tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86917873042302392282024-03-14T16:32:26.507+08:00RELENTLESSLIFE WITH THREE KIDS: parenting is relentless... and chaos is beautiful. Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.comBlogger330125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8691787304230239228.post-18563684941819770552020-01-07T20:06:00.001+08:002020-01-07T20:06:47.485+08:00Ten Years of Relentless<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
I have two babies turning ten this year – my middle daughter
(aka Curly Mop – less a mop these days and more a Rapunzel clone) and this blog
(aka Relentless).<br />
<br />
<br />
Ten is an important number, a milestone if you will, and
cause to pause and reflect on the past decade.<br />
<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Relentless</i> started in the computer lab of a Perth high
school in October 2010. I had made the newly minted decision to become a
writer, and had been encouraged by a good friend to attend her ‘Blogging for
Fun and Profit’ course.<br />
<br />
<br />
In hindsight I have only managed to achieve one of those goals
(no prizes for guessing which one), but over the past ten years I have
published almost 330 posts and racked up 716,000 views.<br />
<br />
<br />
The law of averages says that means each post has received
just shy of 2,170 readers but in reality 40% of those readers came to see <a href="http://frommumtome.blogspot.com/2012/02/brutal-truth-about-third-child.html" target="_blank">just one thing</a> while my top five posts account for more than half my readers. <br />
<br />
<br />
Suddenly the other 325 posts aren’t looking so flash. But
that’s okay.<br />
<br />
<br />
When I started <i>Relentless</i> (then called <i>From Mum to
Me</i>, you can <a href="https://frommumtome.blogspot.com/p/what-happened-to-from-mum-to-me.html" target="_blank">find out why here</a>) getting readers was far from my mind (in fact I was quite terrified anyone would
read it). With a nine month old baby on my hip and a four and a half year old
in Kindy, its primary purpose was to plug the holes in my post-natal memory and
create a permanent chronicle of the small moments that are easily lost and
forgotten in the chaos of small children.<br />
<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Relentless</i> saw the birth of Baby Number Three, <i>that</i>
post, renovations, becoming a ‘school mum’, returning to uni, the highs of my
writing successes and the lows of motherhood. Of which there were plenty.<br />
<br />
<br />
Over recent years I have been writing less and less here at <i>Relentless.
</i>This is a combination of being otherwise occupied <a href="https://shannonmeyerkort.com/" target="_blank">here</a> and <a href="https://fundraisingmums.com.au/" target="_blank">here</a>, but also
as the girls get older I’ve needed to be mindful of their privacy. That’s not to
suggest they don’t do weird crazy crap all the time, I just can’t write about
it. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_DOOI6O51kg-8msqiCVJIWhu_VD7xuCNO3wSzTZAQWpLGxKqFCqV2G2ZNzJqVT6kBaoxTimPWBppeJRi-dcamoaSbHQ94x7QaysuQP0QglAKdJmLAVsXotylgmXCKbprRcoV1BdYdzb-j/s1600/Blog+header.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="442" data-original-width="1341" height="105" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_DOOI6O51kg-8msqiCVJIWhu_VD7xuCNO3wSzTZAQWpLGxKqFCqV2G2ZNzJqVT6kBaoxTimPWBppeJRi-dcamoaSbHQ94x7QaysuQP0QglAKdJmLAVsXotylgmXCKbprRcoV1BdYdzb-j/s320/Blog+header.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Out with the old</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
I thought that being so old and all, <i>Relentless</i>
deserved a new cover image, and so in typical fashion I did one in a half-assed
rush, rather than putting in any real effort. But it’s the thought that counts,
and so you will see I have said goodbye to the nappy and dummy (diaper and pacifier)
and said hello to car keys and phone chargers. Plastic cutlery has been
replaced by stamps for the reward chart and a sleeping mask. Dora has been
traded with a scary vampire hooker doll. My computer and books now take pride
of place. The coffee cup and wine glass remain supplemented by the ubiquitous block of chocolate.<br />
<br />
<br />
There’s also headache pills, because…. Life with three kids!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtVKcxfL0IqfMz6JRrl9v4KTG_RhgSfMBCCUsOWGWgnw_GjVhk9og5nqILfkbYjYwa36PruBfak_tjk1b19RF4Lc20eCfTIw6ePUMqM-r78W8hjeSioPxpru2P3ku5DnXx3o1lCkQm_yhq/s1600/relentless2020+-+Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="570" data-original-width="960" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtVKcxfL0IqfMz6JRrl9v4KTG_RhgSfMBCCUsOWGWgnw_GjVhk9og5nqILfkbYjYwa36PruBfak_tjk1b19RF4Lc20eCfTIw6ePUMqM-r78W8hjeSioPxpru2P3ku5DnXx3o1lCkQm_yhq/s320/relentless2020+-+Copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And in with the new</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></div>
Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8691787304230239228.post-25980826212787431212019-11-22T11:46:00.000+08:002019-11-24T18:51:49.790+08:00How Dyslexia Affects My Daughter<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My youngest daughter was diagnosed with severe dyslexia at
the end of Year 1. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Getting the diagnosis wasn’t a big shock, we had suspected she had an issue from the time she was at Kindy; Pre-Primary was a mess of a year, and by the start of Year 1 we had begun the long testing process. We also watched her daily struggle, so putting a name to it came as a relief in some ways.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Having a diagnosis has undeniably helped. It allows her to
label some of her challenges, to put them in a box and say to herself – and others
– ‘that’s my dyslexia, that’s not me’. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">From the very start she has owned her dyslexia. We haven’t
tried to hide it, and I have encouraged her to talk about it with her
classmates and friends. She stands up and talks about it as a news topic, her teacher referenced it on her Merit Certificate - and I
strongly believe this has helped stem any possible teasing and bullying.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My daughter is now only weeks away from the end of Year 2.
Yet her ability to read, write, spell and understand certain maths concepts is
probably that of a Pre-Primary student. She’s a smart kid though. Dyslexia is
not related to intelligence, and most dyslexic kids test to be above average
intelligence. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">All dyslexics experience different strengths and challenges,
and like many things, it operates on a continuum. This is how dyslexia affects
my daughter:</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<u>Poor sense of word recall</u> – she often struggles to find the
word she wants to use to describe or explain something. As a result she will
use an incorrect word or simply make one up, which can be kind of cute.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<u></u><br />
<u>Difficulty hearing sounds</u> – she has difficultly hearing or
distinguishing between certain sounds. This has a knock on effect for both
speech and spelling.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<u></u><br />
<u>Poor concept of time</u> – she has difficulty understanding the
abstract notion of time and cannot grasp the difference between waiting for an
hour and waiting for a year. The language of time, is therefore lost on her and
she will talk about things happening yesterday when in fact she means tomorrow.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<u>Poor speech</u> – as she unable to hear certain sounds, she
cannot replicate them, leading to difficulties with her speech.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<u></u><br />
<u>Poor spelling</u> – if you cannot hear or say sounds, then it
makes sense that you won’t be able to use them when you are writing. When
writing she often leaves out vowels and misses adjacent consonants. <br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<u>Poor letter recognition and formation</u> – she struggles to
distinguish between similar looking letters such as b and d, n and h or similar
sounding letter such as g and j. She has difficulty visualising diagonals and
so letters such as K, M, W and V are either written incorrectly or she prefers
to read and write them when they are in a curly text.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<u></u><br />
<u>Confusion with left and right</u> – if left unguided, she will
often start reading a word from the right-hand side, for example she will read ‘got’
as ‘tog’.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<u>Poor short-term working memory</u> – if she correctly sounds out
a new word on one page, she won’t necessarily remember it when she reads it on the
next page. It will look like a new word and she will need to sound it out
again. She may read the same word, three different ways over the course of a
few minutes, for example ‘got’ as tog, get and got.<br />
<br />
<u>Slow processing</u> - related to the working memory is the fact she processes information more slowly. It takes her longer to work through instructions, so if you give her a four step process, by the time you have finished telling her the last step, she's only just processed the second, and probably forgotten the first. She can do everything you ask, but not if you dump all the information on her at once. This is usually when people accuse her of 'not listening', but she is listening... she's probably listening very carefully - but she's just trying to recall the information that is rapidly slipping away.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<u></u><br />
<u>Poor number recognition</u> – while she is able to visually
understand numbers and put them in the correct order, she cannot name them. Often
she cannot tell you what a number is (for example ‘twelve’) without counting
from 1 (ie 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-twelve).<br />
<br />
There are compensations though.<br />
<br />
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</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjng8QM2hG0NUvJRE9PDqQ63dpa8CNrAZkv8gRseHCCCCLTsWMA1dsoaSp4VbPwdU8lZdqimg26PYC22xF2DW5CfC5Pppg-Mh9YUNZ4bLvmKj3O2WsPr5OWfzul6MM66nNX0vT9u_b1etxg/s1600/77214870_2317225095073415_4084457999496642560_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1266" data-original-width="1600" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjng8QM2hG0NUvJRE9PDqQ63dpa8CNrAZkv8gRseHCCCCLTsWMA1dsoaSp4VbPwdU8lZdqimg26PYC22xF2DW5CfC5Pppg-Mh9YUNZ4bLvmKj3O2WsPr5OWfzul6MM66nNX0vT9u_b1etxg/s320/77214870_2317225095073415_4084457999496642560_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">From early on, before we realised she was struggling to comprehend
the world around her, she had already begun to discover methods of coping. She would
use her body in a way to describe words she couldn’t find the language for, and
as a result, she has always been <u>physical and animated</u>. When she couldn’t find
the word for banana, she would curve her hands into the shape of the fruit, or
pretend to peel and eat it. Automatically we would provide the word ‘banana’
which she would repeat, and all the while we had no clue that she was having
difficulty recalling the word begin with.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She is able to <u>spot differences and see patterns</u> that ordinary
brains cannot. She has walked into a room where one small thing has changed and
notice it immediately. She completed a nine square sudoku style puzzle in
seconds, where instead of numbers, images of different types of weather had
been used.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She always kicks my butt at Memory, and I've never once needed to 'let' her win. I wish she'd let me win once in a while.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She has <u>uncanny long term memory</u>, often dredging up a comment I made once, five years ago, or tearing up at the memory of a random event that happened when she was three. She will remember the faces of people she met once, or the precise location of her great-grandmothers grave, but she has no idea what her uncles' names are.</span></div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She has an <u>incredible eye for detail</u> - once with her speech therapist, we were playing a game where we each had a different game board. Each board had 100 images. A card with six images was dealt – but only one of
those six images was present on each of the boards, so you had to look at a
board with 100 items, while searching for six different images, only one of
which was actually there (a bit like Where’s Wally). It meant you could spend
most of your time looking for an image that wasn’t even there. Almost every
time she would win, and then find the correct image on the other boards as well
just to prove a point.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I believe she also has a <u>level of insight towards others</u> that
comes directly from her own personal anxiety and sadness. She recognises these
feelings in others, because she has experienced it herself, and as a result she
can be very empathetic.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She is also very <u>visual and creative</u>, she loves drawing with fine levels of detail as a result of her intense observation.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She also has plenty of big ideas and <u>makes connections between topics and concepts</u> that would normally be beyond a seven year old. Truth be told, sometimes her statements are wildly left field and beyond the mortal brain of her mother (me), but I love her enthusiasm regardless.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have been telling her stories about the many inspiring and
successful people who have dyslexia and have achieved incredible things in
their lives. She loves finding out that an actor she loves on TV or an author
who wrote a book she enjoys also has dyslexia. <u>She knows that although she will
be challenged by her learning disorder, she won’t be limited by it</u> – and tells
me constantly that she can’t wait to see what amazing things she will do in her
life.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I freely admit that before my own daughter was diagnosed, I
hardly knew a thing about dyslexia. But chances are there will be one, two or even
three children in every classroom in the country with it, diagnosed or not, so
I think it’s important for all parents and teachers to know what it is. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Without a diagnosis, you might just think they are slow to
learn, perhaps they are seen as the ‘naughty kids’ because they don’t concentrate
in class or they’re disruptive. My daughter certainly was. You might see them
as masters of procrastination, as they will do almost anything to avoid certain
situations.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As she gets older, some aspects of her dyslexia will get
better as she learns how to manage it, and others will get harder. I have no
doubt that this is a lifetime journey that she’s on, and for the next decade at
least, I will be right there alongside her.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
To be continued...</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
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Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8691787304230239228.post-43349790093249544732019-11-11T12:30:00.001+08:002019-11-11T12:30:24.059+08:0025 Things I Wish I Knew Before I had Babies<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
I remember running into a friend who was pregnant with her first
child. I had to look twice at her neat bump, as it looked a lot like my own
cake baby*. But no, there were ultrasound images stuck on her fridge, unlike my
fridge which just has shopping lists, reward charts and dozens of pictures from
the girls in varying shades of texta.<br />
<br />
<br />
My basic principle is that I don’t believe in scaring
pregnant women with horror stories nor bragging to them about how brilliant
your kids were. This isn’t just because I'm a nice person,
but mainly because I have forgotten most of it.<br />
<br />
<br />
However, there are things that I wish I had known before I
had a child; things that have only crystallised in the years after having a
baby. Maybe it would have helped manage my expectations. Maybe it would have
helped manage the budget.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnf3vPRtXSB6a1p22G84m8UT8mL1Gi29OSgEdPnBomdlmROzCGSyAPEEtE3XMpTK8BmOLNnEismMEKy-bKuJOy3sa8G2laRg2iXDgegq-50nuk_-LphuUcDQ7Q92KD8Hj2h8WYl71bn8cb/s1600/kitten-316995_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="950" data-original-width="1280" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnf3vPRtXSB6a1p22G84m8UT8mL1Gi29OSgEdPnBomdlmROzCGSyAPEEtE3XMpTK8BmOLNnEismMEKy-bKuJOy3sa8G2laRg2iXDgegq-50nuk_-LphuUcDQ7Q92KD8Hj2h8WYl71bn8cb/s320/kitten-316995_1280.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">These are things I
wish I knew before I had babies:</b><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">1. Have a birth plan but
be prepared to chuck it out the window if necessary.</b> I was adamant I was
going to have an intervention-free natural birth. I ended up with an emergency
c-section. Actually three c-sections. I wish I had known that just because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> really wanted something, didn’t mean
Mother Nature had read that particular memo. If you learn to be flexible now,
it will save all sorts of hassles later on.<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2. Learn how to use your
car seats and assemble your pram <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">before</i>
the baby arrives.</b> Practice folding and unfolding your pram while holding a
sack of potatoes in one arm, and a huge nappy bag strung across the other.
