Confessions of a not so desperate housewife

A Total Eclipse of the Heart

2009-09-10T21:55:00.003+12:00

It has been an eternity since my last entry, which truth be told, was a pretty low point for me. After a few rough spells I was ready to throw in the mummy towel and head on back to the working world where I would feel validated and compensated for any hard work on my part. Nothing prepares you for how very challenging being a stay-at-home-mum is. But, similarly, nothing prepares you for how gut-rentching it is to part with your children after being a stay-at-home-mum.

After a few successful interviews, followed by an enticing job offer (and tempting pay check to match), it was ultimately my children that got my vote. No, it does not come with a lucrative pay package or 25 days annual leave or even sick leave for that matter. Thing is, I really, really enjoy being at home with the kids. I love being the one picking them up from school and hearing about their day, whether it’s been a fun one that we can laugh about, or a sad one that requires a few chocolate cookies and cuddles to fix. I love that I have the time to help out at school events. I love being able to take them to after school activities during the week instead of cramming them all in on the weekend. I love that I have the patience (and time) to play strange made-up games with bizarre rules (that make no sense to me but perfect sense to them). I love that we can seize a perfect sunny day and go to the beach for the afternoon with little worry about schedules. I love that whilst I may not have the extra cash to buy them extravagant gifts I have the extra time and patience to live life at their pace and engage with them.

It was the real threat of losing all this that made me sit up and take stock of how very lucky I am to be able to do this every day. So what if I have to clean my own house because we cannot afford a cleaner on one salary. So what if I can’t afford frequent trips to the hair salon. So what if I no longer fit into my skinny jeans (read: no longer able to pay for Pilate lessons).

The reality is that at some point I will have to go back into the workforce (as finances dictate such), but whilst I can, I’m going to enjoy each precious day with these wonderful, amazing, funny little people that are my children.

When Good Mummies Go Bad

2009-06-05T23:01:00.002+12:00

For the past few weeks I have been looking after my sick children. With the help of paracetamol, antibiotics and chocolate cookies I have nursed them back to health, whilst patiently cleaning vomit in the middle of the night and providing entertainment to distract from the pain in the early hours of the morning, with a trip to the emergency room thrown in for good measure.

I’m officially exhausted and in dire need of a little break, but the parenting schedule doesn’t include little breaks. Whilst I fully understand this, my worn out emotions are betraying all good intentions I have of being a good mummy .This I sadly discovered after an extremely trying day with an exceptionally irrational child.

The day was off to remarkable start with a series of unforgettable Victorian-style tantrums. I remained calm and continued about with our morning routine. At school drop off, I managed to see off my daughter whilst having a screaming side-performance from my son that would put the members of “Kiss” to shame. Still, I went about the rest of the morning in a cool manner, trying to tell myself that I am the adult that I have control of my emotions and he is just a child unable to articulate his feelings in any other way. Got it. Just breathe.

After a blissful two hours on the beach searching for treasures, chasing sea gulls, drawing in the sand and a decadent picnic of brioche and hot chocolate, I believed I had conquered the drama for the day. How wrong I was.

Never under-estimate the stamina of a determined pre-schooler. The rest of the afternoon played out in much the same manner as the morning. Me trying to reason with an inconsolable screaming child. Him over- reacting negatively to anything or anyone, including so much as even looking at him.

Bath time was a spectacular show – think trying to bath a screeching cat and you’re on the right track. Still however, I persevered through this and spoke gently to him, trying to soothe his clearly tortured soul. This was followed by a disastrous dinner. But it’s when I finally sat on the couch and took stock of my day and my ears were yet again assaulted with more screeching that a complete meltdown was experienced on my behalf, with my voice rising above all the screaming to be heard, no doubt, by all of suburbia.

At that point I was quite happy to be escorted to a loony bin only to have some peace and quiet. In fact, I was silently praying for that to happen. Surprisingly my own tantrum seemed to have some significant results as my children stared back at me in awe of my own dramatic capabilities and became quite obliging with my requests to brush teeth and go to bed.

