's the first person shooter responsible for almost as many virgin males as WOW.

It's FUN.

I'm pretty sure (99.999999%) that it's not going to turn my son into a mass murderer either. Then again, this sort of gaming is recent and supervised. Can't help but wonder what the effect would have been of unsupervised gaming at, say 5 years old or something :-\ Luckily I'll never know...

Wow, I used to write train poetry!

I came across this in an old notebook... the Snippets from my notebooks Label is now reborn :-)

Tic, toc, this line is so slow!
The minion of my boredom shouting "Go! Go! Go!"
Yet, my pen is stationary on the stationery...
So what? Should I care if it rests unaware?
Drips from my fingers, my mind elsewhere?
Ah, me, I mustn't berate myself.
'Tis the trains terrific.... soporific... effect....

Bad Mummy morning and the screaming to-do-list.

I’m writing this for my husband. I’m writing this for a plethora of reasons (work avoidance, getting the writer’s juice flowing, venting) but mainly for my husband who oft complains that I make unreasonable knowledge demands of him as he can’t possibly know what goes on when he’s not here. Fair cop.

This article is written to cure ignorance. It is written for those who think that keeping house for five (if you include the dog), rearing children with widely disparate needs, while writing a thesis is easy. It is written to call out those parents who are making it look easy by pouring their remaining energy into a blissfully happy facade (STOP it will you? you're not helping!). And finally, it is written for those of you who will GET it, those who know that more thought goes into seemingly simple tasks than those who don’t have to do them can possibly imagine. Also, that there are MORE simple tasks than anyone can possibly imagine, and for those of us who wander around awake, these simple tasks can take over our heads, berate our brains with their need, and whip our conscientious bodies into actions that are not, necessarily, the ones that we would most like to be doing.

If this stream of consciousness account of my morning gets boring, that’s because HOUSEWORK is boring - plough through, that’s what I do, you may find there’s a reward at the end. Oh, and this is the truncated version.

6.45am My alarm goes off. I groan, rip out my earplugs (I wear these so I can sleep through the rumblings of the walrus), remember that I don’t have to get the 12yo to school today and roll over for ten more minutes of blissful snooze while the other half showers.

6.55am crawl into my clothes, most of which are too small - can’t afford bigger ones at the moment, solving the problem with the more economical strategy of eating less.

7.00am Toddler wakes up chirpy and cheerful (thank goodness) I spend the next 45 minutes negotiating clothing and breakfast. Resisting the urge to shout, “What is WITH you? Your brother didn’t care what colour socks he wore!! He didn’t even care if he wore socks! Just put on the blue ones for FUCK’S sake!!!” No, all of that goes on quietly in my head while I calmly wait for her to navigate the minefield of colours that is her underwear drawer.

745am Getting ready to go, checking shopping lists (because it’s Tuesday and there is no other shopping day), checking that the banks have all done what they were supposed to do overnight, organising to pay the most urgent bill - “first notice… school excursion…. second notice…. final notice…. they won’t REALLY take me to court…. disconnection - Bingo!”

7.55am Ready to walk out the door only I forgot that the dog was getting clipped, impatiently wait for him to finish his breakfast before loading everyone into the car (this, just on its own, can take fifteen minutes).

8.45 Catch all the horrible traffic due to getting out of the door late so treated to half an hour’s worth of whining about childcare from toddler instead of the usual twenty. Fill in the forms for medicine at childcare (toddler has a runny nose) and attempt to disentangle myself from the lady limpet - thank goodness for childcare angels who manage to extract her without a tantrum today! They are under-applauded and under-paid.

9.15am Dropping the dog off. At least he likes the groomers, no separation issues there. Forget to rebook his clips so will have to do that at the other end of the day. Bleah.

9.30am Finally make it to the shopping centre an hour later than usual and debate the pros and cons of having a coffee now. Stomach solves the problem by announcing to all and sundry that it’s empty. Breakfast is a gourmet mocha made with real chocolate and served on a Bunsen burner. Worth every penny but the decorative melted chocolate down the sides of the mug drives me nuts (being a non-handle type of person).

I try to alleviate the pausing for coffee guilt by reminding myself that it’s a rare day when I can have a coffee in the morning without the toddler present. Also, I get out my to-do book and start to write down all the nagging clutter in my head. The list of things still left to do… it runs to three A5 pages. Not bad. This tirade wasn’t on it, by the way.

10.00am I finally get to Coles and find to my amusement that they have solved the problem of consumers having accurate information (the price per unit info under the actual price) by making the UNITS different. That is, one brand of tissues is priced per tissue, the other brand is per 100 tissues. Nice one Coles. Very clever. Respect. This is the highlight of my shopping trip. I still take the time to buy the cheapest thing on the shelf.

11.00am Home again. The plan was to dump all the stuff that needed to be refrigerated in the fridge and leave again for Uni so I can get a draft to my supervisor who is lucky enough not to have read a draft of mine yet, and so demonstrates some enthusiasm for them.

Instead I think, “It’s only a small shop today, and you’re only making soup to freeze, you can cook while you put away the shopping…” I’m powerless against that nattering, nagging, get it done now you won’t regret it voice… so I do it.

Chop onions, remembering to put peelings into our new compost pile as I go, retrieving the large saucepan from the *dishwasher that needs emptying* (“Oh, I’ll just get that out of the way too…”).

