Fatal Mistakes at the Kindy Fete

Perhaps word got out that I was a soft touch.  But they kept coming back, fingering the toys, eyes scanning the tables, watching me for weakness, ready to pounce. Like wild animals.

I was running the Pre-Loved stall for the Kindy fete.  It had never been my intention to volunteer as a co-ordinator, but they say sometimes it is good to find oneself outside your comfort zone.  Let's be clear - I hate selling things.  I hate asking for money, even for a good cause, and so the prospect of selling other people's unwanted junk for 3 hours on a hot Sunday morning did not exactly fill me with joy.

Not only was I selling other people's unwanted junk, but I was selling plenty of my own.  For weeks I had been siphoning off excess toys and games in some desperate attempt to gain control over all the Other Stuff going on in my life. 

I should have known that selling 30 year old, probably collectible toys, for $1 is not the quickest way to a good night's sleep.  Shall we talk about regret for a while?

I should have known that no matter how much of my own junk I sold, it was inevitable I would return home with a bag full of someone else's junk.  Shall we talk about OCD for a while?

I had spent the better part of three or four weeks collecting, sorting and pricing stuffed toys, puzzles, games, clothing and assorted bits and bobs that ranged from a crappy frisbee that obviously came free with a Red Rooster Kids meals to a brand new, still-in-the-box baby's activity table (RRP $35.59). 

My instructions were clear, this stall is for the kids who show up with their proverbial pennies, so price things from 50c to $2.  And that's what I did?  Enormous stuffed toys, many brand new? $1.  A handful of small stuffed toys? Give me 50c.  That huge bag of clothes and shoes?  Let's say $5.

I sold a beautiful, giant teddy bear to a small girl for all the money she had (20c) on the condition she gave it a good name ('Chocolate') and a loving home.

I sold my 1984 Australian Olympic team mascot (Willy the Koala) to a small child for $1, at the same time giving him a lecture on antiques and preserving our heritage.

[Sidenote, panicking that I had inadvertently sold a valuable antique I have just checked eBay to see if Willy the Koala toys are currently worth hundreds of dollars.  They're not, and someone in Qld is trying to offload one for $20 with no success.  Phew.]

I don't know if it was the look of joy in the child's eyes upon finding a great new toy, or the joy of the parents discovering it was only $1 that was more rewarding.  So many parents went from telling their children 'No, we have already spent enough this morning' to 'Sure, see what else you can find'.

My enthusiasm for getting rid of toys waned during the morning, and I saw the sad faces of my childhood staring up at me from a box. Damn Toy Story III and their self-righteous jab at people who abandon toys. 

One by one, many of my toys were rescued from the table and hidden surreptitiously in my bag. 

So, was it worth it?  What grand sum of money did I raise with my three or four weeks of hard work, temporarily losing my lounge room floor, selling my childhood, stealing from my own children...

Just over $230.  Of 10 stalls I made the very least.

Next year, I think I might just give them the $230 and chuck everything in the skip.

Blessed Art Thou Among Women

Sometimes the way the world fits together hurts a little.  It doesn't seem fair, it doesn't make sense.

I have just come home from seeing 'Motherhood the Musical' and I loved it completely.  I laughed so much my face still hurts, but I also had a few sneaky tears that I wiped away when the lights dropped. 

I suspect I wasn't the only one.

The audience was predominantly older ladies, grandma vintage rather than yummy mummies, with a few handbag husbands thrown in.  I felt a bit young, but that's sometimes nicer than feeling a bit old.

It made me want to come home and hug my children.  It made me want to call my Mum and tell her how much I love her.  It made me feel grateful for the wonderful gift I have been given, even if sometimes I want to lock myself in the bathroom and eat a block of chocolate (or drink a bottle of wine) and pretend I can't hear the chaos outside.

At the same time, as the joy still reflected on my face, as I settled down to my computer, I received a message from a dear friend and her husband who are faced with the shattering news that they must say goodbye to their 13 week old unborn baby.

Parenthood brings with it the highest highs and lowest lows.  I doubt there is much that could compare with the pain they are experiencing right now.  The loss of not only a child, but a grandchild, a niece or nephew, a sibling, a cousin.  The loss of a dream, of potential.

