My son and daughter in law recently celebrated the arrival of their first born child. Eden’s parents were rank beginners ten months ago but are catching on pretty quickly because Eden who is my third grandchild, is a happy baby, thriving on his solids and passing all his milestones, so I’m told.
I couldn't help comparing the different parenting styles of the two mums who are raising my three grandchildren. One copes with the parenting chaos by sticking strictly to routines, the other is laid back about sleep times and feeding schedules. My parenting style was a mix of both depending on the occasion and the day. I suspect that our goals are the same; we want our children to be more successful than their parents. I thought of all the mums I've known and realised that the more things change the more they stay the same. We all have a bit of the psychologist in us, a well developed bull dust detector and the skills necessary to kiss 'boo-boos' better. As that song goes, 'we are one but we are many.'
There’s Story Telling Mum (STM). She likes nothing better than to read the same story several times a day for weeks on end. She will often stop at every other word to answer multiple questions directly or indirectly relating to the story. STM rereads the favoured tale of the moment with enthusiasm, keeping to the tone and to the spirit of the story, making sure not to deviate by even one word from the original text. STM’s children have their own library cards and book bags, and although she hates dusting with a passion, she and they also make a regular pilgrimage to the local bookshop to add more dust collectors to their ever increasing stash.
When not reading tall tales and true to her brood, STM, mutates into GPM, a Game Playing Mum who drops whatever she is doing to make herself available for I Spy or Monopoly. She always knows the rules of the game, but rarely manages to win one. She has discovered that game playing promotes the sort of conversation that direct questioning never does, so that ‘I Spy a car just like Mikey’s’, reveals that Mikey had hit GPMs child over the head with his toy car. His lower lip trembles with the injustice of it all; after the ensuing tussle he had been made to sit in the time-out corner.
GPM sheds her mild mannered persona to become Fix It Mum. FIM wants to dash straight down to the school or kinder to sort things out with the teacher but is having a tussle with Adviser Mum who believes it’s important to formulate strategies for her children so that they can learn to deal with their own issues. Generally and after embarrassing her children with their peers a couple of times, it’s the latter mum who wins out.
There is a time in every mother’s life when things get a bit confused and she wears the wrong mothering hat (Monster Mum) and makes a wrong call (Raging Bull Mum). Or possibly it’s because she made them eat their greens that her children declare that they hate her and are running away from home. When this happens, it’s the job of Suitcase Packing Mamma to facilitate a smooth escape with a minimum of fuss; she helps with the packing and drives her children to see GMM (grandmother mum). SPM also makes herself available for the return trips at no extra charge.
Listener Mum takes short naps to store up the sort of energy necessary to listen and respond appropriately. At the tail end of an entertaining TV program or a vital news item she has been waiting to hear, there is bound to be the inevitable, ‘mummy, where do babies come from?’ This is where hopefully the question answerer mother takes over, tailoring the answer to suit the age.
The question answerer mum encourages questions (although she dreads the above), but finds herself struggling with the follow-ups.
‘Why does aunt Prunella have wrinkles?’
‘Because she’s old, honey.’
But why is she old, mummy?’
‘We all get old, sooner or later.’
‘But why…?’
As each explanation followed by the ‘but why’ response finally defeats her, question answerer mum finds herself echoing her own mother’s ‘because I said so’. Words she promised herself faithfully (before she had children of her own) that she would never use. At around this time she gets flash-backs to her own past and can’t help but admire her own mother’s forbearance.
Interpreter Mum plays a vital role in her children’s lives. In the early years, she explains their precious utterings to the world, translating what sounds like gibberish to us into toddler gold. IM owes a great deal to the lessons she learned as Answerer Mum. When the children reach their post pubescent phase she translates with ease the language of grunts and shrugs, finding a wealth of meaning in a raised eyebrow or a snort.
‘How was school?’
‘Urgh.’
‘Any homework?’
‘Ergh.’ (fill in your own blanks here)
This is a short phase that thankfully disappears at the end of the teen years. I’ll leave it to you to discover what comes next. Suffice it to say, prepare yourself for empty nest mum / swinging door mum, casserole baking and laundry cleaning mum and finally there is the mother-in-law mum. The latter is a story meant to be experienced rather than described.
No matter what day or time of day the Rubber Pot Mum (mine) is prepared without notice to provide food for the hordes. To that end, there is a pot of soup constantly bubbling on the stove. Rubber pot mum hangs round the house waiting for the chance to host her children’s friends. She remembers their names, who is a vegetarian and who is allergic to pumpkin. Once fed, she beats a silent but hasty retreat.
Chauffeur mum delights in being on call for her children. Although the term communication is a misnomer (communication being only one way), sophisticated devices like iPhone have proved to be a blessing to her. Day or night, CM keeps her trusty phone handy and her car fuelled up and waiting in the garage. She prefers the night-time calls as insomnia tends to keep her up on date nights.
Nobody speaks about DM, Demoted Mum if they can help it, unless it's in hushed whispers. Demoted Mums dispense their old fashioned advice long after the use by date. It's a depressing but mercifully a short lived phase. It's only a matter of time before DMs re-brand and turn into born-again GMMs, Grand Mother mums. GMMs get to claim a brand new and much more receptive audience. They get to do it all over again but this time round it is with all the care and none of the responsibility. GMMs tell the stories, play the games, and answer the questions. It's true that they have to rest a lot more often between sessions, and they do sometimes envy the youth and energy of young mums, but mostly, Grandmother Mums are content to find a useful niche for themslves once more.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Monday, December 21, 2009
Can you learn how to write?
Can you learn how to write? Lots of people have made a mint writing books saying that you can. I’ve read some of them myself and found them interesting and informative. I also learned a lot from a writing course I took a few years ago. When I came back to study as an adult I thought I would come out of it with a qualification to do the thing I had studied for: writing. It's not that I had aimed for it; but I was looking for something constructive to do now that my children were old enough to raise themselves. I'd read the syllabus and found it interesting and thought what the heck! I'll enjoy myself studying something interesting and be a writer into the bargain.
I was really impressed that most of my classmates had brought a manuscript along with them to the course. I felt right out of it. All I had with me was a notebook, a pen and a yearning to have a novel of my own. I did churn out several chapters when studying Novel Writing, but they weren't worthy of being recycled into door stops let alone being published. By the end of the first year I learned that I was never going to be a novel writer.
I don’t know how many of my friends published after they left, but I did learn that it wasn’t so easy even if you had something worthwhile to offer. Most publishers don’t take unsolicited manuscripts. Offerings go to what is called in the industry a ‘slush pile’. If you ever hear back from the publishers it’s months later, after you’ve inquired a couple of times (not too often to bug them) and usually it’s a standard form letter to tell you they don’t want it. If you’re thinking you might want to spread your wings and send your manuscript to a few publishers at a time – don’t. Publishers don’t like it.
If you want to be off the slush pile and have your manuscript seriously considered (although not necessarily accepted) you need an agent. But their books are often full and most won’t take you anyhow unless you’ve published.
And even if you get your manuscript accepted, the advance isn’t much to speak of and given our small population in Australia, neither will the royalties be, but you need to pay back for the advance before the royalties are yours.
A blockbuster is what you need. Most of our top notch writers like Bryce Courteney or Colleen McCulloch, have the market sewn up, and the rest of us get what’s left over. They began with blockbusters and have kept the momentum going ever since. But even you could luck it like lucky Nicholas Evans did. He was a first time author who wrote the Horse Whisperer. It sold 15 million copies worldwide, and to quote the Amazon blurb: ‘the film option was snapped up by aging heartthrob Robert Redford for 3 million smackers.’ His ‘How To’ book if he wrote one would be worth reading, but in the end it’s how he did it, not how we would go about doing it.
Once I’d accepted that novel writing wasn’t for me, I settled down and enjoyed my course. There was a journalism type subject, short story, novel writing, writing for radio to name just a few. And each subject linked into the other. Even if you’re writing an article, you need to know how to grab a reader’s interest. When you write fiction, you still need to keep to the integrity of background information. There’s nothing more annoying than to have the historical context: dress, attitudes of the time and even the style of dialogue, wrong.
You can learn to write and taking a writing course will enhance what skills you already have, but I’m not sure that you can learn to be a writer in the same way you can take a course and come out a lawyer or a doctor or a teacher. Unsurprisingly not everyone has a novel in them. But people who are attracted to writing courses generally discover what skills they do have and their niche, whether it’s in advertising, or article writing or even setting up blogs of their own. Whether or not you become a 'real writer', I don’t think anything you learn is ever wasted.
I was really impressed that most of my classmates had brought a manuscript along with them to the course. I felt right out of it. All I had with me was a notebook, a pen and a yearning to have a novel of my own. I did churn out several chapters when studying Novel Writing, but they weren't worthy of being recycled into door stops let alone being published. By the end of the first year I learned that I was never going to be a novel writer.
I don’t know how many of my friends published after they left, but I did learn that it wasn’t so easy even if you had something worthwhile to offer. Most publishers don’t take unsolicited manuscripts. Offerings go to what is called in the industry a ‘slush pile’. If you ever hear back from the publishers it’s months later, after you’ve inquired a couple of times (not too often to bug them) and usually it’s a standard form letter to tell you they don’t want it. If you’re thinking you might want to spread your wings and send your manuscript to a few publishers at a time – don’t. Publishers don’t like it.
If you want to be off the slush pile and have your manuscript seriously considered (although not necessarily accepted) you need an agent. But their books are often full and most won’t take you anyhow unless you’ve published.
And even if you get your manuscript accepted, the advance isn’t much to speak of and given our small population in Australia, neither will the royalties be, but you need to pay back for the advance before the royalties are yours.
A blockbuster is what you need. Most of our top notch writers like Bryce Courteney or Colleen McCulloch, have the market sewn up, and the rest of us get what’s left over. They began with blockbusters and have kept the momentum going ever since. But even you could luck it like lucky Nicholas Evans did. He was a first time author who wrote the Horse Whisperer. It sold 15 million copies worldwide, and to quote the Amazon blurb: ‘the film option was snapped up by aging heartthrob Robert Redford for 3 million smackers.’ His ‘How To’ book if he wrote one would be worth reading, but in the end it’s how he did it, not how we would go about doing it.
Once I’d accepted that novel writing wasn’t for me, I settled down and enjoyed my course. There was a journalism type subject, short story, novel writing, writing for radio to name just a few. And each subject linked into the other. Even if you’re writing an article, you need to know how to grab a reader’s interest. When you write fiction, you still need to keep to the integrity of background information. There’s nothing more annoying than to have the historical context: dress, attitudes of the time and even the style of dialogue, wrong.