Set the onions to caramelise, find the herbs, waste time looking for a special chili mix that seems to have evaporated with the move. Disappointed I settle for chili powder. Get out cans for this amazingly easy vegan soup. Stir onions, unpack shopping, stir onions… add herbs… stir onions…

Open the cans of cannellini beans (organic, whatever that means) and tomatoes (whole tomatoes because the factory uses the better quality fruit for those that go whole into the tin - damaged stuff gets diced or pureed - see how we think about every little thing that goes into the cupboard and hence your bellies?) run a small experiment to see whether the visual effect in the blender is more pleasing to the eye with the cannellini beans on the top or the bottom (bored am I). Cannellini beans on the bottom definitely wins. I will forget this and run the same experiment next time I make this soup. Pour the resulting pink slop over the onions and muse that if I were ever to write this recipe down I would need to reassure the gentle reader (why are readers always gentle? I’m not!) that the resulting soup is a rich red. Set it to boil. Realise I forgot to buy tuna, go through the shopping list to see if there’s anything else I forgot, while I’m at it go through the receipts in my wallet to see if there’s anything claimable on them. Fix the permanent shopping lists in my permanent list book (that's why I forgot the tuna).

Time to clean up (“you might as well get that out of the way”). Rinse out all the tins with the same bit of water, run it through the blender then add it to the soup. There’s nothing meaty or dairy on the blender so that gets a quick rinse and goes straight onto the *dish rack that needs emptying* so you empty that in order to be able to put the new stuff on it and remember that you were going to empty the dishwasher… (“Might as well get it out of the way…”)

(“Might as well finish off”) the shopping job by putting the shopping bags back into the car… Also collect rubbish from car and check mail while you’re there (“might as well”). Reflect that if you were a better parent you’d make the kids clean up their own car mess so that they didn’t think fairies did it.

Reward: When I come back inside, the house smells amazing.

It’s now 12.30pm and I’m starving. Time to make lunch and start moving things to the study…

(NOTE: With a toddler in tow, this morning would have taken until 3pm to complete. After which I would have started the after-school run. Today was a rare and magical day with my son away and my daughter in an extra day of childcare. To complete my Tuesday tasks in record time is a treat.)


Retrieve draft notes from the bedroom (because you fell asleep berating yourself for your crap prose and disorganised exegesis last night) unsuccessfully ignoring all of the post move clutter in the hallway that screams, “You’re at HOME!! Might as well do ME too!!!!” I give in and put away one umbrella on my way through. In the bedroom I also retrieve an empty champagne bottle from my side of the bed. Husband has cottoned on to the fact that it will be disposed of if he leaves it on my side and he’s not wrong. Bottle magically fills recycling bin which gets put by the door for my next trip outside which will be during my study break when I will also check the mail and make two dozen roast chicken sandwiches to freeze.

Make lunch, high protein, low carb as is the norm for the new dietary regime. I compromise with avocado dip and crackers, squeezing the lemon juice through my fingers to catch the pips Lebanese style and because handling the food is how you get the love in. Run my lunch and notes to the study while ignoring the outdoor jobs that scream at me -
the conglomerate of pot plants the broken easel begging to be measured up for some new dowel pins, the weeds in the path, none of which seem to bother my husband.

I check my mail and read the news, resisting the urge to berate a commenter and tweet about her inflammatory ignorance instead. Nice break.

It’s 1pm. Time to change hats from Mummy to Scholar. And can I? No. That’s why I wrote this, seething with resentment because I can’t shut all of this stuff out while the rest of my family can. I’m surrounded by animated tasks and objects and the chatter is deafening. My environment is a visual to-do-list, and in the current climate it is overflowing. I am, you might say, constantly perceptually overwhelmed at home. This is the reason one of the traditional Dad’s jobs was to “get mother out of the house” on occasion.

So, dear husband, that’s why I’m snarky and jittery when you come home after I’ve had a day at home. I’ve spent the day trying to shut out the chorus of a to-do-list that is impossibly long. That’s why I snarled when you used to refer to my days at home as “days off”. And THAT’S why I’m so protective of my one little sterile room. My one room with no jobs in it but scholarly jobs, my little grotto. THAT’S why I snap when you ask if I really “need” it, or when you ask why I can’t have the household paperwork here too…

But now I feel fantastic, sometimes having a good old whine does the trick beautifully. I’m going to go into the house to get another cup of tea, and when I do I’m going to tell the chorusing to-do-list to go and get stuffed.

Pondering the occasional well-timed smacking.

We are mostly nonsmackers in our house, reserving the smack for the life threatening actions (running on to the road) and occasions where the parents are too tired to negotiate. It's rare, but if I say, "Mummy is getting too cross and if you don't listen I'm going to give you a smack." It gives the kids a clue that they're pushing the limits. We rarely have to follow through. We never do the explosive out of the blue smack, that's scary and unproductive. We give warnings, and we do what we say we are going to do. The kids know this and respect it 99% of the time which is pretty good I reckon.

