Patience is a virtue

I spent a week interstate at a work conference just before Christmas last year.  It was a very long week of meetings, discussions and unrelateable guest speakers and many of my colleagues were feeling their patience pushed to the limit.

One younger colleague of mine approached me towards the end of the week and said, “I just wanted to tell you, I really admire your capacity for tolerance.  We’ve all been stressed and annoyed this week, but you just seem so calm.  Nothing seems to bother you – not even when the really irritating people in our team go off on a tangent.  It’s something I really need to work on personally; can you give me any pointers?”

How could I tell her that in order to achieve a Zen master-like inner peace, one only need to spend 20 minutes in the car with my children?  Then everything else becomes infinitely more bearable.

Take this morning’s drive for example: home to my parents’ house.  20 minutes.  And yet, my boys can turn 20 minutes into an unfathomable dark voyage, the likes of which can never even be conceived by the childless.  Let me give you the edited version of my dialogue during this period, and we begin by backing out of the driveway with the toddler, Toes, already shrieking like an injured seal…

“Toes, what’s wrong?  Toes?   Toes?  What do you want?  A book?  A car?  WHAT???”

Picture me nearly driving off the road as I try to hand random items to the source of the noise, now reaching glass-cracking volume.

“How about a dinosaur?”

I hand him a stuffed toy.  My older son, Smudge, immediately corrects me.

“Mummy, that’s not a dinosaur, it’s a dragon.  Mummy?  It’s not a dinosaur.  It’s not a dinosaur mummy…”

“YES, thank you Smudge.  Here Toes, take the dinosaur.”

Toes grabs the toy and says, “Dinosaur!”

Smudge pipes up again.  “Toes, it’s not a dinosaur.  It’s not a dinosaur.  It’s not a dinosaur Toes…”

“YES THANK YOU SMUDGE.”

The not-dinosaur gets thrown on the floor and the wailing continues.

“How about some water?”  I pass a squeezy bottle back to Toes.  Mercifully, it goes silent as he sucks it down.

Smudge realises he is missing out.  “Mummy!  I want a drink too!  Mummy I’m thirsty!  Mummy!”

He makes a grab for the bottle and Toes begins to scream again. 

“SMUDGE!  Leave it!”

“But I’m THIRSTY!!!”  Smudge bursts into tears so violent, I am concerned he may vomit from the heaving.  It’s happened before.

“Smudge, Smudge, calm down, you can have a drink in a… TOES!!!”

Toes is merrily squeezing water over himself, his car seat and the door upholstery.  A small battle ensues while I rip the bottle out of his hands and try not to crash while turning onto the freeway.

“That’s IT!  No water for anyone!”

Both children erupt into wailing so loud, other drivers begin to pull over, believing that an ambulance is behind them.

There is only one solution in this situation: turn up the radio and sing along.  And I completely understand the strange looks from my parents as I turn into their driveway belting out Taylor Swift with two hysterical children in the backseat.

So, for anyone looking to improve their tolerance levels, my children are available for rent by the hour.  Although long term, I’m not sure repressing this much can be good for me, but short term, it sure beats caving into the urge to hop a one-way flight to Fiji on my own.  

Episode 13 - Mondays ROCK!

I have a secret: I love Mondays.

It’s a bit embarrassing really, after all, who even likes Mondays, let alone loves them.  “Back to work, bleurg.  Here we go again…”

But I do, I really love them.  And there’re really two reasons why.  One is reasonable enough.  The other, I share at a great personal risk.

The first reason is because Mondays are like New Year’s Day every week.  It’s like a mini do-over every seven days.  What is more exciting than the opportunity to do what you did last week, only better?  I awaken on Monday mornings, with a sense of hope swirling around me.  THIS will be the week I lose ten kilos, get the phone call I’ve been waiting for, land a huge work contract, win lotto.  This could be the best week of my life!  And if it isn’t – no big deal, there’s always next week.

The other reason Mondays get me juiced is something mummies don’t speak of normally, but I know we’re all thinking it: Monday is back to Kindy/school day.

I am not a bad mother – I love my little men, even when looking at my disastrous house, my sadly depleted disposable income, my woeful deflated-balloon stomach.  They are my world and I can’t imagine a life without them.

But sometimes, after a full weekend of poo-filled nappies, sugar-fuelled tantrums over banned TV shows, and unending questions (“Can we got to the park?”  “Why is that lady so fat?”  “This came out of my nose, can I keep it?”), Mondays can seem like the holy land:  quiet, ordered, calm, logical.  My work-head is on and in full control, the universe is my playground.  And in the hour between when work finishes and Kindy pickup arrives, there’s normally time to tidy without the constant delight of someone trailing after me, creating mess behind us.  Washing gets put away, meals get planned, hey, I might even squeeze in a nap!  Mondays rock.

