Epilogue: We All Survived

 

Hello, dear reader. Here I am popping back up to write one final blog post, more than three years after my last entry. I kept thinking that inspiration would strike and I'd keep writing here sporadically about things that inspired or moved me, but I didn't.

And now here I am, one week away from having an empty nest.

Yes, that's right - by this time next week, the last of my babies will be out in the world, standing on their own two feet, living their lives and pursuing their dreams. The youngest is heading to Wellington to study. My girl went flatting last year, and my eldest left home ages ago. So this is it - I'm closing the book on my parenting journey. I'll always be a mum, and have my door open and food or beds or help ready whenever it's needed, but my day-to-day job as a hands-on parent is done. 

So I thought you deserved an epilogue. 

Not just so I can boast a bit as a proud mum, but also because it got pretty gnarly there for a while, so I wanted to leave you with some hope that if we can survive, anyone can. 

[ CONTINUE READING.......]

Confessions of a Lazy Mother - Party Edition

I'm terribly sorry if I have misled you all - that was never my intention. I'm a little worried that some people may be under the mistaken impression that my children lead a charmed life full of whimsical tea parties, theme dinners and picnics; a life full of jolly fun, a magical memory-filled enviable childhood. Because after all, this blog was called (until very recently) "Greatfun4kids". And wasn't it all about having fun with your kids? Wasn't I meant to be some kind of role model for an impromptu fun-filled life?

No, no, no. If you thought that, I'm sorry but you have me pegged all wrong.
While you may have imagined that the person who could pull off a party for no reason at the drop of a hat must be exceedingly energetic and well organised in the domestic department - and while you may have been under the impression that my kitchen always smells like fresh muffins and every dinner is themed - nothing could be further from the truth. I am anything but energetic. I am more often boring than fun. And I only bake when I have to.

[ CONTINUE READING.......]

Mums, We Need to Stick Together (in this cold online world)

I've had this post rumbling around in my gut for a while now, but just lacked the hook to hang it all on. I found my starting point last night when I spotted a post from kiwi mum-blogger Emily Writes in my FaceBook feed. Emily has managed to catch the eye of the mainstream media moguls with her self-deprecating, honest and hilarious blog posts about the realities of parenting. This latest story was a doozie, and I found myself chuckling and shaking my head all the way through. The title itself is fab: "I was a great parent - before I had kids". Mmmhmm. Yep. Weren't we all?
Then I hit the comment section and my stomach literally dropped. Poor Emily!
She must have been so excited to get her blog stories up on a mainstream news website (I know I would have been) and then, whammo, the crazies start in on her. The judgey comments, the meanness, as typified by this one:

[ 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.......]

Great Expectations (a Motherhood post)

I almost titled this post, "Why I hate Mothers Day" but decided that might be a bit harsh.
I don't REALLY hate Mother's Day, but sometimes it can be a bit... disappointing.
See, it's all about expectations.

If yesterday had been just a normal day, it would have been better than average. But when you know every person you meet is going to ask, "Did you get spoilt? Did you get breakfast in bed?" (and you got a call from the kitchen: "Your cup of tea is on the bench!") you kind of want to huddle in your bed and not face anyone.

It's not that your family didn't try, either. Like I said, if this was just an ordinary day, it would be better than average.
Not often your daughter makes your bed for you and announces, "There's a surprise in your room, mum!"
Not often your son does the dishes without being asked.
A card, some gifts.
These are lovely things.

So why did I find myself sitting in my bed with tears running down my face? Am I a sook? Am I a spoilt baby? Did I expect violins and breakfast on a tray with a rose in a vase? The gifts to be wrapped instead of still in the store-bags?
Or was it that I was hoping that my kids would take me seriously when I said, "All I want on Mother's Day is for you kids to be nice to each other. No fighting. No talking back. Be helpful. Listen to what daddy and me ask you. That's all..."?

Did I hope that each and every one of them would strive to give me a day without conflict, without growling. A day of Peace and Serenity? (Which, let's be honest, is every Mother's dream).

Yeah, that's it. All of the above, probably.
Which is why as I sat on my bed trying on my new slippers (oops too small) and heard the shouting and whingeing echoing through the hallway, the hissed command of "Shush! Stop being selfish - it's Mother's Day!" didn't really help.