You can learn to write and taking a writing course will enhance what skills you already have, but I’m not sure that you can learn to be a writer in the same way you can take a course and come out a lawyer or a doctor or a teacher. Unsurprisingly not everyone has a novel in them. But people who are attracted to writing courses generally discover what skills they do have and their niche, whether it’s in advertising, or article writing or even setting up blogs of their own. Whether or not you become a 'real writer', I don’t think anything you learn is ever wasted.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
On Revising and Real Writers
Although I have not dipped into my ideas box for a while I’m giving up all pretense of not writing anything at all till next year. If for no other reason than keeping my typing fingers and brain cells limber, I’ll keep on going with ‘On’ series for a bit. (Ooh, the ‘On’ series! How grand to have a blog of your very own and not worry about how dopy that sounds)
I’m told that there’s a filter between brain and tongue that allows you to revise everything you say before you say it. I can think of a variety of situations I’ve found myself in where it would have been handy to own one. My tendency is to speak and then pay for the consequences. It gets me into more trouble more often than my granddaughters who can at least be excused as they are still growing and developing that brake on their tongue.
Revising the written word, is another matter altogether; that’s where I excel. I have restructured and revised the above paragraph at least five times (six times as of this morning) and before I’m done with this piece, I am sure I will revisit and restructure once more.
Someone once wrote that if you find yourself modifying a short note excusing your child from gym practice, you know you’re a writer. I think it was Danny Katz. Although I most definitely don’t put myself in his league, I’m a great admirer. He is an Australian writer who writes witty pieces for newspapers and magazines, but he’s right about the note. For those of you who haven’t grown up learning the art of letter writing, it is a handwritten form of e-mail done on hard copy and sent by, gasp, snail mail where it takes at least one day to arrive at its destination. I write up my e-mails in a Word document before cutting and pasting into the e-mail window. Then I give it a once-over, just in case, before sending.
The above could prove that I am a real writer, but my need to revisit every line that I write could also have to do with the fact that I have a compulsive personality. I need to eat each packet of chips down to the last few crumbs, then use a finger to coax the salt out where it’s lurking in the corner of the packet. When I smoked I couldn’t have a few puffs and stop; I’d have smoked the butts if it was possible. Thank goodness it wasn’t possible. Given my tendency to compulsion, I knew that the only way I was going to stop was to go what we call ‘cold turkey’. It was a painful process but it worked for me. No crutches like nicotine tablets or patches; I just knew someone like me would only transfer the addiction from the cigarettes to the cure.
Does it make you a writer if you revise sms text messages? I don’t do that too often as I have an old fashioned type of mobile that requires much thumb pressing. But I do refuse to make things easier on myself by abbreviating the words. I can’t get myself to limit communication to a bunch of letters and numbers: no C U 4 lunch, 4 me.
My son and I have arguments about lyrics versus music. Guess which side of that debate I’m on. Today’s lyrics are indecipherable. Strain as I do, I can’t make them out. My son assures me that this is desirable. Young people don’t want to be burdened with words. It’s all about sound and video clips. I’m not sure whether or not preferring to hear a story even if it’s in rhyme makes me a real writer. Possibly that’s why I’m stuck in the sixties with Simon and Garfunkle and Dylan. Possibly not in my lifetime, but I’m sure the pendulum will swing back some day soon.
I’m told that there’s a filter between brain and tongue that allows you to revise everything you say before you say it. I can think of a variety of situations I’ve found myself in where it would have been handy to own one. My tendency is to speak and then pay for the consequences. It gets me into more trouble more often than my granddaughters who can at least be excused as they are still growing and developing that brake on their tongue.
Revising the written word, is another matter altogether; that’s where I excel. I have restructured and revised the above paragraph at least five times (six times as of this morning) and before I’m done with this piece, I am sure I will revisit and restructure once more.
Someone once wrote that if you find yourself modifying a short note excusing your child from gym practice, you know you’re a writer. I think it was Danny Katz. Although I most definitely don’t put myself in his league, I’m a great admirer. He is an Australian writer who writes witty pieces for newspapers and magazines, but he’s right about the note. For those of you who haven’t grown up learning the art of letter writing, it is a handwritten form of e-mail done on hard copy and sent by, gasp, snail mail where it takes at least one day to arrive at its destination. I write up my e-mails in a Word document before cutting and pasting into the e-mail window. Then I give it a once-over, just in case, before sending.
The above could prove that I am a real writer, but my need to revisit every line that I write could also have to do with the fact that I have a compulsive personality. I need to eat each packet of chips down to the last few crumbs, then use a finger to coax the salt out where it’s lurking in the corner of the packet. When I smoked I couldn’t have a few puffs and stop; I’d have smoked the butts if it was possible. Thank goodness it wasn’t possible. Given my tendency to compulsion, I knew that the only way I was going to stop was to go what we call ‘cold turkey’. It was a painful process but it worked for me. No crutches like nicotine tablets or patches; I just knew someone like me would only transfer the addiction from the cigarettes to the cure.
Does it make you a writer if you revise sms text messages? I don’t do that too often as I have an old fashioned type of mobile that requires much thumb pressing. But I do refuse to make things easier on myself by abbreviating the words. I can’t get myself to limit communication to a bunch of letters and numbers: no C U 4 lunch, 4 me.
My son and I have arguments about lyrics versus music. Guess which side of that debate I’m on. Today’s lyrics are indecipherable. Strain as I do, I can’t make them out. My son assures me that this is desirable. Young people don’t want to be burdened with words. It’s all about sound and video clips. I’m not sure whether or not preferring to hear a story even if it’s in rhyme makes me a real writer. Possibly that’s why I’m stuck in the sixties with Simon and Garfunkle and Dylan. Possibly not in my lifetime, but I’m sure the pendulum will swing back some day soon.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
On Ideas
Even if I did say goodbye a couple of posts ago (till next year), I seem to be finding the energy to do just one more. It’s 11pm here and I have the house and the computer all to myself, a rare occurrence in this household, at this moment, as I’m outnumbered by grandchildren keen to surf the Net.
It’s marvellous isn’t it? One granddaughter has only just started school and already has the hang of it all. Pretty soon we’re going to set up an email account and slap a keyboard or an iphone into a newborn baby’s hands and let their fingers do the walking.
I’d like to tell you where my ideas come from, but I don’t really know. My guess is that my subconscious picks up on something and chews it over for a bit before offering it up to me as a fully blown idea.
You’ll have noticed that my ideas on this blog come from the same source: my grandchildren. But as I’ve mentioned before, the ideas aren’t any good without the rest of it. That’s the bit that takes a lot of hard work. I occasionally look out for ideas for a particular market or just to get myself started on the next project, sometimes an idea can foist itself on you when you’re not looking.
I’ve had this idea for a short story for years and it’s still tucked into the back of an old notebook. (Don’t you steal my idea.) I call it ‘Mistresses Galore.’ I noticed a truck pass me by one day that said: Mattresses Galore but I had misread it. I jotted it down in the notebook that I keep in my pocket for such occasions. Then I tried out different scenarios in my mind, one of them being that on the way to visit a woman in hospital, a man sees the van and misreads it. It was a Freudian slip. This man is on his way to visit one of his elderly mistresses. She was beautiful once, and exciting, now she’s old and sick and has become quite cantankerous. As he walks along, he remembers how each woman came into his life and how it was great until it all went wrong and how now he is stuck with a bunch of elderly, needy lovers. I’ve let this idea stew in the sub-conscious for years and am still waiting for inspiration to push itself to the forefront Another variation on it, is that these elderly, long gone lovers are in the van waiting for him to join them.
Talk to you next year. No, really. No more repeat performances. Really.
It’s marvellous isn’t it? One granddaughter has only just started school and already has the hang of it all. Pretty soon we’re going to set up an email account and slap a keyboard or an iphone into a newborn baby’s hands and let their fingers do the walking.
I’d like to tell you where my ideas come from, but I don’t really know. My guess is that my subconscious picks up on something and chews it over for a bit before offering it up to me as a fully blown idea.
You’ll have noticed that my ideas on this blog come from the same source: my grandchildren. But as I’ve mentioned before, the ideas aren’t any good without the rest of it. That’s the bit that takes a lot of hard work. I occasionally look out for ideas for a particular market or just to get myself started on the next project, sometimes an idea can foist itself on you when you’re not looking.
I’ve had this idea for a short story for years and it’s still tucked into the back of an old notebook. (Don’t you steal my idea.) I call it ‘Mistresses Galore.’ I noticed a truck pass me by one day that said: Mattresses Galore but I had misread it. I jotted it down in the notebook that I keep in my pocket for such occasions. Then I tried out different scenarios in my mind, one of them being that on the way to visit a woman in hospital, a man sees the van and misreads it. It was a Freudian slip. This man is on his way to visit one of his elderly mistresses. She was beautiful once, and exciting, now she’s old and sick and has become quite cantankerous. As he walks along, he remembers how each woman came into his life and how it was great until it all went wrong and how now he is stuck with a bunch of elderly, needy lovers. I’ve let this idea stew in the sub-conscious for years and am still waiting for inspiration to push itself to the forefront Another variation on it, is that these elderly, long gone lovers are in the van waiting for him to join them.
Talk to you next year. No, really. No more repeat performances. Really.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
On Editors
I wasn’t going to write any more till late January at least, but it’s past midnight and I can’t sleep. It isn’t late in the scheme of things if you’re an insomniac or if you are young but I don’t fit into either category. I find myself up and about tonight when everyone else is sensibly refreshing those little grey cells.
I’m sure that I’ll pay for it tomorrow because it’s going to be hectic, but I thought that a quick session between my computer and myself might help settle me down.
Even though I’ve said in my previous post that you need to have an angle for a piece or else you’re wasting your time and your words, I’ve decided to indulge myself this once and see where it takes me. Possibly not far, but the beauty of it is that as I’m both writer and editor of this journal I can please myself; at least for the time being, till my compulsive need to revisit and revise takes over.
When I have a piece professionally published and paid for, it’s usually the end of that particular journey. Once I’ve worked and reworked a piece it’s out of my hands. I have to hope that the person who reads my peace will be sensitive to it. If you have published in the same place more than once, you get to know the editor and at least get to know what to expect.
The thing is, if you want to be published you have to accept that once someone has bought your baby, you lose control. Someone else gets to edit it and decide what to keep and what to leave out. That’s not always a negative thing. Sometimes I’m too close to be objective and what ends up in print makes it better not only for the publication but for me. A good editor takes away what’s necessary without disturbing the essence of the piece.
The thing is, that if it turns out badly, then the reader usually blames the writer for it. As in any other profession, editors will come in all shapes and sizes. There are the good ones, the bad ones and the ‘what the hell have you done to my piece’ types. Sometimes they will cut your precious words down so they can fit it in an advertisement or another piece on the page. I had an awful experience (just once) where every reference that would have made my piece meaningful was cut out, as evidenced by the fact that the illustrator understood what I meant when he read the piece and the editor did not when he cut things down. (They had obviously not consulted one another.) You can decide to complain, in which case you might not have a chance again at that particular market, or you might decide to never submit there again which limits your choices, or you might hope that that editor moves on to some other publication and butcher somebody else’s work.