Please don’t hate me for admitting I enjoy time on my own.  It is no reflection on the way I feel about my kids.  But as any mummy will tell you, sometimes, your identity as a mother can overtake every other aspect of your being.  Example:  For the two years I breastfed my sons until their first birthdays, my entire wardrobe was dictated by whether or not the boobs were easily accessible.  Looking back on it now, I’m not sure how I didn’t lose my mind, trying to find dresses with stretchy straps and wearing the same three maternity bras on a cycle. 

And how many other choices do we make on a daily basis because of the child factor: what to cook, when to eat, what to wash, where to holiday, whose oxygen mask to fit first, the list is long and will continue indefinitely.   I suppose it’s all part of the rich experience called “parenting”.  Just like a rollercoaster, sometimes you feel sick, sometime you want to get off, sometimes you scream.  But you also laugh till you cry, hold the people you love close and when it’s over, you’re hugely glad you took the ride.

So my message to all mummies is to enjoy Mondays guilt-free.  Viva la Mondays!

Having said that, Saturdays are pretty awesome too… How long till the weekend now?

Episode 12 - June is the most wicked month...

Have you noticed how every family has a horror month for birthdays?  There’s always a month on the calendar where birthdays cluster like tween girls around a One Direction poster, and no matter how well you try to prepare, the sheer magnitude of the significant dates overwhelm all your best intentions.

Mine is June.  My best friend, brother, parents and three other close friends are all born within thirty days of each other.  And salting the wound, my parents are actually born on the same day. Unacceptable.  It’s such a major issue for me, that when my hubby and I decided to have kids, there was a three month period where I flat out refused to attempt procreation, just because conception then might lead to a June baby.  Imagine that conversation:  “Sorry honey, not tonight.  How about six weeks from now?”

June is my personal hell, and after many years of living with the dreaded 06, I have noticed a peculiarity about my behaviour towards this time of my year.  My moods always follow the same five emotions as people dealing with grief: Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.  Let me explain…

Denial

This normally hits about mid-May and lasts until the first day of June.  My poor tiny mind simply can’t grasp the fact that it’s almost June and shuts down.  This is where I start sounding like my eighty-six year old nana by making senior-style statements like, “How is almost half the year gone again?” and “Each year goes faster than the last…”

Anger

June 1, and with birthdays looming only days away, presents unbought and cards unsent, a tsunami of rage boils within me.  Lord help innocent bystanders if this stage happens to coincide with THAT time of the month.  About now, I’ll normally scream completely redundant proclamations to the sky like, “WHY!!!???  June is STUPID!!!  I HATE birthdays!  What were all your horny parents doing back in September anyway?  This is everybody’s fault but mine!!!”

Bargaining

In desperation, I turn to online shopping and card creation sites, with futile hopes that the delivery promise of three days, doesn’t mean three business days.  I try fooling myself that “There’s still time!” and find myself wandering idealess around Target or Ikea, looking for a gift to jump off the shelf… then end up leaving with a gift card.

Depression

As I arrive for parties and family dinners, sheepishly proffering flowers from Woolies and a $1 card filled out two minutes earlier in the car, the sinking sensation hits.  Inevitably, there’s always some smug show off in attendance with a thoughtful and generous gift that just makes me want to drown myself in the nearest wine glass.  And the excuses I make sound vapid even to me, “Sorry, I’ve been busy, I thought this party was next week, etc…”

Acceptance

At the end of the month, I finally cut myself a break: I am a full-time working mother of two, with a husband who runs his own seven day a week business.  I will NEVER be the kind of person who plots perfect gifts months in advance and I can barely remember my own birthday, let along other people’s, without my calendar.  If my family and friends choose to be offended over late cards and hasty gifts, then they’re not paying attention to the other eleven months of year when I strive to be a loving daughter, supportive friend and tolerant sibling.

Having said all of that, with the advent of so many awesome and creative websites for online buying, an automatic birthday calendar with weekly reminders and a strong self-motivation to do better than before, I am truly hoping this year will be different.

I’ll get onto it next week.  Or the one after.  I’ve got plenty of time…

Episode 11 - Littering

It’s been a few weeks between posts.  I’ve been busy. 