Practice swaddling techniques on a large stuffed toy, or for more realism, a
partially sedated cat. Seriously.<br />
<br />
<br />
3. Prepare yourself for Day 3 blues, and make sure you (or a
loved one) <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">know the warning signs for
post-natal depression.</b><br />
<br />
<br />
4. If you enjoy reading books about pregnancy and babies, don’t
forget to <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">read about the first few
months <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">before</i> the baby is born.</b><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">5. “Sleeping through the night” actually means
only 5-6 hours in a row.</b> It does <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i>
mean sleeping from 6pm-8am.<br />
<br />
<b></b><br />
<b>6. You can never buy
enough toilet paper.</b> We go through a roll a day, at least.<br />
<br />
<br />
7. Tell your family and friends ‘no stuffed toys ever’. Ok,
maybe one or two, but keep in mind they're notoriously difficult to get rid of/recycle/donate. If you or your partner are susceptible to asthma or
allergies, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">put stuffed toys in the
freezer regularly to kill dust mites.</b><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">8. Buy nappies and baby
wipes in bulk.</b> I could tell you how many nappies a baby goes through in the
first year, but you’d probably start to cry. Baby
wipes are a gift from heaven. I still carry them in my handbag and my youngest is now seven.<br />
<br />
<br />
9. When your baby is ready to start solids, skip the bland,
processed jar foods and make your own. Don’t be afraid to include real flavours
like garlic and onion. <b>If a baby gets
used to bland food with no texture, chances are you will have a fussy eater by
the time they hit school.</b> I say that with bitter, bitter experience. <a href="https://www.weekendnotes.com/make-your-own-baby-food-recipe/" target="_blank">Here is a recipe I used to make a rice-based baby food</a> that can use with a range of proteins and vegetables.<br />
<br />
<br />
10. Don’t take books, baby whisperers, routines or methods as
gospel, especially anyone who calls themselves an 'influencer'. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Take all unsolicited advice with
a grain of salt. </b>Repeat after me: smile and nod.<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">11. Don’t expect to get
your pre-baby body back. </b>Ever. Pregnancy changes you – for the better.<br />
<br />
<br />
12. If someone wants to buy you an expensive gift, ask them for
a <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">small, handheld, rechargeable vacuum
cleaner for the car.</b> By the time you have a toddler, it will be your
favourite appliance – even more than the coffee machine.<br />
<br />
<br />
13. Repeat after me: <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">can</i> leave the house.</b> Babies are not
a disability. <br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">14. Keep a spare packed nappy
bag in the car at all times</b>, with a coin purse, a change of clothes,
at least two nappies, something to lay your baby on and some wipes. Maybe a spare t-shirt for you too. Don't forget to update the clothes every now and then. I can speak from experience it's difficult to squeeze a one year old into 0-3 month clothing after they vomit everywhere and you left your regular nappy bag at home because this was 'just going to be a quick trip'.<br />
<br />
<br />
15. Day-care waiting lists can be longer than the Great Wall of
China. If you plan on returning to work <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">put
your name down for day-care when you are pregnant. </b>You can always knock a
spot back and ask to go back on the list, but the stress of trying to find
childcare if you have to go back to work suddenly can be debilitating.<br />
<br />
<br />
16. Chances are for the first six to twelve months of day-care, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">your child will get up to a dozen different
childhood diseases and infections</b>, no matter how expensive and clean your
day care is. Make sure you have babysitting back-up if your workplace isn’t
very flexible. If you don't send your kid to childcare, this usually means you will get all the childhood diseases and infections when they start school instead. You've been warned.<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">17. Pregnancy is not what
it appears in the movies.</b> It can be quite horrid. Labour goes for about 12-24
hours longer than movies would have you believe, and there are <i>a lot</i> more bodily
fluids. <br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">18. Eating a handful of
dirt or having fluff on a dummy is not going to hurt your baby. </b><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">19. Baby brain/placenta
brain/mummy brain is a real thing.</b> You will temporarily turn stupid and
keep dropping things. This should pass in approximately 8-10 years.<br />
<br />
<br />
20. Buy the best camera you can afford, one that is capable of
taking photos of fast action and video. Use it as often as you
can but <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">don’t forget to give the camera to
other people and make sure you are in the picture too.</b><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">21. Breastfeeding is
hard.</b> It can really hurt too. If you can, go to a breastfeeding class before the baby arrives. If
you can’t breastfeed, don’t stress: down the track, no one can tell the
difference between a breast fed and a formula fed baby.<br />
<br />
22. Things change quickly with babies, both good and bad. As
soon as you are congratulating yourself that your baby sleeps eight hours a
night, they will go through a growth spurt and want two-hourly feeds. Nothing
stays the same. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Be prepared for constant
change.</b><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">23. Make time for your partner
and time for yourself. </b>This will make you a better parent, not a worse
parent.<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">24. Get support.</b> Find
a mothers group, even an online support group. Find someone you trust and ask
questions but never compare your child with others. It's been twelve years but I still see friends from my Mothers Group regularly.<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">25. Write it down.</b>
You will forget those precious memories. I wrote it down, and now it is
<a href="http://frommumtome.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Relentless</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*Cake baby: when you have a big round tummy from eating too
much cake and people keep asking if you’re pregnant. ‘No, it’s just a cake
baby,’ you tell them cheerfully.<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggfNUH5frNlf4nnGSoYgpwmlHyYI9vMXBSwDFRDFNVLrrmxuVE_yB4WWPXNiRMDv-Qx5AOHOdBEA__kvJprzci7qqDg3CqutYL-IPj6-aokjvxGhlBcx1tLnQdoLZU40sjv7u_Gw9fGamz/s1600/cat-1351612_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="850" data-original-width="1280" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggfNUH5frNlf4nnGSoYgpwmlHyYI9vMXBSwDFRDFNVLrrmxuVE_yB4WWPXNiRMDv-Qx5AOHOdBEA__kvJprzci7qqDg3CqutYL-IPj6-aokjvxGhlBcx1tLnQdoLZU40sjv7u_Gw9fGamz/s320/cat-1351612_1280.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8691787304230239228.post-37165017917749026812019-01-22T14:40:00.000+08:002019-01-22T14:40:07.504+08:001 Easy Step to Mucking up the School Holidays<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Even though it is currently summer school holidays here, my
youngest daughter has been doing homework almost daily for the past month. It’s
safe to say, it hasn’t been the ‘funnest’ holiday ever for her, but with her
diagnosis of severe functional dyslexia being confirmed days after school
ending last year, everyone (above the age of 40) agreed that she couldn’t
afford to miss 7 weeks of schooling.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So I get to play teacher. Yay.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Some days start with tears and end with shouting. Sometimes
we mix it up, and start with shouting and end with tears. ‘Why did I have to
get the broken brain?’ she’d mumble after crawling into my lap for a hug. Every
session ends with a collective sigh of relief – and I can’t tell whose are
louder – hers or mine. But every day she amazes me with her persistence and tenacity.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Today I gave her an activity that she enjoys because she
gets to use a packet of brightly coloured alphabet stamps. Hell, even I like
brightly coloured alphabet stamps.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I gave her a page that had the following:</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">B E _</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">_ R I P</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">_ A M P</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">W _ G</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">_ E N T</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She uses her stamps to make ‘real’ words (such as bed and
red, drip and trip). It can be rather hit and miss, but it’s good for her to swap
sounds and see how they affect words.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But little did I realise that the letter stamps were alive,
all with unique personalities.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘I want to go first’, she squeaked waving the letter M
around. She hopped the letter over to the first word. ‘B-E-M’ she sounded out. ‘BEM.’
She sighed heavily. ‘Too bad M, back in the box.’</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘I’m scared,’ she whispered, waving the T around. She glanced
sideways at me. ‘T is just a baby.’ She said by way of explanation. ‘Go T’ she
cried in encouragement. ‘You got this!’</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Having established that indeed BET was a real word, she
turned to me – ‘I’m on fire!’ she said.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We made our way through the words. Very. Slowly. She’s very
fair-minded and wanted to give <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all</i>
the letters a chance.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘I want a turn’ the orange letter C cried.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Can I bring a friend?’ asked green S.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘I’m X and I like being crazy!’ whooped the purple X.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Ladies first!’ huffed the pink J.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Soon, all the pink letters were lined up with a respective
blue ‘boyfriend’ and were about to start a conga line. I was tempted to tell
them all off, but the thing is – she was actually enjoying herself and she was
making the words she needed.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Off you go D,’ she said encouragingly to a pink stamp as
she bounced it towards _ AMP.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘I have a good feeling about this,’ she whispered to me.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘DAMP! Yes!’ she cried.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The next word was W_G and after a few false starts involving
unpopular letters Z and Y, I told her she would need vowels to make it into a
word.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Right then,’ she cried to the box of stamps. ‘I want all the
vowels please. Line up! Come on O where are you? Don’t be shy,’ she pleaded.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Having made wig and wag, she moved onto the last word which
was _ENT. She lined all the vowels up again to have another go.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘You won’t need the vowels for this one,’ I explained. ‘It
already has one.’</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She cupped her hands around the stamps. ‘Shhhh Mum, you’re
making them sad.’</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Slowly she marched them all back to the box, whispering
gently to them not to feel bad, and they’d get another chance.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And even though dyslexia will be a hard slog for both of us,
I cannot but feel hearted by the fact that she has a love for letters and words.