I was seriously bummed. And I wanted to stay in bed, hide from the world. Let them go to church without me and leave me to sip my tea in peace...

But no. Hubby wasn't having a bar of that.
"Come on, get up out of that pit," he ordered, ripping back the covers and snapping me out of my funk. "You want to send your kids to church without you on Mothers day, when everyone else is has their Mother there and it's all for Mothers? Stop sulking and get dressed, we'll start over fresh."

So that's what we did.
I got out of my pit, got dressed and as I did I thought about Expectations. And the fact that it was those sneaky hopes of soft-focused peace-filled perfection that were really setting me up for a fall.

Because the reality is that a day without conflict or whingeing of any kind round these parts is a mighty big ask. In fact, it's nigh on impossible.

But if I went into Mother's Day with NO EXPECTATIONS I would actually have a day that was better than most.
The second half of the day, sans-sulking and self-pity, was a vast improvement.

I faced reality head-on and abandoned all expectations. (Those sneaky voices that creep up and tap me on the shoulder and say, "You deserve better. look what you do for THEM. Look how much effort you go to for THEM. You should be treated as a veritable QUEEN today!" I ignore those buggers, they cause nothing but trouble).

Yes I may have loved to go out to a nice restaurant and survey my offspring gathered about me like trophies, as we dined joyfully on a meal I had no hand in preparing. But let's be honest.
I have two - probably three - kids with ADHD. They don't like to sit still for long. I'm better off at home.

When hubby asked what I wanted to do for lunch, I took reality by the teets and replied, "I'd love you to get some treats from the French deli; we can eat outside and I'll set it up pretty."

I cut some roses from the vine and hung bunting, spread my favourite cloth and put out the nice bowls, while hubby went and got salami, brie, chicken and crusty loaves.
Then me and my hubby chilled together under the dying grapevine while the kids came, ate then went, leaving us in peace. I didn't care if they were on the computer/Wii/PS3 - I had peace and prettiness even if it was a DIY job. It was a good choice, better than a flash restaurant. More doable for us, and probably far more enjoyable.
SCORE: Mother's Day Serenity: 1, Unrealistic expectations: zip.

Later I baked my mum a cake. It's her Mother's Day too after all. It's not just about me,
"I'd like us ALL to go over to Nan and Grandad's with the cake," I told my tribe.
It would likely have been easier to just go myself, but I wanted my family to come so I played the Mothers Day card like the ace I'd kept up my sleeve.
We took the Nespresso machine and hubby made us all coffees, while we ate cake and played that hand-slapping game (my mum was the champion). Later SHE posted on Facebook that she'd had the BEST Mother's Day ever - which is awesome.

I had avoided social media for most of the day, not wanting to see all the golden glowing photos of rose tinted mothers day greetings in case I was tempted to compare my day with other more glamorous Mother's Days - but it seemed that I was not the only one whose expectations had to be reigned in.
Mother's Day seems to have served up mixed results.

However, over all, I felt like my Mother's Day was a WIN.
It might not have begun as the hoped-for day of glory, peace and honour which I felt I deserved, but that's only when I compare my day to idealised soft-focused TV commercials.

Most of us don't have paid actors reading from a script, playing a part in our Mother's Day scenario - we have real live kids.

Kids who want to do the right thing but who are still, essentially selfish. Kids who while well-intentioned, would still rather go on Movie Star Planet than vacuum the house. Kids who are kind enough to bring in the cup of tea going cold on the bench (when they realise you're upset because your Mother's Day is not like the commercial), who make your bed when you're not looking - but who get distracted after that watching Adventure Time and forget to strew roses in your path as you walk.

Kids who may give you the best hugs and kisses EVERY DAY and who tell you CONSTANTLY that they love you and you're the best mum ever, but who On The Day complain about having to get dressed up half decent and whinge about having to help "just because it's mother's day".

My kids are a mixed bag, a work in progress. It will probably take until they have kids of their own until they fully appreciate all that I've done for them. I know that's how it happened for me - I didn't "get it" until I became a mother myself. I didn't appreciate my mum properly until I was one myself.

