Youth Mental Health Crisis - A Parent's Survival Guide

It has long been known that New Zealand has the worst youth suicide rate of all 41 OECD nations - here in Godzone our young people are struggling. The pandemic has surely made things worse - isolation, disruption to lives, friendships, sports, and the added pressure of trying to learn online has heaped extra weight on our kids. So many young people are battling with hopelessness, overwhelm, suicidal thoughts, self-harm, depression and major anxiety. 

Having a child who is struggling with their mental health, watching your precious kid in intense emotional and mental pain is surely one of the worst things a parent can go through. Knowing how to respond, how to help and support them through it can be a confusing and lonely struggle. (Sadly, there is still so much stigma around mental illness, and it can be hard to reach out for help).

I am writing this from the trenches, for fellow parents of young people who are struggling. For the past four years, this has been my battle too. And now finally, I can see clear water ahead, and feel like I can share what I've learned.

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From the Ashes

It has been nearly three years since I left my marriage. It was the most difficult decision I have ever made, and one with the highest cost I’ve ever had to pay. It was ‘Hobson’s Choice’ you might say – the choice you have when there is really no other choice. When my marriage ended it wasn’t from lack of trying – we’d been in counselling since 2012, after all. But when all avenues have been tried and the pain being caused to all parties is greater than the benefit of staying, well, at some point you have to call ‘time’.

No-one walks away from a marriage lightly. No-one launches a grenade into their family on a whim; but still, I had no idea at the time just exactly what the price would be for that decision, though all things considered it was still the only decision that could have been made.

With the decision to walk away came Death of the Dream.

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Pearls

This post is the result of a conversation I had in the car with Scrag this morning - a deep and meaningful discussion about the meaning of life (the kind of talks I often find myself having with my eight-year-old. It's how we roll).
There we are driving along in traffic, rushing, on the cusp of lateness as always, and he says, "Mum do you think there's a plan for everything? Is there a point to it?"

See what I mean? Deep. This kid is DEEP.
I know where he's coming from, what he is trying to get at.
With all the crappy things that happen, is there a reason or plan behind it? Is there a reason why we go through stuff?

Here's how I answered him...

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Good Riddance 2016 (but Thanks for not Killing Me)

Today is the last day of this bloody awful year. It has been without a doubt the hardest year of my life - yet strangely it hasn't actually been the worst year. 

Why? Because I'm finishing the year a stronger person than I began it.

My faith in God has been tested, and strengthened, because He has not failed me yet.

I've lost friends along the way, but discovered others whose worth is pure gold. 

I've had to learn to fill the roles of both mum and dad - and have since realised how incredible single mums are.

There are so many of us out there, doing the hard yards, unseen and alone, but rocking parenting in spite of the endless challenges - in spite of incredibly tight budgets, the (unfair and untrue) judgments of others and the sheer relentlessness of doing life on our own. 

I am in awe of the strength of women, and single mums in particular.

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In Defense of Ritalin (and ADHD Kids)

ADHD seems to be misunderstood and get a bad rap from people who don't actually know much about it, so I'm here today to throw my hat in the ring and clear up a few misconceptions.

I've heard comments from many quarters about the tendency these days to "throw around labels" and "bung kids on medication". In some circles it's rumoured that ADHD isn't even a thing - that it's made up - because apparently "French children don't get ADHD" (the same way French women don't get fat. Yeah right).
Some people have the idea that ADHD is a convenient excuse for the bad behaviour of children who, in earlier generations, would just be called "naughty". Sigh.

Of course it's one thing to be able to sit up on a very high horse and spout theories, it's another to live with children who actually have that very real thing going on in their brains, which makes life and school so painfully difficult, for them and us as parents.

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Baby Turns Eight (and Mum Ponders his Struggles)

Today I'm writing a post about my youngest child - the ray of sunshine affectionately known as Scrag.
He turned eight this week. EIGHT. My baby.
Scrag was born happy. He was a delight and a joy, the pet of the family and everybody's snuggle bug from his earliest days.
I remember being in the hospital, wracked with post-surgery pain (like nothing I've ever experienced before; so bad I wanted to die. The morphine did nothing.) My newborn baby was lying there gazing into my eyes, and he knew me. As we locked eyes, me in pain, him serene, I said to myself: it's worth it. This pain is worth it to have this child.

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The Perils of Thinking Straight

"Thinking straight" is hard work for some kids - just getting through an average day is a feat of endurance and nuclear meltdowns can occur with worrying frequency. You might know someone like this (it might be your kid) and you are baffled as to why, for no apparent reason, they seem to melt down on a regular basis.

I'm writing this post to clue you in dear readers: mums, teachers, friends of people with kids like mine. I'm reminding us all that for kids whose brains are a bit quirky (like those with dyslexia or ADHD), thinking straight is hard work.

What I mean is, ordering your thoughts, sequencing your actions, forcing your jumping-about, big-picture brain to work in a straight, ordered line, day after day, hour after hour is flippin exhausting.
The daily routine of getting up, getting dressed and ready, getting out the door on time EVERY DAY is like running a marathon every single day, with no end in sight.