And maybe one day, with lots of work – the feeling will be mutual.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuCAt4GmmmNeayNvEFFT4VSu-Sc1jPuJM7iC4oCIIuIM0Cl_Mk3m6Xo4OdtPrOvCcM7wN0IWKkuUY3axP1SE0UOs6YY9ZG3tLWyIo-aM47Rp0PzJRKk72bjiTgz11QSvUXa_KO5zVgIB8v/s1600/letter+stamps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1507" data-original-width="1600" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuCAt4GmmmNeayNvEFFT4VSu-Sc1jPuJM7iC4oCIIuIM0Cl_Mk3m6Xo4OdtPrOvCcM7wN0IWKkuUY3axP1SE0UOs6YY9ZG3tLWyIo-aM47Rp0PzJRKk72bjiTgz11QSvUXa_KO5zVgIB8v/s320/letter+stamps.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8691787304230239228.post-51059597125390229762018-11-07T14:05:00.000+08:002019-05-15T11:57:43.512+08:00The Shocking Day I Realised How the World Appears to My Daughter<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">My youngest daughter is severely dyslexic. We noticed a
difference between her and her peers a couple of years ago, and the older she
gets, the more marked it is. Diagnosing her dyslexia was a costly and time-consuming
process, and despite intensive intervention at school and at home, progress is painfully slow. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Having a child with reading and writing difficulties is extra
strange considering I spend my life reading and writing. It’s my chosen career,
and for the most part find it blissfully easy. So it’s been hard for me to take
a step back and comprehend how the world might be for her.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Until I was sitting on the toilet recently. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I know that sounds strange, but we have an Auslan finger spelling poster
in the toilet that I often find myself staring at.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I pride myself on being able to rattle through the hand
signs for the alphabet pretty quickly, just like my daughter now is (almost) able to
recite the alphabet. We are both pretty good when asked to go from start to
finish.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">But if you ask either of us to read (or sign) one of the ‘trickier’
letters – for her it might be H and F, for me it would be signing H or G, we
will pause, no longer certain, without the context of the surrounding letters. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">If someone proficient in Auslan sign language came up to me and
started spelling ‘Hello, my name is Sam’ I would probably panic. I’d have to
ask them to go very slowly, one letter at a time, translating the hand shapes
to sounds, and trying to hold them in my head while I concentrate on ‘reading’
the next sign. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">In an ideal world, when reading H-E-L-L-O, you're still meant to remember the ‘H’ by the
time you get to ‘O’. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">But<span style="font-family: "calibri";"> if I was watching someone sign the letters to me, I would probably be concentrating so much on
recognising the ‘O’, that the ‘H’ would be long gone. The word I had just 'spelled' would be an incomplete collection of sounds and make no sense. I then imagined how hard it would be to keep an entire sentence in my head.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">My heart sank.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">That’s when I realised that's what it must be like for my
daughter every time we ask her to read. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And while I don’t <i>have</i> to learn the Auslan
finger signs, she HAS to learn how to read and write English. There is no
avoiding it. For her, it is a mountain that must be scaled. Every day for the rest of her life.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">For her, reading is excruciating and labour intense, and
without any certainly that sounding the individual letters will actually makes
any sense once she’s done.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Despite the difficulties she has, she is determined to persist.
She blows the rest of us out of the water when it comes to working hard. We are
developing little rules that help her remember each letter shape and sound. What
is automatic and easy for most of us, involves a number of laboured steps for
her. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Funnily enough, one thing she can write with no issue is the
phrase ‘I love you’. She writes it a lot. On cards and pictures, on scraps of
paper, on the shopping lists, on post-it notes that she leaves next to my bed. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Yet
the other week, when she had to read ‘YES’ it took about 10 steps.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">First I wrote the phrase ‘I love you’ next to her word list.
Then I circled the ‘Y’ in Yes and the ‘Y’ in You and joined them together, and
then I waited. I watched her eyes dart from one phrase to the next, as she
mouthed the sounds to herself. ‘I love you’ she whispered under her breath, ‘You’
and then she got to ‘Y’. Then she looked back at the word YES and started ‘Y-E-S’.
She turned to be with a big grin ‘YES’ she shouted. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">To which there was only one appropriate response: ‘I love
YOU’ I replied.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDNkfOA1guOdxQjJ_yTnzHLnUbVyeG7axlHDsZq9QhKLMDAyE-lJT8hBNXM9GjyJCct-x4fMdJyfi2crqohhey70kIIQ-lARm4vheGMFXc-6OsSZ7keIiD38IawPyMZvnW32uss4dqcYjD/s1600/auslan+sign+chart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDNkfOA1guOdxQjJ_yTnzHLnUbVyeG7axlHDsZq9QhKLMDAyE-lJT8hBNXM9GjyJCct-x4fMdJyfi2crqohhey70kIIQ-lARm4vheGMFXc-6OsSZ7keIiD38IawPyMZvnW32uss4dqcYjD/s320/auslan+sign+chart.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<br /></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></div>
Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8691787304230239228.post-85467208390008430322018-08-03T06:29:00.000+08:002018-08-03T06:29:57.853+08:00Diary of a Wannabe Dieter [Bodytrim review]<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Before:</b> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I receive
an email from a company asking if I’d like to write a blog post about losing
weight with Bodytrim. My first instinct is to write back and say ‘no thanks, I’m
too busy to lose weight.’ Then, just as I am about to hit ‘send’, I reconsider. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know I never do things like this on Relentless, but it's relevant for me right now and I am willing to give this a try – what have I got to lose? Just weight! I've got plenty of that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 1:</b> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bodytrim is essentially a high-protein, low-carb meal-replacement
plan. They provide both shakes and various snacks, and you sign up for a free
12-week program that offers guidance and support. It instantly sounds appealing
because you don’t really have to <i>do</i> anything.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I admit that I had a peek at the program when I first
received the email, and because of what I saw I delayed the start of my trial
to begin <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">after</i> the kids went back to
school. I believe they should learn about healthy eating, but I am reluctant to
‘diet’ in front of them, and besides – I knew they’d all want to have shakes for
breakfast as well and I’m not too good at sharing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are three stages of the Bodytrim 12-week program. Basically
you start with 3 meal-replacement shakes in the first few days, gradually dropping
to two, then one shake per day. You are supposed to have learned by this point,
to fill the rest of your day with healthy snacks, balanced meals and plenty of
water. You never replace dinner, so there’s no problem with watching everyone
else tuck into a roast dinner while you sip on a shake.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #a64d79;">This is nothing new. I <i>know</i>
how to lose weight. My problem is that I don’t like exercise and I really enjoy
eating. I like baking with my kids. I like going out with my friends for
dinner. I love a glass of wine or two. I’m a typical mum – I am busy busy busy
with my kids and my work and my life and very, very neglectful when it comes to
myself. And sometimes losing weight just seems like such hard work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My first day is a
mixed success. The shakes aren’t substantial enough to replace one of my normal
meals, so I eat a bowl of raw veggies over the day. I’m also well behaved and
skip my wine, but I scoff a piece of cake when no one is looking and still go
to bed hungry.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 2: <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve never been terribly fussed about the numbers on the
scale. I have always been heavy, even when I am at my slimmest. I like to think
I have a skeleton made of lead, or rather a heart of gold. This is why I prefer
looking at my measurements – and losing centimetres from my tummy and butt
rather than kilos. You can’t see kilos!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I like it when my skirts zip up. I don’t like it when I have
to leave them unzipped and hope that my top covers the big triangle of undies
hanging out at the back. It’s good motivation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Day 2 and I am still hungry,
though I suspect that is the point. The shakes are small, about 1/3 the size of
my morning coffee. I get ‘hangry’ while at the shops, but while I would
normally chow down on a roast pork and crackling roll, today I buy some healthy
sushi, so I guess I should be proud of making a reasonably healthy food choice,
even if I am technically breaking the rules. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 3:<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These are my numbers:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Number of children: 3<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Number of pets/husbands: 3 if you include the fish<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Number of times I have tried serious dieting: 3<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Number of times I lost a heap of weight and gained it back
again: 3<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m beginning to detect a theme…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">End of Day 3 and I am
still hungry. Although I am technically in the Fast Start section of the 12
week program (3 days of three shakes and only 1 meal) I admit that I am
scrounging around in the box of snacks they also sent me. The snacks are all
high-protein, low-carb sweet items such as slice, cookies and protein bars. The
texture is unusual, but they are definitely filling.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 4<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am being sent daily emails from Bodytrim as part of the free
12-week trial. You simply sign up to the website using the code provided on the
side of every shake container. There is a lot of good information on the site
if you’re willing to read it – plenty of articles and discussions. One of the
messages which I really like is that it isn’t selfish to think about yourself
and take care of yourself. I think a lot of mums forget this.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">End of Day 4 and I
have gone totally off-track thanks to a rather delicious bottle of wine. That
being said, I have been making smart food choices all day, which is rather
unlike me. Could this be evidence of the ‘trim thinking’ you are expected to
apply when trying the 12-week plan? Maybe this will work after all.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 5<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meal-replacement shakes come in two flavours – chocolate and
vanilla. Three scoops of the powder and top it up with water. I quite enjoy the
taste although they are quite small. If you follow the instructions and don’t
try to sneak an extra scoop in, each tub makes nine shakes. Therefore, if I
follow the plan as proscribed by Bodytrim, the three tubs will last 27 days. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The real question though, is will <u>I</u> last that long?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">End of Day 5. I am
down to two shakes a day, 1 meal and 2 snacks. I feel this is much better
suited to my normal way of eating. I work from home, and am constantly heading
off to writing sessions, school, the library or having to drive my kids around.
I don’t do well skipping food for long periods of time, and this stage two ‘trimsition’
is much more manageable for me.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 6<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have been sent enough Bodytrim shakes to last around 4
weeks, and I think this should be enough time to see how the system works for
me in my life. The website recommends 12 weeks, as you need time for your body
(and brain) to form new good habits. I might need more than 12 weeks, as I have
spent the last 40 years forming bad habits.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One of the other mums
at school stopped me today and said I was looking good. She asked if I had lost
some weight. I’m actually not sure if I have, but it felt good hearing that anyway.
