The Six Words Most Parents Dread

Six little words that strike fear into your heart.

Six little words that can bring you to your knees, take you down to the ground, break your back, and muddle your mind.

‘Mum, will you play with me?’

Curly Mop, newly four, had just started Kindy, and we were suffering through a fortnight of half-days.

I had picked her up at midday and we now had three hours before we had to return to collect the Bombshell. After a sandwich, she peered up at me through her lashes and uttered those six words.

Some of you will hate me and call me a bad mother, but I’m just being honest when I say I cringe when I hear those words. I hate ‘playing’ with kids. Give me a Barbie doll and I will dress it and undress it happily for hours. Give me a book and I will read it to whoever is listening. Give me some Lego and I will build you something amazing. Give me a board game and I’m happy to roll the dice. But don’t ask me to ‘play’, because there is nothing fun about playing.

‘Pretend it’s the circus now, but I’m not a clown. Pretend I’m a butterfly. Ok, mum?’ said the Mop.

‘Ok,’ I replied.

‘You have to say “here comes the butterfly”’ she told me.

‘Ok,’ I said enthusiastically. ‘You’re a butterfly. I love your sparkly wings. Can you teach me how to fly?’

‘No Mum, you don’t say that. You can only say “here comes the butterfly”. Okay?’, she said crossly.

‘Ok. Sorry. Here comes the butterfly,’ I said, chastised.

‘I’m not ready yet, Mum. You can’t say it yet.’ She dashed into the next room and I heard the contents of the dress-up box being emptied onto the floor. ‘I’m ready,’ she called.

‘Here comes the butterfly,’ I called. Out she danced wearing some wings. She did a whirl and promptly went back into the playroom.

‘Ok, now pretend this is a show, and I’m a Barbie bride girl, and this is my wedding.’

‘Ok,’ I replied.

‘You have to say “here comes Barbie bride girl”’ she told me.

‘Ok,’ I said. ‘Here comes Barbie bride girl.’

‘I’m not ready yet, Mum. You can’t say it yet.’

I was beginning to detect a theme.

‘Playing’ with the Mop basically consists of her telling me to ‘pretend’ something. We don’t actually get to do whatever she is pretending, it’s strictly a verbal thing. Pretend I’m a mermaid. Pretend this is my home. Pretend you’re a shark. But I don’t get to BE a shark. I just have to SAY I’m a shark.

So I find myself doing the most horrendous things to get out of ‘playing’.

I need to go to the toilet. I need to make a cup of coffee. Is that the phone ringing? I think I hear the mailman. And the worst: I’m just going to check my email, which is just slightly better than ‘would you like to watch TV instead?’

I know that it won’t be long before all my girls are too old to want to play with me anymore. I am sure that I will feel bad that I didn’t play with them more when they were little. I feel bad about lots of other things, what’s a little more mother guilt piled on top?

I relish the ‘shows’ the girls put on, where they dance and twirl and sing. I love them because they’re cute but also because I know my place. I am the appreciative audience. I ooh, I ahh, I clap and I take pictures. I am not expected to be involved and that is fine. I will genuinely be sad when the shows finish, when they grow into self-consciousness, and no longer want to be the centre of attention.

But imaginative play where there is no opportunity to use my imagination drives me nutty. Being barked orders by a four year old is no fun, and so I will continue to live in fear of those six little words, ‘Mum, will you play with me?’

What words drive fear into your heart?

 

 

B.I.B (Boring is Beautiful)

Growing up, photos were taken only of special occasions: birthdays, christenings, Christmas. Mum would take out her old film camera, open the shutter, check to see the film had been wound on. She would peer through the tiny viewfinder, and with a call of ‘cheers’, we would stop what we were doing and smile at the camera. The flash would dazzle us, and we would return to what we were doing.

Only a few precious albums exist from my childhood: people simply didn’t ‘waste’ photos. As such, I now pour over each image intently, studying all the details in the background. The scratchy brown couch and burnt orange curtains (height of 70s fashion), the length of my Dad’s moustache, the length of our denim shorts in the 80s, the posters of boy bands my sister had on her wall (Bros, NKOTB), Dad painting the kitchen in paint-splattered coveralls, Mum – her face covered with cold cream –mending Dad’s shirt. I find these ordinary memories really precious, and from them, more memories spring.

When I got my own camera as a teenager, we had the choice of rolls of 12 or 24 films. That meant we could take only 24 images on a single roll, each of which needed to be wound on by hand to ensure we didn’t end up with double exposure. When the roll was finished, you would wind the film back into the canister, and then take it to the nearest Kodak shop to be developed.

