This is not my work, but I wish it was. I had to pass this one on. My next update will be appearing soon.
Hearing the News:
1st baby: You begin wearing maternity clothes as soon as your doctor confirms your pregnancy.
2nd baby: You wear your regular clothes for as long as possible.
3rd baby: Your maternity clothes ARE your regular clothes.
Preparing for the Birth:
1st baby: You practice your breathing religiously.
2nd baby: You don't bother because you remember that last time breathing didn't do a thing.
3rd baby : You ask for an epidural in your eighth month.
The Layette:
1st baby: You pre-wash newborn's clothes, colour coordinate them, and fold them neatly in the baby's little bureau.
2nd baby: You check to make sure that the clothes are clean and discard only the ones with the darkest stains.
3rd baby: Boys can wear pink, can't they?
Worries:
1st baby: At the first sign of distress--a whimper, a frown--you pick up the baby.
2nd baby: You pick the baby up when her wails threaten to wake your firstborn.
3rd baby: You teach your three-year-old how to rewind the mechanical swing.
The Dummy:
1st baby: If the dummy falls on the floor, you put it away until you can go home and wash and boil it.
2nd baby: When the dummy falls on the floor, you squirt it off with some juice from the baby's bottle..
3rd baby: You wipe it off on your shirt and pop it back in.
Nappies:
1st baby: You change your baby's nappy every hour, whether they need it or not.
2nd baby: You change their nappy every two to three hours, if needed.
3rd baby: You try to change their nappy before others start to complain about the smell or you see it sagging to their knees.
Activities:
1st baby: You take your infant to Baby Gymnastics, Baby Swing, and Baby Story Hour.
2nd baby: You take your infant to Baby Gymnastics.
3rd baby: You take your infant to the supermarket and the dry cleaner.
Going Out:
1st baby: The first time you leave your baby with a sitter, you call home five times.
2nd baby: Just before you walk out the door, you remember to leave a number where you can be reached...
3rd baby: You leave instructions for the sitter to call only if she sees blood.
At Home:
1st baby : You spend a good bit of every day just gazing at the baby.
2nd baby: You spend a bit of everyday watching to be sure your older child isn't squeezing, poking, or hitting the baby.
3rd baby: You spend a little bit of every day hiding from the children.
Swallowing Coins:
1st child: When first child swallows a coin, you rush the child to the hospital and demand x-rays.
2nd child: When second child swallows a coin, you carefully watch for the coin to pass.
3rd child: When third child swallows a coin, you deduct it from his pocket money.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
The Great Nail Debate
One of the nice things about returning to where you’re from is that it gives you a renewed appreciation for things you’ve stopped noticing when you were living there. The perspective of the holidaymaker is always refreshingly romantic and this trip was no exception. Ooh! There’s so much choice! The pedicures are so cheap! The ocean is RIGHT there! And would you look at that skyline!
And then there are a few of the less obvious things I began to notice. One: you can get pretty much anything pomegranate flavoured – from sparking water to shoes, America is all about the pomegranate these days (I blame Oprah). Second: the amount of radio play the mediocre 80s rock band Journey receives far outweighs the contributions they made to the world of music. And thirdly, I was reminded that most lifestyle trends begin in America. While this can be a good thing, I’m not sure how I feel about the issue regarding The Manicure – the nail salon seems to have replaced the local butcher as a standard fix in every neighbourhood.
One day while I was out shopping – at a supermarket, no less – I spotted some glue-on nails. Odd, because like Journey, these seemed to have had their heyday in the 80s (having been slowly phased out by your ubiquitous local Pretty Pretty Fancy Beauty Nails salon). What caught my eye was that these glue-on nails had pictures airbrushed on to them.
Of the Disney Princesses.
I cringed. If a girl is young enough to still be into Belle, Ariel and Cinderella, aren’t they just a little too young to start worrying about something as superficial as their fingernails? And, practically speaking as the mother of a born diva, I don’t even want to begin to imagine the rage that would ensue when Jasmine gets chipped after a rugged afternoon in the garden digging for snails – or worse yet, if we lost Snow White altogether, buried alive amongst the worms. Call me old-fashioned, but I would’ve thought a minimum of Hannah-Montana, tweeny-aged appeal for the glue on nails.
Which brings me to the next part of this issue. When to manicure, if at all? It seems nearly inevitable these days. When Eva was nearing the three-year-old mark, she came home one afternoon with a pedicure, courtesy of my dad. ‘You took her WHERE?!?’ I blurted. While he of course had the best of intentions and thought it would be cute, I couldn’t help but think it was far too young to be doing that sort of thing. Yes, it’s completely harmless – it’s not like he took her out behind the bleachers of his old high school and treated her to her first Marlboro Light with a Wild Turkey chaser. My problem isn’t even the JoBenet Ramsey issue with the early sexualization of our children, although that too is bothersome.
For me, it’s that it begins to raise the expectation level. That is something that’s happened right across the board as we struggle to parent in the midst of life’s often-enjoyable-but-also-complicating factors: the elaborately-themed birthday parties, the dvd player in the car, the bouncy castle at every event, the Baby Einstein crap, the video games for three year olds, the minimum of four activities that we need to have everyone scheduled into from 2.9 years onward… It’s all suddenly so complicated.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to be a kill-joy. After television, I would probably vote the bouncy castle as the greatest invention for parents in the 20th century. (Well, that and the cot-tent would be in a close race for second. See previous column.) We as parents have higher expectations for our own lives than our own parents probably did of theirs: we want the bigger houses with home theatres and fancier holidays. We don’t just want our skinny soy lattes and regular facials. We expect them.