Motivation to go another week.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 14<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Constant snacking is a hard habit to break, and I’m not a
huge fan of the low-carb, high protein snacks they provide. It’s a different
texture to normal biscuits and slices, although the flavour is fine, and they
definitely fill you up. However, being on the program (or attempting to be on
the program) is making me re-think <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">some</i>
of my food decisions, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">some </i>of the
time – which is better than me not thinking any of the time. So that’s
definitely a win.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think the amount of weight I have lost is negligible –
maybe a kilo or so - but if your heart isn’t fully in it, then the chances of
weight magically falling off is as unlikely as winning the lotto – lovely to dream
about… but keep on dreaming. Weight loss is also meant to be slow and steady,
otherwise it will all just come back again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>My thoughts about the Bodytrim Program?</b> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not for me. Clearly I am not motivated enough right now. But I think if you’re
needing some structure and a clear program to follow then perhaps this might
suit you. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s also not a lot of variety in the products – the flavours run the
gamut from vanilla to chocolate with a quick detour to mint, and they’re all
sweet. That being said, they go in your bag and could easily stop you making
that drive-through for the cheeky burger next time you’re hungry. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Thank you to Bodytrim for letting me try their products. You
can find out more about the program here: <span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.bodytrim.com.au/weight-loss-program-products/&source=gmail&ust=1533082357345000&usg=AFQjCNEaZaLOI1ahCGD_MJJ8Q2CQmS7q7Q" href="https://www.bodytrim.com.au/weight-loss-program-products/" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;">https://www.bodytrim.<wbr></wbr>com.au/weight-loss-program-<wbr></wbr>products/</span></a><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8691787304230239228.post-90734287831629414452018-07-25T06:14:00.001+08:002018-07-25T21:07:19.588+08:00The Head Girl<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last night my middle daughter, who is halfway through Grade
3, decided that when she is in Grade 6 (her final year of primary school), she
wanted to be Head Girl.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This came as rather a shock to me, and everyone who was sitting
at the dinner table when she announced her decision, because within the family she
has a well-established reputation as being both the laziest and most selfish of
all the girls. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My husband, who had been Head Boy of his school when he was
in Year 7, and who as an adult is drowning in work said glumly ‘there’s so much
extra work you’ll have to do, why bother?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shot him a look that said ‘perhaps the wrong message to be
sending’ and instead turned to my daughter and queried why she would want to be
Head Girl.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Because I want to sit on the chairs at assembly rather than
sit on the floor,’ was her first response.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Swallowing my laughter I told her that probably wasn’t a
good enough reason and asked why else she wanted to run for Head Girl.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Because I don’t want to leave school without having done
something big and important.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was not what I had expected her to say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And she meant it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With her older sister slumping down in her seat, eyes
rolling like a bingo machine, my middle daughter fixed me with a look that said
‘take me seriously’ and then proceeded to spill dinner down her chin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even though I had a million ideas that automatically came
bursting to my brain, I knew that I needed to leave this one entirely in her
own hands. She hadn’t asked for help and I suspected part of her little speech
might have been a none-too-subtle dig at her sister who had run for Head Girl
and not made it. She has a real talent of going straight for the jugular,
something that might come in handy one day as an adult.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You know,’ I said to her. ‘If you want to do something big
and important at the school, you don’t need to wait three years’.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that would be the end of it, I told myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But later that night she surprised me, while I was naked in
the shower (naturally), with some ideas she had. She already had written a
letter to the Principal and drawn a picture ‘it’s not my best’, she admitted. ‘I
just wanted to start.’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She had come to ask if I would help her make an appointment
with the Principal. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gesturing at my nudity I said ‘not now.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She glanced at me, as though only just realising I was in
the shower and completely wet and naked, and told me ‘I’ll wait.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Indulge me for a moment while I give some back story – our school
is running a fete later this year, and I am up to my eyeballs in it. Her class
is running a pet stall, and I have been sewing doggie bandanas and we will be
baking jars of dog biscuits. Because I have no idea how well these things will
sell, I had always told my daughter that anything we don’t sell, we would
donate to the local dog shelter so the dogs could look handsome for their new
owners. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her idea is to collect old towels that the shelter is always
asking for, to add to the donation. Everyone at the school is already being
asked to bring in their pre-loved toys and clothes and books – why not some old
towels as well, she said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a pretty good idea, I thought.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This isn’t one of those excruciating mummy-blogs full of
humble bragging mind you. This is blatant bragging! I might have raised one of
my children correctly. Hallelujah. Especially since she’s the one we thought
would grow up and become a mob boss.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I have told her that I will back her up with anything
that needs adult-ing, but otherwise she has to do this on her own. I think she
will do this, after all this is the kid who made some embroidery for Queen
Elizabeth (and got a reply) and the kid who sent a thank you note to the show-bag
sellers at the Royal Show and got sent a huge box of free show bags. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll let you know how she goes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz8WiPS3Vtczl0gSCJMLdCVFsx1AvLQH_fdgYRicbibNBNwGV9DAh5wM7ZplX400HkQZZOicCmX_2Tkqj5bhsHIlKxa_iMr7-aWF7TiauM4WTlnqTmW_N2Kt-1nWB72Z78Mt49WsDH6JFr/s1600/dog+bandana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1239" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz8WiPS3Vtczl0gSCJMLdCVFsx1AvLQH_fdgYRicbibNBNwGV9DAh5wM7ZplX400HkQZZOicCmX_2Tkqj5bhsHIlKxa_iMr7-aWF7TiauM4WTlnqTmW_N2Kt-1nWB72Z78Mt49WsDH6JFr/s320/dog+bandana.jpg" width="247" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anyone want to buy a bandana for their dog?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<br /></div>
Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8691787304230239228.post-3977701576144986662018-02-20T13:42:00.000+08:002018-02-20T13:42:11.577+08:00Why I was Thinking About Ralph Fiennes late at Night<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the enormous summer holidays loomed before us last year I
thought to myself ‘what can we do as a family that keeps us out of the sun and
away from our iThingys.’ I decided to go old-school and start reading them a
book, and Harry Potter seemed a worthy choice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For some unfathomable reason, none of the girls had ever
read Harry Potter. I think the fact that we had told them that Dad and I bought
and read them ‘when we were younger’ instantly made them old-fashioned and embarrassing.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We got off to a great start, with the (then) five year old
and (then) seven year snuggled under my arms, and the ten year hovering around
in the background pretending she wasn’t interested.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was going really well, until the local TV station decided
to show each of the Harry Potter movies, starting with The Philosopher’s Stone when
we were only halfway through the book.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Suddenly it was like we all had a ball to go to. The
excitement of watching the first movie was palpable and we all talked about it
like there was nothing else going on in our lives (there wasn’t). We even
planned some special movie snacks.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The night came, and as the ending drew near, I found myself
with a rather frightened seven year old on my lap. [Warning: spoiler alter] When
Professor Quirrell took his turban off to reveal Voldemort’s head, well that
was it. She was gone like a flash.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I found her playing in her room later, and when I spoke to
her, she said she was ok.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Clearly that was a lie.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the holidays progressed, my best sleeper suddenly didn’t
want to go to bed anymore. She insisted on watching me lock the doors, made me
turn the alarm on at night and tried to bribe the dog to sleep with her by hiding
treats under the sheets.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But still she couldn’t even voice her fears, or put a name
to the thing that was scaring her (‘he who shall not be named’ - well played JK).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the time I figured out what was going on, I was faced
with a sweet little girl who was now scared by bedtime, something I could strongly
relate to. I was terrified of ET – the extraterrestrial living under my bed
until I was about ten years of age, thanks to Mum and Dad taking us to see the
movie when I was the tender age of three. They regretted that decision for
years!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I did what I tend to do when I am unsure, and I talked. And
talked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘What you have to understand,’ I said ‘is that Voldemort is
just a character played by an actor named Ralph Fiennes. And unlike Voldemort,
Ralph Fiennes is actually quite handsome. To start with, he has a nose.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A tiny smile.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘And in fact when Ralph Fiennes goes out on the street, he
doesn’t have people running and screaming in the opposite direction, he has
people (mostly mums, I added) running and screaming towards him, because he’s
just so handsome, having that nose and all.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The smile got a little bit bigger.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘And in fact,’ I went on now acting out my story, ‘if you
ever saw Ralph Fiennes, I think you might actually fall in love with him and
his nose a little, and you’d be all like ‘Volda-who?’ And you and I would get
into a fight over who could ask Ralph to be in a selfie with us.’ (I started
pretending I was jostling her, and holding up an imaginary camera).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I’d win mum,’ she said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Why on earth would handsome Ralph Fiennes and his handsome
nose choose you over me?’ I asked, pretending to be mortally offended.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Because I’m cuter than you.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe she is, but I’m smarter – and she hasn’t had a nightmare
ever since. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ralph – she’s all yours!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2oo6QOUwYcXUxZso2jWtqXC7LVIuRZAZi6vhiwkTp0ND7ArDXEz8ABQSWvKqRhyir917huWOIQg0W74iIj7dZfETCYrnOhXJSxQTSTE7jw8777I6gKBMDXa3QVCbhDydVt6Sj-QrZXMYY/s1600/ralph+fiennes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2oo6QOUwYcXUxZso2jWtqXC7LVIuRZAZi6vhiwkTp0ND7ArDXEz8ABQSWvKqRhyir917huWOIQg0W74iIj7dZfETCYrnOhXJSxQTSTE7jw8777I6gKBMDXa3QVCbhDydVt6Sj-QrZXMYY/s1600/ralph+fiennes.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">thanks to https://celebrities.knoji.com/ralph-fiennes-trivia-13-essantially-fun-facts-about-english-actor-ralph-fiennes/ for this yummy picture</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8691787304230239228.post-32819805172565407462017-11-24T11:42:00.001+08:002019-11-26T12:24:28.561+08:00How to Ruin a Secret<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because I am easily susceptible to flattery I found myself
saying yes to taking on a special art project for my middle daughter’s class, a
split class of six and seven year olds. And the project was: a quilt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, I agreed to take on a sewing project with 23 beautiful
six and seven year olds.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were making the quilt because our school has a wonderful
end of year event where each of the classes make a collaborative art piece
which is then auctioned off to raise money for the school. In the past the
bidding has gotten a little out of hand, one year reaching at least $900 for a
single piece – putting it well out of reach of many families and all the
teachers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So because our teacher is dearly beloved (and because I clearly
didn’t have a clue what it would mean to make two quilts simultaneously) I
decided I would also sneakily make a second quilt at the same time, which the
kids will present to her as a gift at the end of the year.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll skip over the past two months when I was actually
helping the kids make the quilt and then sewing fifty individual squares
because it would sound like this:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bugger.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ooops didn’t mean to do that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Where are my scissors!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Damn, ran out of thread.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bugger, back to Spotlight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oops.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Where are my damn scissors!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t want to do this anymore.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
F*** back to Spotlight AGAIN!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What in hell is wrong with my machine?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What in hell is wrong with me?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then – <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mum – I really need your help to finish these damn quilts.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Skipping to this morning when my mum showed up at my house
with the finished quilts, I had one of those moments when the angels sing and
you realise that your mum is in fact a little piece of heaven bundled up and
delivered back to earth in a pair of jeans and sensible shoes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Leaving the second quilt at home, I carefully bundled up the
art quilt to show to the teacher. We laid it out on the table and let everyone
have a look. The bell hadn’t rung yet and I still had my youngest daughter with
me before I dropped her at the pre-primary. The teacher was appreciating the
beauty of the kids’ designs (and my mum’s impeccable binding) and clearly Child
Number 3 felt she wasn’t getting enough attention.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘She has another one, you know,’ piped up my daughter. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lasers shot out of my eyes and my heart sank. ‘Shhhhh’ I
hissed at her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The teacher was looking at me, shock on her face.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘There is another one
at home. On the table!’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I quite literally tried to kill my daughter with just
poisonous looks (didn’t work). I wanted to throw myself across the table at her
and wrestle her to the ground.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She had just given away a secret half the school had been
keeping for two months and I literally could have cried. However I wasn’t
actually prepared for what the teacher did next.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She took a big gasping breath and patted me on the arm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Oh my gosh Shannon, do you know what I immediately thought
when she said you had another one?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shook my head, miserable that she knew the secret.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I thought she meant you were having another baby!’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wait. What?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I couldn’t quite decide what was worse – having the surprise
ruined or being mistaken as pregnant. I packed up the quilt and shuffled away
with my youngest who clearly knew she had done something wrong but wasn’t
entirely sure what. Poor mite. Something for her to talk to her shrink about
when she’s older.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now with a bit of time (and a muffin or two) under my belt,
I can look at this morning’s event with a bit more clarity. I get mistaken for
being pregnant all the time so I decided that having the secret blown was definitely
the worst thing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Never trust a five year old.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuvi93KkaWwLdFJBzpDaljC7asVcPolscJMAvY7_ifcbJ86l22eWVUA54PDrIppYF3UunwjZP6B8efuwOHFA68jYcWog3l6o_KmYLL-FwmBCHEmeakeDbozUz_AQYGM6gR5M1y6-TV4ApJ/s1600/Room+4+Collaborative+Art+Project+Kuranya+%2528Rainbow%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1132" data-original-width="1600" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuvi93KkaWwLdFJBzpDaljC7asVcPolscJMAvY7_ifcbJ86l22eWVUA54PDrIppYF3UunwjZP6B8efuwOHFA68jYcWog3l6o_KmYLL-FwmBCHEmeakeDbozUz_AQYGM6gR5M1y6-TV4ApJ/s320/Room+4+Collaborative+Art+Project+Kuranya+%2528Rainbow%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8691787304230239228.post-54905314779416493172017-11-12T18:48:00.000+08:002017-11-12T18:48:04.441+08:00What Happens When You Don't Listen to the Experts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
I did one of those things today that parenting books and
experts always tell you not to – I got over-involved in my daughter’s school
project.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a major project due for a major program she is involved
in. It’s a big deal that she is on this program, but she treats it as part of
her normal school, so she gives it her normal level of care and attention.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our assessment of this ‘normal level’ varies wildly. While
she would probably say she does enough and her grades are fine, I say she does
a half-hearted effort at the last minute which is well below her ability.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In reality, we are both probably correct.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With her major assignment due tomorrow, I finally pinned her
down and convinced her to read through her Powerpoint presentation for me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Clearly she hadn’t proof read it, or if she had, she’d
decided the small typos weren’t an issue. She didn’t capitalise her last name. Spaces
inside the brackets instead of outside the bracket. Starting a sentence with a
lower case letter. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wanted her to fix them, which she did without complaint.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then I realised there was a major point she had missed –
maybe she had thought it too obvious to include, or maybe she hadn’t made the
connection yet. Either way, my suggestion was met with an eye roll, and then
she rolled off the chair to play with the puppy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On her last assignment she had received a comment about her bibliography
being incomplete. I asked to see it. It was a few dot points that listed the
URLs of two websites, then ‘google’ ‘google maps’ and ‘google translator’
making up the last three items.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ummmmm <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She’s ten, I get that. Apparently they haven’t actually
taught the kids what a bibliography is (so she says) but if that’s the case,
then I don’t think they should assess them. Either way, I’m pretty sure listing
‘Google’ as a reference is not considered the height of academic authenticity
and I may have said that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So she left. In a huff. With yelling. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
More yelling (hers and mine).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She wanted comforting, so she grabbed the dog. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The dog didn’t want comforting so she bit my daughter.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now my daughter was angry not only at me but at the dog, and
kept chasing her and yelling at the dog, and I was chasing her and yelling at
her. The other two kids were open-mouthed, watching us run around the couch
like something out of a cartoon. It would be stupidly funny if not for the
words we were shouting.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You’re trying to make it your assignment, Mum. It’s not
mine anymore,’ she finally screamed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stopped. She was right. Totally 100% correct. I was trying
to correct her ten year old mistakes and omissions and add the knowledge of a
forty year old.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A forty year old who was making a rookie mistake: don’t do
their work. Don’t even try ‘to help’. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Keep your fingers awaaaaaaaay from the keyboard, lady.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It pained me (it actually pained me!) to select ‘don’t save’
as I removed her USB from the laptop, but she needed to submit her own
mistakes, not my corrections. [She refused to come back in the study at this
point.]<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are two possible outcomes tomorrow. The first is that
her teacher is happy. The second is that her teacher isn’t happy. If it is the
first, then I will be happy for her, and know that next time I should definitely
keep my fat trap shut. If it’s the second, then she may feel upset or embarrassed.