A good editor needs to know a lot more than just about tone and grammar and structure; a good editor is like a good GP and knows a little bit about a lot of topics.
Even though I get paid for it, once that piece is in print I will happily forget it and move on to writing something else.
I hope people have liked the child I’ve produced and put on display but strangely it’s not the child but the audience that’s my main consideration. Here I am, my own electronic market, and enjoying pleasing myself, but I do often wonder what sort of people they are who drop in (some of them regulars) from different parts of the globe, and read my work. And what is it that they find they like that makes them regulars.
I find the thought fascinating that they must relate to some of the things I’ve had to say here; because even though the French say vive le difference and I’m all about celebrating our differences, at the core of things and where it counts, I’m sure we’re the same.
I’m sure that I’ll pay for it tomorrow because it’s going to be hectic, but I thought that a quick session between my computer and myself might help settle me down.
Even though I’ve said in my previous post that you need to have an angle for a piece or else you’re wasting your time and your words, I’ve decided to indulge myself this once and see where it takes me. Possibly not far, but the beauty of it is that as I’m both writer and editor of this journal I can please myself; at least for the time being, till my compulsive need to revisit and revise takes over.
When I have a piece professionally published and paid for, it’s usually the end of that particular journey. Once I’ve worked and reworked a piece it’s out of my hands. I have to hope that the person who reads my peace will be sensitive to it. If you have published in the same place more than once, you get to know the editor and at least get to know what to expect.
The thing is, if you want to be published you have to accept that once someone has bought your baby, you lose control. Someone else gets to edit it and decide what to keep and what to leave out. That’s not always a negative thing. Sometimes I’m too close to be objective and what ends up in print makes it better not only for the publication but for me. A good editor takes away what’s necessary without disturbing the essence of the piece.
The thing is, that if it turns out badly, then the reader usually blames the writer for it. As in any other profession, editors will come in all shapes and sizes. There are the good ones, the bad ones and the ‘what the hell have you done to my piece’ types. Sometimes they will cut your precious words down so they can fit it in an advertisement or another piece on the page. I had an awful experience (just once) where every reference that would have made my piece meaningful was cut out, as evidenced by the fact that the illustrator understood what I meant when he read the piece and the editor did not when he cut things down. (They had obviously not consulted one another.) You can decide to complain, in which case you might not have a chance again at that particular market, or you might decide to never submit there again which limits your choices, or you might hope that that editor moves on to some other publication and butcher somebody else’s work.
A good editor needs to know a lot more than just about tone and grammar and structure; a good editor is like a good GP and knows a little bit about a lot of topics.
Even though I get paid for it, once that piece is in print I will happily forget it and move on to writing something else.
I hope people have liked the child I’ve produced and put on display but strangely it’s not the child but the audience that’s my main consideration. Here I am, my own electronic market, and enjoying pleasing myself, but I do often wonder what sort of people they are who drop in (some of them regulars) from different parts of the globe, and read my work. And what is it that they find they like that makes them regulars.
I find the thought fascinating that they must relate to some of the things I’ve had to say here; because even though the French say vive le difference and I’m all about celebrating our differences, at the core of things and where it counts, I’m sure we’re the same.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
On Writing
Even when it's a piece about writing, I seem to have to revise. This is my second and hopefully last revision.
‘On Writing’ sounds grand, doesn’t it? I don’t pretend to know much, but I’m happy to share what I do know – about my own style of writing.
It’s not that I think that I can offer anything to any budding writers out there that more established ones haven't already done but as I’m working it out for myself, I thought I might as well put it down in my electronic notebook and share it with whoever is interested; I have read some advice given by more established writers. When I’ve liked it, it has been because it wasn’t pretentious, but straight forward and sounded sensible.
But what works for those writers doesn’t necessarily always work for me. Perhaps that's why they are published more often than I am. But I think that if I end up getting it right, it's because I have been true to myself and found my own path.
I had to find my own voice, such as it was. And that had to do with a lot of writing. I call it brain aerobics. As with the physical type, you need to use it or expect to lose it.
While I can confirm that the more mental aerobics you do the easier it becomes, it’s still a slow process for me. I must admit that since having gone public I’ve gone from one idea developed over a period of several months to getting it together in two or three weeks.
I keep on wanting to revise my pieces. I don't think I'm alone there, I've heard of other people who do that. Even after I submit them I wish I could have them back and change some glaring error that I’ve picked up.
Like everybody else who wants to write, I also have a notebook on me wherever I am and will jot down an idea when it comes to me. Sometimes I’ll sit at a cafe and write descriptions of people that are around me. I’ll detail their features, their dress and what they are doing at the time and then I will make an imaginary character analysis. I will also take detailed notes of my surrounds and the atmosphere. Whether or not you use it later, I think it’s not only a good writing exercise, but also a chance to notice what you’re looking at through a writer's eyes. Somebody once told me that when on holidays, the way she had seen and noted things around her as a tourist was different to when she started writing. It wasn't a conscious effort, she'd just discovered a different way of looking at what was there.
There are two things that I think are universal to all people who write. Everybody says that writing is a lonely business. That’s true. Some people can collaborate on their work (I can’t) but mostly it’s a one on one experience, between you and your notebook or computer. You can ask your family how they like your piece but even when they’re being highly positive and effusive about it, you can’t help wondering if it’s bias talking. Some writers get together to workshop and that can be helplful when you're beginning, but in the end you have to decide for yourself if a piece is good, then once you’ve polished it out of all existence you have to let go of it and let an editor decide. Submit!
Everyone agrees that it’s one percent inspiration and 99 percent perspiration. You come up with a good idea and jot it all down in your note book. Later, when it comes to actually putting it together, you stare and stare, trying to get an angle that will start you off on your (my) painful journey. My angle seems to mutate as I go, but I need to have it first. If I start without one, I tend to ramble aimlessly. A waste of time and energy.
I admire newspaper journalists or magazine writers who have been given a commission to write. Now there's mental aerobics for you, especially in the case of the Newspaper journos. They are constantly and consistently putting articles together to a deadline. Others, myself for example, begin with the inspiration and write in a red hot heat for a bit then I pace myself through the perspiration part. I think that’s why I moved from having this blog as some sort of electronic journal to opening it up to public view. I’m finding it inspiring that people who read my pieces might expect more of me than one every few months.
Assuming I have anything more to say about writing, I will add more to these musings (rants) as they come to me.
On a non-writing note, two of my grandchildren, the ones I can’t stop writing about, are coming to stay with me for the next few weeks. I find I can’t focus as well while they are here taking up my energies. There’s a different type of mindset happening when they are here. So, things are likely to be a lot slower till they leave. If I don’t get back to visit till late January, then Merry Christmas and Happy New Year and my best wishes to you all.
‘On Writing’ sounds grand, doesn’t it? I don’t pretend to know much, but I’m happy to share what I do know – about my own style of writing.
It’s not that I think that I can offer anything to any budding writers out there that more established ones haven't already done but as I’m working it out for myself, I thought I might as well put it down in my electronic notebook and share it with whoever is interested; I have read some advice given by more established writers. When I’ve liked it, it has been because it wasn’t pretentious, but straight forward and sounded sensible.
But what works for those writers doesn’t necessarily always work for me. Perhaps that's why they are published more often than I am. But I think that if I end up getting it right, it's because I have been true to myself and found my own path.
I had to find my own voice, such as it was. And that had to do with a lot of writing. I call it brain aerobics. As with the physical type, you need to use it or expect to lose it.
While I can confirm that the more mental aerobics you do the easier it becomes, it’s still a slow process for me. I must admit that since having gone public I’ve gone from one idea developed over a period of several months to getting it together in two or three weeks.
I keep on wanting to revise my pieces. I don't think I'm alone there, I've heard of other people who do that. Even after I submit them I wish I could have them back and change some glaring error that I’ve picked up.
Like everybody else who wants to write, I also have a notebook on me wherever I am and will jot down an idea when it comes to me. Sometimes I’ll sit at a cafe and write descriptions of people that are around me. I’ll detail their features, their dress and what they are doing at the time and then I will make an imaginary character analysis. I will also take detailed notes of my surrounds and the atmosphere. Whether or not you use it later, I think it’s not only a good writing exercise, but also a chance to notice what you’re looking at through a writer's eyes. Somebody once told me that when on holidays, the way she had seen and noted things around her as a tourist was different to when she started writing. It wasn't a conscious effort, she'd just discovered a different way of looking at what was there.
There are two things that I think are universal to all people who write. Everybody says that writing is a lonely business. That’s true. Some people can collaborate on their work (I can’t) but mostly it’s a one on one experience, between you and your notebook or computer. You can ask your family how they like your piece but even when they’re being highly positive and effusive about it, you can’t help wondering if it’s bias talking. Some writers get together to workshop and that can be helplful when you're beginning, but in the end you have to decide for yourself if a piece is good, then once you’ve polished it out of all existence you have to let go of it and let an editor decide. Submit!
Everyone agrees that it’s one percent inspiration and 99 percent perspiration. You come up with a good idea and jot it all down in your note book. Later, when it comes to actually putting it together, you stare and stare, trying to get an angle that will start you off on your (my) painful journey. My angle seems to mutate as I go, but I need to have it first. If I start without one, I tend to ramble aimlessly. A waste of time and energy.
I admire newspaper journalists or magazine writers who have been given a commission to write. Now there's mental aerobics for you, especially in the case of the Newspaper journos. They are constantly and consistently putting articles together to a deadline. Others, myself for example, begin with the inspiration and write in a red hot heat for a bit then I pace myself through the perspiration part. I think that’s why I moved from having this blog as some sort of electronic journal to opening it up to public view. I’m finding it inspiring that people who read my pieces might expect more of me than one every few months.
Assuming I have anything more to say about writing, I will add more to these musings (rants) as they come to me.
On a non-writing note, two of my grandchildren, the ones I can’t stop writing about, are coming to stay with me for the next few weeks. I find I can’t focus as well while they are here taking up my energies. There’s a different type of mindset happening when they are here. So, things are likely to be a lot slower till they leave. If I don’t get back to visit till late January, then Merry Christmas and Happy New Year and my best wishes to you all.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
A recipe!
Someone pointed out to me that it’s the food blogs that are most popular. They have recipes. I have a collection of food blogs myself. People are so generous about sharing what they know with the world. Any time I want to know how to go about making a Curry or a Paella or a Pizza, there are hundreds of thousands of people willing to share with me. I don’t have enough space to house cook books and in any case I used to buy a book for one or two recipes that attracted my attention and never tried out the rest. I like the idea of typing up a key word and choosing the best on offer, then printing up a page – one page. If the recipe is a success, I will keep the page, if not, it gets tossed without too much angst about having spent a fortune on a book and feeling obliged to keep it.