I went to bed ashamed of my outburst, wondering how it all went so wrong when my intentions were so right. My aching heart was comforted by my son who wanted a cuddle in the middle of the night. So whilst I wasn’t the perfect mummy, I did the best that I could, and that has got to be good enough for today.

All’s fair in love and war

2009-05-15T16:47:00.000+12:00

I almost made it through the morning without bribery and corruption. Unfortunately I was caught red-handed by a fellow school-mum, whilst trying (unsuccessfully) to negotiate peace between my two children. They both wanted a toy that neither of them had bothered to play with for the past five months (the layer of dust on it put ruins in Egypt to shame), but suddenly that morning it was the prized possession that neither could part with. A battle of wills and sheer brute force ensued and I was left with little choice but to whisper that if they stopped fighting over it I would buy each of them a lollypop. It worked marvellously with each of them gushing that the other could gladly play with it because “sharing is caring”.

A good mother would have promptly taken the offending object and announced that neither child would play with it until everybody learnt to get along. Teary tantrums would have followed, with shouting’s of the unfairness of it all. But an important lesson would have been learnt – that life isn’t always fair and we don’t always get what we want.

I took the cowardly way. The one shunned upon by all parenting books, psychologists, teachers and particularly your mother-in-law. Giving in to your children has been added to the Ten Commandments as far as they’re concerned and should not be entertained in the least.

But why not, I ask? I don’t particularly like playing the fun police who is constantly threatening and sounding thunderous. I know without a shadow of a doubt that had I done the supposed “right” thing, both children would have wailed like banshees prolonging the heinous ordeal, and I would have gone about my day hating myself.

But rather by simply, let’s call it “rewarding good behaviour”, I managed to divert the attention off the ridiculous toy and gave them something to works towards. This is not such a new concept. In fact many companies manage their staff members in such a way “If you play nicely and win us some big business then you could have that promotion you always wanted...” The difference being that I live up to my promises
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I’m often questioned about my parenting tactics generally by my husband as his differ so greatly from my own. Whilst he believes that we should be running a small military operation at home, with himself as commander-in-chief shouting orders, I would probably have a more gypsy existence if left to my own devices. The thing is that everyone likes to please others, and this is no truer in children. So why not use this as a behaviour modification tool. No need to scream (ok sometimes you’re not left much choice, particularly when you’ve reached your patience threshold), but rather dangle that carrot. A far easier approach to reach that same destination plus you’ll come out with fairy godmother status instead of the bearer of all things unfair in life. And nothing beats the reward of that smile you’ll get in return, because we too like to please others.

Survival of the Foolish

2009-05-04T14:49:00.000+12:00

All around suburbia there is an audible sigh of relief amongst mothers as their children are scurried off to school for the new term, and serenity in the household is once again restored.

Being relatively new as a stay-at-home mom, I naively believed that I would sail through the holidays with well-behaved, content children – how foolish I was. Surviving the school holidays is not for the faint-hearted. One needs to be armed with planned activities, outings, and play dates ensuring that the words “I’m bored” will never be uttered. And more importantly that one makes it through the other side with their sanity intact.

What I have since learnt is that holiday activities are carefully planned with military precision and scheduled weeks (if not months) in advance, as every mother will be elbowing their way to the all-important holiday events, juggling a myriad of play dates, and stocking the craft cupboard ensuring little hands are kept busy cutting, folding, threading, pasting and building rather than pushing, shoving or breaking.

For someone who was once highly praised for her organisation skills, I have been living my life a lot more spontaneously and frequently find myself deciding things on a spur-of-the-moment. For the most part this seems to be working (in a very bohemian sort way) but living in a country that is renowned for its wet weather does not help if you are not suitably geared up. This is especially evident over the holidays. The thought of going to the park is quickly dissolved when you awake to grey skies and downpours that put your shower to shame. You’re left with very sad little faces at the thought of another in-door game of pick-up-sticks.