Thursday.  My alarm went off at 4:30, so early my body tried desperately to convince me it must be a horrible mistake and to go back to sleep.  The day proceeded to be so jam packed, I didn’t even manage to get to the bathroom for about twelve hours, wondering vaguely at one stage, “I’m sure that can’t be good for me…”

By the time I got home with the kids from kindy at 6pm, we were all exhausted and cranky.  As I threw together a less than nutritional meal of baked beans for the small people, I realised three things: our neighbours dogs were making more noise than usual, our dogs were making more noise than usual, and there were loud birds squeaking outside.  My deduction was that the neighbours had bought a couple of birds that their dogs were barking at, and our dogs were barking at theirs.  Simple.

But night fell, and the bird noises continued.  “Hey honey,” I yelled at my weary spouse the second he walked in the door, “I think next door got birds.”  He ignored my clearly delirious statement, and we both set to work getting the kids into bed so we could collapse too.

Cleaning up the kitchen, I threw some scraps to our German Shepherds.  But Saba, our ravenous female, didn’t appear.  And then I noticed the squeaking was even louder, despite it being long past birdy bedtimes.  And finally, the slow mummy had a very belated epiphany:

“Babe?  I don’t think it’s birds…”

My husband came to the door and listened.  “Oh my God, we need a light!  Where’s the torch?”

“We don’t have one!” I said frantically, my skills as a shoddy home-maker exposed.

“We have to!  What about Smudge?  Doesn’t he have a torch?”

So that was how we found ourselves searching the backyard using a Thomas the Tank Engine shaped flash light, which only stayed on for ten seconds at a time, and made inane statements like, “Hello!  I’m Thomas!” and “I’m a really useful engine!” in an overly cheerful voice.

And we found seven puppies.

Yup.  Saba wasn’t just hungry and a bit fat.  She was pregnant.  She'd had the puppies near the fence, hence next door's dogs barking, our dogs were barking at next door's and the "birds" was the puppies crying for milk.  We moved her and the litter inside, both myself and the husband more than a little shell-shocked.

“You know,” I said to Saba as I lay on my belly an hour later, attempting to attach puppies to dog nipples, “I was going to drink wine and go to bed early.  This isn’t how I was planning on spending my night.”

In response to my lack of wonder for the life-changing event that is birth, Saba stood up, faced her rear-end towards me and another puppy fell out not ten inches from my face.  Nice.

There was one final surprise for the evening.  After we finally fell into bed, we discovered that puppies are even noisier than newborns.  Husband went to check on them around midnight, and returned saying, “Now there’s nine.”

“Nine what?”

“Nine puppies.”

“…No… No I refute that.”

But denial or not, there are now nine puppies in my laundry.  Add that to the three dogs, two kids, one husband and many houseplants in various stages of decline and there seems to be no end to the list of small needy things that require my constant attentions. 

And so, I must take my sleep deprived self and I must go.  The puppies need repotting and the basil simply refuses to poo outside…

Episode 10 - Oodles of poodles

I have a theory about parenting:  it’s 50% entertainment and 50% excrement.

Under the excremental banner flies the big four: poo, wee, vomit, blood.  Snot and spit occasionally sneak in there, but if you can deal with the former, the latter will be a breeze.

But even as a parent of two exceptionally gifted excreters, I can still get taken by surprise occasionally.  Tuesday morning for example.

There we all are, the perfect little family, mum and dad making breakfast, the 3 year old eating Weet-bix, the baby playing happily on the floor.  Suddenly, an intense odour swamped the kitchen. 

“Poo!” yells Smudge, looking up from his Weet-bix.

“Yours!” cries my loving husband.  I sigh and head over to pick up the baby.  But instead of the poo being inside the nappy, waiting darkly to be changed, the poo has somehow defied gravity and is ALL OVER the floor.  The baby is sitting in the middle of a gigantic, sloppy puddle of brown, running his fingers merrily through it, drawing on the tiles and the window.  And as I watched in shock, he lifted his chubby, poo covered hand, looked at it curiously, then stuffed it in his mouth.

I don’t need to go into further details.  You don’t need to hear about the screaming, yelling, showering, mopping, outfit changing, Glen-20ing and gagging that ensued. 

But as gross as poo eating is, this is what I found really offensive out of the whole incident: not twenty minutes prior to this, the baby was sitting in his high chair, flat out refusing to eat breaky.  And it was a good breaky too!  Cereal with fruity bits, a banana, toast spread with children’s low-sodium Vegemite and lovingly cut into little fingers.  He wouldn’t have a bar of it.

But a handful of his own faeces… yum.  What the?!  The fact that he will snub my nutritional and balanced meal and decide to eat poo is what amazes and annoys me. 