As a child I can remember my mother sitting in front of her then state-of-the-art Clairol magnifying makeup mirror. (I’m sure it had a much more jazzed up name, like the Clairol Magnifique 2000 or something.) She’d plug it in to illuminate the rows of light bulbs on either side of the mirror and sit down to do her basic maintenance – which in the 1970s consisted of some heavy duty eyebrow plucking followed by lots and lots of shimmery eye shadow in the area the eyebrow once called home. A spritz of Charlie perfume and she was out the door.
Ah, the good old days. Now it’s off to our facials and Reiki, manicures and Brazilians. To paraphrase one of my favourite columnists Mia Freedman on this issue, as women we now are required to do as part of our basic maintenance things that were once only in the domain of the rich or famous. While many of these things are enjoyable (not the Brazilian, per say) they’re undoubtedly complicating factors in our lives. We have to create windows in our precious time – away from family, friends, work – just to be groomed.
And these grooming rituals are not only seen as essential, but also as a female rite of passage, a way to do some bonding, to kill two birds with one stone: ‘I can find out how my four-year-old’s day at preschool was while we get our nails done together!’ Cash rich, time poor. Of course this isn’t even an issue for men, and not because their grooming rituals are almost non-existent, but because there really isn’t an inappropriate age to attend ball games – and thankfully in most civilised countries, there is a legal drinking age. Like it’s not enough that they get to pee standing up.
As any parent will tell you, those years with little kids go so quick, especially with girls – it all just slips through our fingers too easily. But for now, I’m only planning on keeping my own fingers manicured.
And then there are a few of the less obvious things I began to notice. One: you can get pretty much anything pomegranate flavoured – from sparking water to shoes, America is all about the pomegranate these days (I blame Oprah). Second: the amount of radio play the mediocre 80s rock band Journey receives far outweighs the contributions they made to the world of music. And thirdly, I was reminded that most lifestyle trends begin in America. While this can be a good thing, I’m not sure how I feel about the issue regarding The Manicure – the nail salon seems to have replaced the local butcher as a standard fix in every neighbourhood.
One day while I was out shopping – at a supermarket, no less – I spotted some glue-on nails. Odd, because like Journey, these seemed to have had their heyday in the 80s (having been slowly phased out by your ubiquitous local Pretty Pretty Fancy Beauty Nails salon). What caught my eye was that these glue-on nails had pictures airbrushed on to them.
Of the Disney Princesses.
I cringed. If a girl is young enough to still be into Belle, Ariel and Cinderella, aren’t they just a little too young to start worrying about something as superficial as their fingernails? And, practically speaking as the mother of a born diva, I don’t even want to begin to imagine the rage that would ensue when Jasmine gets chipped after a rugged afternoon in the garden digging for snails – or worse yet, if we lost Snow White altogether, buried alive amongst the worms. Call me old-fashioned, but I would’ve thought a minimum of Hannah-Montana, tweeny-aged appeal for the glue on nails.
Which brings me to the next part of this issue. When to manicure, if at all? It seems nearly inevitable these days. When Eva was nearing the three-year-old mark, she came home one afternoon with a pedicure, courtesy of my dad. ‘You took her WHERE?!?’ I blurted. While he of course had the best of intentions and thought it would be cute, I couldn’t help but think it was far too young to be doing that sort of thing. Yes, it’s completely harmless – it’s not like he took her out behind the bleachers of his old high school and treated her to her first Marlboro Light with a Wild Turkey chaser. My problem isn’t even the JoBenet Ramsey issue with the early sexualization of our children, although that too is bothersome.
For me, it’s that it begins to raise the expectation level. That is something that’s happened right across the board as we struggle to parent in the midst of life’s often-enjoyable-but-also-complicating factors: the elaborately-themed birthday parties, the dvd player in the car, the bouncy castle at every event, the Baby Einstein crap, the video games for three year olds, the minimum of four activities that we need to have everyone scheduled into from 2.9 years onward… It’s all suddenly so complicated.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to be a kill-joy. After television, I would probably vote the bouncy castle as the greatest invention for parents in the 20th century. (Well, that and the cot-tent would be in a close race for second. See previous column.) We as parents have higher expectations for our own lives than our own parents probably did of theirs: we want the bigger houses with home theatres and fancier holidays. We don’t just want our skinny soy lattes and regular facials. We expect them.
As a child I can remember my mother sitting in front of her then state-of-the-art Clairol magnifying makeup mirror. (I’m sure it had a much more jazzed up name, like the Clairol Magnifique 2000 or something.) She’d plug it in to illuminate the rows of light bulbs on either side of the mirror and sit down to do her basic maintenance – which in the 1970s consisted of some heavy duty eyebrow plucking followed by lots and lots of shimmery eye shadow in the area the eyebrow once called home. A spritz of Charlie perfume and she was out the door.
Ah, the good old days. Now it’s off to our facials and Reiki, manicures and Brazilians. To paraphrase one of my favourite columnists Mia Freedman on this issue, as women we now are required to do as part of our basic maintenance things that were once only in the domain of the rich or famous. While many of these things are enjoyable (not the Brazilian, per say) they’re undoubtedly complicating factors in our lives. We have to create windows in our precious time – away from family, friends, work – just to be groomed.
And these grooming rituals are not only seen as essential, but also as a female rite of passage, a way to do some bonding, to kill two birds with one stone: ‘I can find out how my four-year-old’s day at preschool was while we get our nails done together!’ Cash rich, time poor. Of course this isn’t even an issue for men, and not because their grooming rituals are almost non-existent, but because there really isn’t an inappropriate age to attend ball games – and thankfully in most civilised countries, there is a legal drinking age. Like it’s not enough that they get to pee standing up.
As any parent will tell you, those years with little kids go so quick, especially with girls – it all just slips through our fingers too easily. But for now, I’m only planning on keeping my own fingers manicured.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
The Epic Journey Part II: The Journey Commences
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.
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.
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