Today my 2yo and I are at loggerheads. Again. This time over getting dressed after her swimming lesson. I reason with her (you'll be cold, the car will be wet, Mummy has to get home and clean, you have to get home and have lunch, how can we do those things if you don't get dressed?) over and over. All I get is stalwart refusal over and over, rising in pitch and volume every time. I'm not going to forcibly undress her, she'll fight and get hurt. So, it's time for threats (or in politically correct speak, consequences). I don't ever make a threat I don't intend to carry out as I believe it makes for ineffectual parents. Kids cotton on to you reaaaal quick - Dad's not really going to throw me into the tumble dryer/leave me at the zoo on my own/make me sleep in the shower....

There's a limited amount you can do in a public change room so I raise my voice slightly over the single-minded 2yo naysaying and tell her this: "If you don't get dressed, I will pick you up as you are, take you to the car and plonk you in it. It will be cold, you will be uncomfortable, Mummy will be cross and there will be no nice things when you get home."

2yo weighs this up in her head and decides to give it a go.

Because I'm wearing black and I don't want chlorine all over my clothes, and I'm carrying two bags, when I pick her up it's pretty uncomfortable so she starts to scream. I carry her screaming to the car, manage to get the door open and dump her unceremoniously into the car seat, strap her in tell her that of course she's uncomfortable and it's HER fault for not getting dressed.

She screams all the way home in the car.

She screams when I get her out of the car, plonk her on our already abused couch and slam the living room door.

She's still screaming after I've opened the mail and got the kettle on. I kid you not. The girl has stamina.

When she starts throwing herself against the living room door saying she has to go to the toilet I open it up (still too angry to say words) set up the toilet for her and go back to my cup of tea.

She screams because it's hard getting her wet bathers off. I leave her to it.

She screams because she's cold and wet. I leave her to it.

Finally, she stops screaming and whimpers that she'd like to get dressed now.

So now I give the lecture. The one where I say, "See? Wouldn't everything have been much nicer if you'd just listened to Mummy at the pool?" She does the usual nodding miserably until she feels like she's been forgiven (and she's dressed and warm) then instantly cheers up. We call her little miss MPD for a reason.

After all this I'm completely shattered. I'm on to my second cup of tea and I'm blogging instead of working. Something for which I'll pay dearly later on. And I can't help wondering whether a short sharp smack on the leg at the pool would have saved both of us half an hour of screaming and misery. Either way she had to learn a lesson, and after events like today's I can't help wondering whether the non-smacking way isn't the painful and psychologically scarring way.

With a well-timed smack she might have learned that she'd taken it too far and that she'd better hop out of her bathers quick smart next time or she'll get another one and they're not nice. With the non-smacking method she learns that on occasion she can scream her heart out and Mummy won't care (I was pretending but she doesn't know that), she learns about the powerlessness of being locked in a room at someone else's whim, and being left wet and cold to freeze in order to learn a lesson about the consequences of not getting dressed. When I put it this way, the latter sounds more like torture than the well-timed smack.

My Therapist is on FaceBook - my plight. Those after Ethics can scroll to the end.

Hi all, I had to remove this page.

However, since it was extremely popular and apparently useful to patients and practising therapists alike I have decided to make an emailed copy available. Just send me an email at emervents@gmail.com with "Therapist" in the subject header and I will email you a copy, usually within 24 hours.

I will not keep your email address.

Cheers

Emervents

Pink Schmink - I don't get why some feminist mothers don't like pink. The real front line is somewhere else.

So it turns out that you can want to dress head to toe in pink, dress all your teddies in pink, and still find trucks interesting. Who knew?



I don't know why she's obsessed with pink, all I know is that it must be a gender thing as the people who market toys to children colour their products for a reason. My guess is that the pink girl toys outsold the blue girl toys resulting in the pink isle you see in the toy shop today. I think it's funny that the fact that the isle is almost entirely blindingly bright pink negates any advantage there may have been in making your product pink in the first place. These days a pink toy is lost in the searing haze of pinkness...

One of the more common arguments against dressing girls in pink is that there are assumptions inherent in pink. Assumptions about gender, purpose and societal roles. Apparently by dressing girls in a certain colour we're dooming them to an unfulfilling life in the kitchen (and that a life in the kitchen is deemed to be unfulfilling is a whole other bugbear of mine that I won't go into here).

The social constructs that are dooming girls to roles they find unfulfilling are far bigger than pink clothing. They are companies that discriminate against women on the basis of gender or family commitments, unaffordable childcare, and crusty old blokes like an ancient chemistry lecturer of mine who made it quite clear to me that in his opinion anyone with a vagina didn't belong in a laboratory and ought to be doing social work. He has retired now thank goodness. More and more of those crusties are retiring (a good thing) but unless we're careful they'll be replaced with blokes who are quite happy to continue a company tradition of rewarding people who are willing to work themselves to the bone at the expense of time with their families. In this kind of culture the children need a parent at home if they are to get any one-on-one parenting at all. And of course, in this kind of culture the at home parent is bound to be the birth mother as she needs all that time off to have the baby anyway... Changing the colour of your precious girl's clothing is not going to make one whit of difference to this kind of work culture.