As I am obviously not a food blog, I thought it might be more fitting to give out a playdough recipe. It’s not mine, and I can’t attribute because I don’t remember where I got it. But it’s better than a previous one I had because there’s less oil. That means you don’t get greasy bench tops. My granddaughters aren’t in the habit of putting things in their mouth but the combination of ingredients making up this recipe aren’t toxic. I mean, I wouldn’t encourage anybody to drink the food colouring, but I don’t think that a drop in a huge pot of dough can’t do any harm. And the rest are obviously okay.
If you keep it in a tightly covered container, it practically keeps forever. (Naturally throw away the bits and pieces that have dropped to the floor or are dirty.)
So here is my first and final offering. Hope you can make some use of it :)
Playdough
3 cups flour
1 ½ cups salt
6 teaspoons cream of tartar
3 cups water
3 tablespoons oil
Several drops of food colouring added to the water
Mix all ingredients in large saucepan or skillet over medium – low heat, stirring constantly. Keep stirring till mixture cleans bowl. Remove from heat.. Cool slightly. Knead dough until pliable. Store in plastic bag or airtight container.
As I am obviously not a food blog, I thought it might be more fitting to give out a playdough recipe. It’s not mine, and I can’t attribute because I don’t remember where I got it. But it’s better than a previous one I had because there’s less oil. That means you don’t get greasy bench tops. My granddaughters aren’t in the habit of putting things in their mouth but the combination of ingredients making up this recipe aren’t toxic. I mean, I wouldn’t encourage anybody to drink the food colouring, but I don’t think that a drop in a huge pot of dough can’t do any harm. And the rest are obviously okay.
If you keep it in a tightly covered container, it practically keeps forever. (Naturally throw away the bits and pieces that have dropped to the floor or are dirty.)
So here is my first and final offering. Hope you can make some use of it :)
Playdough
3 cups flour
1 ½ cups salt
6 teaspoons cream of tartar
3 cups water
3 tablespoons oil
Several drops of food colouring added to the water
Mix all ingredients in large saucepan or skillet over medium – low heat, stirring constantly. Keep stirring till mixture cleans bowl. Remove from heat.. Cool slightly. Knead dough until pliable. Store in plastic bag or airtight container.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Darn!
All done. Thanks for the patience.
‘Shit!’ I bumped my not so funny, funny bone and called out an uncharacteristic swear word. It was a painful knock and caught me off guard or I would have said the usual ‘shiver my timbers’. For over two decades I had trained myself to use such euphemisms, as bulldust and fudge but the swear word just slipped out. Mild by comparison to some others that I know, but I was rusty.
My sons who were the reason for my disciplined approach were well out of their teens by the time I had said that word in their presence. I’d grown so good at hiding my first rate command of curse words that when this small one found its way into the ether it proved a shock to their system. But they didn’t hold it against me for long because by that time I had achieved two rational beings with a great vocabulary, capable of communication, negotiation and reason.
It all began when primary school David came home from school one day brandishing a swear word at the dinner table. I asked him if he knew what it meant and David admitted that he didn’t. ‘Well if you don’t know, why say it?’ I asked. I explained that it wasn’t a nice word and I’d rather he didn’t use it. But that if he ever heard me say anything he considered dodgy, he had my permission to do the same. I put a clamp on my tongue after that and made darned sure I darned well did not swear in front my children. Dashed hard work at first but I got the hang of it after a while.
I would have had to be living on Mars (or Venus) not to realise that outside the house, David and his brother were exchanging impolite words both with each other and their peers. When your children leave the home environment they leave behind the people who are the first and most powerful influence on them. From crèche on you can expect your children to have experiences without your being around to explain or to moderate them. Children don’t live in a vacuum, so they are likely to develop a broader perspective on life outside our sphere of influence. I just made sure that my children had a chance to learn about family values before they got to that point. I answered all their questions as often as they asked them and as openly as clearly their age allowed, even if the questions sometimes proved awkward. (Mum, how old are you?)
This is why, as soon they opened those baby blues, communicated. Children may not understand your words at first, but the sound of your voice washing over them will be soothing. Soon they will associate that inner voice called a conscience, with yours. And if you talk to them now, they’ll talk to you later. As they get older they will spend increasingly more time with their friends and teachers and co-workers and less with us, but they will keep that voice with them. Keep up the communication and they will bring home the various views they’ve absorbed. That’s when you get the chance to discuss and debate them and sort out the facts from the unsubstantiated opinions. It’s called strength through communication and not a swear word in sight.
I did such a good job of it that when Mark turned 14 he turned the table on his neurotic mum. He wanted a skate board. I didn’t want him to have one. Visions of broken bones and knocked out teeth got in the way. Mark offered to work to buy the board, and buy knee and elbow pads. He spoke convincingly of concepts like all care and even more responsibility and before I could say, hoist by my own petard I was (reluctantly) agreeing. A year later, he got his skate board. It didn’t stop me from worrying, but I was sure that I could trust him to take care.
I don’t find swearing offensive; I’ve just never seen it as a substitute for reasoned debate. In the misty dark ages we were expected to read and analyse the issues of the day. And we took turns to debate the different sides of each one. It taught us that there is more than one way to look at the world, and that there are many ways to convince people about your point of view. A word or two and a finger judiciously applied these days seems to have replaced reason. There’s nothing more effective (how can you argue with it) than a crude statement of intent to stop you in your tracks.
I feel sorry that today’s parents have to contend with word contracting, text messaging children. Computers used to be glorified typewriters with monitors and fishermen used nets to haul fish out of the ocean. Now our children are surfing it. Our slick communication gizmos are great tools but they haven’t brought humanity closer. C U, FU, I heart U. What does it mean? I watched somebody buy a ticket from a machine recently. This young man went past the ticket box, where a human being waited to serve him, in order to do so. We used to send our children out into the world; today the world comes to them. I find the exponential growth of technology frightening it discourages communication and doesn’t leave parents much time for that head start I once had. I suggest that the old fashioned way of communicating.
‘Shit!’ I bumped my not so funny, funny bone and called out an uncharacteristic swear word. It was a painful knock and caught me off guard or I would have said the usual ‘shiver my timbers’. For over two decades I had trained myself to use such euphemisms, as bulldust and fudge but the swear word just slipped out. Mild by comparison to some others that I know, but I was rusty.
My sons who were the reason for my disciplined approach were well out of their teens by the time I had said that word in their presence. I’d grown so good at hiding my first rate command of curse words that when this small one found its way into the ether it proved a shock to their system. But they didn’t hold it against me for long because by that time I had achieved two rational beings with a great vocabulary, capable of communication, negotiation and reason.
It all began when primary school David came home from school one day brandishing a swear word at the dinner table. I asked him if he knew what it meant and David admitted that he didn’t. ‘Well if you don’t know, why say it?’ I asked. I explained that it wasn’t a nice word and I’d rather he didn’t use it. But that if he ever heard me say anything he considered dodgy, he had my permission to do the same. I put a clamp on my tongue after that and made darned sure I darned well did not swear in front my children. Dashed hard work at first but I got the hang of it after a while.
I would have had to be living on Mars (or Venus) not to realise that outside the house, David and his brother were exchanging impolite words both with each other and their peers. When your children leave the home environment they leave behind the people who are the first and most powerful influence on them. From crèche on you can expect your children to have experiences without your being around to explain or to moderate them. Children don’t live in a vacuum, so they are likely to develop a broader perspective on life outside our sphere of influence. I just made sure that my children had a chance to learn about family values before they got to that point. I answered all their questions as often as they asked them and as openly as clearly their age allowed, even if the questions sometimes proved awkward. (Mum, how old are you?)
This is why, as soon they opened those baby blues, communicated. Children may not understand your words at first, but the sound of your voice washing over them will be soothing. Soon they will associate that inner voice called a conscience, with yours. And if you talk to them now, they’ll talk to you later. As they get older they will spend increasingly more time with their friends and teachers and co-workers and less with us, but they will keep that voice with them. Keep up the communication and they will bring home the various views they’ve absorbed. That’s when you get the chance to discuss and debate them and sort out the facts from the unsubstantiated opinions. It’s called strength through communication and not a swear word in sight.
I did such a good job of it that when Mark turned 14 he turned the table on his neurotic mum. He wanted a skate board. I didn’t want him to have one. Visions of broken bones and knocked out teeth got in the way. Mark offered to work to buy the board, and buy knee and elbow pads. He spoke convincingly of concepts like all care and even more responsibility and before I could say, hoist by my own petard I was (reluctantly) agreeing. A year later, he got his skate board. It didn’t stop me from worrying, but I was sure that I could trust him to take care.
I don’t find swearing offensive; I’ve just never seen it as a substitute for reasoned debate. In the misty dark ages we were expected to read and analyse the issues of the day. And we took turns to debate the different sides of each one. It taught us that there is more than one way to look at the world, and that there are many ways to convince people about your point of view. A word or two and a finger judiciously applied these days seems to have replaced reason. There’s nothing more effective (how can you argue with it) than a crude statement of intent to stop you in your tracks.
I feel sorry that today’s parents have to contend with word contracting, text messaging children. Computers used to be glorified typewriters with monitors and fishermen used nets to haul fish out of the ocean. Now our children are surfing it. Our slick communication gizmos are great tools but they haven’t brought humanity closer. C U, FU, I heart U. What does it mean? I watched somebody buy a ticket from a machine recently. This young man went past the ticket box, where a human being waited to serve him, in order to do so. We used to send our children out into the world; today the world comes to them. I find the exponential growth of technology frightening it discourages communication and doesn’t leave parents much time for that head start I once had. I suggest that the old fashioned way of communicating.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
I have this little grandson
Third time is the charm; here is my third and final version of this piece.
I have this little grandson called Eden. He used to give us earnest looks that said he was checking us over and getting a hang on his new surroundings. He wasn’t being judgemental or anything, just curious, as you are when you’re brand new to a place. It took seven weeks of surveillance but Eden must have approved of his little world; he smiles. And Eden communicates, including his whole family in the conversation: na da, ma da, and giggle giggle; and he bounces when you hold him upright. What a child!
Eden was born with a shock of black hair and has what we used to call piano fingers long and fine and supple; an indicator to both his paternal and maternal grandfathers who are very musical themselves that it’s a sign of harmonious things to come. Family and friends sat around the hospital bed checking out the new born arrival and there were a lot of comparisons happening: the grandfather’s expression, the mother’s eyes and what long legs for a baby, he’s going to be tall like his daddy. Certain favourable comparisons were made regarding receding hairlines. Everyone was satisfied to find a bit of themselves in Eden.
