Diagnosis: Disaster

‘So Shannon,’ the doctor said leaning back in his chair. ‘How can I help you today?’

I gestured towards my youngest daughter, sitting on the floor playing with a toy. ‘I’m worried about her speech,’ I told him. ‘No one understands her.’

‘I’m not sure how much of it is just being the youngest child and the fact everyone speaks for her, but she is significantly less articulate than any other three year old I know.’

My daughter was smiling wildly at the doctor who then produced an otoscope. Her smile dropped and she moved behind my chair. After watching the ‘let’s look in Mummy’s ears’ charade, and having succumbed to her own ear examination, she then started to explore the room.

The Third Child in Foreign Lands

Faced with a list of tiresome chores and no writing mojo to be found anywhere, I decided to indulge in a little private time this morning. I did something we all do, but rarely admit to, like pee in the shower or pick your nose just to look at it.

I googled myself.

The first page was pretty much what I expected. My blogs shannonmeyerkort.com and Relentless came up, as did my profile on WeekendNotes. There was my LinkedIn profile, gathering cobwebs and dust, various reviews and old academic papers, plus lots of mentions of my Brutal Truth About the Third Child.

I was chuffed to see my Master thesis get a mention on Google Books. Zero reviews and zero stars… probably because the only copy is sitting on a shelf somewhere around here gathering dust.

I had really begun to enjoy myself. No nude photos. No websites dedicated to destroying me. No embarrassing Facebook shots that someone else had posted.

But then a site came up that I didn’t recognise, and I got a little squeezy sensation in my stomach. 

Had someone stolen my words or had they written someone awful about me?

This is precisely why they say don’t google yourself. Sometimes it’s better not to know what others are writing about you.

But I had to find out. Besides, it was in Italian.

There was a picture of me and my family (a picture they don’t have permission to use, but we’ll ignore that) and my name. I could guess at a few of the words: ironia, testimonianza, blogger Americana.

Uh, hang on.

I went back and hit the google translate button for the page. Then, in a fabulous mash of Italian and English, appeared an article that was designed to look like I had been interviewed, but really was just a bit of a cut and paste of my Brutal Truth article.

The translations are even better than my original article: "You can doze and sleep all day and as a priestess stroll touching your belly waiting for a football.”

Some of it is pretty funny because it still makes sense:

“Are you happy of nausea and vomiting because it means you can have five minutes to get you in the bathroom?”

And other parts are completely mystifying:

“Rilavi reluctantly the vestititi used with a normal detergent, throw some broken play, refreshments sheets cradle. Your son has already managed to dismantle all sure that you put in the house and survived, so it is not necessary to reposition the newcomer.”

I liked how the Italians automatically assumed I had sons.

The French version of my ‘Letter of Apology to my Middle Child’ described it as “a mother issu[ing] an apology letter to his middle child”. And I thought I had difficulty with French pronouns.

“Shannon notes that this has forged the character of its small second. She teases threats, disputes, compromises. All you seem to want, and that is so hard to give is my complete attention. It's hard because I have three children, a house to manage and my writing."

“Shannon reassures: "I see the fire in you and I know you traceras your own way, despite your place mid or maybe because of this site?"

I particularly liked being referred to as an ‘its’. Thanks French people.

The Portuguese translation of The Brutal Truth was possibly my favourite, especially how they introduced me:

“Shannon Meyerkort is a writer, blogger and mother of three girls under seven years. His love for writing is not simple, because it implies that you are sitting to do so.”

I love how they aren’t beholden to gender assumptions about mothers being women. How refreshing.

The translation seems to make things worse than they really are:

“It seems that is six months pregnant by the time we hit the second quarter. Sit persecuted and cries a lot.”

And then go a little hard-core with the language:

“People who have just given birth, begin to upset her with all the talk bullshit about babies.”

Then they go hard-core with the parenting:

“Push your child out of the crib, take them cuddly and dispose of them in a weekend.”

That’s a bit rough, even for me.

I haven’t yet ploughed deeper into the world of Google to see if the Chinese have their own translations of The Brutal Truth, but if it’s ever found - please let me know.

It is basically impossible to get a decent photo of three kids at the same time

Put Your Cock Away Now Please

‘Look mum,’ my four [almost five] year old told me. ‘It looks like a peacot.’

‘A what?, I asked distractedly.

‘She means a peacock,’ the seven year said pointedly.

‘Yes. A peacot,’ Curly Mop said pointing at the fan she had splayed out in front of her and was now swivelling in her hand. Yes, it did look like a peacock, I had to admit, but what the hell was with her pronunciation, I thought.

‘Peacock,’ I said clearly.

‘Peacot,’ she replied.

‘Peacock,’ I said louder, because everyone knows that will work.

‘Peacot,’ she replied.

‘K’ I said, getting my crankypants on. ‘Say k’.

‘K’, she responded.

‘Peacock.’

‘Peacot.’

Grrrrrr.

‘Say sock,’ I beg.

‘Sock.’

‘Dock.’

‘Dock.’

‘Good,’ I respond. ‘Say lock.’

‘Lock,’ she replies.

‘Cock.’

‘Cot.’

 ‘Cock, say cock! It’s cock,’ I practically shout in her face, not thinking all about what I am yelling at the top of my lungs.

‘Cot,’ she yells back.

Grrrr

‘It’s cock. Why can’t you say cock? It’s just COCK.’

Then that part of my brain – which should have been functioning long before now – wakes up and tells me to stop shouting obscene words in my daughter’s face.

‘Don’t you think it looks like a Peacot Mummy?’

‘Yes. Yes I do. Now put it away please.’