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This is Normal (apparently)

Sometimes everything works. Every now and then we have a day - or a few days in a row even! - where everything just flows. There are no meltdowns, no raised voices, no tears or tantrums. There is no reason to tear out my hair or wish human ears came with a volume control.
Sometimes, every now and then, I feel like a good mum. Like we've figured it out. Like we are winning.

And then there are the other days.
The days where nothing works.
The days where we are like kittens in a bag, scratching at each other. The days where if it's not one kid crying/shouting/fighting/whingeing, it's another. Scrapping and answering back. Needling each other. Melting down over the littlest things. I should be bald by now with the frequency of these days.

[ CONTINUE READING.......]

I'm the Mother of a Teenager (Help! Send Wine!)

It's official. I am now the proud owner of my very own teenager. Our eldest son turned 13 yesterday, and I'm a patchwork of emotions: I don't know whether to be nostalgic, proud or completely terrified.

The first thing I feel, as always, is WHERE HAS THE TIME GONE?

[ CONTINUE READING.......]

The Upside of Imperfection

I don't know where we ever got the idea that perfection was a possibility, but every second mother I talk to beats herself up on a regular basis for not being perfect.
We agonise over whether our lack of consistency is going to result in life-destroying character flaws; we lie awake at night worrying if our growling and nagging and shouting is wreaking havoc on our children's fragile psyches; we compare ourselves to every other mum out there who we imagine has it all together... When the reality is that we don't. Not a one. None of us do.
We are flawed and imperfect, every one.
Because we are Human. That's just how we are: none of us perfect.

I myself am far from perfect, and to try and pretend otherwise would just be silly.
Maintaining a pretense of perfection fools nobody.
There's something very freeing about admitting you fail, acknowledging your weaknesses and mess-ups and letting others see you are human.

[ CONTINUE READING.......]

Getting the Black Dog Under Control (beating depression)

Last week I wrote a post on a subject I haven't broached in a while as I found myself pursued by my old Nemesis, the Black Dog. After a nice long spell free from it's hounding, it was something of a shock to feel those old feelings again. But after years of dealing with that mutt's harassment, I was in a much better place than I once was to get it back under control again.

I'm talking about Depression, if you haven't figured it out. It dogged me for years (ha, see what I did there?).

In recent times I've been symptom-free, partly helped by anti-depressants, which deal with the chemical side, and partly helped by regular visits to my awesome counselor, Jane - or as I prefer to think of her, my life coach. With this two-pronged plan I've been making steady progress at dealing with stuff, getting stronger, finding my voice - and the Black Dog was nowhere to be seen.

But I knew it was still lurking in the background somewhere, waiting for it's opportunity to pounce. It was tied up, sure, and under control, but I was under no illusions that I was done with that Mutt for good. It's a vulnerability I have, like a dodgy knee that plays up in cold weather. If I don't stay vigilant, if I let things get on top of me, if pressure starts to build and I'm not careful, then look out - the Black Dog will slip his chain and start roaming free again.

(It helps me to personify the Depression as a Black Dog, prowling. It may seem odd to you, but it works for me).

Over the many (many) years I've spent dealing with the black dog, I've learnt a few things. I'm not the quivering mess I once was, in the face of the Mutt. I know I can beat it and I'm not afraid of it's bite anymore because I know how to act quickly and get it under control before things get out of hand. At the first sign of it's loathsome growl, I am on alert and the call goes out:

We have a situation: The Mutt is free, he's off his chain. Beware! Alert all systems. Move to DEFCON 4. 

[ CONTINUE READING.......]

Today it's all Too Much

It's been a long long time since I've felt this way. Today, for whatever reason, I have hit the wall and I don't really know why. For months and months - maybe more than a year - the Black Dog has been safely tied up. He hasn't been barking or snapping at my heels or raising his ugly black head.
But today, all of a sudden, there he is. Ugh. I hate that mutt.

What is this feeling of overwhelm? Where has this desire to climb back into my bed and pull the covers up over my head come from?

It's been building all weekend. I've been snappy, snarly and a right grumpy git, to be honest.
But I've been holding it together. Until just now when I went to plug in my camera to upload some photos from the weekend and SH*T, some bugger has taken my camera cord and stuck it who-knows-where.

In that instant all of the little things that have been building up like a weight of snow on my emotional roof suddenly become too much. In the blink of an eye, here comes the whole lot of it crashing through and landing on me like a cold wet blanket.

Suddenly everything is too much.

[ CONTINUE READING.......]

PARENTING: Detours, Road Blocks & Getting There Eventually

One of the hardest things about being a parent is watching your child struggle. It's tough having to stand by helplessly as the outside world distorts the way your precious kid sees themselves. It's gut-wrenching hearing them say things like, "I'm so stupid! I'm dumb! Why couldn't I be born smarter!"
Worst of all is when they really truly believe it - that just breaks your heart.

School is a pretty tough place to be sometimes. There's the fitting-in-socially struggle (and coming up against the kind of nasty kids who whisper things like "faggot" and"dumb-ass" when they think nobody's watching).
Even if your self-esteem is pretty robust, that can be pretty hard to take on a daily basis. Especially when the Kids Code of Silence has drummed into you: "Don't be a snitch".
So you suffer in silence and your parents are left wondering why you are moody and anxious and reluctant to get out of bed each morning.