So, as we don't want to return to those dark ages, I'll tell you where I think the real front line is. The people on the front line are the mothers returning to work who are organising job-sharing, or working out how their job can be performed part-time, or working out how they can do some of their work from home. Also on the front line are the fathers who are doing the same, braving up to bosses, swimming against a current of a century's worth of dogma and stating that they need parenting leave or part-time/flexible hours too, as they'd like to do some, duh, parenting. The real changes aren't caused by banning a clothing colour, they're caused by brave parents who are willing to break molds to create a work culture that is equitable in that it allows both men and women into the workforce without leaving our children in the lurch. So dress your girlies in whatever colour you like, you're not going to make a difference to your daughter's prospects until it is taken for granted that both sexes will participate in the workforce and do their share around the house. And for that to happen.... well... let's say it's going to be a little harder for parents than choosing a colour for clothing.

Messies Anonymous Strikes my kitchen

Tonight at 10.30 pm I surveyed my cluttered kitchen with familiar despair. Competing in my head was my stern whipping voice berating me for my laziness and my more forgiving, reasonable voice: "You got home at 6 pm managed to feed the kids something fresh and colourful, nit-combed everyone including yourself, twice, then got them clean and into bed. You now have an hour and a half of household paperwork ahead of you. Give yourself a break!"

My forgiving voice was winning and I was about to leave it and turn out the light when my brand new Messies Anonymous voice piped up: "Set the kitchen timer for ten minutes. Just give it ten minutes. THEN you can leave it."

So I gave it ten minutes, and now the dishwasher is on, the benches are clear, the rubbish is ready to go out and I have some chamomile tea to accompany my paperwork. Rock on.

Ode to strategy computer games for kiddies.

My 11yo has picked up a book of myths and legends that I used to love as a child *thrilled*.

When he told me that it was really great, and I mentioned that we'd tried to get him interested a while ago but maybe he was too little he replied:

"Mum, that was before I had Age of Mythology."

How am I supposed to complain about all his screen time now?

The Trials and Tribulations of Researching Vaccines if you're just a Mummy

I've put some up some posts on Emervents triggered by a conversation I had about vaccines on facebook. Yey for social networking!

Thinking about Vaccines? Thinking of Googling? Found AVN or VISA? Think again.

and

Critique of AVN's 10 Reason's Parents Question Vaccination

As with all blog posts about issues I feel strongly about, they are WAY long.

Thank you Messies Anonymous

My thank you letter to Messies Anonymous. Some things just change your life for the better:

A life long hoarder and messie I've been subscribing to your emails for a year now. Having just one thing to work on for the day, whether that be "stow as you go" or "work on your inspiration point" made it easy for me to follow a "get well program" without being overwhelmed. For a long time I was only able to do that one thing in the email, sometimes not managing to do it at all. Then one day I realised I'd cleaned my inspiration point as well as done a ten minute tidy - two things in one day! A few months later I realised I was regularly waking up to a clean kitchen. And yesterday, yesterday was a revelation. My aunt dropped in for coffee, looked around my living room and said, "This is such a lovely room!" No-one has ever said that about my house before. My husband also called to ask if we could have someone for dinner that evening and I could say yes with absolutely no feelings of panic. The livingroom and bathroom were clean and tidy, the kitchen was ready to go. Guest for dinner? No problem.

What amazes me about your program is the way the change sneaks up on you. Once I was committed to doing at least one thing a day (and having the emails dictate what that thing was meant I didn't have to think, just DO) the magic happened on its own. I still read your emails, and I still do that one thing even though my house looks as though I no longer need it. I keep the Messies Manual by the bed and read that when I feel like I'm getting behind again or when I need more motivation to dejunk. I do it because I know that I still need it, that my bad habits are still lurking in the background waiting to be given free rein again.

Thank you, thank you, thank you for your inspiration and help.

http://www.messies.com

Just what is Bad Mummy Syndrome anyway?

Every now and then I google Bad Mummy Syndrome just to see what turns up, and the other day I found this. I recommend you go there before continuing, it's refreshingly short (and the other stuff on the site looks like it might be worth a tickle with the eyes). They're quite unsympathetic to us Mummies who suffer from Bad Mummy Syndrome so I wrote this for them:

Hi, I'm such a fan of Bad Mummy Syndrome that I named my blog (paltry, don't bother going) after it.

You guys seem so hard on us that I felt I had to respond.

I argue that Bad Mummy Syndrome is not about perfect mummies pretending to compete to be the worst mummy of all, the Bad Mummy Syndrome is a dialect. It's CODE. It's a code we use to tell other Mummies (or Daddies) that most of the plethora of rules and systems we are bombarded with these days from books, media, and well-meaning interfererers are at best, designed to make us feel inadequate, and at worst, shite to the point of dangerous.

Examples:

"My daughter is still in nappies and she's four! I'm hopeless at this toilet training thing!" is code for, "My mother, my mother-in-law, my grandmother and every other fucking busybody who would tell me how to rear my children is giving me a hard time about this. I know my daughter and I know she's unlikely to be psychologically scarred, but hey, mark me Bad Mummy for not fitting in."

Bad Mummies of my generation would probably roll their eyes in sympathy at this, generation Y might give a sympathetic "Meh." But after the eye rolling and sympathy noises comes the really, really important bit. The listening Bad Mummy (Bad Mummy Two) must now appropriately denigrate herself. Why? Because if she doesn't, Bad Mummy One really IS a bad mother. If she doesn't, Bad Mummy One is all alone.