The wait for your prints could be a week, and it could be excruciating. Would the photos work or would you have paid $22 for twenty black or blurry pieces of shiny paper. That moment when you went to collect your photos, handing over your money, tearing the edge of the packet to release the envelope of pictures, sometimes even before you left the shop. That moment of elation when you realised a photo worked, or the disappointment when you realised that the blurry mess was now just a lost opportunity.

Like everyone else, I now own a digital camera which I adore. I can easily take dozens of photos in an afternoon, hundreds during a short vacation with the kids, and literally thousands in the first few months of having a new baby. Almost all of them are pretty near perfect since I can see them as soon as I take them, and edit as I go.

And probably only 1% of them ever make it into a photo album.

Last week I realised I had not printed any photos since April of 2013. I had taken about a million photos in those nine months, and it literally took me two or three nights of trawling through my hard drive deciding which to print, and then another two or three nights uploading them to be printed.

Halfway through selecting photos I realised I was choosing all the photos where the kids were being cute, or funny or wearing a strange outfit, or not wearing anything at all. They were photos that captured the kids, but they were not showing anything about our life, our house or anything that in ten or twenty years you could look back on and say ‘that’s what we did, that was my childhood’.

Sure, they might know that the Mop looked like a cherub with big eyes and curls, but they wouldn’t know who went to her 4^th birthday party. You’d be able to say that Baldy tended to smear food over herself when she ate, but she wouldn’t be able to see what her room looked like when she was two.

I love this photo taken on Christmas Eve making White Christmas because it shows the girls hanging out en masse with their Aunty and Grandparents, it shows the fact that they love cooking (such an old Aussie favourite that everyone makes but no one eats), you can see the glasses of champers on the table, mess everywhere, but everyone is relaxed and happy.

So I made a decision to print the mundane pictures as well, the ones that showed our everyday life. The ones that might be poorly framed, or a bit blurry, or – dare I say it – a bit boring.

The picture of the three girls crowding around my husband on a Saturday morning as he cooks them pancakes.

The picture of the Bombshell intently building Lego with her dad at the kitchen table.

The picture of the three girls ‘doing a show’ in the backyard.

The picture of what we had for Christmas lunch.

The picture of all the Christmas presents under the tree, before the kids woke up.

Pictures of the girls’ rooms.

These are the photos that in a decade’s time will be of most interest to my daughters  (ok, nothing will be of interest to them when they’re teenagers, but maybe later on) as they will remind them of the constant, small things which make up our childhood. 

We need to remember to capture and keep the ongoing, behind-the-scenes moments, which might not be as immediately memorable at the big events, but which make us who we are.

 

I love this photo which was taken at my sister-in-laws birthday dinner at our place. I love that we totally overdid the desserts, I love that it shows the disposable plates because I hate doing the dishes, the plastic sippy cups and bib on the table (totally capturing a stage of babyhood), my husband wearing his Muppets shirt and my Yummy Mummy apron, my father-in-law with the Star Wars mug of coffee that will only be half finished, the Bombshell in her fanciest, sparkliest frock with her hair a complete birdsnest...

 

The Late Night Bad Thought

9.13pm

Why are you awake?

I had a bad thought and it made me scared.

What bad thought?

I thought about what would happen if I drew you a picture, but I didn’t tell you I drew it for you and your tore it up and threw it away.

That is a bad thought. Luckily it would never happen. Now go back to bed and think only good thoughts.

But I don’t know any good thoughts.

What about when Baldy does her baby dance or shouts ‘ta da!’, or cooking with me, or washing the car with Daddy and getting splashed with the hose, or building Lego, or reading books. Or writing books? Luckily there are more good thoughts in the world than bad thoughts…

But you don’t know that. You don’t know everything, how can you know that?

You’re right. I don’t know everything but I definitely know that.

I saw you cry once after talking on the phone. I don’t know why you were crying, but I know you were sad.

(Taken aback) But that happened only once. How many other times have you seen me laugh and smile?

Hardly ever.

What? That’s nuts, why do you say that?

Because we’re always so naughty…

 

Ahhh touché. But you can bet your ass I'm smiling right now.

 

The Twelve Dogs of Christmas

On the first day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, a fat cat in a fur tree…

It was time for the annual Christmas concert, and it wasn’t even Christmas yet. The Bombshell had whispered in my ear that it was time to announce the concert would start.

All the adults, exhausted from over-indulging in an Aussie seafood feast, were all too happy to oblige: as long as they didn’t have to get up from their chairs.