That would be enough to deal with on its own.
But then there's the actual schoolwork. Academic effort. Maths. English. Science.
All the subjects that require you to write and calculate and remember and reason and recall endless facts and methods and weird names for things. And then they test you and grade you and compare you to everyone else in the class/grade/country.
At that point, when you know you've tried so hard to learn the stuff they've been trying to teach you, well those test-results can be pretty soul-destroying.

Some kids just struggle at school, full stop.
I have kids like that. And the further into school they get, the more difficult they find it, the more anxious they become and the more trouble I have getting them up every morning.

My kids have my brain. The dyslexic bit that makes remembering stuff difficult, that makes maths numbers slide out of your head like slippery fish. The kind of brain that makes you feel like you're forever missing the point, not quite fitting in. The kind of brain that needs to experience and see and do before you can understand something new. The kind of brain that gets confused by long technical explanations. It's called a low working memory, and slow processing speed (dyslexic traits).

On top that my kids have ADHD. Yep, that's brand new information, and it makes SO MUCH SENSE. (They are highly physical, easily distracted, easily bored, passionate, impulsive, emotional and high energy). But this post is not about that.

This post is about a conversation I had with my son the other day as I attempted to drive him to school (late) in the middle of rush hour. His school is a half hour bus ride away, so when he missed it I had to take him, at the busiest time of the morning.
Every road we turned down had traffic backed up, jammed, not moving.
Rather than sitting stuck in traffic, going nowhere, I turned the car around, tried another road.
More traffic backed up! This was worse than usual. Was it caused by an accident? Road works? Who knew!
So we took another detour, tried another route.

As we drove, we talked.
He told me how he felt about school, why he didn't want to go. He told me how he got some grades back the day before, and had compared his grades to those of his classmates. He told me how he watched others in his class quickly clicking onto a new maths concept, while he sat there in confusion with his brain fizzing. He told me how disappointed he was when he worked really hard on an English project and thought he'd done well... until he got his results.
He felt like it just wasn't worth trying. Like he couldn't ever get it.
"Why can't I be smart? Why am I so dumb?" he said.
And my heart broke for him as I pulled another u-turn and tried another road.

Then, light-bulb.
All these detours, all this blocked traffic is exactly what happens in my brain - and his.
We hit a mental road block and have a choice: Stay stuck in traffic or try another way.
Again and again it happens.
But if we keep refusing to stay stuck, if we keep turning around and trying another route, WE WILL GET THERE EVENTUALLY!

So that's what I told my son. My frustrated, discouraged, brilliant son who is a genius with a ball at his feet and who can read a game and create goal opportunities like no-one else.
My son is a genius in his own way. He has things he is amazing at. Like the way he engages with little kids and the way he has insights and asks questions about deep stuff that just doesn't usually occur to kids his age.

I told him, Don't give up. School can be rough when your brain works in a different way. Just take it one day at a time.
There's no pressure from me or dad. We've got your back, you're not alone.
When you hit a learning road block, we'll try another route. When you feel stuck, we'll try something else. And you will get there eventually.
Because you are smart. You are clever. You are amazing at lots of things.
And nobody is expecting you to be an accountant or a brain surgeon.
You just need to figure out what YOU are a genius at, and do what you can about the rest.

Because as Albert Einstein said so brilliantly:

“Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.”

I think it helped.
And we were only ten minutes late for school, because I found the best back street route, no traffic jams. (We might take the long way round but we get there in the end).

................

**P.S. The bullying was finally disclosed, and the school notified. In the meantime, as I've put into practise being the squeaky wheel, they are supporting my son amazingly with new inclusion in two great programmes, B-Cool and Boyzone. Very grateful for a supportive school guidance counselor and a great form teacher. It pays to be a squeaky wheel! 

P.P.S.: The ADHD diagnosis for my son is in place of an earlier one which suggested mild Aspergers traits; this has now been discounted. It has also been suggested that Dyslexia in some form has gone undiagnosed, which is what we thought all along.

P.P.P.S.: My son gave me permission to share this story as long as I didn't mention his name. But he wanted this photo added in!

• My DYSLEXIA Diagnosis: Taking the Long Way Round
• The Squeaky Wheel Gets the Oil: Learning to Speak up for My Kids

"The Squeaky Wheel Gets the Oil" (finding my voice)

Something's changed in me over the past year or so.  I've always been a scaredy cat, never one to rock the boat, speak up or make waves. Ask anyone who knows me. Unlike so many other Lioness Mothers who would roar if anyone stepped out of line round her cubs, I was always more of a Mouse.

If I had to speak up, whether to a teacher, a bully or a fellow parent I'd be shaking so bad I'd lose my words and feel like I was going to vomit. I just hated "confrontation".

But over the past year or so I've noticed that I no longer procrastinate and avoid confrontation. I've become better at speaking up with teachers, family and coaches (it doesn't even make me want to vomit anymore).

Instead of staying silent and hoping for the best, I've begun asking for what I want, because I've realised this earth shattering truth: The Squeaky Wheel Gets the Oil.

It started when one of my kids was struggling at school, miserable. At first I felt powerless and overwhelmed; I didn't know what to do but I knew I had to do something, talk to someone, so I gathered my courage and headed to school.

I remember sitting in the office of the department head stammering out my concerns about my child's anxiety and bursting into tears. Right there in her office.