So, Bad Mummy Two might say, "Mine slept with us until he was five, we just couldn't convince him that a separate bed was the way to go!" This is code for, "I tried, I tried everything, but in the end the nightly screams and tantrums wore me down, I figured that he must, for some reason only known to him, need me at night and I opted for a quite life with sleep in it. Half the world is telling me that co-sleeping for that long will cause deep Freudian traumas that only emerge in his teens. But I know he's a happy kid who got what he needed. Sue me for Bad Mumminess why don't you."

Other translations might include:

"I caught my two year old drinking liquid soap today." Is code for, "I'm so fucking tired, and she's so fucking precocious that NOTHING is safe in the house any more. They say you have to watch them every second but how is that really truly possible if you have to look after everyone else as well?"

"I locked my three year old in her cot for half an hour yesterday. When I got back she'd thrown all the toys I'd given her onto the floor and had nearly broken the gate she was shaking it so hard!" Is code for, "I had to separate us or I was going to physically hurt her. She has screaming rages over such tiny things and it goes on all day, drilling into my skull, I think I'm going insane. If I don't get a decent break from her soon I will simply go catatonic."

I could go on and on. But I'm thinking I'd be pressing my luck.

Bad Mummy Dialogues are not about "competing to be the worst Mummy", they are not about being unable to admit to our own perfection, they are about reassuring each other that these things are normal. That it's normal to have problems, that it's normal to feel like strangling your kids (they can be unbelievably frustrating, even the little angels!), and it's normal to feel completely inadequate and at sea.

The reason this reassuring dialogue is couched in terms of imperfection, the reason that it takes the form of a public flogging is that we are bombarded from every angle with the possibility of perfect parenthood. Advertisements flaunt unattainable visions of perfect families in much the same way they flaunt unattainable physiques. Books and seminars offer miracle solutions and cures to all that ails your potentially perfect offspring (and if they're imperfect it's your fault by god, get your act together woman!) It seems there isn't a parenting problem under the sun that doesn't have a book on it or a product out that promises miracles.

With all this advice and help out there, where are the excuses for shoddy parenting in any form? We speak in terms of the Bad Mummy because we know this, we know that in the public eye there are no excuses. We are ashamed, guilty of not attaining an ideal that is as impossible for most parents as a Kate Moss figure.

So next time you overhear us "competing", please, try cracking the code before you come over all judgmental. It's fear of harsh judgment that gave us Bad Mummy Syndrome in the first place.

Relax, Ms Whole Foods Puritan, relax.

I’ve just come back from an encounter with one of those god awful parents. Ms Wholefoods Puritan, you probably know the type:

“Oh no, dahling cheree can’t have those for lunch, my children have never TASTED white bread.”

"My children don’t get choices, they eat what they’re given!”

“This woman was giving her kids FAIRY BREAD!! at a QUARTER to FIVE!!!!”

I was trying to be polite I really was. My eyes were quivering in their sockets with the effort required to keep them from rolling skywards in bored exasperation. “Relax, get over yourself!” I wanted to say, “No healthy person has ever died from occasional consumption of fairy bread. Your obsession with food is going to rub off on them and not in the way you think. As soon as they get a tiny bit of freedom they’re going to be gorging themselves on all the food you wouldn’t let them have and they won’t know how to leave it alone because you didn’t let them take it for granted you silly woman!”

But of course I didn’t, I did try to say something like maybe the errant mother thought the kids would like a treat since they were all having a play togther but she wouldn’t let me finish the sentence. I also thought of telling her about my cousins who weren’t allowed anything nice so they bought or borrowed treats and hid their contraband under the bed. However, she was too busy telling me that her children’s love of lentils was due to the fact that they’d never had icecream to listen.

I know people who grew up with parents who thought that certain foods had inherently evil qualities. I was one of them. My mother would go through phase after phase. First it was dairy products that were causing all her ills, then it was wheat, then sugar (she was an alcoholic so I used to think that the sugar allergy was hilarious given that it’s one of the breakdown products of alcohol). But the alltime evil foods were processed foods - the ones with the dreaded additives. Preservatives, colouring, artificial flavouring, they were all inherently evil and the nasties would hang around for years doing hideous things to your insides. She was always very vague about the exact nature of these things, but cancer came up a lot.

I don’t buy the idea that if you restrict your child’s diet to nothing but wholefoods they’ll grow into serene, well behaved little angels with a model health record. I do believe in not allowing too many sweet things, letting them go hungry before dinner (depending on the age group, it’s a bit too hard on babies and toddlers to my mind) and making their first taste of food something savoury, like pureed brocolli. But outlawing fairy bread, cup cakes, and the occasional jelly bean is sheer lunacy because you’ll end up creating a desperate desire for the things that they see all their friends enjoying but can’t have themselves.

Choosing healthy foods is one of the first ways kids practise the fine art of making good choices. I want to let my children make lots of mistakes, I want them to practice choosing so they are not making their first real life choices when 18, head strong and behind the wheel of a car. I want them to be able to know the difference between yummy foods that are loaded with sugar and salt and yummy foods that are good for them so they are not making their first choices when they move out of home for the first time. I heard of a girl who ended up with scurvy because she lived on white bread and jam for most of her first year at Uni. Guess who wasn’t allowed white bread at home?