My actions (or lack thereof) reminded me of a favourite childhood fable, who’s moral I only recently fully understood. The story takes place on a summer day. A grasshopper was singing and chirping and hopping about. He was having a wonderful time. He saw an ant that was busy gathering and storing grain for the winter. “Stop and talk to me,” said the grasshopper. “We can sing some songs and dance a while.” “Oh no,” said the ant. “Winter is coming. I am storing up food for the winter. I think you should do the same.” “Oh, I can’t be bothered,” said the grasshopper. “Winter is a long time off. There is plenty of food.” So the grasshopper continued to dance and sing and chip and the ant continued to work. But when winter came the grasshopper had no food and was starving. He went to the ants’ house and asked, “Can I have some wheat or maybe a few kernels of corn. Without it I will starve,” whined the grasshopper. “You danced last summer,” said the ants in disgust. “You can continue to dance.” And they gave him no food.

Thankfully my friends were kinder than the ant and recognised a mother in need, and accepted my impromptu play dates. But I’ll be gathering my grain in time for the next holiday.

Gone Potty

2009-04-24T13:32:00.004+12:00

Until recently I believed our daughter had a sharp sense of humour. Case in point, when explaining the different titles people use we went through our own family members “Dad is Mr Smith, Mom is Mrs Smith, you are Miss Smith and your brother is Master Smith”. To which she replied “Oh no he’s not! He’s Monster Smith!” Very appropriate pun (as he really can be a monster), and thus very funny.'

Lately however, the jokes have gone south. “What happens when a goat poos?” is asked with uncontained glee. “What happens?” I ask with some genuine enthusiasm. To which she replies “It poos!” and she collapses on the floor laughing hysterically. Right.

I’ve since learnt that the words “poo”, “bum”, “fart”, “bottom” and “wee” are also hilarious and can be used on their own for high impact comedy, no need for it to be part of a little story or even to attach it to an actual sentence. Merely shouting them out randomly at someone (not unlike Tourette’s Syndrome) is apparently very funny indeed. I’ve been assured that this is very normal behaviour for a six year old, and like any other phase, this too shall pass.

However, it appears that whilst girls outgrow this unsavoury humour of the potty variety, boys don’t. And this extends well into their adulthood. It is the reason why shows such as “Jackass” exist, why farting under the duvet is always a cracker, and even a whoopee cushion can elicit a laugh from a grown man.
My son, who is turning three later this year, is already obsessed with bodily functions that result in poos, farts and wees. He always inspects his “masterpieces”, laughs at his own farts and even watched, with intense fascination, a pony make a number two out in the field on a recent trip to the countryside. I can see where this is headed.

My only chance for surviving my family’s idea of the height of humour is to join in...

An old woman is riding in an elevator in a very lavish building, when a young and beautiful woman gets into the elevator, smelling of expensive perfume. She turns to the old woman and says arrogantly, "Romance" by Ralph Lauren, $150 an ounce!" Then another young and beautiful woman gets on the elevator, and also very arrogantly turns to the old woman saying, "Channel No. 5, $200 an ounce!" About three floors later, the old woman has reached her destination and is about to get off the elevator. Before she leaves, she looks at both beautiful women, then bends over and farts and says "Broccoli, 49 cents a pound."

Yummy- Mummy or Slummy-Mummy?

2009-04-15T21:28:00.039+12:00

In between moving country, setting up a new home, settling the children into new schools, giving up my job (not to mention my income) along with the loss a full time nanny and housekeeper, I have found I have a lot less time (and less funds) for the small indulgences in life – aka beauty routines.

Things were all swimming along just fine, until I caught sight of myself in the mirror. Not that I haven’t glanced in the mirror each morning to ensure that I don’t have bits of Coco Pops stuck to my hair before I dash out for the school run, but I hadn’t really looked in a really long time.