This lovely H.O.D. gave me an hour of her time, listened to my concerns, handed me tissues and reassured me that they would work to support my child in a number of new ways.
It wasn't so hard, this talking thing.

A week later I met with her and the child's teacher again and she presented me with two charts, depicting my child's progress so he could see in colour just how far he'd come. When I told the H.O.D. later that he was calling those charts "my treasures" and sleeping with them under his pillow, tears sprang into her eyes.

I was learning that a little bit of squeaking will get your wheel oiled.
A little bit of asking will get results. It's not that hard, once I get over myself.
And if I don't squeak for them, nobody else will.

After all, the H.O.D. has hundreds of kids to think about; the teacher has thirty. I'm the only one with just my own kids' interests at heart.

In the sea of faces my child's struggle might not be apparent to the teacher he/she is trying so hard to please. The teacher doesn't see my child fall apart at the end of the day, after using all their energy working so hard to stay on task and just keep up. The teacher doesn't have to drag my child out of bed as they wail, "I don't wanna go! I hate school!" The teacher doesn't have to wipe their tears of frustration and talk them down from the bridge of self-doubt, patch up their shattered self-esteem and send them out to face the world again... I DO.

I have to live with these children, so it's worth being a squeaky wheel if it means happier kids who know their mama has got their back.

I may not like "confrontation" or "making waves" but there's a nice way to do things.
Being a squeaky wheel doesn't mean becoming demanding or difficult. It just means becoming my child's advocate and speaking up on their behalf, which I can do with a smile on my face. Being pleasant and reasonable-but-determined will probably get me further than being antagonistic and bolshy anyway!

I've now lost count of how many times I've been up to school in the past year. I rarely used to go up there, relying on school reports, and the inadequate twice-yearly parent teacher interviews.

No longer.
Now as soon as there's a ripple I'm there. Talking to the teacher, clarifying the situation, getting information, helping them to know my children and understand their needs,
I'm now one of "those" parents... in the nicest possible way.

The more I talk to my kids' teachers, the better the relationships with the teachers become and the easier it gets to talk to them. (And the more positively they'll work with my kids too).

This worked to the point last year where I knew Miss Fab's teacher well enough to invite him to come watch her perform in the church Christmas production - and he came.

It's so freeing, not being scared anymore. Having found my voice I don't just use it to advocate for my kids at school, oh no.

It translates into other areas of life as well.
Like I noticed that with life being so busy, we were hardly ever getting to see my parents. There was just not enough grandparent-time and I worried that if we didn't set aside some regular time to connect, one day I'd look back and regret that my kids never got to know my parents before they were gone.


I could sit around feeling sad and resentful or I could ask for what I wanted for my kids and take the risk that I might get knocked back...

So I baked some muffins, took my coffee machine with me and went to my folks to ask for what I wanted: dinner with them once a week. Regular time for my kids to spend with them hanging out, getting to know them.

...I wasn't knocked back. As of last week, every Thursday night Nan and Grandad will come for dinner. I cook, they play. Last week it was Monopoly Empire, homemade spaghetti and stories after dinner. There are plans for bike rides with Grandad, card games and more.
We all said goodbye at the end of our first night with a warm fuzzy glow, with the kids agreeing "This was fun!"; I believe it's the start of a beautiful thing.

I'm so thankful that I've learned to speak up.
After all those timid years of being afraid of knock-backs or angry confrontations, it's a pleasant surprise to learn that I can still be me, but a bolder Squeakier version of myself.
After all, what have I got to lose really, by speaking up? If I ask for something and the answer is no, have I lost anything apart from a bit of pride?
No I haven't.
But I stand to gain so much for my kids when I lose my fear and find my voice.

I may not ever be a roaring Lioness Mother but I can be a Squeaky Wheel.

...........................

More Motherhood-Learning-Curve Posts

• So I Yelled... 
• Stuff You Learn at a Skate Park
• Ten Cool Things About Motherhood
• Getting Over Myself 
• To Young Me from Old Me...

Changing the Record, Changing Me

I've had this post in the back of my mind for a few weeks now, as I've started to notice some changes taking place in me.

For the longest time I've been telling myself certain stories, replaying old records over and over again. You might recognise some of them (they might be stories you tell yourself too).

"This is too hard for me..."
"I could never do that..."
"I don't enjoy that..."
"I'm no good at that..."
"My kids would never go for that..."

Those old "I can't" records have been playing in my head for so long, I thought they were "me".

I truly believed that "I'm no good at confrontation; if I have to speak up I freeze and lose what I wanted to say." This meant that I let my husband do the speaking for me and asked him to fight way too many of my battles. I let my voice be swallowed up by fear of what others would think, and a desire to not rock the boat or be seen as pushy.

I accepted as fact the line that went "I don't enjoy baking and only do I when I have to" along with "making dinner for my family every night is such a chore." This saw me trotting out the same round of tired old dinners every week.

I struggled with so many aspects of having school-age kids, mainly because I believed the record that said, "I'm hopeless at helping the kids do their homework; I don't know where to begin." The whole homework saga was an endless battle on three fronts and as the children got older I experienced more and more anxiety (and guilt).

[Another sugar free baking experiment - banana, date and walnut loaf: I am ENJOYING BAKING!] 