Eden turned his smile on in his seventh week (or according to his daddy, and he has the photos to back him up, on the third day) and he hasn’t stopped since. Actually I would call it more of a grin than a smile. And Eden is not selective about the recipients of his benevolence; old, young, beautiful, ugly; everyone and everything in his line of sight gets a big dose. I often wonder what he could be thinking that produces such a radiant grin. My theory is that he’s expressing his approval of us and the world around him.
Eden is my third grandchild and people ask if I’m feeling blasé about it all. I say I’m just as excited this time round. Children are like the poppies I used to bring home each Spring and put in a vase. Every morning one or two buds would slowly open and reveal their colours to me. It gave me more pleasure than that first vital caffeine fix in the morning.
Children will do things or say things that seem to come out of left field that (unsurprisingly) can surprise. This is because they are a mix of their maternal and paternal genes; a combination of parents and extended family. Sometimes a long distant childhood memory allows us to decode something our children or grandchildren do or say, but sometimes not. Granddaughter Dezzy is developing an artistic flair; I haven’t gone past drawing stick figures. In the past couple of months Eden’s hair has gone from black to a lovely reddish hue that he gets from his dad.
It’s exciting now that I have the time and the energy, to watch my darling buds slowly opening to reveal their colours. Rachel has turned six. She has her daddy’s curly hair and loving personality. She also has a stubborn streak that I can’t trace to anyone, perhaps a throwback somewhere in time. The good thing is that if we appeal to her reason or ask for understanding she shows a kind heart. Dezzy is fiercely loyal to all things family and loving like her dad. We’re watching her heading towards those teenage years faster than you can say watch out, early bloomer on the horizon. I am counting on her strength of character to allow her to pass through that phase unscathed.
I love being a grandma it’s a job that suits me like no other, the only profession where old age is actually a requirement. I will never be a matriarch like a friend who has four children and three grandchildren already and more anticipated. But I’m doing all right. I have found my niche. Grandchildren think that wrinkles equate with wisdom and the good thing is that given a good dictionary and the capacity to love unconditionally there’s not much you can do wrong to disillusion them.
It’s a freeing experience to finally leave the responsibilities behind and have fun anticipating without the discomfort of the pregnancy, the exhausting late nights and the constant worries about what kinder and which school and how to afford them. Nice to know that old age has some perks.
We used to say Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor, Rich Man, Poor Man, Beggar Man, Thief. I’m hoping that it’s not going to be the last two. (You can be happy and honourable and still be poor.)
I have this little grandson called Eden. I don’t know what he will make of the world or what the world will make of him. I can only say that I will still love him, no matter what.
I have this little grandson called Eden. He used to give us earnest looks that said he was checking us over and getting a hang on his new surroundings. He wasn’t being judgemental or anything, just curious, as you are when you’re brand new to a place. It took seven weeks of surveillance but Eden must have approved of his little world; he smiles. And Eden communicates, including his whole family in the conversation: na da, ma da, and giggle giggle; and he bounces when you hold him upright. What a child!
Eden was born with a shock of black hair and has what we used to call piano fingers long and fine and supple; an indicator to both his paternal and maternal grandfathers who are very musical themselves that it’s a sign of harmonious things to come. Family and friends sat around the hospital bed checking out the new born arrival and there were a lot of comparisons happening: the grandfather’s expression, the mother’s eyes and what long legs for a baby, he’s going to be tall like his daddy. Certain favourable comparisons were made regarding receding hairlines. Everyone was satisfied to find a bit of themselves in Eden.
Eden turned his smile on in his seventh week (or according to his daddy, and he has the photos to back him up, on the third day) and he hasn’t stopped since. Actually I would call it more of a grin than a smile. And Eden is not selective about the recipients of his benevolence; old, young, beautiful, ugly; everyone and everything in his line of sight gets a big dose. I often wonder what he could be thinking that produces such a radiant grin. My theory is that he’s expressing his approval of us and the world around him.
Eden is my third grandchild and people ask if I’m feeling blasé about it all. I say I’m just as excited this time round. Children are like the poppies I used to bring home each Spring and put in a vase. Every morning one or two buds would slowly open and reveal their colours to me. It gave me more pleasure than that first vital caffeine fix in the morning.
Children will do things or say things that seem to come out of left field that (unsurprisingly) can surprise. This is because they are a mix of their maternal and paternal genes; a combination of parents and extended family. Sometimes a long distant childhood memory allows us to decode something our children or grandchildren do or say, but sometimes not. Granddaughter Dezzy is developing an artistic flair; I haven’t gone past drawing stick figures. In the past couple of months Eden’s hair has gone from black to a lovely reddish hue that he gets from his dad.
It’s exciting now that I have the time and the energy, to watch my darling buds slowly opening to reveal their colours. Rachel has turned six. She has her daddy’s curly hair and loving personality. She also has a stubborn streak that I can’t trace to anyone, perhaps a throwback somewhere in time. The good thing is that if we appeal to her reason or ask for understanding she shows a kind heart. Dezzy is fiercely loyal to all things family and loving like her dad. We’re watching her heading towards those teenage years faster than you can say watch out, early bloomer on the horizon. I am counting on her strength of character to allow her to pass through that phase unscathed.
I love being a grandma it’s a job that suits me like no other, the only profession where old age is actually a requirement. I will never be a matriarch like a friend who has four children and three grandchildren already and more anticipated. But I’m doing all right. I have found my niche. Grandchildren think that wrinkles equate with wisdom and the good thing is that given a good dictionary and the capacity to love unconditionally there’s not much you can do wrong to disillusion them.
It’s a freeing experience to finally leave the responsibilities behind and have fun anticipating without the discomfort of the pregnancy, the exhausting late nights and the constant worries about what kinder and which school and how to afford them. Nice to know that old age has some perks.
We used to say Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor, Rich Man, Poor Man, Beggar Man, Thief. I’m hoping that it’s not going to be the last two. (You can be happy and honourable and still be poor.)
I have this little grandson called Eden. I don’t know what he will make of the world or what the world will make of him. I can only say that I will still love him, no matter what.
Monday, November 30, 2009
About smacking
To smack or not to smack? That’s the hot topic that comes up at least five times a year. Someone has killed a child or maimed a child or starved a child to death. Then it’s on for young and old. Everyone has an opinion. There are the experts, many of whom disagree with smacking and the parents who come in all shapes and sizes as they do.
There are as many opinions as there are parents and parent types (single, married, divorced, and gay). They aren’t ever going to do to their children what their parents did to them; they used to get the strap at school and it never hurt them, in fact it turned them into solid citizens; a little smack on the bottom never hurt anyone and it teaches them a lesson.
Earlier this year a woman hit her child with a wooden spoon. She was quoted as saying that she only uses a spoon when her child is being naughty. That she talks it through with her child first and gives her a ‘fair chance to rectify the situation.’ On the surface of it, it sounds reasonable, but why the spoon? Why not a slap with an open hand to the bottom? Surely it hurts less than the spoon but still gives the child a message. Either way, the message is that violence is not acceptable to resolve issues unless it comes from a parent.
In a democracy the government has no power to call the shots when it comes to when to have children or how many to have or who should be allowed to have them. When things go wrong it can only work indirectly through government agencies. But time and again these agencies have proven ineffectual because neither the money nor the laws are enough back up the overworked and embattled representatives.
Smack seems an innocuous word. It’s used far too often to describe something that’s a lot more violent. If an adult is in control of his or her temper then the occasional smack administered as a last resort and in extraordinary circumstance might work. But if a child breaks something precious or breaks that final straw at the end of a long day can that adult remain cool? I saw a man slap his daughter’s face the last week. She’d let go of his hand when crossing the road. You could see the adrenalin pumping. He reacted through fear. But I could tell that he didn’t make a habit of it. The little girl, she couldn’t have been much older than 8, sobbed and said over and over again, ‘you hurt my feelings, daddy.’
In the real world we tell our children that violence is wrong. That you don't bully and if you yourself are being picked on try sorting things out with your tormentor. We teach that negotiation is the way. We don’t smack our neighbours, even if they irritate us beyond belief, we don’t get stuck into them if we’re tired or have had a bad hair day. We believe that we are far too civilized to take it out on our neighbours. And of course if we are tempted they would slap us back with a writ.
People often say my child, my decision. I think we need to do for smacking what we did for smoking. It was in the too hard basket until people campaigned to have the laws changed and enforced.
There are as many opinions as there are parents and parent types (single, married, divorced, and gay). They aren’t ever going to do to their children what their parents did to them; they used to get the strap at school and it never hurt them, in fact it turned them into solid citizens; a little smack on the bottom never hurt anyone and it teaches them a lesson.
Earlier this year a woman hit her child with a wooden spoon. She was quoted as saying that she only uses a spoon when her child is being naughty. That she talks it through with her child first and gives her a ‘fair chance to rectify the situation.’ On the surface of it, it sounds reasonable, but why the spoon? Why not a slap with an open hand to the bottom? Surely it hurts less than the spoon but still gives the child a message. Either way, the message is that violence is not acceptable to resolve issues unless it comes from a parent.
In a democracy the government has no power to call the shots when it comes to when to have children or how many to have or who should be allowed to have them. When things go wrong it can only work indirectly through government agencies. But time and again these agencies have proven ineffectual because neither the money nor the laws are enough back up the overworked and embattled representatives.
Smack seems an innocuous word. It’s used far too often to describe something that’s a lot more violent. If an adult is in control of his or her temper then the occasional smack administered as a last resort and in extraordinary circumstance might work. But if a child breaks something precious or breaks that final straw at the end of a long day can that adult remain cool? I saw a man slap his daughter’s face the last week. She’d let go of his hand when crossing the road. You could see the adrenalin pumping. He reacted through fear. But I could tell that he didn’t make a habit of it. The little girl, she couldn’t have been much older than 8, sobbed and said over and over again, ‘you hurt my feelings, daddy.’
In the real world we tell our children that violence is wrong. That you don't bully and if you yourself are being picked on try sorting things out with your tormentor. We teach that negotiation is the way. We don’t smack our neighbours, even if they irritate us beyond belief, we don’t get stuck into them if we’re tired or have had a bad hair day. We believe that we are far too civilized to take it out on our neighbours. And of course if we are tempted they would slap us back with a writ.
People often say my child, my decision. I think we need to do for smacking what we did for smoking. It was in the too hard basket until people campaigned to have the laws changed and enforced.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Leaving the Hundred Acre Woods
Published in a Children's Magazine in 2009.
Rachel knocked her knee the other day and I offered to kiss her ‘boo boo’. She politely declined. In fact, the exact response that issued from those rosebud lips was: ‘No thank you, nanna, I can make it better.’ The look in her eyes said it all; Rachel has come to understand about the charade that adults play and wasn’t having any of it. I’ve been through this phase with her daddy, her uncle and her sister and have come to dread it.