In the meantime, until they grow up and realise my true awesomeness, I'll take my mixed bag, sort out the lovely moments from the less-than-ideal and throw away disappointment with my expectations.

Then and only then will I be able to enjoy Mother's Day, as simply a better-than-average day.
And if I'm smart I just might remember that the best thing about it is that I GET TO BE A MUM to these crazy-but-wonderful humans. Which is worth celebrating, even if I have to do the decorating myself.

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

OTHER HONEST MOTHERHOOD RAMBLINGS:

• Ten Cool Things About Motherhood
• Confessions of a Lazy Mother
• Ten Worst Mothering Moments 
• Getting Over Myself 
• Not My Mother's Daughter
• Sometimes... (a motherhood post)

"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...

A Lazy Mother's Guide to Defeating Drudgery

Why Hello there. It's me again, The Lazy Mother.
You might remember me from such inspiring articles as "Confessions of a Lazy Mother" and "The Science of Mess".
I am the reluctant housewife's reply to Martha Stewart; the clutterbound mama's sign that she is not alone with her laundry mountain.

I'm the one whose dust bunny armies regularly threaten anarchy and who will do anything - anything! - to avoid emptying the dishwasher. Unlike some other Domestic Goddesses, I do not delight in filling the tins with homebaked goodies and coming up with something for dinner every night is not the best part of my day. And the mornings, well. Don't get me started.

I feel I may be able to offer you fellow domestic strugglers a bit of hope and some Helpful Homely Hints, because if you come to my house (after giving me at least 30 minutes notice) I can promise that you'll find me dwelling in a pleasant, welcoming home, in spite of myself.

I'm here to let you in on my best houseworky secrets: the Lazy Mother's tricks for surviving domesticity and avoiding having your family star in an episode of New Zealand's Worst Hoarders.

Let's be honest, who here gets excited about cleaning pee puddles off the toilet floor for the 16th time in a week? Who amongst us signed up to spend our lives making lunchboxes and picking up Lego? When we aspired to motherhood, did we get excited about being "housewives" at the same time? Ugh. No way.
Not this Mama, anyhoo.

I love being a mother and I wouldn't swap it for the world, but when it comes to the repetitive samey drudge of household chores and food-prep, what I wouldn't give to hand it all over to a Housekeeper.
But since I'm not a millionaire executive/filmstar/model and I don't have the funds to hire some Help (and the chores won't do themselves) here are my three best tips for Defeating Drudgery and maintaining your sanity...

This is my first and best tip: GET THE KIDS TO DO IT.
Training my offspring to pitch in and share the load is a complete win-win.
It benefits me in the short term by reducing the headless-chicken routine somewhat; it helps my kids in the long term by helping them gain life skills and a sense of confidence that they can do things for themselves.

There are loads of things you can get your kids to do to help out:

• Make their own lunchboxes*
• Make their own (and their siblings') breakfast
• Vacuum the house
• Empty the dishwasher
• Make their bed
• Make you a cup of tea
• Mow the lawns
• Take a trip to the corner store to get milk
• Bake stuff

Of course all these handy helpful skills must be taught, which initially requires an investment of EXTRA time and energy. It is of course quicker to do it all yourself than stand by and watch them slowly struggle and produce results that may not be quite up to par. But don't give up! Once your kids get the hang of these new skills you're imparting, all of a sudden you find yourself with more time, less to do and less stress - as well as nice helpful kids (who will make decent flatmates) to boot.

We don’t just throw our kids in the deep end and leave them to fend for themselves with all this - growing independence starts out small, with baby steps. You don’t simply shove them out the door/into the kitchen and hope for the best. Even though helping my kids gain the skills necessary for independence requires more work, initially, than simply doing everything for them, it is well worth the effort.

Now that my kids can whip up a batch of pancakes/muffins/cookies, plug in the vacuum cleaner, get their own cereal, I get to enjoy more time being lazy, less time being defeated by drudgery. You've wondered where I find all the time to read? Ha, now you know! A little trick I like to call, "Getting the kids to do stuff for themselves".

*Once the kids began making their own lunchboxes, the morning school rush became so much smoother. There was less shouting, less chaos. They know what has to go in it; we have a basket of school-only snacks and they must have at least one piece of fruit or veggie plus a bread roll. Even our six-year-old does it.

This one is how I trick myself into doing housework: KEEP YOURSELF INTERESTED by changing things up. It works for me, I tell you.
Rearrange the furniture, swap around some pictures, pick a bunch of flowers, paint a wall, some cupboards, a shelf, a wooden chest: CHANGE SOMETHING.

I trick myself into keeping things clean and tidy by making my house pretty. After all, if I've spent all that time and energy painting the cupboards, do you think I want my freshly-painted, pretty kitchen ruined by that pile of dirty dishes? Now that I've painted my laundry cupboard do I want the overflowing laundry basket to spoil the look?
No, I do not.

DIY is how I stay interested in keeping my house clean.
I've always been this way, even as a kid.
It used to drive my mum bonkers, me constantly rearranging my bedroom (now my daughter does the same thing, and it drives me crazy too - ha!).

The Lazy Mother in me is easily defeated by the repetitive boredom of drudgery, doing the same tasks over and over, which is why if I can make a new cushion cover, frame a piece of my kids' art or change SOMETHING - I stay interested. Because it's not the same.

Are you hearing me?

This one is a good one for forcing me to look at my house through another person's eyes: PLAY HOSTESS - and rush madly to clean up before the guests arrive!

It's amazing how we can go for months, even years, without noticing stuff about our homes that would be apparent to the first visitor that walked in the door. There's a term for it: Shop Blindness.

The way to defeat Shop Blindness is to invite people over. All of a sudden you'll notice that the windowsills need wiping and the loo needs scrubbing. Hopefully you can do something about that before your guests arrive!

After years of practise, I'm now a complete pro at the last-minute whip-round tidy-up. I can invite you home for lunch/brunch/coffee because I know that it will only take me twenty minutes to clear away the worst of the clutter, sweep up the crumbs, wipe the benches and open the windows to let out the smell of burnt toast.
Inviting you over gives me the incentive I need to get off the couch and clean.
I don't want you stepping in a puddle of pee when you go to the loo, or gagging at the toothpaste spattered sink when you wash your hands. That would be really embarrassing.

Imminent House Guests  take the cleaning motivation to a whole new level. Your mother-in-law is coming to stay for Christmas. Your hubby's aunty and uncle from England are coming to visit your country for the first time ever. Now you notice the worn-out fabric on your 13 year-old-sofa and the mildew that needs cleaned off the bedroom windowsills and curtains, the dings in your walls and the way your towel stack threatens to fall on you when you open the linen closet. So you start getting the house in order, decluttering and re-organising (and saving all your part-time wages for a new lounge suite) as you see your home through your House Guest's eyes.

It's amazing what the threat of imminent company will achieve in record time!
The best approach is NOT to wait until your home is spit-spot before inviting a friend over - if you wait before making the invitation, chances are you will NEVER do it. You have to take a leap, pick up the phone and invite someone over. Then with the time and day looming like a deadline, you will be motivated (by fear!) to whip yourself into a frenzy of domestic activity*. It works I tell you!

You might think this is duplicitous of me - putting on a good impression - but actually, it's how I motivate myself to do housework. When the house needs a spring clean, put on the kettle, lay out the welcome mat and go into a tidy-frenzy.

*You don't have to do the WHOLE house. Focus on the main areas - kitchen, loo, lounge. Shut the doors on the other rooms, and invite a nice easy-going friend not a Martha Stewart wannabe. Baby Steps.

...................
So there you have it. Probably not what you were expecting, no tips for doing this or cleaning that - just some broad stroke tips on how I defeat drudgery. I hope it was useful.
Got any tips for me?

OTHER DOMESTIC POSTS

• Confessions of a Lazy Mother (revisited)
• The Science of Mess
• On HouseWork
• Mum DIY and More Decluttering
• My DIY Kitchen MakeOver

Mountains, Motherhood and Me

Mountains have always been metaphors for life.
Mountains and problems both loom over us, just begging to be conquered.
Once the mountain is climbed, the view from the top is amazing; the climb, well worth the effort.
Once the problem is surmounted, the victory is deeply satisfying; the struggle is worth every tear shed.
Isn't that true?

We went to the mountains last week. Its kind of a family ritual; go to the snow, freeze your face off and experience deep family bonding 2700m above sea level.

Last year Dash learned to ski. This year Daddy upped the ante. Everybody - EVERY BODY - was going to have a go skiing, including Miss Fab, Scrag... and me.

I haven't skiied in fifteen years, and even then I only attempted it once - maybe twice - but Daddy said it would be good for the kids to see me having a go instead of just taking photos.
Plus it would be good for family bonding.

It's hard to argue with that logic, so I found myself wrestling my nervous feet into hired ski boots and getting measured up for skis. At this point I was still in denial.

(DENIAL: Not unlike the way I grew a human in my belly for nine months but was blissfully unaware of what was about to hit me once that squawling infant made his debut on the planet. Parenting: Nothing Prepares You For It.)

[On the chairlift: blissfully unaware]

Anyhoo, back to the mountain...
We get on the chairlift clutching our skis, swing out over the abyss... and the chairlift grinds to a halt. Down below us, they are loading an injured skier on. We hang suspended in the air while they strap down her stretcher, then the lift starts up again and the injured lady on her stretcher swings up past us...
At the bottom, the cheerful Englishman who helps us leap clear says breezily, "Don't be alarmed by what you've just seen. It happens every day, but I'm sure you'll do just great..."

(Thanks for that vote of confidence, pal.)

Meanwhile Daddy has forgotten that it's been fifteen years since I clipped into skis. He's under the impression I know what I'm doing (cos he taught me 15 years ago), so he leaves me and Miss Fab in the vicinity of the kids lesson and skis merrily away with the boys.
Miss Fab is joining in with the kids lesson, but where does that leave me? I don't even remember how to put my skis on.
I stand like a deer in the headlights clutching my skis and poles. I don't know where to start. I am clueless.

(CLUELESS: Kind of like sometimes as a mum, when one or other of your kids is struggling and you have no clue how to help them. When you feel paralysed, swamped and overwhelmed, and you wish with all your heart somebody handed out instruction manuals with babies).

Feeling like a bit of a dufus, I watch what the kids are doing and I see how they clip into their skis. I watch as the instructor gets them to practise with just one ski on, one ski off.
"I can do that," I think, so I try it; I'm scooting around in a circle on one ski, the biggest dork in Happy Valley.

At last I spot Daddy and screech out his name. He comes over and is perplexed that I am so clueless, helpless. Haven't I done this before? Don't I remember what to do?
Um, apparently not.
Some things just don't come back to you naturally, this is not like riding a bike. We are halfway up a steep mountain, I have long slippery skis stuck awkwardly to my feet, I've never been known for my athleticism or coordination and gravity has always been out to get me. I'm afraid this could turn ugly.

(TERRIFYING SPEED: Kind of similar to the way the childhood years are sliding away from me in an ever-increasing rush, while I'm still trying to get a handle on how to do this this parenting thing properly. As the teenage years hurtle towards us, I'm afraid things could get messy...)

Daddy decides that the best way for me to remember what to do is to copy him. After parking Scrag on the side of the hill (he's had enough already and just wants to go sledding), my hubby begins my ski re-introduction, pulling me down the hill behind him by my ski poles.
The ground races by, my life flashes before my eyes, gravity is poised to strike... but somehow I reach the bottom relatively unscathed, sliding past my hubby and landing a heap; to add insult to injury there's snow down the back of my neck.

I hated every second of it. I want off this mountain. The ski boots are hurting my ankles and I can no longer feel my toes. Skiiing, shmee-ing. Get me outta here.

"I don't want to do this," I tell him. "I CAN'T do this. I'm too old, too unfit, too un-co. Flippin heck, I'm 44 years old! Too old to learn. Can't I just go sledding with Scrag...!?!?"

Daddy is not fazed.
"You're not too old, and you CAN do this. You NEED to do this. Your kids need to see you giving this a go and not giving up. This will be good for you. You have to try. You can't quit cos then they'd think they can quit (plus, I paid all that money to hire your gear after all)..."

I sigh. There's that logic again; there's simply no arguing with it. I have to suck it up and persevere.

(SUCK IT UP: Kind of like how some days as a mum you feel like you are simply the worst-equipped person to be these children's mother and how you are completely lacking in the necessary patience, skills and insight and how if someone had told you what you were in for... well... but you can't go there and you can't quit so you just have to suck it up and do the best you can. End of Pity Party.)

In the end I sign up for a lesson. There are three of us, all women, all nervous and equally un-co. We are in good company. Our instructor takes it slowly, and she says something which makes all the difference to me.

When you are scared of falling you pull back, shifting your body weight backwards, which means your centre of gravity is wrong and you lose control of your skis, making you more likely to actually fall.
The boots are designed for you to lean forward. When you lean forward and relax you will have greater control.

Don't pull back in fear (and therefore lose control). Lean forward, relax... and the rest will follow.

(Do I need to spell out the parenting metaphor or do you see it too?)

I got it.
I leaned forward, did my best to relax... and found that I DID NOT DIE (or get stretchered off the mountain in a helicopter).
Gravity did not get me. In fact, after I learned to lean forward, I didn't even fall once.

[wonderful to watch brother and sister skiing together]

Not only did I get it, but Miss Fab got it too, confidently swishing down the slope like she was born to it.
And since Dash learned to ski last year, now everyone but Scrag can ski. (He'd had enough after an hour and went sledding; Next year will be his year; he just needs to learn to lean forward. And relax).

At the end of a very long, trying but triumphant day, Daddy couldn't resist asking me, "So aren't you glad you didn't quit?"

Oh yes I am. Glad for so many reasons.
I proved to myself that I could do it.
I showed my kids their mum can learn something new.
I modelled perseverance.
I learnt (again) how to ski.

It was a day on the mountain full of memorable moments and blog-worthy metaphors.

So we celebrated with high tea and hot chocolate at the Chateau...

And next year we'll all be back here on skis, defying gravity.

• Last Year's Memory-making Mountain Adventure (Two Lads and a Little Girl)
• My New Zealand Adventure Page

  

Mother Ducks Unite!

The other day on our way into school, Miss Fab and I got to witness something rather special.
Our school is located on a very busy road. Traffic zooms by nose-to-tail in rush hour and anyone attempting to cross really needs to do it at the pedestrian crossing.
Of course if you're a Mother Duck with a gaggle of ducklings waddling in your wake, you are probably completely unaware that such a thing exists. So if you find yourself on the wrong side of the road in morning rush hour traffic, you really are taking your life in your hands if you attempt to make it to the other side.

Such was the plight of this Mother Duck. She wandered up and down the curb, darting out into the road in an attempt to cross over, then turning back as the cars sped towards her, oblivious to her and her stranded ducklings.

As the drama unfolded, Miss Fab and I stopped to watch, with our hearts in our mouths. Hoping Mother Duck would either give up and wait for quieter traffic, or would achieve safe passage by some miracle. (My camera was in my bag and I whipped it out and started snapping, as you do).

A bunch of mums coming down the footpath with their human ducklings in tow, also spotted Mother Duck's dilemma, and in solidarity for a fellow mother in trouble, they swooped in to action.

These mums stepped out into the road, held up their hands and the river of traffic halted. While a couple of them played traffic cop the rest of the mums herded Mother Duck and her ducklings safely across the road.

It was a beautiful thing.

Mums united, stopping traffic, helping a little mother to safety. Mother Ducks United.
I'm so glad I had my camera.

Of course I knew I would share the pictures with you here on the blog, and as I thought about what I'd seen that morning, it got me thinking.

There is such strength in the Sisterhood of Mothers. We fellow-mothers are all on the same journey, facing variations of the same challenges. We all worry about the same things and doubt ourselves in the same ways. We all want the best for our kids, we all lie in bed at night worrying over the child that is struggling. We're in this together, really.

And yet if you go onto Facebook or Twitter on any given day, you will find mothers attacking each other, pouring scorn and judgement on each other and being anything but supportive Mother-Sisters.

I've been shocked and sickened over some of the things I've read mothers say to one another.
Too many people are quick to judge, quick to condemn and stick the knife in.
Too many have forgotten that we are actually all in the same boat, that we all want the same things: to shepherd our little ducks safely from one side of childhood to the other.

I read a brilliant article once (which I have lost and so sadly can't link to) in which the writer had a theory as to why Mothers are so quick to leap to the attack. The writer suggested that the reason we are so quick to attack others is because we are actually insecure about how good a job we are doing ourselves. She said if we see anyone doing things differently to how we do them we feel threatened and defensively go on the attack.

It rang true. It made sense.
How often do I doubt and second-guess the job I'm doing as a mother? I don't know many (if any) mothers who don't doubt themselves on a regular basis. Do you?
I guess if we were all a little more secure, and believed in ourselves a little more, perhaps we would be less inclined to feel threatened by someone who is doing things differently.
Different is not wrong. Different is OK.
There is plenty of room in this parenting arena for different ways of doing things.
What works for one kid won't work for another. What works for one family won't work for another.

And that's OK.
In fact it's great, because we can learn from each other. Take what is useful from what someone else does and leave the bits that don't fit, instead of feeling threatened.

These days we've got baby-wearers judging disposable-nappy mums (and viceversa); breastfeeders judging bottle-feeders (and viceversa); homeschoolers judging schoolies (and viceversa)... the list goes on. Really, there's no need for it. Bottom line: we all love our kids and want the best for them, but we all go about achieving that in different ways, based on our different values, priorities and circumstances.

Hopefully we can have enough confidence and big-heartedness to not be threatened by another's different methods or priorities. If we see someone struggling, maybe we can be like those mums who stopped traffic for the little Mother Duck; we can stand together, and see each other as allies.
Social media (and the world) would be a much nicer place without the vitriol of Mother Wars. Wouldn't it?

After all my mother-sister friends, we are all in this together, herding our little ducks safely through childhood. And sometimes we need the help of fellow mothers who will stand with us and help stop traffic.

•  More of my posts on Parenting & Motherhood

"The Days are Long but the Years are Short"

I couldn't let Mother's Day pass me by without contributing my two cents worth (even though I've been laid up in bed with the flu and didn't even make it to work today).

Motherhood.
At times it can feel like the toughest job in the world.

I've done some tough jobs in the past. I worked for years with at-risk teens, starting up an education programme, filling out endless funding applications, dealing with the police, drugs, suicide threats and runaways. I tracked down truants, visited homes where nobody cared, advocated for kids nobody believed in and tried my best to make a difference. That was tough. It was difficult. It took a lot out of me.

But even given all that, I've found motherhood to be more of a challenge, more difficult, tougher.
Motherhood has given me more sleepless nights, more grey hair, more wrinkles than that tough job ever did.

Because
As much as I worried about about those students of mine, I worry more over my own offspring.
As much as I cared about those students of mine, in the end they weren't really mine.
But the children I've been blessed with, who are mine to mother and nurture? They are nobody else's responsibility. The buck stops here.


Babies don't come with a user manual, but the world has no shortage of experts telling you what to do, what not to do. Sometimes all this information can be terrifying and paralysing.

The way my kids turn out will reflect on me, and whether I did all I could to help them grow into good people.
For many years this knowledge weighed me down with anxiety. Would I be a good enough mum?
Consistent enough? Firm enough?
I feared that I wasn't. No, strike that. I KNEW that I wasn't.

I even wrote a post titled "If consistency is the key to good parenting I'm stuffed" (2011). I stumbled across this post a few weeks ago and a couple of the comments my readers left me all those years ago really struck a chord with me in a fresh way, especially this one...

"You are consistent at loving and wanting the best for your kids...I think that matters most!!" (FROM REBECCA) 

A few years on, and with more years of motherhood experience under my belt and a deeper knowledge of both myself and my kids, I know that what Rebecca said in that comment really is what matters most.

I'm still not very consistent at other stuff but I AM consistent at loving them. 

I'm still an ideas person, I'm still crap at follow-through. We still have plenty of chaos and craziness in our household and I worry about my kids far more than I should. 

BUT. I love them and they know it. And I know they know it. And they love me too.

We talk. I listen to them. I know them.
I know what music they're into, who their friends are and what makes them scared. I know the things that set them off and rark them up. I know where we clash and I know the things that we'll probably battle over when they are teenagers (in just a few short years).

I am consistent at loving them. And that's what matters.

They know I am imperfect. I don't try and pretend I'm always right just because I'm the mum. When I screw up I apologise. When I overreact I ask for forgiveness. When they teach me something, I let them know it.

And I try not to have a thin skin.

I don't cry when they shout at me "You're the worst mother in the world" "You're so mean"  or "I hate you!" as kids sometimes do when you say "No". 

I know they love me, they're just mad cos they couldn't get their way. Those angry words just roll right off of me, they don't even phase me. In an hour or so they'll be snuggling up to me again, kissing my cheek and telling me they love me, I know they will.

In the not-so-long ago days when my kids were sleepless milkfed babies I thought this stage of parenting, (with kids who are no longer dependant on you for everything, who can make their own breakfasts and lunchboxes, get themselves dressed and bike or bus across town) would be the easy bit.

What I've learnt is that there really is no easy bit.

It's all one gigantic learning curve. 

Just when you think you know what you're doing and you've got the hang of this parenting lark, BOOM! a new stage hits you like a ton of bricks. 

Never do you get to rest on your laurels. Never do you get to gaze benevolently down at your offspring in a golden glow of complacency, with everything right in your world.

There's always one kid who is struggling with something. There's always someone who needs you more than the others. There's always something new to get your head around, some preconceived idea or misbegotten notion to kick to the curb.

None of us mothers are perfect, and never will be. But we are loved by the children who have been given into our care. And we love them with a fierceness that is unlike any other love.

This is the reality of Motherhood. 

Nothing stands still. Time waits for no mum. 

The days are long but the years are short. 

We do the best we can and have to trust that it's enough.

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

My Favourite Motherhood Posts from the years gone (swiftly) by

Ten Cool Things About Motherhood

Confessions of a Lazy Mother (revisited)

My Ten Worst Mothering moments (and what I learnt)

New Mother Tips (and a few War Stories)

I Don't Want to Miss a Thing

Sometimes (last year's Mother's Day post)

Grateful, Birthdays and Scrag

Tomorrow is my birthday. The kids don't understand why I'm not counting the sleeps, but Forty-four is just not that exciting, truly.

I've rewritten this next sentence now five times - the only party round here was a pity party and this is Grateful Monday, so I will refrain from explaining why this birthday felt like such a non-event (other mums will get it; you plan the parties for everyone else, but who does it for you?? I'd wanted to organise an outdoor Movie Night but simply ran out of time, after being sick, self-publishing my book and planning Dash's 11th birthday. Maybe next year.)

Which is why my little boy's handmade card is so absolutely precious.
Scrag realised on Saturday that Tuesday was mummy's birthday.
"We HAVE to get her a present, daddy!" he exclaimed. "And I have to make her a card. Fab can you help me??!" Off they went to Miss Fab's lair (which is crammed full of the crafty stuff that has gone missing from everywhere else in the house.) I walked past the room and heard them spelling out "love" and "mum".

Later he emerged looking very pleased with himself, my new-to-school boy.
"I've made you FOUR cards, mum, and you're gonna love them!"
Yes son, I will. I truly will.

Yesterday I woke up to something papery being shoved in my face before I'd even opened my eyes.
"Mum I want to give you your fourth card now, OK? I've got three more so you can have this one today..."

Assembled from sticky-notes and decorated with "THREE-D WRITING!"... this one is going in the memory box.

Isn't he a treasure?

We went to Starbucks yesterday morning, just me and him. My Scrag is Christmas-mad and he's counting down the days. Every morning as he wriggles into bed between me and Mr G for a snuggle, he announces the count: "There's 38 more days til Christmas... and only 13 more days til we get our Christmas tree!"

As we sat and sipped our drinks before church we talked about Christmas.
"What do you love most about Christmas, Scrag?" I asked him. "Is it the presents?"
"No it's the CELEBRATING!" he replied.

Me too, Scrag, me too.
I just love this little lad. His warmth and affection, his enthusiasm and his love just makes my heart swell up inside my chest.
This is what I'm grateful for today: my Scrag. His priceless cards, his sloppy kisses, his loving heart.
And you can bet I am eagerly looking forward to my birthday morning, when I'll get to open up my other three Scrag-cards, which will go straight into the memory box with my other priceless treasures.

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Gratefully Yours,




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