I also fell for the story that went, "Healthy eating is so hard. My kids will never go for it. They're so picky and it would be a nightmare with battles at every mealtime. Plus It would mean I'd have to bake." As a result I took the easy option when it came to the kids' diet, being too scared of their reactions to try and make them eat healthier.

Above everything else, I believed the record that said, "I am crap at follow-through. I have great ideas but I don't stick at things."

And as these records played their negative stories over and over in my head, they became so deeply embedded that they became part of me. I believed deep down that I couldn't change these things about myself.

I believed nothing would change. I believed some things were too hard for me. Consequently NOTHING CHANGED and some things WERE too hard for me.

I lived my life restricted by those negative records playing in my brain, telling me stories I thought were true.

But lately I've noticed that some of the records have started to change.

Some have changed rapidly and dramatically, like the way my world was rocked by Nigel Latta's sugar expose which has transformed the way we are eating.
Others have changed so slowly and incrementally that it's only by looking back that I see how far I've come.

Instead of "I'm crap at confrontation" and letting my husband speak for me, I've begun to say to myself, "What's the worst that can happen? They can only say no..."
I've rocked up to school, asked for meetings, dealt with issues, and had conversations that have made a difference for my kids.
Another new story is, "The squeaky wheel gets the oil..." If I don't speak up for my kids, who will? Nobody, that's who.

I am now a squeaky wheel, a mum who advocates for her children. I've met with deputy principals, guidance counsellors and teachers - and boy did it feel good! I didn't even freeze.
I've changed the record to "I can do this."

[Dash's English project: a book report Conflict Chart that we worked on together: I am ENJOYING helping with homework]

Since I've begun working again, the old record has been silenced that used to say, "What could I do as a job? I can't go back to my old career and I'm not trained for anything..."
Instead I play the joyful tune, "This job is perfect for me! All the skills I've learned as a mother are being used in this job!"
My new job as a teacher aide has also given me the skills and confidence to help my kids with their homework.
I'm not scared of homework any more. I'm a homework-capable mum.

There are so many little ways the records are changing.
Ditching the "I don't enjoy baking" script and changing it to "It's a fun challenge to find recipes that are yummy AND healthy..."
Switching out "making meals every night is a chore" and changing it to "let's try something new".
Rejecting "I'm crap at follow through" and changing it to "I HAVE to do this, I CAN do this, it's important..."

As all these little changes begin to add up, that heinous old record "I'm a useless mother; I'm not doing a very good job" is getting fainter and fainter. I hardly ever hear it any more. It's being drowned out by "I'm making progress, I love my kids, I'm doing my best for them".

It's actually shocking how much has changed in me in the last while.
I speak up, I do things that used to scare me and I've stopped telling myself "I can't".
Changing the record is changing my life by changing me.
Bit by bit.

(Now I just need to find a way to stop the record that says, "Exercise is so boring... and so sweaty! I hate the way it makes me feel." Then we'll really be getting somewhere.)

.....................

What about you? Are any of these "records" familiar to you? What are the stories you tell yourself? (tell me I'm not alone!)

What was I THINKING???!

You know how when you've had a bump on the head you get a bit addle-brained?
Well, that's been me lately: fuzzy-headed, slow-witted, easily confused - even more than usual. Which is saying a lot.

So when it came to Miss Fab's upcoming birthday sleepover it should be easy to see how I nearly landed myself in a whole world of pain.

It started off with a nice simple plan and a nice simple list of six school friends to invite.
Then came the drama and playground politics - which if anyone has a pre-teen girl, you'll know what I'm talking about. (The kind of schoolgirl drama that makes you lie awake at night in mortal terror of the imminent teenage years).

It begins like this: "Lulu* didn't invite me to her sleepover! I can't believe she invited Bessie and didn't invite me! I've known her way longer! If she didn't invite me, then that's it, I'm not inviting her either..."

It continues like this: Mum tries to convince the birthday girl to be the bigger person and invite Lulu anyway (they've been friends for years, she's friends with Lulu's mum, plus she's a nice quiet girl) but it's a hard sell. Birthday girl has two other friends she NEEDS to invite. Girls who invited her to their parties (we'll call them Ethel and Doris).

Finally mum says, "Look, if you invite Lulu to your sleepover even though she didn't invite you to hers, you can have an extra person on the list, and your other two friends can both come too."
Birthday girl is satisfied. She finds the grace to be a bigger person after all.

But all of a sudden the guest list has grown by two extra bodies. At a SLEEPOVER.
Anyone who has ever had a bunch of girls for a sleepover will know that is no small thing. Every extra giggling gertie makes a contribution to the noise level and pushes out the hour of sleep exponentially.

The final straw is when you sit down at the computer to print out the invitations, your guest list already bulging, your head already beginning to pound in anticipation...
At this point the emotional blackmail begins.
"Muuuuum, Susie* sits at our table and if I invite everyone else from our table and not her she's going to feel real bad. Don't you think? Can you imagine how she'll feel if she's the ONLY ONE not coming...?"

In a moment of weakness you cave. OK Susie can come. The guest list is now sitting intimidatingly at TEN.
You try to calculate in your head how this will work. The chances of anyone getting any sleep at any time looks mighty slim.
To make matters worse, the Daddy of the family will be out of town with big brother. Mum will have no backup, no help, no sheriff with the big boomy voice to stalk in and enforce quietness.