She will learn that she might need to work harder next time. She will learn
(hopefully) from the experience and she will be better for it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The bigger lesson in all of this is that I need to trust her
more. I think as a parent I was right in
offering advice and pointing out where she could improve. It’s her choice whether
or not to take that on. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I said at the beginning it’s a big deal she made it
into this program - she’s bright and they saw something special in her. I need
to sit back and let her make that something special shine. Even if it means
sitting on my hands.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_IbiLd6klfLyvIA1G1towuT1a41PMH1kuPPD7Nv96QtYJq7yTdRE6Gfhvvs36gZmK1vXcTYo6ZTIs8iGH5AC41t-CRRMhxofW9KE-Pk5c9aS8qRiddnG6Oq0ffCmzCR7pW3AcWWDb36SL/s1600/child-sitting-1816400__340.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="514" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_IbiLd6klfLyvIA1G1towuT1a41PMH1kuPPD7Nv96QtYJq7yTdRE6Gfhvvs36gZmK1vXcTYo6ZTIs8iGH5AC41t-CRRMhxofW9KE-Pk5c9aS8qRiddnG6Oq0ffCmzCR7pW3AcWWDb36SL/s320/child-sitting-1816400__340.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8691787304230239228.post-87236393780705856052017-10-28T12:41:00.002+08:002019-11-26T12:43:47.948+08:00The Ugly Mother<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Can you put this in the bin?’ I asked my seven year old
daughter, holding out a wet wipe her sister had just used to eradicate the half
bottle of tomato sauce covering her face.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She wrinkled her face up and motioned at her younger sister.
‘Why can’t she do it?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shrugged. My hands were full of shopping bags. ‘You have
to put your rubbish in the bin, can’t you put this in too?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stop.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who else has had a conversation like this? A seemingly
reasonable request, in my eyes at least, that ends up being the catalyst for a
string of events that ends up with public announcements over Radio Lollypop and being accused of shoplifting. Yes, that comes later.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had taken the three girls to a local fete. They had been
on a few rides each, harassed some bunnies in the petting zoo, chosen various
knickknacks that I was now lugging around and they’d eaten their way through
icecreams, donuts and hot dogs. It was a good day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Asking my middle child to put some rubbish that didn’t belong
to her in the bin though, clearly, was unacceptable. She refused. I got angry
and turned my back. There’s nothing more fun than having a screaming match with
a child in a public space, so I was channelling as many mindfulness meditations
and as much bloody rainbow breathing that I could muster. I didn’t need to lose
my bundle in front of the seniors a Capella choir who were all watching intently
as they did their warm-ups nearby.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then she was gone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a fete with hundreds, maybe thousands of people, my seven
year disappeared. It’s her way of protest. ‘You don’t love me,’ she will cry. ‘I’m
going to find a new family who will love me.’ Then she will grab her little purple
bike and strap on her kitty helmet with the fuzzy pink Mohawk and ride around
the block till she calms down enough to come home.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But we weren’t at home. She was swallowed up by the crowd
and I could no longer see her. I wasn’t afraid. Not yet. Even when she’s angry
she won’t go too far, as though a long piece of elastic keeps her attached to
me. But I couldn’t see her curly head and fuzzy tutu. So I marched right up to
the Radio Lollypop van, who were hosting a range of performers and made
announcements throughout the fete.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I have lost my child,’ I told the lady. ‘Well,’ I admitted.
‘She’s run off.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The lady looked at me kindly. ‘Middle child?’ she asked. How
did she know?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having someone make a lost child announcement with hundreds
of eyes on you, judging you for losing something so precious, is never fun. But
neither is being that small child, slinking back through the crowd after
hearing her name called out over the speakers. It would have mortified her completely,
being as private as she is. She curled into my arms.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Lollypop Radio lady then took her aside for a chat. She
had lost children before. She had been a lost child herself. She knew how both of us were feeling, and with
a kind word for me, and an activity pack for each of the girls, we headed towards
the car in disgraced silence. But then…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I really want fairy floss,’ the eldest whined as we neared
the edge of the fete. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘The machine was broken hon, I’m sorry. Besides you just had
a hot dog and icecream.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘But they had hotdog and icecream and something else as well.
I want three things too. It’s not fair…’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stop.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One day she will read this and her stomach will clench at
how petulant she sounded. I know I was a grotty kid, but I didn’t realise this
until I was an adult and it was too late. But at that point in time all she
could see was the scales of justice tipping in favour of her younger sisters,
and she wanted them corrected. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had to stop on the way home to buy a birthday
gift for a friend, so I said she could buy something at the bakery while I
stopped at the florist. [At this point if you are shaking your head,
admonishing me for being such a suck as a parent and letting them get away with
too much crap – you’re absolutely right. I clearly suck at this.]<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The middle child, still seething with resentment, refused to
get out of the car. I flicked the lock and walked with my youngest into the
shop while my eldest, clutching a handful of coins went into the bakery. [I already said I suck at this]. I was standing in the queue with a bunch
of sunflowers in hand when a car alarm sounded.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My gut clenched. I knew exactly whose car that was. I could
see the headlights flashing as the alarm wailed. <span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">I could also see the top of my eldest daughter’s head as she pulled on the door
handle of the car, clearly not cluing into the fact that the doors were locked</span>.<br />
<br />
Flowers in hand I began running towards the door. I could see the
register attendants reaching towards me as I ran out of the shop clutching a $17 bunch of flowers. Hearing mutters behind me about shoplifting, I spun around, ran back inside, dropped the flowers onto the register and then ran back out to the
carpark. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shouted at my youngest to ‘wait there’ pointing at the
fellow selling the Big Issue [I KNOW!] and I ran across the carpark in front of
cars, while everyone stared at me and the ten year old trying to break into a
car, and the seven year old inside wailing even louder than the car alarm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stop.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What a bloody nightmare. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Can I use a stronger word here? It was a fucking nightmare.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I turned off the alarm and unlocked the car.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t think I even used words to tell my eldest daughter to get in
the car. It was more of a guttural cry so deep and primal I think blood started
dripping from my eyes and butterflies fell out of sky, dead, for miles around.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stomped back across the carpark, muttered thanks to the
Big Issue guy and grabbed my youngest’s hand. Back in the car, the silence was
so thick it was almost smothering. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to cry or
scream. I tried a bit of both. Nothing helped.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were only minutes from home. I let the kids run into the
house, to tell Dad how beastly their mum was (isn’t beastly a great word, we
should use it more). I slunk in and went straight to my office, shutting the door
like a sulky teenager, and proceeded to write.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One thing the Radio Lollypop lady had told me was that I
needed to acknowledge my daughter’s anger, that I couldn’t shut it down, even
if we were in the middle of a public space. She’s right. But what about my
anger? What about my exasperation and embarrassment? What about my frustration? My fear?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could tell by the faces of people around me that I clearly
wasn’t allowed to express how I was feeling. I’ve seen other mums who lose their
shit with their kids. While a large part of me understands and empathises, the
rest of me recoils at the ugliness of a mum unable to control her anger at her
kids. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that’s how I’m feeling right now. Ugly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But at least I have this space to share how I am feeling. I
never got anything so right as the name for this blog. Relentless. Parenting is
relentless.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now I have had my whinge I will open the door and rejoin
the world.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thanks for listening.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8691787304230239228.post-2144793618156693292017-09-15T04:54:00.002+08:002017-09-15T04:54:49.319+08:00The Phone<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had filled one side of my notepad with dot points, each
detailing a single point in time of the night:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Taking a photo of the puppy when I discovered her in the
remains of the bubble bath, happily sliding in the bubbles and eating great
mouthfuls of soap.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Walking into my eldest daughter’s room, using my phone to
email the pictures to her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Walking out of her room shaking my head, as my youngest
daughter stretched out on the bed asking to be photographed. (The answer was
no).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hearing a strange beep when I was saying my goodnights to my
middle daughter, and then thinking ‘that sounds like my phone.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then the realisation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had lost my phone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Standing at the bottom of the stairs, my hands devastatingly
empty, I consoled myself with the knowledge that I KNEW it must be in the house
somewhere.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had even called it on the landline, straining to hear it
in the sleeping house. Nada.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stood in front of my iPad remembering the ‘Find My Phone’
app, but quickly walked away remembering I’d never actually set that up. Too
hard.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After writing down my steps in great detail, knowing that in
the morning I would have already forgotten what I did, I did one (or three)
last checks of every room. I prowled around each sleeping child, checked the
bathroom, my bag, the bench. The laundry. I turned on the outside lights and
peered at the grass to see if the dog had taken it outside to chew on.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I admit it – I even checked the fridge. Who knows if this
was actually the start of something more serious?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nothing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went to bed the old fashioned way. I couldn’t check the
weather for the next day. I had no idea what I had written on my to-do list. I
couldn’t reply to my sister’s text message. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hell, I couldn’t even bitch about losing my phone on
Facebook! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My sleep was poor.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was in the early hours of the morning when my door slid
open and there was the telltale sound of small feet on carpet. I waited for the
covers to be drawn back, but instead they retreated and the door slid shut.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was weird.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I called out her name.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Don’t worry Mum,’ she called back ‘I’m just bringing you
back your phone.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked at the clock. 3.45am. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Wait,’ I called. ‘Why do you have my phone? Where was it?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She avoided the questions like a pro. ‘Lucky I found it,’
she called. ‘Go back to sleep Mum.’ Her voice got smaller as she disappeared
down the stairs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Go back to sleep? Seriously?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I lay in bed for a few minutes, alternating between fuming
and bewilderment. I could only guess why she took it. She probably wanted to
watch Kids YouTube, or take a video of herself or who knows – check the weather
for tomorrow or update my Facebook status. Maybe she was trying to frame me for a crime. Who knows
what five year olds get up to these days.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But she obviously hadn’t counted on the whizzbang new
technology of fingerprint identification. She knows her Dad’s phone password (I
don’t)… but she couldn’t get into mine.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why she chose to bring it back in the middle of the night
shows a scarily crafty mind… did she think I wouldn’t notice? Blame myself for
just being forgetful? She does seem to think I am going die soon now I am "old" (I just turned 40).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s now 4.40am and I have been up writing for almost an
hour. There was no hope of me ever getting back to sleep, but she did – the face
of an angel peeping out from under layers of blankets and toys.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t wait to interrogate her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And just a little afraid.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvoUak5L8n15lMhCMEKmGSa2_ZUVMK_DA2n2BmPVXyMJp93JtQCL4JGbIWY0Ku_7JHAlIqnIYx-CQeXwqN9_g00e9OZxYRX0KPFdml2WaHJzDof6FdJCL-likT2kyfumlAlnpLhk__R6ZC/s1600/dog+in+bath.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvoUak5L8n15lMhCMEKmGSa2_ZUVMK_DA2n2BmPVXyMJp93JtQCL4JGbIWY0Ku_7JHAlIqnIYx-CQeXwqN9_g00e9OZxYRX0KPFdml2WaHJzDof6FdJCL-likT2kyfumlAlnpLhk__R6ZC/s320/dog+in+bath.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8691787304230239228.post-75269275322144952162017-08-21T20:12:00.001+08:002017-08-21T20:12:24.127+08:00The Mole<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘What’s that thing on your face?’ my five year old asked,
stroking my jaw.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Well,’ I said, ‘it can be called a mole or a beauty spot,
whichever you prefer.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘A beauty spot,’ she said screwing up her face.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I wish you didn’t have it,’ she added, touching it like it
was a plague sore. ‘How do you get rid of it?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I frowned. ‘Don’t you like it?’ I asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I wish you didn’t have it. How can it be gone?’ she
replied.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Well,’ I said, ‘someone would have to cut it off with a
knife.’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She passed, pondering this rather drastic option.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Don’t worry mummy. I’d be right beside you when they chop
you. I would hold your hand.’<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8691787304230239228.post-77215416321275658432017-06-14T11:51:00.001+08:002017-06-14T11:51:47.602+08:00Is This the Worst Birthday Present Ever?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
It looked totally awesome in the box. A marvellous
contraption for polishing rocks, teaching kids not only about natural processes
and turning dull rough rocks into beautifully polished gems, but then they
could also turn the gems into their very own handmade jewellery. What could be
bad about that?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ah, how about everything…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the box was unpacked my ten year old daughter eyed it
suspiciously, glancing over at the outrageous monster dolls with terrifyingly