The reflection staring back at me frightened me. Who was this woman with beach blown hair, sun damaged skin and the unibrow? Where did the decidedly more groomed person I felt ever so much more comfortable with disappear to? Hesitantly, I stepped on the scale, and to add insult to injury, the numbers flashing up were not comforting – I guess the all-access pass to the fridge wasn’t helping matters. A cold sweat washed over me.

I started to think back much like you do when you first realise you might be pregnant and you try to remember when your last cycle was. When was the last time I exfoliated (something I used to do religiously three times a week), or waxed (an appointment that was a permanent fixture in my diary)? I never wanted to be one of those couldn’t-care-less mummies who sport greying sweat shirts to match their greying roots. But my own treacherous roots proved otherwise.

I shared my vain fears with my ever-patient husband, who told me he loves me even without a manicure. I quick glance to my hands confirmed yet another body part that had been neglected for far too long.

The next day I made a trip to the pharmacy, and left armed with enough paraphernalia and products (promising impossible results) to stock a beauty salon. Once home, I locked myself into the bathroom and after hours of scrubbing, dyeing, plucking and preening I emerged feeling like a new woman.

Sadly, no one in my family noticed my yummy-mummy efforts, which just goes to prove that they really do love me no matter the state of eyebrows. But regardless, I’m going about my days now feeling heaps better about myself, in the knowledge that I have restored a bit of my former self. I have vowed to dedicate a little bit of regular vanity time to myself, because I’m worth it.

The Mummy Mafia

2009-04-04T21:28:00.001+13:00

There are a small group of women at the school gates, who have the ability to make me feel like the epitome of an unfit mother. They are the ones that make casual wear look très chic, whilst I look like I’m on my way to clean out the oven and defrost the fridge (which incidentally, I am). The ones that make you feel guilty for using regular supermarket variety veggies, instead of the exotic organic ones purchased from the farmers market. The ones that frown upon your inability to control your pre-schooler as he screams and kicks you in the shins. They are the ones that have “motherhood” down to a fine art and wear it like a badge.

They almost always are on the PTA, actively involved in fund raising, over-zealous in volunteering their spare hours to the school in any way they can, and ensure that their children are signed up for all the preferred after school activities. Whilst I struggle to finish my very measly tasks I’ve set out for myself each week. I don’t know how they accomplish all that they do, but they do, ensuring you feel guilty about how little you do for your children and the school. I’m more than a little intimidated by these women, and feel like I’m the terribly un-cool kid back in high school.

I have a theory on how these Mafia Mums are born into our world of swimming lessons and ballet classes. Having left their careers at the labour ward door, their ambitions have moved onto their children and the school they attend. Over-qualified and frustrated, they pour all their energy into their over-stimulated children and transfer their self-esteem issues onto other mothers through their sophisticated bullying methods. With little else to occupy their idle minds they are left to interrogate others lives. Are they happier than the rest of us, constantly checking their “score card” of where they’re currently positioned, in fear that they may have dropped a rank? Doubtfully.

I won’t be selected as the next “chosen one” by the Mummy Mafia as I very much do not cut the grade, but I should be happy and patting myself on my back as my children are generally happy (with the odd tantrum thrown in for good measure), get sufficient outdoor exercise (but still get to watch their favourite TV program) and eat their balanced meals (with some naughty treats allowed). And most importantly, quoting my daughter, in her eyes I’m the “bestest mum in the whole world”.

Playmates, Play Dates and Playground Rules

2009-04-02T21:19:00.001+13:00

In a bid to ensure that my children do not become social outcasts, I’m continually involving them in various activities, whether it is Girl Guides, Sunday school, community events, or after school play dates. Thanks to my own doing, this week I was faced with an enormous social calendar for my children, whilst mine remained notably empty.