Ten girls. Sleeping over.
Mum feels physically ill.
It simply can't be done.

So this morning Mum gathered up her courage and faced down her daughter, knowing there would be tears, slammed doors and protestations of "It's not fair! but you SAID!"

Sorry Lulu (who hadn't yet been told) but we're going to have to cut back. Ruthless numbers policy must return. Lulu must leave the list after all. It's only fair. We just don't have the mental capacity to be bigger people this time.
Doris had not been informed of her inclusion on the list either, so she is culled as well, never knowing how close she came to being invited to a night of endless giggling mayhem.
And finally, Susie (that straw which broke the camel's back) is also culled. Now she's not the only one from the table not coming, she's in good company. They'll all get over it.

Sorry girls, I wish we could invite you all. If it was a regular party, not a sleepover, I'd make room for you all, somehow. As it stands, my fragile mental health would not survive ten girls at a sleepover. Without a doubt hubby would return to find me in a fetal position, hiding under the table, rocking.

We are now back to six guests, plus the birthday girl. It might be almost manageable.
The sick sense of dread has abated. I can now get on with party prep without feel a sense of impending doom.

Because really, TEN girls for a sleepover? Who would do that? What on earth was I thinking?


* Not their real names
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Have you ever had the guest list dilemma/drama?

Meanness, Vulnerability and Social Media (a mother's rant)

All he wanted for Christmas was an iPod 5. After much negotiation, a handy discount and some birthday money thrown in, we wrapped up the device and put it under the Christmas Tree.

(He's 11, off to Intermediate, all his friends have them).

There were rules of course. No Facebook. A private profile on Instagram. We know his passwords, follow his feed and regularly screen his posts, checking for swearing, bullying, rudeness and other dodgyness in the posts of those he follows. Anyone we see doing anything less than kosher is immediately deleted and blocked. And if he were to be found participating in anything dodgy? He would lose his right to an Instagram account. Those are the rules, which he agreed to and followed.

So my feed is dotted with his selfies, and we check his account on a regular basis. A few people have been deleted along the way - some swearing, some minor rudeness - enough to block them but nothing sinister.
Until last night.

He comes into the kitchen holding his ipod, his shoulders slumped.
"I've just been bullied on Instagram..." he says.
Parenting protective radar kicks in.
We grab the device and pepper him with questions: who? what? how?

It seems that no matter how many rules and boundaries you put in place to protect your child, nothing can completely shield them from meanness that gets personal.

We're not even talking trolls or cyber-stalkers here, but a couple of immature kids who once played on his football team.

It all started with one of those silly "vote them out" games kids play on IG. Someone puts up a collage of faces, tags in a bunch of their friends and then invites people to "vote them out". The last kid standing gets TEN CENTS and winner's kudos. Ha. Silly, right?
Yes, but not harmless. Not when you vote someone out and they turn on you with viciousness in a personal attack. Then it's not a silly game for ten cents and bragging rights - then it can be crushing.

"F U Dash! Your just a stupid crybaby who cries every time they get beat in soccer!"

It was like a knife to the heart when I read what that boy wrote. He has no idea what my child goes through or what it has taken to get to the place where he can manage his emotions. He has a vulnerability, an Achilles heel (most of us do) and that boy turned a silly game into a personal attack on a weak point.

It hurts to be judged. It hurts to be misunderstood.
All of us have been there at times, and the online world is riddled with people who are quick to judge and quick to condemn. That makes it a potentially dangerous place for those who are vulnerable.

I'm not at liberty to share with you Dash's struggle (though he has bravely shared with his whole class, he doesn't want me to "tell the whole world" here on my blog, so I respect his wishes). Suffice it to say that the message that boy posted so publicly on Instagram calling my son a cry baby attacked him right where he wears no armour.

Another boy joined in at that point, agreeing with the first boy. Both previous team-mates. Both boys who had seen my son in his weakness and judged him for it.
(I deleted and blocked both boys immediately. Dash just doesn't need people like that looking over his shoulder, commenting on his life and judging it).

Afterwards, as I rubbed my son's back and tried to let words of encouragement pour oil on his wounds I talked to him about how far he's come, how hard he's worked, how much progress he's made.
How he doesn't need to let other people's judgement take away from who he is.

This article makes me sick to my stomach - the author has obviously never experienced depression or
she would never have written such a pile of nasty drivel. Poor Charlotte Dawson,
still hounded and misunderstood even when she's dead. Shame on you Deborah Hill Cone! But then she apologises here -
after getting a rather awful taste of Charlotte's medicine in the backlash that followed -
which goes to show that what goes around comes around. Well done Deborah Hill Cone. Apology accepted.

And I told him the story of Charlotte Dawson. Hounded by trolls and the media. More vulnerable than most to nastiness, as the Black Dog of depression chased her down. If only she could have not listened to those who were kicking her where she was weakest (deleted her Twitter account?) then maybe she wouldn't have gotten so low that she took her own life.

But sometimes we are drawn back to the source of the pain, like a mouth ulcer we just can't help poking our tongue into. We can't leave it alone. And for people like poor Charlotte whose vulnerability is out in the open for all the world to see, they are sitting ducks for the nasty side of human nature.