That’s why I love parenting: it’s weird in ways you can’t even imagine before you begin.  You’ll laugh harder that you ever did before and cry more too.  Sometimes you’ll do both at the same time.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a nappy bin that needs changing…

Episode 9 - "Tense" conversations

My son is learning about tense.  He’s a very bright three year old, and he understands the concept of past, present and future.  Unfortunately, at the moment, everything past is “last night”, whether it happened two months or two minutes ago.  It doesn’t sound like a big deal, does it?  And yet, I find that it keeps leading me into strange conversational corridors…

The concrete slab on our house is leaking, so we’ve had workmen turning up and needing to be let in for the last few days.  They troop in and out, carrying equipment and ladders and buckets, much to my son’s unending delight.  “Men mummy!  Men are here!  Hello man!  What choo doin’?”  Smudge tends to get a little too curious in how things like power drills and concrete glue work, so most of the time, I send him off to his room to keep him out of the road.

That day, my husband had gone straight from work to a mates place to watch the footy, getting in after we had all gone to bed.  So when Smudge finally caught up with him the next morning, the first words out of his mouth were, “Daddy, men came over last night and mummy let them in!  Men came to my house last night and mummy sent me to my room.”

Luckily, my husband does trust my fidelity, so he didn’t immediately jump to the conclusion that I had been hosting a threesome whilst he was out for the evening, but my son’s statement still took a bit of explaining, and me giggling through the whole thing probably didn’t help my case.

Then there was the lengthy explanation required by Smudge’s kindy teacher.  She approached me the other afternoon and gently began touting the dangers of night swimming.  Confused I replied, “I know night swimming is dangerous…  What’s this about?”

Of course, Smudge had been informing her all day that I took him to the beach “last night” and he went swimming.  Kindy immediately jumped to the conclusion that I was letting my three year old paddle in the night sea, when the reality was Smudge went to the rock pools on a Sunday morning and got wet up to his knees.

His other delightful statement for the week was to poke me in the belly and say, “Mummy, your tummy is soft and HUGE!”  What an ego boost.

We spend the first few years with our kids teaching them a language, encouraging them to learn words and form sentences.  Then we spend the next few years wishing we could make them pipe down and not repeat embarrassing phrases.  But having watched one of my close friends deal with her autistic and language delayed children, I know there is nothing sweeter that helping my boys learn to find their way vocally in this world.  Even if that means I have some explaining to do along the way.

Episode 8 - The "busy" debate

I was discussing the oh-so delicate subject of housework with my closest mummy friend Mich the other day.  She told me her neighbour (who doesn’t have a job and has two kindy days a week for her kids) was upset because her husband has been hassling her about not doing enough housework.  He wants to know, when the kids are gone two days a week and she’s not working, why the dishes still don’t get done and the washing basket is still full.

Now, in days gone by, I would have immediately pulled on my riding boots and mounted my high horse:  “How DARE he?  Why doesn’t he do a load of washing?  Men, what do they know…” etc.  And Mich would have saddled up right behind me, “It’s not all the woman’s responsibility!  She has two kids!  Why doesn’t he understand!” and so on.

But now, I have two kids and a full time job.  Mich has two kids and a part-time job AND she’s studying to be a teacher.  And the question we both wanted to ask but didn’t was, “Well… why isn’t the housework getting done?”

But we’d NEVER voice the question out loud.  Here’s why:

‘Busy’ is like pain: it’s different for every person.  As a single woman, I used to think I was busy.  I worked, I had my parents, I had a social life, there was the gym and parties and boys.  Then I got married and had a child and realised up till that point, I had no idea what busy was.  Then I had a second child, and when friends with one baby would say, “I just don’t have any time!” I would roll my eyes and think, You don’t know how easy you’ve got it…  Then I went back to work full-time, and I often wonder what in the world was I doing before with the eight hours a day I didn’t have to spend on my job.  And working mums with three or more kids probably look down on me and think, “Slack.”  Don’t even get me started on Octo-mum…

And that’s the thing – everybody believes they are busy.  You say to an unemployed homeless man, “Gee, you look like a busy person,” and he’ll launch into, “Yes!!!  I spend all day hunting through bins for tinfoil, then I have to set up my box, and the Salvo’s are on the other side of town, so I lose an hour getting to and from the soup kitchen…”

So this neighbour lady probably does think she’s busy.  What’s she doing with the two days a week she’s spending alone?  Who knows, but I bet if you asked her, she could list off a myriad of tasks which fill in her time.

So I shall stable my high horse: just like I wouldn’t judge someone else’s pain, I won’t judge anyone else’s idea of busy. 

Having said that, unless you’re Nadya Suleman, please don’t expect me to commiserate with you over the fact you can’t find time to get your nails done when I haven’t showered in three days.