However, these gatherings are never smooth sailing, and as they squabble or come home in tears, I’m often left wondering why I continue to set them up. I keep assuring myself that eventually my children will learn some social graces that will serve them well for future dinner parties in their adult life. For the moment, I’m trying to guide them through this tricky learning curve, that even as adults we still occasionally battle with.

Each day I get a run-down of the playground politics – no one plays with Zac because he “smells funny”; Sam is the boss of all the games; Jessica wore an ugly dress so she wasn’t allowed to play tag; and Zoey is the current best friend because she shared her chocolate biscuit. Best friends are another chapter all on its own – they break-up and make-up as quickly and easily as anything over a Barbie shoe.As a parent, you worry about the day that no one wants to play with your child because they either “smell funny”, wore an ugly outfit, or heaven forbid, have the wrong colour school bag. There is only so much you can do (read: sniffing your children each morning, scouting the school playground for what passes as cool attire and checking the bag racks for the colour de rigueur), the rest will have to go down as life experiences that build their character.

Although the socialisation skills of children are somewhat questionable, their antics have got me thinking how we as adults conduct our friendships. The simplicity of approaching all friendships with such candour is very appealing. Sometimes it would be great to say outright exactly why you can’t be friends for a while instead of pretending to get along and that all is okay. Or to go up to someone and simply ask “I like you, can we be friends?”

So whilst I won’t be telling a friend that I can’t play with her today because she’s wearing last season’s autumn wear, I will endeavour to have more “open” friendships. It appears that the art of friendship may just be child’s play.

Out of the mouths of babes

2009-03-26T21:32:00.002+13:00

“Mommy, is that a man or a lady?” asks Hannah. This is the question that was posed to me by my 6 year old in a rather loud voice at the check-out queue of our local supermarket. Naturally, heads turned our way with tight embarrassing smiles. Thankfully, the person in question did not. Fingers crossed that she did not hear the comment. Or perhaps, “he”? Trouble is, I did not know the answer to that question myself. Children somehow manage to ask the unthinkable at the most inopportune moments. Well, actually, let’s be honest. We were all thinking the same thing, we just filter what we chose to say or ask.

Take for example the age old question “Does my bum look big in this?” When I ask my husband this, I never quite get a straight answer, because let’s face it, he’s not sure which is the right answer, and I’m not sure there is one. If he hesitates in answering the question, I’ll criticize him of having to think of the right answer, in which case he must be lying (particularly if the answer was “no”). If he says “yes” then the rest of the day will be spent with me sulking and accusing him of being insensitive. He usually avoids the question at all costs. His last response to that particular question was “It’s all relative.” This left me baffled, wondering what he meant by that. Relative to what? But clearly he achieved his goal, because it did end that line of questioning quickly and swiftly (one point to him).

My daughter on the other hand, doesn’t even need to be asked the question. She is rather forthcoming about her thoughts. Whilst stepping into the shower, she prods me with her finger and asks “Mommy, why is your bum so wobbly?” Oh help! Given that we’re in the privacy of our home, I chose to answer her truthfully “Because mommy eats too many sweeties.” However, I should have given my answer some thought, because lo and behold, when we’re having tea with friends and I’m tucking into a scone that has been smeared with butter, laden with heavy cream and a dollop of sweet strawberry jam, she says (again in her loud voice that seems to cut through any other conversation in the room) “Mommy, you mustn’t have too many sweets or your bum will get wobblier!” Well, yes, thank you for pointing that out to me, I was trying not to feel guilty about eating it, but I guess now I will.

Every night we end our day with a bedtime story and once the lights are out, it’s an indication for sleep time. Hannah however, always uses these few minutes before her eyes finally close to share things about her day with me. One night in particular, she starts telling me about all the things she misses about Africa – her grandparents, her dogs, cats, fish, her friends and how she can still remember the house we lived in. I ask her what about the house she misses the most. Is it the trampoline, the swimming pool, the jungle gym? She tells me the thing she liked the most about our home was her family and we’re still all together so she doesn’t miss the house so much. Bless her!