There's nothing I hate more than meanness and bullying. I despise it.
I know that it is out there in the world, running rampant through social media and the schoolyard - so what will my response be in order to protect my children?
Will I throw the baby out with the bathwater, and delete my son's Instagram account completely because there is a chance he might come across meanness? Because he is more vulnerable than most?
I will if I have to but at this point I think we can both learn a lot from the experience.

We can keep doing what we've been doing. Keep a close eye on things, talk things through, respond quickly and model wisdom, common sense and kindness.
We can give good advice (and then follow it ourselves): Keep the mean rude people as far away from you as possible. Pick and choose your friends carefully (both online and in real-life). Don't invite trouble. Don't engage in debate with people who misjudge you and say cruel things - walk away and cut those meanies out of your life. Don't repay back evil for evil, because then they have succeeded in dragging you down to their level.

I told Dash I don't want him joining in those Instagram games anymore. He can't help it if people tag him, but I don't want him to participate. No voting. No commenting.

Social media can be fun but it can turn nasty in seconds. Vote out the wrong person on a silly game and they can turn on you, kicking you where it hurts.

Social media is a huge part of today's landscape; There is meanness in the online world and there are bullies; I want my son to learn how to cope with both when he comes across them, rather than run screaming for the hills and simply ban everything.

Social media in and of itself is neutral - it's as evil or as good as the people using it.
My job as a parent is to guide my child through the minefield and teach him how to conduct himself well and bounce back from the knocks while providing boundaries to protect him as much as possible.

What would you have done in this situation? Have you experienced any cyber bullying - either you or your kids? What has been your response?

When Being the Youngest Gets Tough

When you're the youngest you're everybody's pet. You're the cute one, you get to stay the baby the longest, everyone dotes on you. Your mum and dad are worn out from wrestling with the first two, so you can get away with just about anything by batting your baby blues.
Some might say that being the youngest is easy, that you're on a pretty good wicket, you've got it made.

But it's not always so. Sometimes being the youngest is really hard, especially when you are trying to grow up and shed your "baby" image.

You know you're a big boy, but your big sister keeps calling you "bubba" and your big brother just thinks you're annoying and embarrassing. Your mum still wants to hold your hand in public and everyone thinks you're just so cuuuute... but they don't take you seriously.
THEN, people, it can get pretty darn frustrating to be the youngest.

Around the end of last year we noticed a change in our beloved "baby" Scrag. Our formerly happy-go-lucky ray of sunshine was having previously unheard-of meltdowns. He would cry tears of rage and frustration over the littlest things and we were at a loss to know what had brought this on. What was happening to our baby?

I wondered if it was a stage, a testosterone surge, a developmental phase. I picked the brains of every mother-of-boys I knew, trying to figure out if this was a unique experience or if it was common to all.
Similar experiences seemed to be common enough to mean that it might be perhaps developmental, maybe hormonal, a part of growing up. But how do we help our lad through this? And will we ever get our happy chap back?

Then about a month ago I had a eureka moment. I have after all had a couple of five-nearly-six year olds pass this way before. Around now they all start to want to shed their "baby" cloak, they want to establish themselves as "big".

The difference is that at the same age as Scrag is now, Dash had both a younger sister and a younger brother to "lead". He was the eldest. The others looked up to him, listened to him, respected him. He was responsible and listened to; he had some control. His voice was heard, by them at least.

At the same age (five-nearly-six), Miss Fab had little Scrag following along behind, copying her, adoring her, hanging on her every word.
When our eldest two hit the "needing to lead, have some control and have your voice heard" stage, they both had ready-made disciples in their younger siblings.

But poor ole Scrag has no-one but Dave the cat (who it must be said, still runs when she sees him; she has a long memory).

Scrag is frustrated. Scrag has no-one to listen to him, follow him, look up to him; he has no-one to lead, no-one to boss around.

When this lightbulb went off in my head, I was trying to get Big Sister to be a little more understanding of her little brother (the older two were getting mighty annoyed by the regular meltdowns). As I tried to articulate the thoughts that had just come to me, Scrag was sitting there nodding his head vigorously.

"That's it! that's just how I feel, mum," Scrag said. He's very articulate, he has a lot to say. Which is why he was getting so frustrated - nobody was listening to him.

[Grandma is fantastic at Scragball]

I shared all this with my counsellor (who is something of a genius) and she gave me this suggestion: Create opportunities where he is given the chance to teach you something, to show his skill, to take the lead.

The opportunity presented itself a few days later on a steamy Sunday afternoon. Scrag had found an old softball bat and a tennis ball and was begging to play baseball in the backyard.

Before long we found ourselves playing a variation of baseball with rules that only a Scrag could follow. At first we tried to convince the lad that his rules made no sense and that was not how real baseball is played; Scrag's frustration was mounting by the minute... but then *ding* I remembered what my counsellor had said.

I called over the big kids and told them what to do - let Scrag lead. Follow his rules. Let him have this one thing where he is in charge, where he takes the lead. They were brilliant when they understood that this was something their little brother really needs. It's part of him growing up. Give him a chance to be the boss for once.

We have since played baseball Scragball on several occasions with great hilarity and lots of fun. We had to explain to Daddy (an expert on Real Rules) that this game is unlike any other game of baseball. Just think of it as Scragball and you'll be fine.