high shoes and eye-popping outfits that her younger sisters had received for
their birthdays. Instead, as the eldest child, she was unwrapping a pile of
grown-up gifts, books, craft – things that educated and probably made her
smarter, but probably rated high on the disappointing-gift register.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But this was a rock polisher. Looking like something out of
a Pokemon cartoon, it contained an electronic tumbler, an assorted of rough
looking stones, and four bags of grit. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What fun, I thought, as she pulled everything out of the box
and began glancing through the instruction book.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few minutes later, she wandered past, having poured the
rocks into the tumbler and added the first, most coarse level of polishing
sand. How educational, I thought.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The she turned it on and the entire house was instantly
filled with a grinding, rattling sound as rocks bounced off plastic and a cheap
motor guzzled up electricity. My smile wavered a bit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘So, ah, this first stage will take four to six days,’ she
said tossing the instruction booklet in front of me and picking up a book.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wait, what?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Four to six DAYS?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My husband shot me a dirty look and went to hide upstairs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Yeah,’ she said mildly, ‘the whole thing should only take
about four weeks.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Four WEEKS?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With a nervous twitch I picked up the instruction book and
began to desperately search for proof she was wantonly mistaken.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My daughter noticed my panic and pointed out that if left up
to nature, polishing rocks would normally takes years, so really, this was very
quick. I wanted to point out we could probably BUY lovely polished gems from
the local market for a couple of dollars and save ourselves a lot of headaches.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I did some calculations in my head. Four WEEKS. That was
definitely long enough to initiate divorce proceedings, I was sure, especially given
the angry stomping coming from upstairs, where the vibrations from the rock
tumbler were coming through the ceilings.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ignoring the nasty looks and thinly veiled comments from my
husband over the next few days, we established a buffering system which
included boxes, cork mats, piles of tea-towels and shutting doors all in a
desperate attempt to block the relentless, agonising sound of that damn rock
tumbler.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a couple of days my husband spat the dummy and turned
it off at the wall.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I have a headache,’ he moaned.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m the one who works from home, I thought. I have to listen
to it during the day as well as the night.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My daughter was beside herself. ‘I have to reset the timer
now, Dad. It goes back to the start of the four days.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shot my husband a dirty look. He rolled his eyes and left
for work.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We established that we could pause the timer overnight, a
compromise that meant that the house would be quiet(er) overnight, but it would
now take EIGHT days to complete the first step.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Suddenly, about a week later as I was working at my computer
at the kitchen table, the house suddenly went quiet. It took a moment for my
brain to adjust to the silence. The tumbler had stopped. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first stage was
over.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That afternoon, my daughter unscrewed the chamber and poured
out the dirty, gritty water. A pile of rocks followed. She was excited about
the changes she could already see in the stones. I just saw a pile of dirty
rocks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘The next stage goes for seven days,’ she informed me
happily as she poured the Stage Two powder into the chamber and set the
timer. Immediately the house started vibrating again and I felt my head begin
to pound. ‘This is so awesome, I can’t wait to see them at the end,’ and she
skipped off to school.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are currently at the end of Stage Two and still have two
packets of increasingly fine grit to go. As per our agreement the tumbler is
only ever on during the day after my husband leaves for work, so I am the only
one who gets to enjoy the brain-numbing repetitiveness of the worst present
ever, penance perhaps and well deserved, considering I bought the damn thing
for her…<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZauEC-HsSFC8DG4FhyphenhyphenPiODQKEGBM1YcL4si5xT0qtrB6zhDmRmcKVoF_H7vNuqayIdqG1DooLyuEEERQqO0VwEkpcVgZ4MfAQpyu9r1kFBwmDBSGM_uXVZ8Ya6q3Op4LvvewdC1xUkvL_/s1600/polished-pebbles-1576521__340.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="453" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZauEC-HsSFC8DG4FhyphenhyphenPiODQKEGBM1YcL4si5xT0qtrB6zhDmRmcKVoF_H7vNuqayIdqG1DooLyuEEERQqO0VwEkpcVgZ4MfAQpyu9r1kFBwmDBSGM_uXVZ8Ya6q3Op4LvvewdC1xUkvL_/s320/polished-pebbles-1576521__340.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">NOT worth it!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
</div>
Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8691787304230239228.post-3450973224716595912017-05-13T06:52:00.000+08:002017-05-13T06:52:04.213+08:00Pooper Scooper<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Recently we
grew our family by one more, with the adoption of a little black puppy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">In the
words of my daughter’s Year Two teacher ‘what was I thinking?' – here I was with
my children all off at school full time, finally with the opportunity to do
what I wanted – and I took myself all the way back to square one.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">What was I
thinking indeed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">[What I was
thinking was that if my husband and kids were going to gang up on me and just
buy a dog of their own volition, I may as well get involved and have a say on
the matter by choosing my own puppy. But as they say, you don’t choose the dog –
they choose you, and a tiny black Shoodle with a white beard and sad eyes chose
me as her new mum.]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOSEPsT7jEM4Xt0d8NJZ9KPCpDEEb9cLMB7Ai5bTyVQMqpje34yI1vsxs1r2iP2xNV3WRvnLxPhlef-pyldvmwHhhglAkIfoJUUrl9LQXKYHr9KHneSScZ4izvN3lI0gj98Qu0sqi-kae2/s1600/20150209_144954.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOSEPsT7jEM4Xt0d8NJZ9KPCpDEEb9cLMB7Ai5bTyVQMqpje34yI1vsxs1r2iP2xNV3WRvnLxPhlef-pyldvmwHhhglAkIfoJUUrl9LQXKYHr9KHneSScZ4izvN3lI0gj98Qu0sqi-kae2/s320/20150209_144954.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">So, meet
Poppy. That’s her actual name, unlike the nicknames I gave the kids (remember
them – Baldy Baby, Curly Mop and Blonde Bombshell. Me either]. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Poppy’s a
Shoodle, as I said, a cross between a Shi Tzu and a Toy Poodle. Of course, when
I am upset I refer to her as a Shit-Poo, which is what this story is about (did
the title give it away?)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Poppy is
now almost five months old and we are working our way through toilet training
(square one, Shannon, square one). It’s mostly going well, if you ignore the
fact that the kids cry and moan and whine every time it’s their turn on ‘Poo
Duty’ so they pretend they don’t see the ever mounting pile of poop in the back
yard until finally someone (usually a visitor) steps in it, and then all hell
breaks loose and I threaten to get rid of the dog (or the kids, depending on
who is annoying me more). Then I have to decipher the Poo Duty Roster to see
whose ticks are real and whose are just put there by crafty kids who think I
won’t notice they have ticked off their duty without actually scooping some
poop.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But the
other day, Poppy was stuck inside the house with me. The door had been shut
against the sound of a blower vac in the back yard and Poppy, not the bravest
soul, had decided that was way too much noise for one small puppy to bear. I
had the dustpan and brush out, sweeping up the rogue dirt and leaves that
always made it under our old doors (weather proofing, what weather proofing?)
when I heard a familiar sound.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I was
already on my knees sweeping, so when I turned my head to confirm the sound, I
was confronted by the contracting anal sphincter muscles of the puppy, a
wettish, slurping sound as she attempted to push a poo out. Right onto the rug.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘No’ I
shrieked leaping towards her on my knees. She looked at me with a bewildered
expression, wondering why I was interrupting her Me-Time. I looked up at the
door – it was locked and I knew I wouldn’t have time to grab the dog, stand up,
unlock the door and take her outside to the grass before she finished pushing
her poop out, so I thrust the dustpan under her butt to catch the poop instead. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Unimpressed, she moved a few steps forwards and continued working on those butt
muscles. I shuffled forward on my knees, dustpan outstretched. Squelch. Got
one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">She looked
at me disdainfully and daintily stepped away again. I shuffled after her again,
catching poop as she laid it, me on my knees as I followed the tiny puppy
around our living room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">When she
finished she sat there watching me as I inspected the dustpan. A small pile of
poop, covered in dust and dirt (and full of all the weird crap she ate – I swear
there was a shoelace in there). </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">She smiled at me in that way dogs do, as if to
say ‘what are you going to do now?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I tipped
the entire lot into the toilet, praying to God the bits of leaf would flush
away, and then (now the gardener had left) went outside to wash the dustpan. She
sat on her cushion and watched me, probably wondering what the big deal was,
but gee, wasn’t this good service where her human follows her around collecting
her poop as it drops.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And yes,
this is my life now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Right back at square one.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYE_tEh6528yp8d0cVJh_rbYIXVSA317b0s10Gp1Cz_5LoOH7e1BAar9_00iB8Fi8RT-dGvX1k-Mce1o7rojf8KQDv8mR58EpXEsrJxUnV7-7dWXc2M5MmqWi-8D0-0BzbsgklAAIMBbw1/s1600/Poppy+finds+the+toilet+paper+March+2017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYE_tEh6528yp8d0cVJh_rbYIXVSA317b0s10Gp1Cz_5LoOH7e1BAar9_00iB8Fi8RT-dGvX1k-Mce1o7rojf8KQDv8mR58EpXEsrJxUnV7-7dWXc2M5MmqWi-8D0-0BzbsgklAAIMBbw1/s320/Poppy+finds+the+toilet+paper+March+2017.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some bright spark gave the puppy a roll of toilet paper to play with</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
</div>
Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8691787304230239228.post-35012396477097520082016-12-21T11:29:00.001+08:002017-11-12T18:56:26.176+08:00The Pain of Invisibility<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t even recall how the conversation started.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think she had been complaining about her
youngest sister, upset that the little one got to sleep with her Dad by simply crawling into bed with him. The truth being, she
was sometimes afraid of being on her own, and was jealous of her youngest
sister.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She couldn’t understand why her four year old sister had everything
she needed while she, at nine and a half, still had to battle to get noticed
across the noise.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tried to explain:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You are all different people and you will succeed in the
world differently,” I said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Your youngest sister walks into a room and immediately fills
it. She is bright and bubbly and is happy pushing herself forward into
situations other people would feel scared about. It is as though she fills the
room with little explosions of glitter and noise and song and people can’t help
but notice. They draw energy from her but it can be wild and unsettling for
some. Some people back away from her or are put off by her energy, but
underneath it all, she has a heart of gold and has a caring soul. It’s just
that it comes wrapped in a Mardi Gras. She will impact a lot of people,
especially those who are drawn to her energy and vitality.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She nodded, silent.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Your middle sister, on the other hand is less obvious and
people underestimate her. You have to scratch beneath the surface to see her true
value – in other words, you need to take time and make effort. The way she will
impact the world is neither immediate nor obvious, but for those who persist,
she will be immensely powerful and influential.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stroked the hair off her forehead. It was late, well past
both our bedtimes, but I could see she was needing to talk, to make sense of
her day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You, on the other hand, carry your golden heart in your
hands, offered in front on you. You will enter the room and be silent. You won’t
draw attention to yourself, you will simply hold your heart up in front of you.
Many people won’t notice you or see you. But there will be special people who
feel you, who can sense you through the crowded room and be drawn to you. You
will make a powerful connection to the world, especially through these special people
who are like you, and notice you and seek you out.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was at this point that I noticed the tears slipping down
her cheek. She simply nodded quickly, as if by agreeing with what I said, would
make it come true.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a room full of people, my eldest can be the last one
noticed. Her middle sister is also quiet and often unseen – the difference
being that my middle doesn’t mind and she prefers her own company. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you want to be noticed, and aren’t, that is when it
begins to hurt.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I have no doubt that you will all be incredibly successful
in your lives,” I continued. “It’s just that you have such different ways of
interacting with the world. So don’t judge yourself by your sisters’ benchmarks
and by what – and how – they achieve things.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You are totally unique and so your impact will be felt
differently, but I have no doubt it will be incredible.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With a little nod, she smiled. I kissed her on her forehead
and said goodnight. She was invisible no longer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjppjNfq4V8aFWSbRP-ipW-2WyUj5VnS7AfOdwCQCT9VOQ47KIxoCi1vKee1S-zrDLQ28cPfbHWUrT6yhZsjwoeG1VihSu1lNIKTpyfxZgGycO0PlGZzpryycOEGvzKkVMKY2ncMUi3G_yk/s1600/love+jpeg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjppjNfq4V8aFWSbRP-ipW-2WyUj5VnS7AfOdwCQCT9VOQ47KIxoCi1vKee1S-zrDLQ28cPfbHWUrT6yhZsjwoeG1VihSu1lNIKTpyfxZgGycO0PlGZzpryycOEGvzKkVMKY2ncMUi3G_yk/s320/love+jpeg.jpg" width="207" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8691787304230239228.post-88921895251847719822016-10-27T11:52:00.000+08:002016-10-27T11:55:29.902+08:00Why You Should Let Your Four Year Old Self-Diagnose<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I have a scratchy bottom,’ my four year old told the
bemused girl behind the counter.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She leaned forward to emphasis her point. ‘Every time I do a
poo,’ she said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The poor girl was silent, flicking glances at me every now
and then.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘From here!’ she exclaimed turning slightly and pointing at
her butt. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘It’s scratchy,’ she said again, giving her butt a good rub
as if to prove a point.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The bewildered girl looked embarrassed. She’ll have to get
over that if she wants to work in a chemist, I thought to myself. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Is it her cheeks or where… where the poo comes from?’ she
asked quietly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Where the poo comes from,’ my daughter replied loudly.