I encourage my children to eat well. I tell them why we are eating what we are eating but the rest is up to them. I let them get sick on easter eggs and marshmallows because I know they’ll remember the experience for next time. Even at two years old my youngest knows that too many easter eggs will make her feel unwell. I feed them fruit and chicken soup when they’re sick so they’ll associate those foods with comfort and feeling better. And my favourite rule: Nothing makes food taste better than eating it at a friendly dinner table when you’re ravenous.

My mother was an “eat it all or else” Nazi, my step-mother was a “you must try it, but you don’t have to eat it. If you don’t want it there’s fruit and cheese in the fridge and you can get it yourself. Remember, what you don’t eat today you get tomorrow in another form!” (My step-mother is a soup and fritters from leftovers cullinary genius.) Guess who’s cooking was my favourite? and guess who’s table I try to emulate today? My step-mother’s.

So my message to Ms Whole Foods Puritan? Relax woman. Let them have the occasional hamburger with their salad, let them see that junk food is a tasty thing that they can access but is not desirable all the time. Withhold it and you’ll create desire for it sure as free range eggs are happy eggs.

So it turns out that...

...if you're making a banana smoothie and drizzle the honey over the vanilla ice cream the honey turns rock hard and it sounds like you've got a blender full of bullets for, like, ages.

Toddler Twister

Today 2yo composed a song. There was one verse, "Daddy's not afraid of Mummy any moooore!!" She accompanied herself on the ukulele and had the rest of us in fits of laughter. We have NO idea where the words came from. Daddy is not owning up to anything anyway.

Later on we had an activity conundrum.

2yo: "I want to do painting?"

Bad Mummy: "No, it's too late for painting, you can do drawing or play dough."

2yo: Thinks. "Pasting!"

Bad Mummy: "No, you can do drawing or play dough."

2yo: "Pasting!"

Bad Mummy: "Drawing or play dough."

2yo: Thinks. "Drawing WITH play dough!"

So that's what we're doing. She's going to show me how.

Mummy Wordle Made from Tweets. Tres Cute.

I wish I could say the same for the html they give you to paste :-\

href="http://www.wordle.net/gallery/wrdl/799254/Mummy_Wordle"
title="Wordle: Mummy Wordle">

Money shmoney and kiddy shmiddies.

Trivial response to an Age blah. I mean blog!

You will never regret teaching your kids how to save, pay bills and have money left over for nice things. Why? Ask any parent of a teenager who doesn't have those skills....

I negotiate pocket money with my 11yo. A portion goes straight to his personal account and he gets the rest as cash. 10% of any other money he gets also goes into his bank account. The only real rule is that I won't buy him junk food, toy weapons or video games, he uses his own money for that (right now he is hoarding cash to save for an X-Box 360). Meanwhile he gets to see his bank savings grow via the "Pay Yourself First" method of saving. You should have seen his face the first time he was paid interest - "The bank GAVE me money, just for keeping my money with them? WOW." I tell him this money is for later, for a gap year, or a car or whatever.

My parents told me nothing about money when I was growing up, so I make up for it now with spreadsheets, 13 bank accounts (each with a different purpose) and a system of automatic debits so complex that if I die without writing an instruction book it will take years to figure out what I was doing... Perhaps I over reacted...

You won't regret teaching your kids to save. Teaching them while they're in nappies is probably a bit early to my mind. Though when they were in nappies, and I was a broke single mum, I saved for them anyway using a rather quaint rule:

Every payday put away the same amount of cents as they are days old.

This was a TINY amount but I stuck it in a reward saver and didn't touch it. I used internet banking for the transaction so I didn't have to embarrass myself at the teller with the trivial amounts I was transferring... and of course, because the amounts were trivial, they were easy to let go of each week. My son is now eleven, the weekly payments are no longer as trivial (but thankfully I'm no longer as broke), and what started as a rather embarrassing award saver with less than one hundred dollars in it has grown to a cool seven grand in a high interest term deposit - all by putting away a few dollars a week and letting compound interest work its magic. That money is dipped into occasionally to get him special stuff, like the musical instrument of his choice and school camps. Now it's being used as part of a house deposit so I guess I'll have to give him part ownership of the house? Hmmm. Might be going a bit too far...

Saving is ace, the rewards are numerous and you don't need a massive paycheck to get started. The key is to put it away and don't touch it, even if it's as little as $2 on a regular basis. Teach your kids how, they will thank you later when they buy their x-box, or designer shoes, get a better car, go overseas.... I wish someone had taught me.

Mummy is writing letters to MPs again. Bad Mummy.

Bad Mummy because I should be reading up on dopamine and brains. Oh well.

http://emervents.blogspot.com/2009/04/letter-to-ministers-re-maternity.html


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Sarcastic Mummy

Sometimes I'm such a Bad Mummy I give ranting sarcastic responses to my kids' requests. In my defense, they tend to be requests born of sheer laziness so I don't feel too bad. Here is a lovely example from ten minutes ago:

11yo: Mu-u-um! 2yo is turning the heater on!

Bad Mummy: So turn it off at the power point.

11yo: Where's that?

Bad Mummy: Well, if it were me, I'd follow the cord from the heater and see where it leads. There are other methods I suppose, like radar, detecting it's magnetic field with a compass and iron filings, or ancient household cartography, but I think mine's the quickest.

Taking Buffy obsession to new and exciting heights.