You wouldn't think that something as a simple as a semi-regular game of backyard baseball would make such a difference, but coupled with an insight into what our "baby" needs (respect, a sense of autonomy, having his voice heard) the frustrated tears of rage are rarely seen. And when they are, we are much quicker to understand why, and listen to this little lad who is not so little any more.
He's growing up.

How to Play ScragBall

YOU NEED:
A tennis ball, a bat and four cushions, spaced out on the ground in a square.

The first person (usually Scrag) is The Hitter. They use the bat to hit the ball thrown by The Thrower.
When they hit it they have to run around all four cushions (don't stop!) without being tagged by the ball. Meanwhile The Backstopper (who stands behind The Hitter) has to catch the ball and throw it to The Chaser.

The Chaser has to get the ball after it is hit and run with it to try and tag The Hitter before they make it all the way round the bases.

• You can't throw the ball at The Hitter to get them out - you have to run with it and catch them
• You get three turns at being The Hitter and then it is someone else's turn
• When Scrag is not The Hitter he is The Chaser; The Thrower and The Backstopper have to throw the ball to him so he can chase The Hitter and try to get them out

Those are the Rules of ScragBall. Play it if you dare!

Have you ever experienced something like this with a youngest child - or even AS the youngest child?

Rambling and Raving on Life and Blogging

I wonder if you've noticed I'm not posting as often here on my blog? The reduced frequency of my stories popping up in your inbox or on your reader may have you asking, Hey what gives?
Or, more likely, you didn't even realise because you are actually out there living your life, instead of waiting with baited breath for something new from me to materialise.
Almost certainly.

My husband says this to me quite regularly: "You know Simoney nobody will die if you don't post something on your blog today. it's not like people are sitting there at their computers, holding on, waiting for you to write something."

I know this, I do. At least I thought I did.
In my head I knew this was true, but deep down something was pushing me from the inside as if the fate of the world rested upon me updating my blog on a daily basis.

Towards the end of last year things were starting to get to me. Facebook was the trigger. Anyone with a fanpage will know what I'm talking about - the frustration of trying to increase your "reach" after Facebook changed the rules of engagement. Now only 4% of your fans get to see your post unless enough of that 4% engage with said post.
I got sucked in there briefly as madly, obsessively I tried to "up my reach" all to no avail. Even if one post did well, the next post was back to square one. I was fighting a losing battle which seemed to me to be just one symptom of everything that had gone wrong with blogging in the last few years.

Amidst the push to grow readership, interpret stats, work with partners and promote your blog on social media I had all-but lost the simple joy of blogging. And in the meantime the obsessive anxious media-holic that I had become was disengaged from life and family as - wait for it - the need to succeed drove me onwards on the performance treadmill to the detriment of all else.

One day I woke up to the fact that I was disatisfied, unhappy and over it. I needed to make some changes and I needed to face facts. This whole blogging thing was way out of kilter.
I committed myself to a blogging go-slow, promising myself (and my counsellor and my husband) that through December I would blog just once a week.
I made no announcements, I declared no blog-holiday. I just... pulled back.
There was no December Christmas Linky, no Christmas craft tutorials, no mad Christmas blog-fest here. Once a week I checked in and shared a story, some photos, some thoughts.

Meanwhile I started trying to re-engage with my real life again.
By the time January rolled around, things were different. I felt differently about blogging and social media than I had for a while. I felt... free. That awful inner drive to prove myself and find a sense of significance through blogging has loosened its grip.

That inner drive has always been there; it didn't start with blogging. My life has been dogged by a deep-seated sense of inadequacy which created an unquenchable desire for approval that saw me pushing myself to all kinds of extremes throughout my working life. Blogging is just the latest manifestation.
"Keep going, keep going, when you get there you can finally relax and know you're enough..." Or so I believed deep down.

But I will never "arrive" at that mythical place where I can rest and be satisfied and just be... unless I deliberately get off the performance treadmill and change the record.

So this isn't really about the blogging. It's about me being enough just as I am. Recognising what was driving me and not yielding to it anymore.

The main thing with me blogging now is that my motivation needs to be different. I need to just do it because I love it, not because I'm trying to keep my pageviews up or build a famous blog so I feel significant or worthwhile.
So what if I never write a post that goes viral? As long as one person gets something out of what I write, it's worth it.

My blog doesn't need to be Big to be worth reading, right? I don't need a gazillion random pageviews, just loyal readers who think it's worthwhile coming back because they like what I have to share.

As for Social Media, it can be an endless treadmill of self promotion and anxious blog-pushing if I let it. A trap for young players, a quicksand of trying to get ahead. Enough already.

Facebook you can have your reach, I'm done with trying to beat you. If only 40 people see my posts in their feed, so be it. I am not going to lose any sleep over it any more.

I'm just going to write my stories when the inspiration strikes, I'll share my heart and my ideas and my life with my readers in the hopes that they find encouragement, inspiration or just get a good laugh and know they're not alone on this crazy journey of life.
That's why I blog. Come read me who may.

Unhealthy obsession, YOU'RE OVER. Back to the basics of writing cos I love it? YOU'RE ON.

................

Do you ever find yourself stuck on a performance treadmill? If you blog, have you battled with this issue at all?