It’s called the letting go stage; they let go and if you’re doing your job properly, you encourage it. As the king said to the White Rabbit in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, ‘Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: then stop.’ The thing with parents (and grandparents who spend a fair bit of time in their grandchildren’s company), it’s hard to know where to stop or where to begin. You’re so tempted to keep on cutting up their fish fingers for them for ever more, but there comes a time when it becomes necessary to put a fork and (blunt) knife in their little hands, avert your eyes, and let them mangle their food till they get it right. Rachel is a quick study and it didn’t take her long at all.
I encourage Rachel to brush her own hair; expect her to clear the table when she is done eating and have taught her how to make vegemite sandwiches. As her sister Dezzy once did, Rachel stands on a kitchen stool mixing an egg; I’m the sous chef who provides her with the salt, the pepper and the spatula. Chef Rachel stirs and I hold the frypan handle. She takes her plate and cutlery to the table and eats with a hearty appetite. Rachel has learned to make her first dish.
I give my grandchildren a chance to voice an opinion on issues that affect them and follow it through. Knowing that I can do it better or faster makes it the hardest thing to let go of.
When they visit us for the holidays, Dezzy checks out the weather online and chooses what she will wear. She’s become very good at it in the past four years but even on the odd occasion when I haven’t liked her selection I remind myself that it’s her choice that counts. Dezzy knocks on her grandparents’ bedroom door before coming in and expects the same sort of courtesy from us. As she’s the eldest of the two, I went through this necessary process with her first. It wasn’t as heartbreaking then because Rachel was still toddling around clutching her constant companion, Woof Woof, and calling out for my attention.
You prepare yourself for the time when you are permanently retired from active duty. Every little thing you teach children goes towards making them independent of you. You do whatever you can to ensure that the children in your lives develop into being the best and most self-sufficient human beings ever.
As I’ve said, Rachel is going through the Nanna / Daddy / Mummy can’t fix it any more stage and we have come to accept that the days of heartrending sobs on our collective shoulders for such tragic reasons as not being allowed dessert before finishing a main meal are over. I have seen her through her first word (it was nanna), the terrible twos and the reasoning threes. Now she is five and her world is expanding once more. The family members in her life will no longer be the final authority on all things. Rachel’s teacher is already wiser and her new friends cooler. One day there will be boyfriends, but I refuse to think about that. All I know now is that my darling who began school this year has one foot firmly planted outside the Hundred Acre Woods and there is no turning back.
And I can only be glad about that. I wouldn’t keep her from leaving even if I could do it. As an adult, I can appreciate the sweet innocence of Christopher Robin, Pooh, Tigger, Piglet and Eyore. They are what we remember fondly about the most carefree and the too fleeting time of our lives. But Christopher Robin and his friends have a lesson to teach us. They have remained the same lovable, unthinking innocents, since A. A. Milne gave birth to them 89 years ago. They have never grazed a knee or won a debate based on informed reason. And they will never experience that first kiss or know true love.
Rachel still loves fairy wings and wands; she adores gossamer dresses and princess crowns; life is lovely for her and she’s even learned to wait for dessert. I hope that life stays lovely, but when she and her sisters reach the rough patches that life generally throws at you I hope we have helped them to be strong enough to manage and learn from them. When Rachel finally leaves those childish things behind her I hope what remains will be the family values, the self reliance and the inner strength that I sense both Rachel and her sister possess; I hope what they learn along the way will keep them in good stead on their long journey through life.
Rachel knocked her knee the other day and I offered to kiss her ‘boo boo’. She politely declined. In fact, the exact response that issued from those rosebud lips was: ‘No thank you, nanna, I can make it better.’ The look in her eyes said it all; Rachel has come to understand about the charade that adults play and wasn’t having any of it. I’ve been through this phase with her daddy, her uncle and her sister and have come to dread it.
It’s called the letting go stage; they let go and if you’re doing your job properly, you encourage it. As the king said to the White Rabbit in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, ‘Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: then stop.’ The thing with parents (and grandparents who spend a fair bit of time in their grandchildren’s company), it’s hard to know where to stop or where to begin. You’re so tempted to keep on cutting up their fish fingers for them for ever more, but there comes a time when it becomes necessary to put a fork and (blunt) knife in their little hands, avert your eyes, and let them mangle their food till they get it right. Rachel is a quick study and it didn’t take her long at all.
I encourage Rachel to brush her own hair; expect her to clear the table when she is done eating and have taught her how to make vegemite sandwiches. As her sister Dezzy once did, Rachel stands on a kitchen stool mixing an egg; I’m the sous chef who provides her with the salt, the pepper and the spatula. Chef Rachel stirs and I hold the frypan handle. She takes her plate and cutlery to the table and eats with a hearty appetite. Rachel has learned to make her first dish.
I give my grandchildren a chance to voice an opinion on issues that affect them and follow it through. Knowing that I can do it better or faster makes it the hardest thing to let go of.
When they visit us for the holidays, Dezzy checks out the weather online and chooses what she will wear. She’s become very good at it in the past four years but even on the odd occasion when I haven’t liked her selection I remind myself that it’s her choice that counts. Dezzy knocks on her grandparents’ bedroom door before coming in and expects the same sort of courtesy from us. As she’s the eldest of the two, I went through this necessary process with her first. It wasn’t as heartbreaking then because Rachel was still toddling around clutching her constant companion, Woof Woof, and calling out for my attention.
You prepare yourself for the time when you are permanently retired from active duty. Every little thing you teach children goes towards making them independent of you. You do whatever you can to ensure that the children in your lives develop into being the best and most self-sufficient human beings ever.
As I’ve said, Rachel is going through the Nanna / Daddy / Mummy can’t fix it any more stage and we have come to accept that the days of heartrending sobs on our collective shoulders for such tragic reasons as not being allowed dessert before finishing a main meal are over. I have seen her through her first word (it was nanna), the terrible twos and the reasoning threes. Now she is five and her world is expanding once more. The family members in her life will no longer be the final authority on all things. Rachel’s teacher is already wiser and her new friends cooler. One day there will be boyfriends, but I refuse to think about that. All I know now is that my darling who began school this year has one foot firmly planted outside the Hundred Acre Woods and there is no turning back.
And I can only be glad about that. I wouldn’t keep her from leaving even if I could do it. As an adult, I can appreciate the sweet innocence of Christopher Robin, Pooh, Tigger, Piglet and Eyore. They are what we remember fondly about the most carefree and the too fleeting time of our lives. But Christopher Robin and his friends have a lesson to teach us. They have remained the same lovable, unthinking innocents, since A. A. Milne gave birth to them 89 years ago. They have never grazed a knee or won a debate based on informed reason. And they will never experience that first kiss or know true love.
Rachel still loves fairy wings and wands; she adores gossamer dresses and princess crowns; life is lovely for her and she’s even learned to wait for dessert. I hope that life stays lovely, but when she and her sisters reach the rough patches that life generally throws at you I hope we have helped them to be strong enough to manage and learn from them. When Rachel finally leaves those childish things behind her I hope what remains will be the family values, the self reliance and the inner strength that I sense both Rachel and her sister possess; I hope what they learn along the way will keep them in good stead on their long journey through life.
On a Mission from Melbourne
I've agonised about whether or not this piece belongs here, but I've decided that it's a valid part of parenting and what happens to children, to parents and to the extended family when things go wrong.
Within walking distance of Bondi Beachhouse YHA, is Bondi Beach. Lush plants and tree lined streets surround us and refreshing sea breezes make it an idyllic holiday spot for my son David and me. But we’re not in holiday mode; we are on a mission from Melbourne. For several weekends each year it’s our little world; David’s, his children, Dezzy and Rachel, and mine. Our home away from home is comfortable, has spectacular views and most vital for somebody whose creaky old bones prefer the comfort of an indoor loo to stumbling down the passageway in the middle of the night, it has en suites. We’ve had the same room since we arrived on the YHA doorstep four years ago. We snooze on our separate bunk beds (I’m told I snore), keep our drinks cold in the bar fridge and make cups of soup or coffee using the room’s kettle. Last but very much not least, there is the very necessary bathroom. It’s home.
But it isn’t the building or its surrounds that matters, or even the free surfboards and snorkelling gear on offer that counts; it’s the constant that the place represents. Lilla works behind the check-in counter and gives our Pearlie girls access to computer games. David sets up some boppy music on his mobile phone, and when she’s not kayaking or leading a fun run, Sam the day manager joins Dave and the Pearlies for a twirl around the foyer. Yuki, when she’s not swimming with sharks or dolphins makes the place shine. Corrinne, who is Yuki’s colleague, says ‘bonjour’ to the girls and sometimes joins them at the common room table to have a chat. Steve the handyman keeps the place going; he’s friendly and staunchly loyal to the place. Steve takes the girls’ questions seriously and responds in kind. Once upon a time there was James, but he went back to England; Brad has gone off to Ireland with his girl Orla, and Andrew the travel bug comes and goes depending on his finances. It’s people who have made our place a home.
When our girls and their mother shifted back to her home town, the Melbourne mob got together for a brainstorming session. The options open to David as we saw it, was that he either communicates with his children long-distance or takes the more expensive option and travels to Sydney every fortnight. David chose both. I said that in that case I would come along at least once a month and we all discussed finances and the practicality of renting a unit for the weekend or a hotel room that would take the four of us. My sister who has been a bit of a traveller in her time suggested a Youth Hostel. As its name implies, Youth Hostels are marketed to young travellers with firm, tanned bodies and an optimistic outlook on life, but Sue assured me that the YHA will also take in worn-out old cynics as long as they don’t influence the young optimists.
The Friday night before each visit, Dave and I pack a couple of t-shirts each, spare trousers or jeans and a change of underwear. That takes up a tiny corner of each of the two suitcases we bring along. We fill the spaces up with board games, toys and books. I’ve been known to bring along an electric hand mixer to bake birthday cakes. Last year I baked Dezzy’s cake on the hostel’s commercial oven two days before her birthday. Sam always has little gifts for the girls and makes sure they feel special; and last year, Corrinne, conducted dozens of visitors in a cheery happy birthday sing-song for Dezzy.
Dave and I set our alarms for quarter past four. I haul my aching bones out of bed at three thirty and make some coffee; Dave bounces out of his room looking perkier than he has a right to at 4.15 am; he’s fully dressed and ready, lugging his suitcase behind him. We head for the car and Melbourne airport; chatting quietly, talking strategies and anticipating the fun time ahead. In Sydney we hire a car for the weekend, pick the girls up then do the weekend shop for one breakfast, two packed lunches and two dinners. We have a routine. It’s not exciting but it gives the impression of normalcy which is the aim. David brings the girls down from their upstairs flat. Their faces glow. We hurtle towards each other, arms outstretched and hug; words spill out on both sides as we try for a month’s worth of catch-up. They look different each time. It’s not only that they’ve grown a bit since the last time I saw them that makes me sad, but also that something indefinable I see in their faces that speaks of life experiences we’ve not been involved with.