The fierce pride we feel in our children, the unrelenting love, the desire to be what they need us to be, this is what keeps us going each day, what makes overlook the pain, the frustration and the exhaustion which comes with parenting. 

Some people get the chance to stand in front of a roomful of people and quite literally sing about their highs and lows.  They get to share stories we know all too well, crack jokes at our collective expense, and at the end of the night they get applause for their efforts from a room full of people.

Other people spend the night alone in the knowledge that next week they must say goodbye to their baby, and all the love in the world, all the friends and family who may be there for them, cannot possibly bring enough comfort.  It can never be enough.

I don't know how to finish.  I want to acknowledge both the happiness and the sadness I feel tonight. 

I don't know how to reconcile these feelings.

The One About the Breast-Feeding Related Ankle Injury [July 2007]

Dear everyone

Wow, things are happening fast.  So many firsts for the little Bombshell over the past week – first smiles, first doctor’s appointment, first party invitation, first flirtation with a boy.  Who said life was dull?

I will start with the smiles, because I am just so chuffed that I finally got my first smile.  It was about an hour ago at 5.15am.  Usually smiles during feeding are followed by a loud fart or explosive poo, but this was different.  I had her on my lap and we were just looking at each other.  I asked her if she was still hungry and suddenly her face just broke into this massive grin – all gums and chubby cheeks.  Her beautiful eyes were smiling at me.  I waited for the accompanying bodily function but it never came.  It was a smile just for me! I could have cried. I feel amazing!!

This overwhelming feeling of well being and good mothering makes up for yesterday when I actually forgot my child’s name for a while.  I was in Retravision buying a crock pot (sexy, I know) and the lovely lady helping me was talking about her own grandchild and nattering on about children being a blessing .  Meanwhile, Shannon is thinking about the pros and cons of oval versus round slow cookers.  This must be a really important issue because it obviously took up all my remaining brain function because when she asked the seemingly innocuous question ‘and what is your little girl’s name?’, for the life of me I could not remember!  I just stood there, blankly, staring at this woman while my brain went ‘what IS my little girl’s name?’.  She just patted me on the arm and said ‘don’t beat yourself up about it dear’ and wandered off to help a man buy a blender. 

The Bombshell and I also had our 6 week check-ups this week, and she passed hers with flying colours (naturally).  I haven’t weighed her recently, but she has a new fat roll on her chubby thighs, so I am guessing she’s doing okay. Mr Maths and I had her stretched out on the breakfast bar about a week ago, and by our calculations she has grown about 7cm since birth.  If you do the sums, that means she will be about 4m tall by the time she is 5 years old.  Pretty good if she plans on being a professional basketballer!

Anyway, Mr Proud had bought a rather nice bottle of champagne for the obstetrician after the Bombshell was born, which he dropped off after being discharged from hospital.  When I went to see the doctor the other day he mentioned he had taken it down south on a weekend away with his wife.  I was waiting for the inevitable ‘it was a lovely drop with a nice bouquet’ type of comment.  What I didn’t expect was   to be told that he drank the champagne but ended up falling down some stairs.  Apparently he’s not much of a drinker.  Oops.  He did say it was a lovely drop though (boom boom).
s

Finally, a word of warning to all expectant mums out there.  Here’s a new one for the books – breastfeeding related ankle injury. Yes, perhaps it’s only possible in my crazy world, but I have injured both my ankles and I am blaming my breasts.  I had noticed after about two weeks at home that my ankles were both really sore and sometimes so weak I would almost fall over when I stood up after feeding the baby (which was a bit scary, maybe that’s why it took so long for her to smile at me). But I realise it’s because I have my feet up on the footstool  and by sitting there for up to eight hours a day with my heels digging into the (faux) leather, it’s pushing my ankles out!  Weird! So now my latest accessories are two ankle braces, and I no longer rest my heels on the footstool, but let my feet dangle over the edge.  I look like a complete dork, but it hurts less.