The Solution to the Wet Butt and Bather Problem [Review]

If I had to list one of my pet hates, it would probably be putting on undies when your butt is still wet. And if it’s someone else’s butt, then you can just double the frustration factor.

So as much as I love going to swimming lessons with my girls each week, I used to dread the part afterwards, where after a very dubious drying session with their ancient beach towels, we would attempt to drag their clothes back on without removing any skin.

So when I received a care package from Mamadoo containing two beautiful hooded robes from MooMoo Kids, it was like all my problems (or at least this particular one) had been solved.

To read the full review click here.

Will A Third Child Make You Happier?

Last week I was contacted by a Yahoo journalist seeking a comment on some new research from the London School of Economics and Western University, Canada suggesting that having a third child won’t make you happier. Due to her deadline, and my being across the globe and in a completely unfriendly time zone, I never got to make that comment.

But her piece has been followed in recent days by plenty of other people commenting on the third-child-won’t-make-you-happy syndrome. I am a researcher by training so I know that you can often find whatever results you want within the myriad data you collect (you can find a summary of the results here). 

But without looking deep into their research methods, I am pretty sure that that the results are accurate. Did having my third child make me happier? Ah… no. But did having my first or second baby actually make me happy? Uh, can’t remember, probably not.

What the hell does ‘happy’ mean anyway?  The Oxford Dictionary says it means ‘feeling or showing pleasure or contentment’. Merriam-Webster says happy means ‘feeling pleasure and enjoyment because of your life, situation etc’.

You know what I think of those words?

Let’s talk about the real words that describe how we feel when we have kids: 

relieved 

overjoyed 

overawed 

content 

terrified 

joyful 

intimidated 

fortunate 

ecstatic 

fulfilled 

appreciative 

passionate.

I certainly never considered that I would be ‘happier’ after having children. That’s not why I did it, and certainly not why I had Number Three.

Who’s to say that the parents who registered as being less happy when baby three arrived weren’t overwhelmed by other factors – the physical toll on their inevitably older body, the emotional pull between partners and children, older kids causing grief either as toddlers or tweens, losing older kids to friends and school, less time with your partner, giving up work, having less money etc.

If ‘happy’ means all those words I listed before, then I am definitely more ‘happy’ with three kids. I feel more stable and grounded (even if on a minute-to-minute basis I might appear more flummoxed.) I felt pretty good with two but if I had been completely, 100% happy, then I doubt I would have chosen to have Baby Number Three.

Three for me feels more like the whole package, we are more self-contained. If two kids are fighting, there’s still another to fill the gap. At any point in time there is at least one of them not pissing me off (hopefully). And if some of them are at school or having a sleepover, then having the remaining one or two is easy, almost like a holiday. But, as I have come to realise, it’s not as easy as having three because that’s how our family was meant to be. And every family is going to be different. 

But I don’t agree with the basic premise of the research because it implies that we have children to make us happy: that our personal happiness is an actual factor in the decision to breed. I actually can’t remember why I decided to have children: it may have just been because it was assumed that’s what we would do. I may have felt a strong biological urge. Perhaps a less strong psychological curiosity. But it’s irrelevant now.

I am also concerned that their finding that baby number 1 and 2 only ‘briefly’ increases our happiness, before returning to pre-baby levels of happiness. Who are these poor, sad souls that were interviewed for the research?

I can categorically say that I am much more relieved-overjoyed-overawed-content-terrified-joyful-intimidated-fortunate- ecstatic-fulfilled -passionate now than before I had children. I think I am a better, more well-rounded, appreciative, empathetic and involved person for having them.

And if that doesn’t make me happy, then I don’t know what will.

I’m Going to be a Tena Lady

I’ve been pretty fortunate when it comes to pre and post-partum disasters: no prolapses or haemorrhoids. My unmentionable varicose veins went away after the baby was delivered. I made it through three pregnancies relatively intact.

Yet today, almost three years after my last pregnancy, I discovered what it was like to have a little leak, shall we say.

You know those ads, where the elegant older woman with silver hair and neat blue suits stand around laughing over some witty comment, and one turns to the screen and whispers, that whenever she laughs or bends over and jumps, she has a little leak, but it’s okay now - because she has Tena Lady.

Yeah, I was that lady today. Except I didn’t actually have a Tena Lady handy, because you know, even Mums sometimes forget to carry around incontinence pads in their oversized handbags on the off chance they will spring a leak.

The Curly Mop and I were on a date night. Once a month, my hubby or I take one of the girls out to spend some quality time. The Mop’s version of quality time apparently, was watching me waist deep in foam, tugging my track pants up, as I struggled to climb my way out of the foam pit at the local trampolining joint (and when I say local, I mean it was a 45 minute drive).

I tried so hard to have fun, but between losing my pants in the pit, being laughed at by four year olds, stared at (not in a good way) by the young bloke in charge of the trampolines and experiencing an ominous trickle every time I jumped, it basically sucked.

The first time it happened I stopped jumping suddenly, afraid of what would happen if I continued. But trampolines don’t tend to let you stop on a dime, they want to keep going, so I ended up falling onto my face (not for the last time), legs flying up behind me, all elegance and grace and wondering who the hell was going to make a million bucks by selling the video on YouTube.

The second time it happened, I squeezed my legs together slightly and looked at the clock. After that, I just accepted my fate, and hoped that this wasn’t going to become a regular thing.

Maybe it’s just me getting older. Maybe it’s because I had three kids and never bothered doing pelvic floor exercises. Maybe I have just been damn lucky up to now.

But I can tell you one thing for sure. You will not find me trampolining with my four year old ever again. Or if you do, I will be cheering from safety of the trickle-free sidelines.