Bad Mummies are all Buffy fans. Most of us don't suffer under the illusion that Joss Whedon is a feminist icon, but we do like to see blonde chicks kick demon butt. We also like irony done proper, a private lingo, word play, and humour that doesn't always have to be at someone's expense.

Today while sorting through my books, passing them through the keep/value/chuck filter, I came across Of Human Bondage by W. Somerset Maugham. I decided to keep it if and only if it is the book referred to in the first episode of Buffy Season 4.

Which it is.

So there.

Cute way to recycle Milo tins

I must be getting housewife's brain if I'm constantly blogging about this stuff. I don't mind, I figure I need it. This is my brain holiday.

Milo is the only nestle product I buy and my son eats mountains of the stuff. We had a drought induced mouse plague last year and they got into everything that wasn't behind glass or metal. That's when I started using the tins for staples out of desperation. Now I quite like the look, it's green (well, greener than Tupperware), kind of rustic and post apocalyptic. Perfect for our Bad Mummy kitchen.

Things I do are:

1. When washing them for use I make sure ALL the water is removed. They rust at the drop of a hat (or water...).
2. I cut out the label from the bag of whatever staple it is and stick it to the tin, covering the whole label with clear sticky tape so that it doesn't get grotty. If I don't like the label, I use a strip of masking tape. This adds a bit of variety to the look.

Now I just wish my shelf was an inch wider...

Furniture Tetris

Last week our two year old daughter swallowed a staple resulting in panicked phone calls to Nurse-On-Call and forced ingestion of much fibre. She's ok now, but the event spurred a home re-organisation in the name of safety that dwarves all my previous tidying efforts.

Here be photos:

The livingroom will become a study shared by Daddy and Mummy. Eleven year old will also have a computer in here rather than in his room.


My study will become the livingroom. You can see the same poster on the wall.

The two year old, bless her, managed to find play space in the chaos.


But we did have to have our lunch outside.


We are still at it.


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What to do if you over-do the herbs in the pasta sauce.

I just had to blog this, it's typical of a Bad Mummy Deed.

I was making a family favourite (and one of the ways I get my husband to consume fish) - creamy smoked salmon pasta sauce - when I drifted off during the cooking and tipped half a jar of dried thyme into it. Not good, unless you like your pasta sauces to taste like cattle fodder and have the texture of a mouthful of pins. Here's how I solved the problem:


1. Swirl the sauce so that the thyme coats the side of the pan.


2. Wipe off the thyme that stuck to the sides with tissue. Make sure there is a thick wad of tissue between your fingers and the pan if you like your hands to be burn-free.


3. Repeat as necessary.

These photos were taken after about five wipes so it's not nearly as green as it was when I started.

The tissues will look like you've been nursing an echidna with the flu, your bin will be gross, but the pasta sauce will be back to fabulous.

It is handy on these occasions to have a professional mess-maker (toddler) around. This is so when your husband comes home, looks in the bin and cries, "For the love of god what IS this FOULNESS???" you can say, "Ask your daughter!" You are then off the hook unless he says, "No really..."

Bleah, ick and blah.

I feel bleah. Could be the heat. Could be the toasted cheese sandwich I had for breakfast. Could be that I'm rereading my thesis and finding all the horrible misplaced commas and beyond shite errors of expression. Could be that I'm supposed to be doing yet more tidying and the thought makes me want to vomit. Could be that I'm just full of nervous energy and can't settle to anything.

I need to get my heart rate up and my muscles moving but I can't decide how. I'd take the dog out but it's too hot. I'd go for a ride but for the same. Maybe I should swim. But our pool is ten metres long which means four strokes and I'm across if I swim properly, there's hardly any point to it. Though, come to think of it, I can increase that to ten strokes if I breath because I have to practically stop in the water and roll over to do it. There's really no point being able to shoot like a dart through the water (not my words) if you have to screech to a halt to take a breath....

*sigh* it's either swimming or star jumps.... which which which....

Lazy Sunday dinners in the 'vents household...

This should be read by any mother berating themselves for feeding their hungry hoard fast food. We've normalised it :-(

Tonight I'm distracted by my own activities (in this case morosely quilting, moaning that it must be over soon or I shall expire 'neath a mass of brown and yellow cotton) and vaguely thinking that I'll make pasta and salad to feed the hungry hoard, when my son (11yo) requests a "Last Hurrah" dinner because it's the last day of the holidays. This is his code for "some form of fast food". I relent (too easy in this heat) and send him off to negotiate the precise form of fast food with his step-father. I couldn't care less myself, I won't eat much of it because my appetite takes a dive when the temperature gets above 30 degrees or so. He comes back and reports that my husband wants vegetarian and he wants hawaiian. I correctly deduce that this is code for pizza and add some meatballs for myself to the order. By the time I get to the phone my husband's order has changed to vegetarian pasta - lucky I indulged in some communication before I dialed.

We eat in front of the Fraggles (they have taken up permanent residence in our living room). I'm not hungry but manage to down one meatball and some snow peas. 11yo tries my meatballs and finishes the lot, shunning the humble pizza on his plate. 2yo is feeling sick and only eats the pineapple on her slice of pizza. The only person truly happy with his choice of food is my husband - this place creates a fresh kind of vegetarian pasta for him every time we order and it's always excellent. I reconsider my omnivourusness for the nth time this week.