So that’s us for week 6.  Some of you might be thinking ‘what about the party invite and flirtation with the boy?’.  Well, it’s called a tease (no, not the Bombshell, although on that point, I notice that her eye lashes have grown considerably in the past week too).  I have to save something for next time.

With love and hugs and gummy smiles,

Shannon and the Bombshell

Drooling and in Pain. Why I hate Dentists Part 2

I was back at the dentist again this morning, the second of three scheduled appointments to fix my teeth.  To be honest, I thought I had been treating them quite well.  I brush twice a day, don't smoke, I don't drink sugary drinks and I have plenty of calcium-rich milk in my coffee.  Sure, we all know now I didn't floss, but it's not one those things I was ever taught, and I guess it just slipped my mind.  A friend of mine told me her dentist said 'there are people who can get away with not flossing, but you are not one of those people.'

Apparently neither am I.

My face is so numb that one of my eyelids keep drooping and the occasional tear which squeezes itself out could be due to the multiple anaesthetic injections I received or the miserable hole in which I find myself.  My lips feel enormous and I swear I am drooling, but my chin is so numb I can't actually be sure.  I tried to drink some water with the multiple anti-inflammatories and pain killers the dentist told me I would need, and I promptly spilt it all down my face and chest.  No drinking in public then.  Righto.

The funny thing was that she needed to keep giving me extra anaesthetic, and not because I am a complete wimp but because the women in my family seem to have a very high requirement for pain relief.  This became apparent after the birth of my eldest daughter, and finally succumbing to the need for an epidural after 12 hours of labour, what should have taken 10 minutes took over an hour until I was actually numb.  It happened to my sister a year later, and it was only then that our mum mentioned the same thing had happened all those many moons ago when we were born.  Rather useful information that would have been helpful before the babies were born perhaps.

The downside to this affliction is that it takes much longer to wear off, and so I am yet again faced with the prospect of heading off to uni looking like I have the palsy, with a demented smile that would scare young children and - quite likely - a line of dribble down my chin.

The Great Class(room) Divide

It was inevitable really.

Last week at uni, forced to do group work with girls barely half my age, the expected finally happened.  I'm just surprised it took three weeks.

'So are you coming to the Tav after class?' says young blonde Number 1.

'Totally, I'm so glad it's the weekend.  It's been a long week. I need a drink,' says young blonde Number 2.

Ignoring the fact that this was a Wednesday and as far as I can tell weekends still start on Saturday (or possibly Friday night) I had been waiting for the conversation ever since I enrolled in uni late last year.

To be honest though, to call it a conversation gives the distinct impression that I was included in it.  I wasn't.  The young blondes were tolerating my company, and taking advantage of the fact that I had actually done the readings and knew vaguely what I was talking about.

I wasn't being asked to come to the Tav, but I was finally having that moment when it became blindingly clear that I was a mature aged student, and the only place I would be going after class was to collect my children from daycare and then home to cook everyone dinner.

And I am quite happy with that.

For the half hour we were in our groups (approximately three minutes of which was spent discussing our readings) the girls talked about going to the movies, boys, other classes they were doing, their enormous workloads, their part time jobs and a litany of other equally fascinating topics.

Listening to them (as I wasn't expected to participate) it occurred to me that the primary difference between them and me, was not our ages or our life experiences, where we were heading after class, or whether we knew the difference between memoir and personal essay, but the fact that I really wanted to be there.

They were all working their way through their (first) undergraduate degree.  This course was a core (compulsory) unit, one of four they were currently undertaking.  They had not chosen to be there, and they seemed to have little desire to be there. 

Please do not think I am being too harsh on these girls - I remember feeling exactly the same way about some of my anthropology and psychology units about 14 years ago. In fact, the more time I spend with them, the more I understand my own younger self.

And I like them, I do.  I even admire them.  Spending an entire three hour class on Facebook without getting caught is surely an impressive feat of tenacity.

For them perhaps, going to class is a chore, equivalent to going to work or some other important but un-fun event.  But for me, going to class is an opportunity, a window to a new life, a possibility, freedom. I am glad of this, but I also know that I would never have been able to come to this conclusion now had I not been just like those girls in the past.