On the second day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, two chewed up slippers…

The Bombshell was the picture of seriousness. Standing straight and tall, book in her hands, she sang with the manner of an English Beefeater. No matter what was happening around her, she would continue to sing.

On the third day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, three French poodles…

This song was way too long for the Mop, who promptly took to the stage, grabbed a plastic rake as a microphone and began singing her own song. Not entirely sure what song it was.

'Shhhhh,' all the adults told her. 'You’ll get your turn in a moment'.

On the fourth day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, four pointers pointing…

Breaking free from her Auntie’s grip, Baldy was determined to take her rightful place on stage. In the manner only an almost-two year old can muster, she began break-dancing, doing rolly-polies, dizzy-whizzies and egging the crowd on for cheers.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, five old hounds…

I watched the faces of the family, chuckles suppressed. We were all trying so hard to keep our attention on the Bombshell, who was pushing through despite the competition.

On the sixth day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, six pooches playing…

The Mop was surreptitiously moving her chair forward. Her microphone had morphed into a trumpet, and occasionally she was waving it around over her head. It’s difficult to tell whether she was deliberately trying to hit Baldy who was flinging herself around, or whether it was just a happy coincidence.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, seven mutts a’dreaming…

Man this song was long. Why did there need to be twelve days of Christmas?

On the eighth day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, eight canines skating…

I had to admire the Bombshell’s fortitude. Almost no one was able to listen to her. Baldy kept popping up in front of her, raising her arms and shouting ‘ta da!’ at which point everyone (except the Bombshell) needed to yell ‘Ta da!’ back at her.

On the ninth day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, nine fleabags fencing…

Anyone else would have given up by now, but I knew she was desperate to get to the eleventh day. We had read the book for the first time a few days earlier and it was every kid’s dream: to be able to talk about naughty things in front of adults and not get yelled at. She was going to soldier on.

On the tenth day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, ten labs a’licking…

Besides, I had seen the script the Bombshell had neatly written out that morning. After she sang the worlds-longest and most annoying Christmas song, she planned on reading a story to everyone. There was no way she was given up her spot in the limelight.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, twelve dogs a digging…

‘Didn’t you forget one?’ I called out to the Bombshell. ‘Shhhh,’ everyone hissed at me, not wanting yet another verse.

The Bombshell paused and turned back a page. ‘Ah yes, thank you,’ she said.

She took a deep breath and another pause for effect.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, eleven puppies pooping…

‘Did she say pooping?’ my father-in-law whispered with a grin.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, twelve dogs a digging…

Such applause, such acclaim. We were all so grateful she made it through, we were rapturous in our congratulations.

Baldy thought the applause was for her, jumping up and shouting ‘ta da!’

The Bombshell gave a neat bow, a satisfied smile on her face.

The Mop dragged her chair further forward and tried to grab at the Twelve Dogs of Christmas.

‘My turn,’ she wailed.

Nooooooooo.

 

Merry Christmas from Curly Mop, the Blonde Bombshell and Baldy Baby

 

 

* The Twelve Dogs of Christmas is written and illustrated by Kevin Whitlark

The Three Things That Changed My Year

After six and a half years of being a Mum it would be easy to think that I would’ve got this whole parenting thing sorted out.

I haven’t. In fact, this year I have behaved pretty badly at times. If my kids behaved as badly as I have, I would send them to their rooms and never let them out. But the thing is, sometimes I wish someone would send me to my room and say I don’t have to come out. For a mum, that’s a luxury. For kids, putting them in their room with their toys and books and things that make loud obnoxious noises is the Worst. Thing. Ever.

Kids just don’t get it.

I did have a realisation this year though, an epiphany if you will.

I was sitting out in the back garden, as far from my kids as I could manage without leaving the property. My fists were clenched and my heart was racing. I wanted to smash something. Ten seconds earlier, that something was one of my children. They had pushed me and pushed me and pushed me so far, something in my brain was saying ‘just do something to make it stop’.

And I made a choice.

I walked out. I turned on my heel, unlocked the door, closed it behind me, and walked as far as I could from the screaming and the fighting and the yelling. I sat and I tried to calm down.

It would have been very easy to make a different choice in that split second.

I have realised that every second of every day parenting is a choice.

It starts even from before the baby is conceived and often we don’t even realise we are making a choice. Cloth or disposable. Swaddle or sleeping bag.  Red wine or white (not for the kids, relax).

Sometimes that choice is taken away from us. Sometimes we can’t breastfeed. Sometimes our babies are sick. Sometimes we don’t have family to fall back on. Sometimes we don’t have the resources to follow through on something we really want for our children.