Now the kids are still in front of the TV, 2yo sniffing intermittently and 11yo rousing himself occasionally to say, "I can't believe it's school tomorrow!". I don't know where my husband has got to but he's about to be galvanized into dish duty while I get some drugs for the 2yo. My grand aim is to get my study cleared out so that we can turn it into a living room and the 2yo won't swallow any more staples. (Long story.)

Update: Where was my husband? Apparently he'd just saved his captain by dragging him to safety behind a ferris wheel...or maybe it was the enemy soldiers that were behind the ferris wheel... and I think there was something about a rope...either way it was high adrenalin and he was about to save the world from something. Definitely worth postponing dish duty for!

Quilting, especially oversewing. Tips for rank beginners from an uninitiate.

Yes I know. The noun "Uninitiate" is taking extreme liberties with the English language. It's my turn ok?

Things I've learnt from my first quilt:

1. If the ladies at quilting class tell you that your first project is a single bed sized quilt tell them politely to get stuffed and make a cot quilt. A single bed sized quilt is far too big for a beginner and becomes overwhelming. Get yourself a quick taste of success and do something small. If you don't know any babies make a cot quilt and give it to the cluckiest woman of reproductive age that you know - or you could make a table runner.

2. If you capitulate and decide to make a huge quilt make sure you have a huge table to work on. If you don't have one, buy one. If you're not going to buy a larger table you are going to be doing a lot of your work on the floor, so, join a gym. This is so that you can get onto your knees and back to standing up again at least a hundred times in an afternoon without needing a Radox bath and a massage afterwards.

3. If you decide to make a huge quilt do not oversew it yourself no matter how expensive professional oversewing seems to be. If you like the finished look of your patchwork try to remember that you stand a good chance of wrecking it if you do your own quilting. Like I did! :-( If you do oversew yourself, keep it simple: long straight lines only starting from the middle and working out. I tried to complicate things and have ruined my first quilt. This is heartbreaking after all the effort that went into putting it together!!!

4. If you've ignored all my sage advice so far and still want to do some complicated oversewing I have more things to say that might put you off. Don't. Don't do it. No really. Don't.

Didn't work? *sigh* read on then.

A large quilt is extremely heavy and has to be rolled or scrunched up in order to fit under your sewing machine arm:



With a quilt this size and a sewing machine this size turning the quilt is going to be a bitch if not impossible so you are mostly limited to straight lines especially in the centre of the quilt where your rolled up portion will be thickest.

If you do not have a huge table, the heavy rolled up portions drag all over the place driving you nuts. You will need an assortment of chairs scattered around your tiny table to take the weight and the patience to sew in very short bursts, readjusting the quilt after each burst.

If you do not have a walking foot, you need to keep a huge amount of pressure on the quilt to ensure the top moves at the same rate as the bottom. This gets harder and harder as you go along. Your arms and back will be sore. You will be grumpy. Quilting will not be fun.

Some more sage advice for stubborn, bloody-minded beginner home oversewers based on my experience:

Don't oversew your quilt. You're still ignoring me aren't you?

If this is your first patchworking effort it is likely that there will be some not so straight spots. In this case, DON'T attempt to quilt by stitching in the ditch. This will magnify every single crooked patch in your work. (My own quilt has every single crooked bit magnified because I thought it would be easier to follow the seam lines. Pha!!)

If you've made a quilt with contrasting light and dark patches (as I have) no matter what colour you choose for the oversewing your mistakes will stand out. Either the light thread on dark fabric mistakes or the dark thread on light fabric mistakes.

If you're still thinking of doing some complicated oversewing on a home machine with a large quilt for your first quilt, good luck to you. I'll see you in rehab. :-( Personally it's the most difficult and cumbersome piece of sewing I've ever taken on and I'm going beyond back of burke crazy with it. Hopefully I've put you off completely and you are frantically googling for professional oversewers....

Using procrastination activities to monitor your reluctance to perform a task.

I am procrastinating. Specifically, I am postponing talking to the car sales reps by disposing of the dead ringtail possum in our back yard. THAT is how much I don't want to talk to the sales reps. I'd rather be dealing with dead animals.

Crying over spilt soup... and tax.

When you've been one on one with an energetic toddler all day, and your husband comes home from his air-conditioned office and complains that he felt a "bit tired this afternoon", is it ok to fume inwardly and fantasize about pulling his scrotum up over his ears? Or should I just sigh and remember that suffering is contextual and we all suffer according to our own personal pain continuums?

Nah, fuck it. Fantasizing about doing actual physical harm is far more satisfying.

Today was 37 degrees. Today we stayed inside a stinking hot house all day. Today, this is what I really wanted to get to:

Yesterday I bought the borders, backing and wadding and I'm desperate to get started oversewing so I can just FINISH the damn thing.

Instead I had to do this:

WOOPS forgot the folders. That ended up being only half of them:


Why did I have to do the boring tax? Because I thought today was Wednesday, why else? I completely stressed myself out trying to get everything sorted because I thought our appointment with the accountant was tomorrow.

The poor toddler desperately wanted to help and we just ended up at logger heads because she wanted to sort, and write and add up just like Mummy and of course I yelled at her every time she touched anything. I tried to make up for it by letting her stir the soup at the stove "like a grown up" (the soup was cold and the stove unlit). She had a great time:


I didn't: