The night before any potentially nerve-wracking or exciting event (plane flight, job interview, date with George Clooney) is always fraught with sleeplessness peppered with those bouts of jarring, panicked wakefulness of ‘UH! What time is it?!’ before the realisation that you have seven, five, three, two hours left to sleep. So it was for me the night before leaving, and by the time I got on my first flight from Sydney to Brisbane, I was almost thankful to have the formalities over with and everyone contained.
Until I hear the phrase ‘Breakfast is served!’ That’s when the plastic trays come teetering at me from all directions, making me the lucky recipient of four (count ‘em FOUR) trays of food. Then there are the steaming hot beverages, which I accept only for myself (and only after the stewardess has me sign a waiver).
Shortly after the trays are placed down and one bite of the token bread roll is taken, Eva and Ted get busy playing chemistry set. Across the aisle, while I’m busy attending to Liam’s tray, Eva and Ted are combining their milk, orange juice and butter packets, the result of which is a beautifully coloured, curdled, vomity-looking mess. In the split second that I look away to stop the older two from doing ‘cheers’ with their vomit-esque concoctions, Liam uses his David Copperfield magic skills to turn four ounces of orange juice into three gallons, all of which spills – splattering me and his business suit-clad neighbour. Liam just smiles that big toddler smile, as happy and wet as if he’s just survived Niagara Falls in a barrel. I spend the remainder of the flight trying to absorb the orange juice that had pooled in Liam’s non-absorbant, floatation-device seat cushion with a stack of matchbook-size cocktail napkins. The flight attendants all give us a big ‘BUH-bye!’ when we leave.
Only 28 more hours to go!
Hour 3: Brisbane Airport.
I have to switch terminals, which will involve a short train ride. I am armed with a collapsible stroller, two harnesses and two leashes. And no, not those soft and fluffy teddy bear ‘backpacks’ that cleverly attempt to disguise that it’s actually a tether, but harnesses with actual bought-at-a-pet-shop leashes attached. (I wasn’t prepared to take any chances: I specifically asked for ones that could withstand the weight and pull of a Doberman just stung by a mob of bees; but really the only thing that would’ve given me total peace of mind would’ve been the Hannibal Lector, muzzled-straight-jacketed-strapped-to-a-dolly-for-transportation-purposes method.)
Once everyone is secure, I begin my walk through the terminal to find where to get the train. Strolling along, I get a lot of looks: commiseration, pity, some smiles, flashes of anger, bewilderment. I could not have been more conspicuous if I were banging a base drum and wearing a Marge Simpson wig (see above). When I slow down for a second to read a few signs, I see a man coming towards me. My hackles start to go up. Oh no. Please spare me a lecture about the leashes. Maybe he going to ask me if I’ve found Jesus? Is he going to just walk up and take my handbag from my shoulder while my hands are, literally, tied? Closer, closer, and there’s no one else but me…
‘Excuse me, do you know where I go to get the train to the International Terminal?’
My jaw drops as I look at him dumbfounded. My face must’ve read something along the lines of ‘You could find no other person in this terminal of 3000-plus people to ask for directions, you f#@&ing idiot?’
‘Oh, sorry, you’re a bit busy…I didn’t…Nevermind,’ and he runs away.
Part of me is relieved that that was all he wanted and then there is that (small) part of me that wants to take Ted’s leash and strangle him. Or at the very least trip him.
After our very hurried time at Brisbane switching terminals and brief encounter with the world’s dumbest man, we finally get on the Big Plane. Seated next to us is a lovely young twenty-something fresh from her year abroad in Australia. I ask if I can tempt her into a fourteen-hour nannying position just before Ted pipes in (with all his charm), ‘You spell ‘tinky!’ She laughs but declines my offer. (And she didn’t smell of anything but perfume, which to a certain three-year-old nose does constitute ‘tinky’.)
The kids are delighted with the novelties: little book colouring sets, the eye masks and tiny tubes of toothpaste, the mini-TV screens – and we all settle in for the longest of our flights. The flight attendants even give Liam a bassinet (after I lie about his actual weight) which frees up my lap. The kids fall into sedative-induced sleep and although I can’t sleep, I do manage to watch two light-hearted movies (neither of which I can even remember now). All in all, it's pleasant and thankfully uneventful.
By the time I get off the plane in L.A., the kids have all recharged their batteries, but I look like the cartoon characters do after the buzzing fly in the room has kept them awake all night – enlarged bloodshot eyes, hair askew, clothes wrinkled, tongue hanging out. But Papa was there to meet us and my watch was over for another six weeks, till we do it all again.
But much like many of the things in life we sometimes dread, the anticipation is often worse than the reality. (Or, arguably like some things in life – your child’s infancy period, say – you block it out entirely.) But, in the wise words of my husband, ‘It’s only a day out of your life.’ Well said.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
The Epic Journey Part I: Take the Quiz!
Which would you choose:
- A. The Silk Road, circa 1347, with accompanying risk of Black Death, bandits, dodgy highwaymen, etc.
- B. Journey through Middle Earth to Mordor, being pursued by Gollum and those scary men on black horses wearing welders masks and brandishing ball-and-chain weaponry
- C. Off to see the Wizard, with sporadic acts of torment perpetrated by flying monkeys and a witch with unparalleled flame throwing ability
- D. The 12 Labours of Hercules, involving your average hero-esque tasks such as lion slaying, boar capturing and the like
- E. Volunteering to accompany Indiana Jones on his next mission. (Might sound like the lesser of the evils, but I have two words of warning: the snakes)
- F. A 10,318.15-mile, 24-hour-plus plane journey from Australia to Boston with only a fear of flying and three children – aged four, three and almost two – for companionship*
I chose the unglamorous option F.
Most people don’t enjoy flying, myself included. But I don’t dislike it in the ‘I have no leg room and it’s boring’ sense, but in the ‘I experienced a bomb scare in my formative years’ sort of way. (True story: it was during the 80s, when I think it was Libya that hated us at the time; but really, who can keep track of one’s enemies when you’re American?) One boon to my current way of travelling: I’m too busy running, tethering, cleaning, adjusting, feeding and seatbelting to worry about the motives of the praying bearded guy requesting the Halal meal seated in 17B.
*********************************************************
In the lead up to Option F, my morale was bolstered with comments on my bravery (when clearly ‘stupidity’ would’ve been a more accurate term). I made sure not to watch the movie ‘Flight Plan.’ I made lists, borrowed harnesses, and got a new backpack for hands-free carry-on. And I consoled myself with thoughts of help from the flight attendants, who for the comfort and safety of the 300-plus passengers on board, would surely be of some assistance - of course when they weren’t busy serving Bloody Marys, reapplying their lipstick, or assisting in the aptly-named cockpit.
Then, shortly before the epic journey was due to commence, I get a phone call from Qantas: ‘Sorry, we’ve overbooked the flight and we’re going to have to bump you up to business class. Is that suitable? You will be able to enjoy champagne and some much-needed rest while your children are looked after my our in-flight nannies. This is a new service we offer to all business and first class passengers…’
‘Hello? Are you there? This is Judy, I’m ringing from Qantas?! You’re flight’s been cancelled. We’ll need to rebook you. Is via New Zealand okay? It’ll only add approximately nine hours to your overall flying time, but it leaves at the same time. Is that suitable?’
Apparently due to what Qantas was calling ‘budget constraints’ and other mysteries of airline scheduling, my original long haul non-stop flight from Sydney to L.A. was cancelled. ARRGHH! But finally after much to-ing and fro-ing and even a few real tears, the compromise was to send me via Brisbane: adding another leg to an already lengthy journey. With a very tight connection time between flights. Where I would have to catch a train and switch terminals. Any questions?
Yes. Is it too late to choose ‘C’ from the epic journey choices listed above?
Stay tuned for the sequel...
*DISCLAIMER: Do not attempt this feat. This feat was accomplished by a trained professional, who in hindsight, would not have undertaken the journey armed with the knowledge she now possesses. To do so may result in loss of sanity, excessive in-flight drinking and, along with Osama Bin Laden, landing your name on a permanent 'Loss of Right to Fly' list.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
No June Update
Apologies for lack of a June update...I was on holidays for six weeks, but next update to follow very soon!
Monday, May 18, 2009
Happy Mother's Day! Now Can You Please Leave Me Alone...
Well, once again, that special day of the year has come and gone. Long, long ago (historians argue over the exact date, but it’s believed to be about three years after the Pilgrims arrived in the New World) Hallmark decided there should be a day to acknowledge mothers: the most important and often most neglected members of our society – after garbage collectors, of course. This would be a day to call the nation’s attention to all those thankless jobs we do that make our households tick along. It’s the one day our role is publicly acknowledged, we’re appreciated, and if we’re lucky, perhaps even pampered.
If your house is anything like mine, your Mother’s Day probably starts with a leisurely breakfast in bed, followed by complete quiet so you can read the Sunday paper while the date on it still coincides with the actual day. While reading the paper you sip your Viennese coffee, miraculously finishing it while it’s still warm – long before that usual ugly skin of separated cream in the shape of various continents has formed on the top. Next comes the calorie-free box of chocolates and the dozen roses, and the homemade presents from the kids that make Martha Stewart’s creations look like the work of some thumbless being. Later in the afternoon, after your pedicure and champagne lunch, you artfully arrange these homemade crafts of love in your Pottery barn faux-provincial sideboard. The day is like a mini-retreat, free of laundry and cooking. No nappies to change, no fights to break up. Luckily, it only comes once a year, because with any more frequency you might feel as if you’re losing your sense of purpose.
Not with me on this one? See if this sounds more familiar:
It’s 5:23 a.m. Toddler with ever-curious index finger kicks open the door to your bedroom, a la Dirty Harry with a score to settle. Toddler sits on your chest with the subtlety of an elephant and proceeds to give you a good working over, probing every orifice on your head and proudly reciting the name of each part. Repeat 33 times. Hours later (it’s now 5:31 a.m.) Toddler treats you to a special Mother’s Day epic version of ‘Baa-baa Black Sheep’: think traditional nursery rhyme meets ‘Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.’ Curling up in the bathtub to escape from Toddler suddenly seems more appealing.
Lolling about in bed on a Sunday morning perusing the lifestyle column and sipping coffee used to be a referred to as a lazy Sunday morning. See if you can recall the last time you used phrases like this: ‘On Saturday night we tried that new Japanese/Brazilian/Thai restaurant that just opened. So good, but it was a late night, so we just had a lazy Sunday.’ I know I can’t remember.
Even if you felt a bit of guilt by about 11 a.m. when that nagging feeling that you’d wasted a whole morning began to set in, it was still enjoyable. Now when I ‘waste a whole morning’ it’s usually spent engaged in some unfulfilling, mundane but necessary chore, like picking dried Cheerios out of the crack between the carpet and the baseboard where no vacuum attachment can reach, ever. How did I ever become convinced that a Sunday morning spent catching up on world affairs was a waste of time (even if those ‘world affairs’ constituted column analysing Sarah Jessica Parker’s latest shoe and dress combination)? And remember when you could take the occasional sick day from work under the guilt-free moniker of ‘Mental Health Day’ and read an entire magazine cover-to-cover? The trade offs we make never end.
In theory, Mother’s Day should mean a day free of obligations and expectations – a day to do what ever you want to do. For some mums – I’m assuming those mostly in the mature lady age bracket – this means spending the day surrounded by their families, enjoying quality time together, bonding over a nice meal. I probably wouldn’t mind that option either if everyone in my family could safely navigate a spoon from their plate to their mouth without spilling. But not now. And I love my kids. Honestly, I do. But frankly I see quite enough of them every damn day.
Therefore, I move to rename Mother’s Day as ‘Mental Health Day for Mum’s’. The day designated to celebrate your role in the family now gives you license to run as far away from them as possible if you want to – without feeling guilty. Ironic, no? But what this means is that if you want to go out for coffee and a chic flick with your girlfriends, go. If you want to lounge in bed in a quiet house (maybe not your own) and read a Jackie Collins novel, do it. If you want to take your kids to the park and have a picnic because you work and your time together is precious, do that too. But do what you need to do to make yourself thrive in your role as a mum. Sometimes that might mean recharging those batteries; sometimes that just means being appreciated.
If your house is anything like mine, your Mother’s Day probably starts with a leisurely breakfast in bed, followed by complete quiet so you can read the Sunday paper while the date on it still coincides with the actual day. While reading the paper you sip your Viennese coffee, miraculously finishing it while it’s still warm – long before that usual ugly skin of separated cream in the shape of various continents has formed on the top. Next comes the calorie-free box of chocolates and the dozen roses, and the homemade presents from the kids that make Martha Stewart’s creations look like the work of some thumbless being. Later in the afternoon, after your pedicure and champagne lunch, you artfully arrange these homemade crafts of love in your Pottery barn faux-provincial sideboard. The day is like a mini-retreat, free of laundry and cooking. No nappies to change, no fights to break up. Luckily, it only comes once a year, because with any more frequency you might feel as if you’re losing your sense of purpose.
Not with me on this one? See if this sounds more familiar:
It’s 5:23 a.m. Toddler with ever-curious index finger kicks open the door to your bedroom, a la Dirty Harry with a score to settle. Toddler sits on your chest with the subtlety of an elephant and proceeds to give you a good working over, probing every orifice on your head and proudly reciting the name of each part. Repeat 33 times. Hours later (it’s now 5:31 a.m.) Toddler treats you to a special Mother’s Day epic version of ‘Baa-baa Black Sheep’: think traditional nursery rhyme meets ‘Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.’ Curling up in the bathtub to escape from Toddler suddenly seems more appealing.
Lolling about in bed on a Sunday morning perusing the lifestyle column and sipping coffee used to be a referred to as a lazy Sunday morning. See if you can recall the last time you used phrases like this: ‘On Saturday night we tried that new Japanese/Brazilian/Thai restaurant that just opened. So good, but it was a late night, so we just had a lazy Sunday.’ I know I can’t remember.
Even if you felt a bit of guilt by about 11 a.m. when that nagging feeling that you’d wasted a whole morning began to set in, it was still enjoyable. Now when I ‘waste a whole morning’ it’s usually spent engaged in some unfulfilling, mundane but necessary chore, like picking dried Cheerios out of the crack between the carpet and the baseboard where no vacuum attachment can reach, ever. How did I ever become convinced that a Sunday morning spent catching up on world affairs was a waste of time (even if those ‘world affairs’ constituted column analysing Sarah Jessica Parker’s latest shoe and dress combination)? And remember when you could take the occasional sick day from work under the guilt-free moniker of ‘Mental Health Day’ and read an entire magazine cover-to-cover? The trade offs we make never end.
In theory, Mother’s Day should mean a day free of obligations and expectations – a day to do what ever you want to do. For some mums – I’m assuming those mostly in the mature lady age bracket – this means spending the day surrounded by their families, enjoying quality time together, bonding over a nice meal. I probably wouldn’t mind that option either if everyone in my family could safely navigate a spoon from their plate to their mouth without spilling. But not now. And I love my kids. Honestly, I do. But frankly I see quite enough of them every damn day.
Therefore, I move to rename Mother’s Day as ‘Mental Health Day for Mum’s’. The day designated to celebrate your role in the family now gives you license to run as far away from them as possible if you want to – without feeling guilty. Ironic, no? But what this means is that if you want to go out for coffee and a chic flick with your girlfriends, go. If you want to lounge in bed in a quiet house (maybe not your own) and read a Jackie Collins novel, do it. If you want to take your kids to the park and have a picnic because you work and your time together is precious, do that too. But do what you need to do to make yourself thrive in your role as a mum. Sometimes that might mean recharging those batteries; sometimes that just means being appreciated.
Monday, April 27, 2009
You Say It's Your Birthday? Well, Who Cares?*
Recently I celebrated a significant birthday. Not one that ends in zero, where at least you get to have a big party or treat yourself to something fabulous, like, say, a lengthy trip to Greece. This year my birthday ended in a six.
Seems innocuous enough of a number. But for some reason, it bothered me. Why was 36 any different than 35, really? Either way, there’s still loads of clothing that isn’t age appropriate for me (luckily I’ve worn it all before in the 80s, the first time it was in style). It wasn’t that I was now closer to 40 than 30, because I hit that mark last year. And to my kids, I’m still just old, no matter what the number is, which is comforting in an odd way.
Then my sister-in-law jokingly said to me two days before my birthday, ‘Thirty-six means you’re finally too old for a Contiki tour!’ For those of you who don’t know, a Contiki is the Australian contribution to the package tour. But instead of the participants being 60-plus and clad in beige Velcro walking shoes, the Contiki is designed for 20-somethings who want to drink excessively and shag each other in exotic locations outside Australia.
Imagine the depth of my disappointment at the idea that I was now considered too old for beer goggles (and all related activities) on Mykonos! I was deeply offended. It was then that it occurred to me what about turning 36 that bothered me: I’m now in a new demographic. As far as the market researchers and magazine editors are concerned, I’m part of a different audience. I’m in the 36-50 bracket and not the 18-35 one. I don’t read articles about the return of the kitten heel or how to achieve orgasm in the workplace loos; now I read articles about the comeback of tech stock or anti-aging family-friendly superfoods. In my twenties, I used to wonder things like, ‘Could the genocide in Rwanda have been prevented? Could those atrocities occur again?’ In more recent days, I wonder things like, ‘Is Wendy on Bob the Builder supposed to be a lesbian role model? Or is she Bob’s Miss Moneypenny, spending years waiting patiently for him to finally notice her?’ So the old adage that you think differently about things once you have kids is true.
And as anyone with kids knows, there is no immunity necklace on your birthday. You are still compelled to complete all the usual tasks with make the day tick along, sometimes even cooking your own dinner. My birthday started like this, when the kids came running into our bedroom:
Dad: It’s mum’s birthday today!
Eva: (Annoyed) I KNOW! Does that mean I get to wear a dress?
Dad: Eva, it’s mum’s birthday…
Eva: Yes, but can I WEAR A DRESS?!
Dad: Eva! It’s mum’s birthday – what do you say?
Eva: Look, do I get to wear a dress today OR NOT?! (Flustered, crossing arms). Okay, FINE. Happy birthday...
Once everyone was clad (about midday) we decided to go out for lunch to celebrate. (Remember when ‘going out to celebrate’ involved champagne and heels? Now it’s diluted apple juice and dance moves from Yo Gabba Gabba.) Apparently, I was suffering from some form of birthday-induced amnesia, as I had clearly blocked out how difficult it can be dining in public with children. I did not attempt this feat alone; I did have my husband and mother-in-law for support. We managed to secure a booth, which was handy for keeping everyone contained, but the behaviour still more closely resembled feeding time at the zoo than family fun day out. Our antics resulted in a nearby table of retirees – who clearly desired nothing more than to wash down their lunch with a few icy Manhattans while reminiscing about the days when children were seen and not heard – relocating to another part of the restaurant to eat their bread pudding undisturbed.
Since it was my birthday afterall, I was tempted to ask if I could join them. That way, at least I could’ve finished reading about my stock portfolio in peace.
*Unless you're a magazine editor or market researcher
Seems innocuous enough of a number. But for some reason, it bothered me. Why was 36 any different than 35, really? Either way, there’s still loads of clothing that isn’t age appropriate for me (luckily I’ve worn it all before in the 80s, the first time it was in style). It wasn’t that I was now closer to 40 than 30, because I hit that mark last year. And to my kids, I’m still just old, no matter what the number is, which is comforting in an odd way.
Then my sister-in-law jokingly said to me two days before my birthday, ‘Thirty-six means you’re finally too old for a Contiki tour!’ For those of you who don’t know, a Contiki is the Australian contribution to the package tour. But instead of the participants being 60-plus and clad in beige Velcro walking shoes, the Contiki is designed for 20-somethings who want to drink excessively and shag each other in exotic locations outside Australia.
Imagine the depth of my disappointment at the idea that I was now considered too old for beer goggles (and all related activities) on Mykonos! I was deeply offended. It was then that it occurred to me what about turning 36 that bothered me: I’m now in a new demographic. As far as the market researchers and magazine editors are concerned, I’m part of a different audience. I’m in the 36-50 bracket and not the 18-35 one. I don’t read articles about the return of the kitten heel or how to achieve orgasm in the workplace loos; now I read articles about the comeback of tech stock or anti-aging family-friendly superfoods. In my twenties, I used to wonder things like, ‘Could the genocide in Rwanda have been prevented? Could those atrocities occur again?’ In more recent days, I wonder things like, ‘Is Wendy on Bob the Builder supposed to be a lesbian role model? Or is she Bob’s Miss Moneypenny, spending years waiting patiently for him to finally notice her?’ So the old adage that you think differently about things once you have kids is true.
And as anyone with kids knows, there is no immunity necklace on your birthday. You are still compelled to complete all the usual tasks with make the day tick along, sometimes even cooking your own dinner. My birthday started like this, when the kids came running into our bedroom:
Dad: It’s mum’s birthday today!
Eva: (Annoyed) I KNOW! Does that mean I get to wear a dress?
Dad: Eva, it’s mum’s birthday…
Eva: Yes, but can I WEAR A DRESS?!
Dad: Eva! It’s mum’s birthday – what do you say?
Eva: Look, do I get to wear a dress today OR NOT?! (Flustered, crossing arms). Okay, FINE. Happy birthday...
Once everyone was clad (about midday) we decided to go out for lunch to celebrate. (Remember when ‘going out to celebrate’ involved champagne and heels? Now it’s diluted apple juice and dance moves from Yo Gabba Gabba.) Apparently, I was suffering from some form of birthday-induced amnesia, as I had clearly blocked out how difficult it can be dining in public with children. I did not attempt this feat alone; I did have my husband and mother-in-law for support. We managed to secure a booth, which was handy for keeping everyone contained, but the behaviour still more closely resembled feeding time at the zoo than family fun day out. Our antics resulted in a nearby table of retirees – who clearly desired nothing more than to wash down their lunch with a few icy Manhattans while reminiscing about the days when children were seen and not heard – relocating to another part of the restaurant to eat their bread pudding undisturbed.
Since it was my birthday afterall, I was tempted to ask if I could join them. That way, at least I could’ve finished reading about my stock portfolio in peace.
*Unless you're a magazine editor or market researcher
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
The Great Ignorer: Ted's Tribute to The Platters
Sung to the tune of 'The Great Pretender':
Oh yes, I'm the Great Ignorer, pretending I don’t hear what you say.
My need is such, I ignore too much, since I’m three, I think no one can tell...
When Eva was over the two and a half year mark, I was nearly counting the days until she turned three. Since nearly every game and activity is marked ‘Ages 3 and Above’, I envisioned hours spent engaged in Chutes and Ladders and flashcards; the easel (that I don’t own, mind you) full of paintings of happy mums and dads – smiling heads with arms and legs. Those trace the letter activity books would fill in those doldrums hours where the nap used to be…Ah, three! How I loved you from afar! (I was allowed to dream, this was my first child I’m talking about.)
Around this time, I remember being at a barbeque of a close family friend and telling him this. I always talk to him about Eva since he has a daughter of a very similar nature (bossy, determined, highly verbal, etc.) who is a year older: she is usually my coming attraction for the year ahead. Just after wrestling Eva to the ground when she had her brother around the neck, our conversation went something like this:
‘The terrible twos are still here, but at least she’s nearly three. That’ll be better.’
‘Huh! Don’t count on it.’
Then he said the line that left me reeling:
‘Jill and I think three is worse.’
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
I think I started to black out at this point and all I could hear was that ‘Eh-Eh-Eh’ music from Hitchcock’s Psycho playing in my head.
Three came and went for Eva and I am happy to report that it wasn’t worse. My fantasies were way, way off – Chutes and Ladders ended in fights and thrown pieces, any kind of craft was still far too messy and those activity books and flashcards? They killed about five to ten minutes, and only when I served them with a side of Nutella. But we’ve both survived.
Now it’s Ted’s turn. He’s just over one month into threedom and he has become a tyrant. Honestly, I didn’t know that he even had it in him - he was supposed to be my easy one. His sentences to me could all end in 'b*tch', as in 'Pick that up for me, b*tch!' and 'Get me my clothes, b*tch!' and 'Get me my juice box, b*tch!' (I Thank God he's not yet familiar with that colloquialism.) I’m now beginning to understand how someone like Hitler could turn seemingly normal men into Nazis - they obviously had in them a latent three year old (long subdued) and it only took the magic of one special dictator to bring it out in them again. Unlike Eva, who’s behaviour (both good and bad) has been consistent over time, not so with Ted. Aside from the new-found bossiness, there are two other traits he’s currently working on perfecting: whinging and ignoring.
Let’s start with the whinging. Once it starts, there is simply no telling when it might subside, even after the cause has been long forgotten. After the actual tantrum has ended and even the crying has subsided, there persists a low drone of whining not unlike a sound that a monk might emit unconsciously, whilst in the deepest throws of meditation. Often it’s accompanied by an occasional sob, I assume for dramatic effect. It’s like being pestered by a tenacious fly. You simply cannot ignore it, nor can you make it ignore you. You have to just wait it out. He makes Caillou look like William Wallace from Braveheart when he behaves like this. (I’m really hoping it stops before he catches up with Caillou, because if you asked me, that Caillou is on the road to copping some serious schoolyard b*tch slaps when he gets to kindergarten.)
But worse than the whinging is the ignoring. Initially, I thought that he was just ‘engaged in a task’ (to use the euphemising developmental edu-speak that all parents have been brainwashed with these days, myself included) and he honestly didn’t hear me. He was so convincing and the ignoring was so thorough. It was like I was asking, ‘Can you please put your shoes on?’ and he was suddenly hearing ‘Pouvez-vous s’il vous plait mettre vos chaussures?’
I started to monitor what I was asking, what distractions were around. Nothing new or unusual there. Next, I started getting down to his level – and he’d still blank me. He would try to not even make eye contact at six inches away. That’s when I knew I was being tested.
So for some it’s the terrible twos, for some it’s the terrible threes. I don’t know who coined the phrase the terrible twos, but there needs to be a phrase that captures all the advanced horrors of a three year old just as succinctly. If you have any suggestions, please email me. I promise I won’t ignore you.
Oh yes, I'm the Great Ignorer, pretending I don’t hear what you say.
My need is such, I ignore too much, since I’m three, I think no one can tell...
When Eva was over the two and a half year mark, I was nearly counting the days until she turned three. Since nearly every game and activity is marked ‘Ages 3 and Above’, I envisioned hours spent engaged in Chutes and Ladders and flashcards; the easel (that I don’t own, mind you) full of paintings of happy mums and dads – smiling heads with arms and legs. Those trace the letter activity books would fill in those doldrums hours where the nap used to be…Ah, three! How I loved you from afar! (I was allowed to dream, this was my first child I’m talking about.)
Around this time, I remember being at a barbeque of a close family friend and telling him this. I always talk to him about Eva since he has a daughter of a very similar nature (bossy, determined, highly verbal, etc.) who is a year older: she is usually my coming attraction for the year ahead. Just after wrestling Eva to the ground when she had her brother around the neck, our conversation went something like this:
‘The terrible twos are still here, but at least she’s nearly three. That’ll be better.’
‘Huh! Don’t count on it.’
Then he said the line that left me reeling:
‘Jill and I think three is worse.’
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
I think I started to black out at this point and all I could hear was that ‘Eh-Eh-Eh’ music from Hitchcock’s Psycho playing in my head.
Three came and went for Eva and I am happy to report that it wasn’t worse. My fantasies were way, way off – Chutes and Ladders ended in fights and thrown pieces, any kind of craft was still far too messy and those activity books and flashcards? They killed about five to ten minutes, and only when I served them with a side of Nutella. But we’ve both survived.
Now it’s Ted’s turn. He’s just over one month into threedom and he has become a tyrant. Honestly, I didn’t know that he even had it in him - he was supposed to be my easy one. His sentences to me could all end in 'b*tch', as in 'Pick that up for me, b*tch!' and 'Get me my clothes, b*tch!' and 'Get me my juice box, b*tch!' (I Thank God he's not yet familiar with that colloquialism.) I’m now beginning to understand how someone like Hitler could turn seemingly normal men into Nazis - they obviously had in them a latent three year old (long subdued) and it only took the magic of one special dictator to bring it out in them again. Unlike Eva, who’s behaviour (both good and bad) has been consistent over time, not so with Ted. Aside from the new-found bossiness, there are two other traits he’s currently working on perfecting: whinging and ignoring.
Let’s start with the whinging. Once it starts, there is simply no telling when it might subside, even after the cause has been long forgotten. After the actual tantrum has ended and even the crying has subsided, there persists a low drone of whining not unlike a sound that a monk might emit unconsciously, whilst in the deepest throws of meditation. Often it’s accompanied by an occasional sob, I assume for dramatic effect. It’s like being pestered by a tenacious fly. You simply cannot ignore it, nor can you make it ignore you. You have to just wait it out. He makes Caillou look like William Wallace from Braveheart when he behaves like this. (I’m really hoping it stops before he catches up with Caillou, because if you asked me, that Caillou is on the road to copping some serious schoolyard b*tch slaps when he gets to kindergarten.)
But worse than the whinging is the ignoring. Initially, I thought that he was just ‘engaged in a task’ (to use the euphemising developmental edu-speak that all parents have been brainwashed with these days, myself included) and he honestly didn’t hear me. He was so convincing and the ignoring was so thorough. It was like I was asking, ‘Can you please put your shoes on?’ and he was suddenly hearing ‘Pouvez-vous s’il vous plait mettre vos chaussures?’
I started to monitor what I was asking, what distractions were around. Nothing new or unusual there. Next, I started getting down to his level – and he’d still blank me. He would try to not even make eye contact at six inches away. That’s when I knew I was being tested.
So for some it’s the terrible twos, for some it’s the terrible threes. I don’t know who coined the phrase the terrible twos, but there needs to be a phrase that captures all the advanced horrors of a three year old just as succinctly. If you have any suggestions, please email me. I promise I won’t ignore you.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Anyone Know a Good Mannequin Dealer?
(I need one preferably with a red wig and that fits into my clothes, but I’ll get to that later….)
Part of the reason I had three kids in three years was that they were good babies. They all ate, and more importantly, slept. (My mother-in-law says a sleep is better than a feed and I believe that.) I’ve always been a bit reticent in revealing how well my children have slept since other parents tend to think I’m either lying or smug. Or both. I probably would. But please, don’t think for a second that I don’t know how lucky I am (hence the not telling people). Although I have had my battles, bedtime has never been one of them.
Until now.
Big Liam, my third and (did I ever mention before?) FINAL child has decided this week to give me a challenge. He’s just turned nineteen months old: normally the age when one thinks the worst is over. But then the unthinkable happened: he’s started climbing out of his cot.
He may as well have started smoking cigarettes behind his changing table, I’m so not prepared for this.
What do I do? Surely I am capable of outsmarting a one year old. I try yelling first. (My natural instinct. What can I say? I’m an unapologetic yeller.) I try brandishing a wooden spoon coupled with the Evil Eye. Menacing, brought a few tears, but ineffective. Next I tried the no-reaction, no-eye-contact method. This I determined to be the best of the worst. From Liam’s perspective, since this was all a great game with him being able to get mummy into a fantastic flap, the no-reaction method had some minimal but non-lasting effect. The first night, he eventually fell asleep from boredom. A bit of a roadrunner-coyote ending.
The next night after re-cotting him some dozen or so times, there is finally silence. Later when I go in to check on him I panic: he isn’t in his cot. To my horror, I find him passed out like an old homeless guy after one too many bourbons, sprawled out on a pile of clothes he had removed from his bureau.
Next I try the mum circuit and ask around. I get a lot of pure shock coupled with ‘time for a bed’ type responses. One friend in the same situation did a little extra childproofing and put some doorknob locks on. Since Liam’s room has his brother (whose hair he loves to pull) and a sliding door, neither is an option.
As a last resort, I consult a parenting book. (Note: the only reason I keep these in the house is purely for medicinal information: basic first aid, symptoms of horrible childhood diseases, etc.) I browse the index: ‘Cot climbing, see pg xx.’ I’m momentarily uplifted that this is even a topic covered! The book advises, ‘Remove all offensive items from the room and put mattress on the floor. Lock door.’ Now that’s practical. Isn’t this the same advice given to people detoxing from heroin addiction?
I read on anyway. Then, on the next page of the book, I saw it: a picture of a nylon piece of material that attaches to the top of a cot to create a tent-like effect, hermetically sealing fugitive babe into the cot for 12 hours. Perfect!
I’d never seen or even heard of such a thing before. (Still doesn’t beat the design of those 50s cage-cots with the swinging door and detachable feeding tray.) I don’t even know what this thing is called: I just know that I need one. Now. How is this item not on every baby registry in existence? Better yet, why don’t they just come as a standard feature with the purchase of every cot? This makes me start to wonder if this is not but a bit of a unicorn in the baby product industry: an urban legend. But I start googling anyway.
Turns out I’m right. This item has long gone the way of the lawn dart: recalled, and no longer in existence. No doubt because of inappropriate use by a few dim-witted meatheads. But throw in a couple of multi-million dollar lawsuits by aforementioned meatheads, and, well, you’re out of business. Figures. Whatever it’s proper name is (or was) the offending item is now only available on the Ukrainian black market from a guy named Vlad who accepts payment only in Asian porn or U.S. dollars.
It occurs to me that I have another option, one that has been proven to work: The ghost chair. That requires one to park a chair outside the offender’s bedroom door and wait for him to fall asleep each night, before slipping away silently and leaving the chair outside the door. Family legend has it that my brother-in-law had to do something like this. Now I’ve never clarified the particulars of this, but I believe he had to leave his pants (?) outside his daughter’s bedroom door so she would be fooled into thinking he was still there. Same concept and it worked.
Hence, my need for a mannequin. Preferably with a red wig. Replacing my actual presence with a mannequin in the chair would free up a lot of time at a crucial time of the day. Now if only I could track one down.
One friend did suggest that I contact the Red Cross for a CPR dummy, but they’re always clad in those unattractive tracksuits – he’d know it wasn’t me.
There is only one remaining option: a blow up doll. Only problem with the blow up doll is they don’t ever want to sit down (except maybe on your face), not to mention that creepy look of “constant surprise” they’ve perfected.
A small price to pay for a good night’s sleep, I suppose. I wonder do they make a Lucille Ball version?
Part of the reason I had three kids in three years was that they were good babies. They all ate, and more importantly, slept. (My mother-in-law says a sleep is better than a feed and I believe that.) I’ve always been a bit reticent in revealing how well my children have slept since other parents tend to think I’m either lying or smug. Or both. I probably would. But please, don’t think for a second that I don’t know how lucky I am (hence the not telling people). Although I have had my battles, bedtime has never been one of them.
Until now.
Big Liam, my third and (did I ever mention before?) FINAL child has decided this week to give me a challenge. He’s just turned nineteen months old: normally the age when one thinks the worst is over. But then the unthinkable happened: he’s started climbing out of his cot.
He may as well have started smoking cigarettes behind his changing table, I’m so not prepared for this.
What do I do? Surely I am capable of outsmarting a one year old. I try yelling first. (My natural instinct. What can I say? I’m an unapologetic yeller.) I try brandishing a wooden spoon coupled with the Evil Eye. Menacing, brought a few tears, but ineffective. Next I tried the no-reaction, no-eye-contact method. This I determined to be the best of the worst. From Liam’s perspective, since this was all a great game with him being able to get mummy into a fantastic flap, the no-reaction method had some minimal but non-lasting effect. The first night, he eventually fell asleep from boredom. A bit of a roadrunner-coyote ending.
The next night after re-cotting him some dozen or so times, there is finally silence. Later when I go in to check on him I panic: he isn’t in his cot. To my horror, I find him passed out like an old homeless guy after one too many bourbons, sprawled out on a pile of clothes he had removed from his bureau.
Next I try the mum circuit and ask around. I get a lot of pure shock coupled with ‘time for a bed’ type responses. One friend in the same situation did a little extra childproofing and put some doorknob locks on. Since Liam’s room has his brother (whose hair he loves to pull) and a sliding door, neither is an option.
As a last resort, I consult a parenting book. (Note: the only reason I keep these in the house is purely for medicinal information: basic first aid, symptoms of horrible childhood diseases, etc.) I browse the index: ‘Cot climbing, see pg xx.’ I’m momentarily uplifted that this is even a topic covered! The book advises, ‘Remove all offensive items from the room and put mattress on the floor. Lock door.’ Now that’s practical. Isn’t this the same advice given to people detoxing from heroin addiction?
I read on anyway. Then, on the next page of the book, I saw it: a picture of a nylon piece of material that attaches to the top of a cot to create a tent-like effect, hermetically sealing fugitive babe into the cot for 12 hours. Perfect!
I’d never seen or even heard of such a thing before. (Still doesn’t beat the design of those 50s cage-cots with the swinging door and detachable feeding tray.) I don’t even know what this thing is called: I just know that I need one. Now. How is this item not on every baby registry in existence? Better yet, why don’t they just come as a standard feature with the purchase of every cot? This makes me start to wonder if this is not but a bit of a unicorn in the baby product industry: an urban legend. But I start googling anyway.
Turns out I’m right. This item has long gone the way of the lawn dart: recalled, and no longer in existence. No doubt because of inappropriate use by a few dim-witted meatheads. But throw in a couple of multi-million dollar lawsuits by aforementioned meatheads, and, well, you’re out of business. Figures. Whatever it’s proper name is (or was) the offending item is now only available on the Ukrainian black market from a guy named Vlad who accepts payment only in Asian porn or U.S. dollars.
It occurs to me that I have another option, one that has been proven to work: The ghost chair. That requires one to park a chair outside the offender’s bedroom door and wait for him to fall asleep each night, before slipping away silently and leaving the chair outside the door. Family legend has it that my brother-in-law had to do something like this. Now I’ve never clarified the particulars of this, but I believe he had to leave his pants (?) outside his daughter’s bedroom door so she would be fooled into thinking he was still there. Same concept and it worked.
Hence, my need for a mannequin. Preferably with a red wig. Replacing my actual presence with a mannequin in the chair would free up a lot of time at a crucial time of the day. Now if only I could track one down.
One friend did suggest that I contact the Red Cross for a CPR dummy, but they’re always clad in those unattractive tracksuits – he’d know it wasn’t me.
There is only one remaining option: a blow up doll. Only problem with the blow up doll is they don’t ever want to sit down (except maybe on your face), not to mention that creepy look of “constant surprise” they’ve perfected.
A small price to pay for a good night’s sleep, I suppose. I wonder do they make a Lucille Ball version?
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