On Saturday afternoon Dave and I lie on our bunks, chatting with the girls in a desultory way; I’ve cooked, they’ve played and we’re all exhausted. Then we get our second wind and all go back to the common room for dinner. Afterwards, Dezzy and I play ‘Hangman’ or ‘I Spy’, and Rachel who hasn’t learned to read yet, participates in her own inimitable way. It’s been a long day. On Sunday we’ll go for a drive, or see a movie or do some browsing.
Before we know it we’re back at the airport waiting for our flight home; as usual it’s all gone faster than we’ve expected, faster than we’ve wanted it to. Dave and I don’t talk much; we’re deeply into our own thoughts about the visit; storing away little images to take out and treasure late at night. But mostly what I’m doing is thinking how thankful I am that David is part of a supportive family network. The girls visit us in the school holidays; we come and see them regularly. We talk; we never stop communicating. I’m grateful that we have between us all managed to normalise an abnormal situation as far as it’s possible to do so. What I’m thinking is that it’s a miracle.
I can pick a separated dad out a mile off these days. He and his children are usually at McDonald’s; it’s family friendly there and neutral territory. The children and the dad face each other across a table littered with chip and burger wrappers. The dad has that haunted look of somebody on a blind date; the formal and stilted conversations probably run along the same lines. The kids look as if they’d rather be elsewhere, but they gamely hang in there. He is their weekend dad.
Within walking distance of Bondi Beachhouse YHA, is Bondi Beach. Lush plants and tree lined streets surround us and refreshing sea breezes make it an idyllic holiday spot for my son David and me. But we’re not in holiday mode; we are on a mission from Melbourne. For several weekends each year it’s our little world; David’s, his children, Dezzy and Rachel, and mine. Our home away from home is comfortable, has spectacular views and most vital for somebody whose creaky old bones prefer the comfort of an indoor loo to stumbling down the passageway in the middle of the night, it has en suites. We’ve had the same room since we arrived on the YHA doorstep four years ago. We snooze on our separate bunk beds (I’m told I snore), keep our drinks cold in the bar fridge and make cups of soup or coffee using the room’s kettle. Last but very much not least, there is the very necessary bathroom. It’s home.
But it isn’t the building or its surrounds that matters, or even the free surfboards and snorkelling gear on offer that counts; it’s the constant that the place represents. Lilla works behind the check-in counter and gives our Pearlie girls access to computer games. David sets up some boppy music on his mobile phone, and when she’s not kayaking or leading a fun run, Sam the day manager joins Dave and the Pearlies for a twirl around the foyer. Yuki, when she’s not swimming with sharks or dolphins makes the place shine. Corrinne, who is Yuki’s colleague, says ‘bonjour’ to the girls and sometimes joins them at the common room table to have a chat. Steve the handyman keeps the place going; he’s friendly and staunchly loyal to the place. Steve takes the girls’ questions seriously and responds in kind. Once upon a time there was James, but he went back to England; Brad has gone off to Ireland with his girl Orla, and Andrew the travel bug comes and goes depending on his finances. It’s people who have made our place a home.
When our girls and their mother shifted back to her home town, the Melbourne mob got together for a brainstorming session. The options open to David as we saw it, was that he either communicates with his children long-distance or takes the more expensive option and travels to Sydney every fortnight. David chose both. I said that in that case I would come along at least once a month and we all discussed finances and the practicality of renting a unit for the weekend or a hotel room that would take the four of us. My sister who has been a bit of a traveller in her time suggested a Youth Hostel. As its name implies, Youth Hostels are marketed to young travellers with firm, tanned bodies and an optimistic outlook on life, but Sue assured me that the YHA will also take in worn-out old cynics as long as they don’t influence the young optimists.
The Friday night before each visit, Dave and I pack a couple of t-shirts each, spare trousers or jeans and a change of underwear. That takes up a tiny corner of each of the two suitcases we bring along. We fill the spaces up with board games, toys and books. I’ve been known to bring along an electric hand mixer to bake birthday cakes. Last year I baked Dezzy’s cake on the hostel’s commercial oven two days before her birthday. Sam always has little gifts for the girls and makes sure they feel special; and last year, Corrinne, conducted dozens of visitors in a cheery happy birthday sing-song for Dezzy.
Dave and I set our alarms for quarter past four. I haul my aching bones out of bed at three thirty and make some coffee; Dave bounces out of his room looking perkier than he has a right to at 4.15 am; he’s fully dressed and ready, lugging his suitcase behind him. We head for the car and Melbourne airport; chatting quietly, talking strategies and anticipating the fun time ahead. In Sydney we hire a car for the weekend, pick the girls up then do the weekend shop for one breakfast, two packed lunches and two dinners. We have a routine. It’s not exciting but it gives the impression of normalcy which is the aim. David brings the girls down from their upstairs flat. Their faces glow. We hurtle towards each other, arms outstretched and hug; words spill out on both sides as we try for a month’s worth of catch-up. They look different each time. It’s not only that they’ve grown a bit since the last time I saw them that makes me sad, but also that something indefinable I see in their faces that speaks of life experiences we’ve not been involved with.
On Saturday afternoon Dave and I lie on our bunks, chatting with the girls in a desultory way; I’ve cooked, they’ve played and we’re all exhausted. Then we get our second wind and all go back to the common room for dinner. Afterwards, Dezzy and I play ‘Hangman’ or ‘I Spy’, and Rachel who hasn’t learned to read yet, participates in her own inimitable way. It’s been a long day. On Sunday we’ll go for a drive, or see a movie or do some browsing.
Before we know it we’re back at the airport waiting for our flight home; as usual it’s all gone faster than we’ve expected, faster than we’ve wanted it to. Dave and I don’t talk much; we’re deeply into our own thoughts about the visit; storing away little images to take out and treasure late at night. But mostly what I’m doing is thinking how thankful I am that David is part of a supportive family network. The girls visit us in the school holidays; we come and see them regularly. We talk; we never stop communicating. I’m grateful that we have between us all managed to normalise an abnormal situation as far as it’s possible to do so. What I’m thinking is that it’s a miracle.
I can pick a separated dad out a mile off these days. He and his children are usually at McDonald’s; it’s family friendly there and neutral territory. The children and the dad face each other across a table littered with chip and burger wrappers. The dad has that haunted look of somebody on a blind date; the formal and stilted conversations probably run along the same lines. The kids look as if they’d rather be elsewhere, but they gamely hang in there. He is their weekend dad.
Terrible Twos
Published in a children’s magazine some time in 2007. I’m not naming names because some of it was edited and I have gone back to the original version.
My two year old granddaughter slapped a perfect stranger at the play park. All the poor kid wanted was a turn at the slide, but as Rachel saw it, she was protecting her territory. ‘Mine’, she said, and slapped his cheek. ‘Make nice, Rachel’ I responded. I took her unwilling hand and got it to stroke the victim’s now rosy cheek. He was a sweet little boy who was surprisingly bemused by the whole situation. He stood quietly for an instant, letting Rachel do her thing then tottered off to see his mother.
It turns out that she was keeping a watchful eye just behind me. ‘Terrible twos’? she asked. I smiled and nodded but knew for certain that her vision of that phase and mine were necessarily different. I was well rested and filled with memories and hindsight. She was in the middle of a personal parenting nightmare full of sleepless nights and harried days. Two year olds are what is colloquially known as ‘in your face’ day and night. It’s an intense but mercifully short gig. The daily mantra from the moment parents haul themselves out of bed to the second they tuck their little ones into theirs for the night is ‘don’t touch, do share, don’t smack.’
‘We don’t smack, Rachel.’ I explained it for the four hundred and fiftieth time since her arrival on my doorstep. I wasn’t talking in the third person and didn’t mean it in the ‘royal we’ context. I wanted her to know about our family tradition. My parents did not smack me, I did not smack her dad and her dad does not smack his children. This meant nothing to Rachel, of course. The very next thing, she did was to try and depose her long suffering but doting six year old sister Dezzy from her swing. Rachel hasn’t got the hang of civilised behaviour yet, but I’m persisting. ‘Share,’ I said. ‘Wait for your turn, Rachel,’ but ‘mine’ is a concept more easily learned than ‘share’ when you are two. I once heard Lauren Bacall talk about herself at 19. She said it was the age when you learned about life and people. I think learning about life begins with the Terrible Twos (TTs). They are alert and aware and raring to go. We are the ones who are alarmed because they’re so energetic about it. The good news is that two is the phase where rudimentary reason takes shape. The bad news is that applying it to the budding mind can give you RSI of the throat.
As I’ve said, hindsight counts for a lot. I’m not Rachel’s full time carer, just a well rested grandma on a two week baby sitting stint. I was therefore capable of some coherent thought, a luxury not afforded to me the first time round. And what I’ve noticed is that Rachel herself isn’t so terrible it’s the situation that’s become untenable for her carers. Rachel, a recent graduate from the horizontal crawl has taken the worst possible time to blossom. Having conserved her energy for months and having fooled us into believing that this sedate phase would last forever, she is now spending her energy in the most shameless way. Like the Scarlet Pimpernel, you see her here, there and everywhere else you don’t want her to be.
Rachel has this facility for pressing the right buttons just like her dad the computer programmer. She checks out what’s on TV, fiddles with the oven knobs, then turns the computer on and off. You might call her a terrible two. I see her as an energetic and adventurous two year four month old using sight, touch, movement and a heightened sense of awareness to get a handle on her environment.
When she’s not training as a computer programmer, Rachel points non stop: ‘what’s this, what’s that?’ And it’s not the big issues she’s asking about, like ‘where do babies come from?’ She’ll probably spring that on me in a couple of years when I’m least expecting it. Right now, Rachel is anxious to start up a dialogue with the adults in her life and is going about it the best way she knows how. Even in the two weeks she’s spent with us, her vocabulary expands at the rate of knots and she’s putting longer and longer sentences together. I can’t wait for the next morning just to see what she’ll come up with. Rachel is very fond of the word spatula and has unaccountably taken to the implement. It has a place of honour next to ‘woof, woof’ and ‘blankie’. She picks up items and examines them up close. She wants to take them apart to see what they’re made of. Rachel makes sure that I’m watching, then puts a counter in her mouth and grins, daring me to challenge her. I explain that she can choke and I hold my throat and make realistic sounds. She seems impressed and lets me take the now sticky item out of her mouth.
One thing that she will never get the chance to do is to rip the spine off my gold-edged, Moroccan leather bound collection of Shakespeare’s work because her father got there before her. Like the character in Hazel Edward’s book, ‘There’s a Hippopotamus on my roof eating cake,’ I had placed my ‘best book’ in my son’s way. Edwards’ story is about a little girl and her invisible friend. It’s well worth the many reprints that it has had over the last 25 years, but when I re-read it recently a couple of lines positively leapt out at me. It was ‘I drew in daddy’s best book. Daddy gave me a smack.’ She follows it up by saying that no one smacks the hippopotamus because, ‘he’s too big.’. The offending line has since been politically corrected to ‘daddy growled’ but growling or smacking aside, two things are obvious to me: if you’re big nobody smacks you and nowhere in this story is there any mention of malicious intent. If the dad in that story had left his treasure lying around within easy reach, surely the fault and the consequences were his to deal with.
What we need is a sort of 21st Century version of the 19th Century book ‘Enquire Within Upon Everything.’ If today’s experts weren’t busy contradicting each other on vital issues like breastfeeding versus bottle feeding they could get together and work something out. It took Samuel Johnson nine years to put the first English dictionary together; before 1755 everybody suited themselves when it came to spelling. It might have been a hard ask, but how glad are we now that he persevered?
And if the experts can get together, maybe the federal government can do the same. At the moment it’s each state to decide for itself. Parents today can ‘reasonably chastise’ their children in most states. (A soft sounding word with harsh connotations meaning ‘to punish, usually severely’.) In NSW the Crimes Act has been amended to say that ‘lawful correction’ is considered unreasonable if it’s too severe or if it’s going to last ‘more than a short period.’ Tasmania politicians have been considering reform for the last three years, which is why nothing has yet been done about it.
At any given time of day, Rachel knows what to expect from me and she is slowly learning what I want from her. The short answer is respect. My philosophy is, if I deserve it then so does she. I like to teach by example and Rachel is at the age that mimics. So far she has learned that her limited life experience won’t get her into trouble with me. I will not suddenly swoop down and shout at her or smack her (another soft word for a harsh action). If Rachel wants to go through my cupboards or tries to rummage through my drawers I give her a drawer of her own that she can put her little treasures into and take out of twenty times a day. I cover my lounge suite with a throw rug so that I don’t have to worry about sticky fingers. And her tantrums don’t faze me. I don’t care about being judged by outsiders. My focus is on Rachel. I give her a minute and a half because neither of us can take any more, then pick her up and give her a cuddle. She’s ready, now, to hear why she can’t have what she wants and we move on. The great thing about TTs is that they don’t carry a grudge.
If I haven’t much mentioned Rachel’s sister, it’s because like Big Foot, Dezzy is the mythical good child we all talk about in hushed whispers but never meet. We know someone who knows someone who has sighted a Dezzy child somewhere. Dezzy slept through most nights and gave her parents a break, she grew a full set of teeth but no-one noticed their arrival, and Dezzy tiptoed through the terrible twos with hardly an incident. This paragon is also a tolerant and loving older sister who lets herself be bossed around by her little sister. It’s obvious to those who know her that Dezzy’s blood is worth bottling but I’ve got the patent on that, so the rest of you will have to make your own arrangements.
I think the trick is that if you and your child are going to survive the TTs intact then you need the occasional break from each other’s company. A bit of a holiday. Parenting is like studying for the VCE only parenting is non stop. Even VCE students know that to function properly they need the occasional break. They need it and so do you. Bring a bit of sanity back into your life. Find a nice crèche to take over once a week then tuck yourself and a good book into bed for the day. Go for a walk. Drive to the beach and watch the waves ebb and flow, it’s hypnotic and very therapeutic. Swap roles with your partner once in a while and let him answer some questions. Give yourselves a break; you need to conserve your energy for puberty.
My two year old granddaughter slapped a perfect stranger at the play park. All the poor kid wanted was a turn at the slide, but as Rachel saw it, she was protecting her territory. ‘Mine’, she said, and slapped his cheek. ‘Make nice, Rachel’ I responded. I took her unwilling hand and got it to stroke the victim’s now rosy cheek. He was a sweet little boy who was surprisingly bemused by the whole situation. He stood quietly for an instant, letting Rachel do her thing then tottered off to see his mother.
It turns out that she was keeping a watchful eye just behind me. ‘Terrible twos’? she asked. I smiled and nodded but knew for certain that her vision of that phase and mine were necessarily different. I was well rested and filled with memories and hindsight. She was in the middle of a personal parenting nightmare full of sleepless nights and harried days. Two year olds are what is colloquially known as ‘in your face’ day and night. It’s an intense but mercifully short gig. The daily mantra from the moment parents haul themselves out of bed to the second they tuck their little ones into theirs for the night is ‘don’t touch, do share, don’t smack.’
‘We don’t smack, Rachel.’ I explained it for the four hundred and fiftieth time since her arrival on my doorstep. I wasn’t talking in the third person and didn’t mean it in the ‘royal we’ context. I wanted her to know about our family tradition. My parents did not smack me, I did not smack her dad and her dad does not smack his children. This meant nothing to Rachel, of course. The very next thing, she did was to try and depose her long suffering but doting six year old sister Dezzy from her swing. Rachel hasn’t got the hang of civilised behaviour yet, but I’m persisting. ‘Share,’ I said. ‘Wait for your turn, Rachel,’ but ‘mine’ is a concept more easily learned than ‘share’ when you are two. I once heard Lauren Bacall talk about herself at 19. She said it was the age when you learned about life and people. I think learning about life begins with the Terrible Twos (TTs). They are alert and aware and raring to go. We are the ones who are alarmed because they’re so energetic about it. The good news is that two is the phase where rudimentary reason takes shape. The bad news is that applying it to the budding mind can give you RSI of the throat.
As I’ve said, hindsight counts for a lot. I’m not Rachel’s full time carer, just a well rested grandma on a two week baby sitting stint. I was therefore capable of some coherent thought, a luxury not afforded to me the first time round. And what I’ve noticed is that Rachel herself isn’t so terrible it’s the situation that’s become untenable for her carers. Rachel, a recent graduate from the horizontal crawl has taken the worst possible time to blossom. Having conserved her energy for months and having fooled us into believing that this sedate phase would last forever, she is now spending her energy in the most shameless way. Like the Scarlet Pimpernel, you see her here, there and everywhere else you don’t want her to be.
Rachel has this facility for pressing the right buttons just like her dad the computer programmer. She checks out what’s on TV, fiddles with the oven knobs, then turns the computer on and off. You might call her a terrible two. I see her as an energetic and adventurous two year four month old using sight, touch, movement and a heightened sense of awareness to get a handle on her environment.
When she’s not training as a computer programmer, Rachel points non stop: ‘what’s this, what’s that?’ And it’s not the big issues she’s asking about, like ‘where do babies come from?’ She’ll probably spring that on me in a couple of years when I’m least expecting it. Right now, Rachel is anxious to start up a dialogue with the adults in her life and is going about it the best way she knows how. Even in the two weeks she’s spent with us, her vocabulary expands at the rate of knots and she’s putting longer and longer sentences together. I can’t wait for the next morning just to see what she’ll come up with. Rachel is very fond of the word spatula and has unaccountably taken to the implement. It has a place of honour next to ‘woof, woof’ and ‘blankie’. She picks up items and examines them up close. She wants to take them apart to see what they’re made of. Rachel makes sure that I’m watching, then puts a counter in her mouth and grins, daring me to challenge her. I explain that she can choke and I hold my throat and make realistic sounds. She seems impressed and lets me take the now sticky item out of her mouth.
One thing that she will never get the chance to do is to rip the spine off my gold-edged, Moroccan leather bound collection of Shakespeare’s work because her father got there before her. Like the character in Hazel Edward’s book, ‘There’s a Hippopotamus on my roof eating cake,’ I had placed my ‘best book’ in my son’s way. Edwards’ story is about a little girl and her invisible friend. It’s well worth the many reprints that it has had over the last 25 years, but when I re-read it recently a couple of lines positively leapt out at me. It was ‘I drew in daddy’s best book. Daddy gave me a smack.’ She follows it up by saying that no one smacks the hippopotamus because, ‘he’s too big.’. The offending line has since been politically corrected to ‘daddy growled’ but growling or smacking aside, two things are obvious to me: if you’re big nobody smacks you and nowhere in this story is there any mention of malicious intent. If the dad in that story had left his treasure lying around within easy reach, surely the fault and the consequences were his to deal with.
What we need is a sort of 21st Century version of the 19th Century book ‘Enquire Within Upon Everything.’ If today’s experts weren’t busy contradicting each other on vital issues like breastfeeding versus bottle feeding they could get together and work something out. It took Samuel Johnson nine years to put the first English dictionary together; before 1755 everybody suited themselves when it came to spelling. It might have been a hard ask, but how glad are we now that he persevered?
And if the experts can get together, maybe the federal government can do the same. At the moment it’s each state to decide for itself. Parents today can ‘reasonably chastise’ their children in most states. (A soft sounding word with harsh connotations meaning ‘to punish, usually severely’.) In NSW the Crimes Act has been amended to say that ‘lawful correction’ is considered unreasonable if it’s too severe or if it’s going to last ‘more than a short period.’ Tasmania politicians have been considering reform for the last three years, which is why nothing has yet been done about it.
At any given time of day, Rachel knows what to expect from me and she is slowly learning what I want from her. The short answer is respect. My philosophy is, if I deserve it then so does she. I like to teach by example and Rachel is at the age that mimics. So far she has learned that her limited life experience won’t get her into trouble with me. I will not suddenly swoop down and shout at her or smack her (another soft word for a harsh action). If Rachel wants to go through my cupboards or tries to rummage through my drawers I give her a drawer of her own that she can put her little treasures into and take out of twenty times a day. I cover my lounge suite with a throw rug so that I don’t have to worry about sticky fingers. And her tantrums don’t faze me. I don’t care about being judged by outsiders. My focus is on Rachel. I give her a minute and a half because neither of us can take any more, then pick her up and give her a cuddle. She’s ready, now, to hear why she can’t have what she wants and we move on. The great thing about TTs is that they don’t carry a grudge.
If I haven’t much mentioned Rachel’s sister, it’s because like Big Foot, Dezzy is the mythical good child we all talk about in hushed whispers but never meet. We know someone who knows someone who has sighted a Dezzy child somewhere. Dezzy slept through most nights and gave her parents a break, she grew a full set of teeth but no-one noticed their arrival, and Dezzy tiptoed through the terrible twos with hardly an incident. This paragon is also a tolerant and loving older sister who lets herself be bossed around by her little sister. It’s obvious to those who know her that Dezzy’s blood is worth bottling but I’ve got the patent on that, so the rest of you will have to make your own arrangements.
I think the trick is that if you and your child are going to survive the TTs intact then you need the occasional break from each other’s company. A bit of a holiday. Parenting is like studying for the VCE only parenting is non stop. Even VCE students know that to function properly they need the occasional break. They need it and so do you. Bring a bit of sanity back into your life. Find a nice crèche to take over once a week then tuck yourself and a good book into bed for the day. Go for a walk. Drive to the beach and watch the waves ebb and flow, it’s hypnotic and very therapeutic. Swap roles with your partner once in a while and let him answer some questions. Give yourselves a break; you need to conserve your energy for puberty.
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