The One About the New Mums Group [June 2007]

Dear everyone

Our little blonde bombshell is now almost five weeks old and gaining weight steadily.  We are thinking of enrolling her in sumo classes, because according to the highly technical weighing she had yesterday (using the kitchen scales and a washing basket) she has gained over half a kilo in the past fortnight, and a kilo since birth!  No wonder my back is so sore.

 Maternity leave has been great fun – I have lots of lovely lunches and morning teas with friends and family.  All the ‘baby weight’ that dropped off after the birth seems to have gotten lonely and has come back.   It’s hard to watch two hours of Kerri-Anne without a block of chocolate! Actually, it’s hard watching Kerri-Anne full stop. Huey’s Cooking Adventures on the other hand is great, and I am getting some lovely ideas for dinners!

I went to one of the ‘new mum’ afternoon teas run by the hospital.  What an eye-opener.   40 women and babies means 40 prams, some the size of a Rav 4! We had to queue to get through the door.  Because this session was for babies aged between 1-8 weeks, it meant that for a lot of us it was our first session.   We all stood nervously, talking to our babies because we were too shy and zombified to talk to each other.  You had to sign in, put name stickers on yourself, your baby, your pram and your forehead.  Not really.  Then you left your baby in the company of the ‘volunteers’ (four old dears wearing white aprons) and wandered into the main room which was still set up in the ‘lecture’ style seating from the prenatal classes they also run.

I admit I thought it would be a small group of women, having coffee and Tim Tams chatting to each other about how beautiful their baby was, and trying to outdo each other with how well they are coping.  Uh uh, it was the complete opposite! It was a huge group of women (having coffee and Tim Tams) telling horrible stories about their babies, their breasts, their husbands, lack of sleep, lack of milk, lack of bodily functions, babies getting sick, mums getting sick, nipples falling off, things falling apart.  I sat there stunned, fidgeting, thinking about all the terrible things that can happen to babies, and wishing I was at home watching Kerri-Anne.

The volunteers were there to comfort any of the babies that cried, but if they couldn’t be settled or needed a feed they would pick the baby up and stand just inside the door.  All the mum’s heads would swivel in the direction of the door every time it opened, and the offending mum would slink off in the direction of the screaming baby. Few of them returned!! Occasionally a volunteer would be standing there with a baby for ages and no one would claim it, so they would wander up and down the aisles and we would all giggle because when the Mum finally noticed it was her child, she would be really embarrassed – one woman knocked over her coffee and dropped her Tim Tam in her hurry to grab her child.  She never returned!! By the end of the session, only five babies remained in the pram room (Baby Bombshell included) – all the others were attached to a breast or had been taken home by their mortified mothers.  Apparently the Bombshell never made a sound.  She made up for it when we came home though, and she screamed for the next day and a half!

Last week, while enjoying a Devonshire tea with a friend (it’s a tough life) I was playing with my  bub’s little feet and almost cried when I noticed that her little toes were all curled up because her feet were too big for her suit!!  I had bought the 0000 suit only 2 weeks earlier because she was too little for her 000 suits... now some of her 00 suits are beginning to fit.  My little girl is growing up so fast.  She’s doing a lot of grown up things!  This morning she was actually dancing to Justin Timberlake.  She rolls her eyes when I make stupid jokes.  She knows how to manipulate men.  And she uses her wily charms to make everyone fall in love with her.

Me, I am doing pretty good.  Apart from letting my child listen to Justin Timberlake and eating too much chocolate, I feel like I am coping well with the ‘new mum’ gig.  I try and eat something green every day (and not just Peppermint Aero), I try and get out of my pyjamas every day (and not only because there is baby vomit on them) and I baby talk to complete strangers only about half the time.

There was that time I bought boy nappies by mistake, but in my defence the word ‘boys’ is very small and not immediately apparent.  I now realise that the box is blue for boys and pink for girls, but I try and not be so rigid in my stereotypes!!!

 Anyway, that’s it from us for today.  It’s such a beautiful day I might pop bub in the pram and go for a walk.  Or I might lie on the couch and watch Kerri-Anne with the block of Top Deck I just bought. ..

Love always

Shannon