‘Poo!’ she repeated for the benefit of the old lady who had walked up behind
us. ‘My bottom is scratchy,’ she told the old lady conspiratorially.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The old
lady nodded knowingly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We all looked at the girl waiting for a solution.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I’m going to have to get the pharmacist,’ she said and
scuttled off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even the old lady rolled her eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The pharmacist was much better prepared, stooping down to
the level of her newest patient and not looking the slightest bit embarrassed
at the discussion about poos and holes and whether it was appropriate to stick
your fingers in your bottom if it was scratchy (hint: it’s not, especially at
Kindy or at dinner-time).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a lengthy chat with my daughter, the pharmacist stood
up and gave me a smile. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I think the best option is to treat her for worms. If
nothing changes after that, then we consider treating her for a dermatitis.’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Awesome, I thought. Worms.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘And I’m sure you know you will need to treat the whole
family,’ she said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even better, I thought.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Clutching her chocolate-lookalike medicine as we walked back
through the shops (someone deserves a medal for making worm medicine look and
taste like chocolate) my daughter was very excited. It could have been the
prospect of no longer having an itchy butt, but more likely was the fact that
she got chocolate medicine.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At home, the rest of the family eyeballed the chocolate
squares I put in front of them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘And why are we taking this exactly?’ asked my eldest
daughter, sniffing it suspiciously. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Just take it,’ said the middle daughter, her mouth already
full. ‘It’s yummy.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My husband knew exactly what it was. ‘Awesome,’ he said
drily. I just shrugged.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two days later and my four year woke up complaining.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I have a scratchy arm,’ she pouted. ‘I think the ants went
on my bom bom and now they went on my arm and that’s why I’m itchy.’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Ummm… I don’t think it’s ants,’ I started.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘It is,’ she replied with the determination that only a four
year old can muster. ‘I think the ants bite me because they think I’m a
sandwich.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She shook her head sadly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I don’t like being a sandwich.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZVPLT-9CLikfWU6nXrRndE_cEdTJXX-fxIJkdgzdcZMU8Mh8GVvbkOp3POqsyyKEeTUionzaqHVbkOUxfO0MJsWiBcMCz9S0DBhQ6blcfpASL_DCRbQncaJsGNgtn_HfXimEZeWnDTXZ8/s1600/worms+jpeg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZVPLT-9CLikfWU6nXrRndE_cEdTJXX-fxIJkdgzdcZMU8Mh8GVvbkOp3POqsyyKEeTUionzaqHVbkOUxfO0MJsWiBcMCz9S0DBhQ6blcfpASL_DCRbQncaJsGNgtn_HfXimEZeWnDTXZ8/s1600/worms+jpeg.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8691787304230239228.post-66246662046220956852016-08-22T21:29:00.003+08:002016-08-22T21:43:06.279+08:0073 Words Explaining How Important I am to My Children<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
We were driving home from swimming lessons and had barely left the carpark when:<br />
<br />
Four year old: My seat belt! It's not done up. I will be arrested and they will take me to jail!<br />
<br />
Me: Actually, <i>I</i> will be the one they arrest and take to jail.<br />
<br />
Four year old: Good<br />
<br />
Six year old: NOT good! Who will make us dinner?<br />
<br />
<i>And thus, my place in the world has been made clear.</i><br />
<br /></div>
Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8691787304230239228.post-15100565574213659562016-08-03T09:28:00.000+08:002016-08-03T09:28:09.539+08:00Why You Will Never Win an Argument with a Four Year Old<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I don’t want to go to school. I hate school!’ came the
voice from under the blanket.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My husband and I exchanged looks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘It’s booooring,’ came the voice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You know what’s boring?’ I asked. ‘Having this conversation
every day,’ I muttered.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Half way through four year old Kindy, and my daughter seems
to think she is done. I don’t want to imagine her disappointment when she
realises she has at least 13 and a half more years ahead of her, even without
university.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A loud farting noise came from under the blanket, where she
had secreted herself in front of the fireplace.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Was that your bottom?’ I asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘My bottom HATES you,’ came the reply.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My husband, packing his bag and about to escape to work,
stifled a giggle. I raised my eyebrows in a ‘see what I have to deal with’
look. He just gave me a big cheesy grin and walked out. ‘Bye!’ he smirked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘And my arms hate you. And my tummy hates you. And my head
hates you. We all hate you,’ the little voice continued.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was silence as she waited for a response.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I just want a ham and cheese toastie from canteen!’ she
shrieked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ah, so that was what this was all about. Getting lunch from
the canteen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I was silent.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I don’t want to listen to you!’ she yelled from under the
rug.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a very one-sided conversation and I was beginning to
wonder if she was hearing imaginary voices.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I WANT HAM AND CHEESE TOASTIE’ she shouted, finally sitting
up, the blanket falling away, revealing her little face pink with anger and
warmth from being under the rug.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I raised an eyebrow and put on my best ‘mature Mummy’ voice,
though it was far from what I really wanted to do.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You know that when you speak to me like that, I don’t
listen - so you won’t get what you want,’ I said calmly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her face dropped.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘So I won’t get dinner?’ she wailed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘No pyjamas?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hang on, where is this going.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘No fishies. No cuggles? No painting?’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She made her eyes look big and sad and pouted her mouth,
trying to imply I was an evil mother who wouldn’t feed or love her child. I
wanted to grab the blanket off her so I could hide under it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just looked at her and held up her lunch bag which I had
been packing with sandwiches and fruit and cheese and crackers and a piece of
cake fresh from the bloody oven.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In defeat, she tossed her hair. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘I’m going
to hide from you and you will never ever find me and I won’t go to school.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Where are you going to hide?’ I asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Here.’ And she pulled the blanket back over her head.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8691787304230239228.post-21621095243651694982016-06-15T21:29:00.001+08:002016-06-15T21:29:29.531+08:00The Sperm and the Egg<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘But how does the man’s sperm actually get inside the woman?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hesitated.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was the most direct, specific question she had asked to
date and it deserved an honest answer. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then again, she was only nine. Barely.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had started with a general chat at bedtime. She wanted to
know when to expect puberty. She wanted to know if you could choose a boy baby
or a girl baby. She wanted to know if boys bled every month like girls. They were
thoughtful questions that I answered easily and as simply as I could. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which meant
in reality, that I used ten words when two would suffice but that’s just me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had recently been to a seminar at school about how to talk
to kids about sex without screwing it up. Pardon the pun. Originally expecting
around 30 people, over 120 parents had crammed into the library – we all knew
what we had ahead of us. And we were all bloody terrified.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the take-home messages was ‘teachable moments’,
taking advantage of naturally occurring situations where you can ease sex into
conversation. The other was ‘always answer their questions’.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Well,’ I said, crouching beside her bed, delaying this as
long as I could without being too obvious, ‘with his penis. The man puts his
penis inside the lady’s vagina and the sperm comes out. And if there is an egg
there, it can make a baby. It’s called sex, people have sex and it can make a baby’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She ducked her head under doona for a moment before peeking
out at me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Does it hurt? Doing, that <i>thing</i>?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Sex?’ No,’ I said. ‘’It shouldn’t. It actually feels nice.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She screwed up her face. ‘Too much information, Mum’, she
said. ‘You could have just said “I’ll tell you when you’re older”, like you did
last year.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Inwardly I groaned. Outwardly I remained calm. ‘You <i>are</i> older, now. Old enough to know about
it, definitely not old enough to do it.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Ewww, don’t worry about <i>that</i>!’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stood up, unsure if I did well or if I had made a
monumental mistake. Her head was under the covers and she wriggled around.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Ewwww.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Methinks I need to tell her tomorrow morning <i>not</i> to repeat this conversation at
school. Or to her sisters.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB3-RfGb8B9merrY4YWa8IksKIzL1GdVN4Pzad3zYpgbcAW-4Mng2JMvd9WO9QVezEaT96MSFjSZF6uCYchcjKocjtImZt54LrBzJblBpMhPiNSdY-nxrbjy04DoJPHTd4wEbfl0UzaDDs/s1600/eggs-1406309_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB3-RfGb8B9merrY4YWa8IksKIzL1GdVN4Pzad3zYpgbcAW-4Mng2JMvd9WO9QVezEaT96MSFjSZF6uCYchcjKocjtImZt54LrBzJblBpMhPiNSdY-nxrbjy04DoJPHTd4wEbfl0UzaDDs/s320/eggs-1406309_1280.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8691787304230239228.post-63216816104239326582016-05-20T07:07:00.001+08:002016-05-20T07:07:39.956+08:00What My Child Learned from Angry Birds – and it may surprise you<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
We took our family to see Angry Birds – the Movie the other
day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wasn’t overly impressed, there were probably too many gay-dance-club-naked-buttocks-in-leather-chaps
scenes than there should have been for a kids cartoon, but hey, I’m not
judging.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was a little concerned about the linguistic (and cooking)
nightmare the movie set up between pigs referring to eggs as ‘omelettes’ and
birds referring to eggs as ‘children’, but I can live with that as well.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There were plenty of fart jokes and nastiness and bottoms,
but that’s just a typical day at our place.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What I found most fascinating about this movie, was the
message my four year old daughter took home with her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She already has a bit of a reputation for being a wild one
(or a holy terror, depending on who you talk to) so taking her to a movie that
celebrates anger and blowing up and hitting things that displease you, was
always going to be a risk.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet, the one thing she took away with her was the meditation
scene. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shocking, right?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few days after we saw the movie she told me how she taught
her grandma how to ‘breathe’. Mildly confused, and probably distracted by some
hilarious meme on Facebook, I nodded and smiled and said ‘that’s awesome.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Knowing she was being ignored, she sat cross legged on the
floor, stretched her arms out with her palms turned upwards and closed her
eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Considering this was the quietest she had been since birth,
I could not help noticing. I was so shocked in fact I needed a glass of wine
and a lie down.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The holy terror… was meditating.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then a few days after that I spoke with her grandma about
this amazing scene. I had assumed that she had taught my daughter the restful
pose, but needed two glasses of wine and a lie-down when I was informed, that
it was my daughter who was doing the teaching. And that she had learned how to meditate
from Angry Birds.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I doubt she will be becoming a Buddhist monk any time soon,
her meditation sessions never last more than 30 seconds, but it has filled me with
hope that amongst the fart jokes and naked cowboys and cannibalistic pigs of
the world, a small child still notices a moment of silence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyT-2v6i5YeLGcUYVXBaufhhypMdfjQSKXWbyy3tSZFzlzt4lBzs2hdP1ZQsZHbos7KxV7ATLCsiTdxnIW8xvkamNd4ePLZTW-CV-4IwbuJ-JnlWxNxP2ryZMmtPOwbETOHSRoagvc9aBH/s1600/angry-birds-the-movie.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyT-2v6i5YeLGcUYVXBaufhhypMdfjQSKXWbyy3tSZFzlzt4lBzs2hdP1ZQsZHbos7KxV7ATLCsiTdxnIW8xvkamNd4ePLZTW-CV-4IwbuJ-JnlWxNxP2ryZMmtPOwbETOHSRoagvc9aBH/s320/angry-birds-the-movie.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8691787304230239228.post-47709571328434496202016-04-12T22:22:00.001+08:002016-04-12T22:22:43.847+08:00The Cook and the Chef<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">There was a tear rolling down her cheek. Her big blue eyes
were wet and her lip was trembling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">She was crying over egg white and I was finding it difficult
not to walk out of the room in frustration.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">She wasn’t crying because she had broken a bone, or had a
fight with her friend or because people are dying in refugee camps across the
globe. She was crying because I had been unable to find freeze-dried egg white
at the local grocery store.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Frigging freeze dried egg white?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Her misery had started because she had found the recipe for peppermint
creams in one of those Christmas craft books that I always buy in anticipation
of the festive season, but forget about until sometime after Valentine’s Day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The ingredients consisted of dried egg white, half a fresh
eggwhite, peppermint essence and icing sugar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">What was I meant to do with the other half egg white, I
wanted to know?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I had warned her that it was an unusual ingredient, but she
is rarely one to let reality get in the way of a good idea. I trekked around
the shop three times, looking at various sections before admitting defeat and asking
one of the shop managers to look it up on the computer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The strange look she gave me was probably deserved. ‘Yeah
no. We don’t have that here,’ she said. ‘I don’t think anyone has that anymore,’
she said rather unnecessarily.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">When I told the Bombshell I couldn’t find the dried eggwhite,
she seemed to take it quite well. We’d try at a different shop, I told her. </span><span style="font-size: large;">People make pavlova from it, I said. Someone will have it. And she had shrugged
and walked away.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But as usual, bedtimes congeals the smallest disappointment
into a puddle of distress. A puddle that needed to be dealt with so that I
could make my escape to my own bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">And so the tear was rolling down her face, and something she
had clearly been dwelling on for 12 hours was bubbling up inside her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Frigging egg white.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">It took some gentle prodding to get to the real issue. Already
a competent baker of muffins and cakes, brownies and biscuits, she wanted to try
something new. She was getting stale (my pun, not hers). She needed to branch
out. She wanted to make lollies and sweets.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Aware of what I was getting myself into, but too tired to
care, I went to my stash of cookbooks and came back with an armful of books: ‘Pies
and Puddings’, ‘Sweets and Toffees’, ‘Ice-creams and Sorbets’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Her eyes widened and she greedily grabbed at the books.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Tomorrow,’ I said. ‘You can tell me what you want to make tomorrow.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">And with that I disappeared upstairs to shower.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Ten minutes later the door slid open. I shouldn’t have been
surprised but I was still annoyed at having been caught unawares. And nude. ‘Always
knock,’ I warned her. ‘Or one day you might walk in on something you don’t want
to see.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">She looked at me, puzzled, but decided it wasn’t the time to
ask what I meant. Instead she held a book out in front of her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘I found something,’ she said. ‘I want to make this and I am
sure we will have the ingredients.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Ok,’ I said, noticing she was holding the Ice-cream and
Sorbet book. ‘Which yummy treat do you want to make?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Pumpkin ice-cream!’ she said with glee, showing me the
recipe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Pumpkin, friggin ice-cream.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I’ll let you know how it goes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8691787304230239228.post-14653783508604284852016-03-14T12:33:00.000+08:002016-03-14T12:33:27.980+08:00When Your Eight Year Old Daughter Starts Thinking About Boys<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘I’m going to need talking time tonight, Mum’ my eldest
daughter whispered to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Just shy of nine, the Bombshell is in that twilight zone of
wanting to be a kid, but knowing that something big is just around the corner. Tall,
bright and thoughtful, she is a lovely person to be around – except when she is
practicing to be a teenager, which seems to be happening more and more often
these days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Talking time, which usually happens in bed before lights
out, is our way of connecting with each other. A one-on-one chance to discuss
things that might be troubling her or just a chin-wag without pesky sisters listening
in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘You know how you said I couldn’t get a boyfriend until I
was 18…’ she began.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I didn’t recall saying that exactly, but it seemed like good
advice and it hardly seemed the time to debate the point.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Yes,’ I said in my best non-panicked voice. Where was this
going?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Well, do you think it is ok if I have a friend who is a
boy?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She looked up at me with her big blue eyes, hopeful and
pained at the same time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I knew exactly who she was talking about. Earlier that night
we had been for a class dinner at the local food court, and despite the
enormous turnout of a dozen families and more than 45 adults and kids, I had
seen them at one point, sitting by themselves at a long, otherwise empty table.