But in those other instances, often the small moments we don’t give much thought to, parenting is a choice.

I have made some pretty bad choices in the past. And sometimes I see the consequences of those bad decisions repeat on me like a cheap taco. When you look at your kids and realise that they are behaving just like you and you don’t like them very much it can be a very confronting experience.

I did two things this year to help me control my anger. Three things actually. The first was to go and see someone to help me with some of my issues. To be able to talk about my problems in a professional and non-judgemental environment was a step forward for me, but I admit it’s not for everyone.

Then someone put a meme up on Facebook that said ‘the way we speak to our children becomes their inner voice.’

I printed it out and stuck it on the fridge, so I see it every day.

Your inner voice is the one who either tells you that you are worthless and you shouldn’t bother trying, or that you should keep pushing ahead. It’s the one that says you are fabulous regardless of your size and shape, or it tells you you’re not good enough unless you are a size 10. It’s the one that keep asking ‘what’s wrong with you?’ or instead says ‘how can we do it differently next time?’

Although in the heat of the moment I sometimes slip up, I have made a choice that if I have any role in developing my girls’ inner voices, it will be to make them strong, thoughtful, independent, self-assured and – most importantly - to like themselves.

Psychologists and Facebook are great, but they will only get you so far. So this year, I also called in the big guns.

The Blonde Bombshell.

Although she is just like me – or because she is just like me – we often don’t see eye to eye. To be blunt, we fight a lot. Well, we used to. Earlier this year I introduced a safe word. When our fight is escalating and we are beginning to lose the plot, we agreed that someone would call out ‘undies’ at the top of their lungs, the idea being that it is so silly we would laugh instead of strangle each other.

She is awesome at yelling undies. (Put THAT on your CV).

And while she doesn’t need to use it so much anymore for disagreements between her and me (because I am working on the other two things) she has been known to step in between me and The Mop (who, one month shy of four has discovered her own debating skills) and call out ‘undies, you guys, undies!’.

The neighbours must think we’re all loons.

Maybe that’s why they moved out.

 

Thank you to everyone who stops by Relentless to read my stories, who comment on my Facebook posts, and send messages about my WeekendNotes articles. With every ‘like’ and every ‘hit’ it’s another way of saying ‘I get it. It’s like that at my house.’

 

Why Jodie Foster* Was Onto Something

I’m upstairs in the bathroom and half way out of my nightee when I hear feet thumping on the stairs. I brace myself.

‘Mum, do you like my picture?’ asks the Bombshell breathlessly.

I look at the explosion of colour in front of me and admire it appropriately.

‘Why is the Mop crying?’ I ask.

‘She asked me if I liked her picture but I was working so I ignored her.’

‘But you then come all the way upstairs and interrupt me so you can ask me if I like your picture?’ I point out.

‘Oh,’ she says. The Bombshell turns and leaves.

I struggle into my dress when I hear thumping again.

‘Mum! She hit me,’ the Mop cries indignantly. I peer around the door, where the Bombshell is sitting contritely on my bed. I respond with a vague threat about taking away her canteen money and to stop hitting her sister, yada yada. I am standing with my dress bunched around my shoulders, otherwise just in my knickers. I am sick of this.

‘But she hit me first,’ yells the Bombshell, whacking her sister in the arm.

‘Is that true?’ I ask the Mop, who has the decency to look appropriately ashamed.

‘So you came all the way up here to dob on your sister when you started the fight? Grrrr,’ I finally pull my dress on.

‘I love you, Mummy,’ purrs the Mop.

‘Get out, both of you,’ I tell them. Someone punches someone else and the shrieking starts before they even walk out of my bedroom.

‘If you two wake the baby up, I am going to… to... I’m going to ban Christmas!’ I threaten wildly.

As if. Sometimes my mouth works much faster than my brain, but still, the idle threat did the trick and they make it downstairs with only minimum ruckus.

‘She’s already awake,’ the Bombshells yells helpfully up the stairs.

I figure I have about one minute to finish getting dressed before things implode downstairs so I whack on some deodorant and wave a mascara wand near my eyes.

A scream from the stairs.

‘I’m going to tell Mum,’ a voice threatens. ‘She’s gonna KILL YOU.’

I walk out of the bathroom and lock the bedroom door, then go back to the bathroom, and lock that door as well.

My own private panic room. Sometimes it’s the only way.

All mums should have one.

 

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* apologies for the obscure reference, but I'm guessing most of you got it http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0258000/