I couldn’t hear what they were saying, or if they were talking at all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It seemed like one of those moments in the movies, when the
world continues to rush around you, while the main characters remain motionless,
unaffected by what was happening around them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My other two kids were part of the crowd, running like
ferals through the food court. The youngest (now a Kindy kid) was bailing up
the Year Five boys and threatening them with her water bottle, while my middle
was flirting with someone’s popular older sister. Kids were everywhere. Parents
were chatting over each other, moving around the tables, greeting each other
warmly. Food was being passed around, drinks were being poured, everyone was in
a state of flux and action.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Except those two. Heads together, a moment of solitude
amongst a carnival of noise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It didn’t last, but later that night it was obviously on her
mind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I would <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hope</i> that you have friends that are boys as well as girls.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘But...’ and I could tell there was more, but she couldn’t
articulate it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Do you want to hold his hand?’ I asked, choosing the most
innocent of activities I could think of. Kissing is still considered gross and shocking
in our house.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She screwed up her face. ‘No!’ she said with disgust.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ooops, too far, I thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Do you get excited when you see him?’ I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She rocked her head side to side thinking, then shrugged.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘No… not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">excited</i>’ she
admitted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I thought again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Are you just glad when you see him, and glad to know he is
at school?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She smiled broadly – ‘that’s it,’ she said. ‘I’m just glad
he is there.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I couldn’t resist cupping her face in my hand. ‘I’m sure he
feels the same way, and that’s how all good friends feel. You feel reassured to
know they are nearby. Girls, boys, whatever. What you are describing is just
special friendship, and that is totally ok to feel like that.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She smiled, obviously reassured. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I was reassured too. Earlier that night I had heard parents
of older kids discussing the fact that boys and girls who had been friends
since pre-school, were worried about being teased for walking to school
together. While the divide between the sexes was inevitable at some point, I
hoped it was a long way off, and that my daughters could just look at people as
friends and evaluate them on what type of person they were, as opposed to
whether they were a boy or a girl. Naïve, perhaps, but still a worthy dream.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Thanks Mum,’ she said and reached for her book, her problem
obviously sorted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I wandered out, feeling the thrill of managing to solve a
problem without stuffing it up, the warmth of affection towards my growing daughter,
and the stab of panic of what might come next.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></div>
Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8691787304230239228.post-8533575111373617762016-02-16T09:53:00.001+08:002016-02-16T09:53:07.841+08:00Lock them in their rooms<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My (almost) four year old and I were playing. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Normally I don’t do this type of thing, but every now and
then I put my ‘good mum’ hat on and try and do the things they tell me to do in
all the parenting books. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So we were ‘mum friends’ and we were dropping our children
off at school. My ‘daughter’ was a stuffed duck, she had the pig.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Bye bye darlings,’ she sang. ‘Time for school.’ She dropped
the toys unceremoniously on the floor and then turned to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘C’mon mum friend,’ she said. ‘Let’s get coffee.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I swear this is all my family think I do with my time –
drink coffee with my friends. It’s not true. Except on Thursdays.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So we sat at the kitchen table where my coffee was waiting
for me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Uh, I’ll have a milo,’ she told the imaginary shop girl.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She nudged me with her elbow. ‘Get me a milo, please.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sitting down with our beverages, she turned to me and said ‘we’re
having a meeting now, mum friend.’ This is slightly closer to the truth with
what I do with my days: ‘meeting’ covers a multiple of events involving other
adults.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘What shall we talk about?’ I asked innocently.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘My kids! They’re crazy,’ she suddenly shrieked. ‘And your kids
– they’re crazy too.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Oh my,’ I said, mildly concerned at the sudden change in
direction. ‘What shall we do?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Lock them in their room,’ she said bluntly. ‘They’ll never
do it again.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Okaaaaaay. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was a little shocked at her draconian measures. Sure, I
have sent the kids to their room when they’re being naughty, but locking them
away forever is a little extreme, even for me. Apparently to an almost-four
year old though, they’re practically the same thing. Point taken.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Do you think that will work?’ I asked<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘They’re so silly.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘What else shall we talk about,’ I said sipping my coffee.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘We should scare them,’ she told me conspiratorially.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Who? Our kids?’ I wanted to know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Yeah.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Why? I’m not sure that is a great idea.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She looked at me. ‘Ok. We’ll just lock them in their room.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I tried to change tack. ‘Mum friend,’ I said. ‘I need your
advice. My kids don’t listen to me. How do I get them to listen to me?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Just pat them on their heads,’ she said. ‘They’ll be good.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Does that work with your kids,’ I asked her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She hung her head dramatically, peeking out under her fringe.
‘I only have one kid,’ she said. ‘And she be very sick.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Oh my,’ I said. ‘What does your husband think?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Ewwwww,’ she cried indignantly. ‘I don’t have a husband!
And my dad died,’ she added.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘So you don’t have a husband, your dad is dead and your kid
is very sick? That’s so sad,’ I said to her softly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She put on her best sad face, looking up at me with her big
eyes, her mouth pouting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I waited for her next grand statement – maybe a dead dog?
Burned down house?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Except she farted. A huge, bubbling fart that rippled
against the plastic chair.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We both cracked up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The game was over.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGzclJkxZe6X_xrHCnFuYJhnWIJUPrh654stY1mYlfytb_7c_-D4ys2VX4LGLIv8Stit75YJXUIiPptDkielXNa6r8TovL00DMASDG1ZpZyqpUi78A_85xsyB-x8voAHvFcyphyUm_Atrs/s1600/20160102_193159.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGzclJkxZe6X_xrHCnFuYJhnWIJUPrh654stY1mYlfytb_7c_-D4ys2VX4LGLIv8Stit75YJXUIiPptDkielXNa6r8TovL00DMASDG1ZpZyqpUi78A_85xsyB-x8voAHvFcyphyUm_Atrs/s320/20160102_193159.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8691787304230239228.post-11282044111780565602016-01-29T07:06:00.000+08:002016-01-29T07:06:07.850+08:00The Third Child Starts School - Part 1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was easy to tell the first timers from the old hats.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The new parents shuffled in cautiously, unsure what to
expect, their children’s school supplies tucked under their arm. Their eyes would
scan the room, hoping for a familiar face. There wasn’t one. If they came with
their partner they would move towards an empty table, and busy themselves
reading handouts on developmental milestones and State frameworks, pretending that
this wasn’t killing them inside, wondering how they were going to cope on
Monday when they needed to say goodbye.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Us old hats blundered in like we owned the place, which we
kinda did.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After the initial disbelief of being given directions by
someone who was clearly completely new to the school (our lovely new teachers
assistant it turns out) we pulled up chairs and rearranged the library, making space
for old friends, laughing loudly at the exploits of our children over the
holidays.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remembered the whole time how it felt being one of the new
mums, knowing no one, feeling in awe and slightly intimidated by some of the
old hats, who clearly felt relaxed and knowledgeable in their role as school
mums. I just remember feeling distinctly sweaty and out of control.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked around the room at the group of parents whose
children would be attending Kindy with my youngest child. There was the young
dad, asking questions about security and child/adult ratios, wondering whether
kids would be able to scale the fence and escape before a teacher realised.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was the older dad, who calmly told the younger guy not
to worry so much, because the fence was electric. A ripple of nervous laughter
spread throughout the room, until the smiling teacher reminded everyone that no
– the fence was not electric.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was the shy young aunty, sent in as a representative
for parents who were obviously at work. She was clearly out of her depth and I
felt for her as she smiled eagerly at every new face who approached her table.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Behind us the heavily pregnant woman, perhaps only weeks
away from delivering. That was me four years ago, taking my eldest to full time
school for the first time, while I was 100 months pregnant. I bumped bellies
with a small lady also holding hands with a little girl. The girls eyed each
other as I eyed the other mum. Her bump was so small, so tidy. She was looking
at my sprawling mass.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘It’s my third,’ I told her as though it would explain away
my giganticism.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Me too,’ she said. I hated her immediately.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tonight, she was sitting next to me as we swapped stories about
our third children. I confessed I was nervous about Number Three’s offensive
new habit of calling people ‘Buttface’ when she didn’t like what you were
telling her. My friend was concerned about her son’s habit of pulling down his
pants and weeing on everything. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We laughed as we imagined ourselves being called to the
Principal’s Office to explain our children’s behaviour.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meanwhile I could feel eyes on me. In awe, maybe. Intimidated,
perhaps. Wishing we would shut up, quite likely. Awe and intimidation are only
temporary until you get to know someone. Wishing they would shut up, I have
been told, is permanent. As I looked around the room, I wondered if my new BFF
was in the room. I wondered what experiences I would share with these mums and
dads, which of their kids would become part of my daughter’s life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is the third and final time I will be doing this –
taking my child to ‘the first day of school’. There is a luxury in doing things
for the third time, a sense of familiarity and control. Even though the school
might not be ready for Number Three and her potty mouth, I am ready for this
final journey.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Bring on Monday.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Shannon Meyerkorthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02701641111374172892noreply@blogger.com0