When do you let go? It’s a question best answered in hindsight because when you’re in the thick of it, it’s hard to even know that you need to let go. The answer is, begin at the beginning and keep on going. When your child begins crawling, make your home safe, clear the decks and let him (or her) go. By the time he’s old enough to dress himself he knows the difference between hot and cold, so let him choose his own clothes. If he dresses inappropriately, then the next time round he will pay more attention to what he’s choosing. Teach him about crossing roads safely and begin by watching while he practices on small roads. It’s not one large letting go, but a series of them and each one should suit the right time and the right occasion.
In 2008 a mum called Lenore Skenazy wrote an article about letting go for the New York Sun that caused a stir with a bunch of other mums. I first read about her when she came to Australia in 2010 to sell her book, Free Range Kids. The book was a result of the 2008 experience. Ms Skenazy’s child had begged her to ‘leave him somewhere, anywhere, and let him try to figure out how to get home on his own’, and she obliged.
Skenazy had allowed her then 9 year old son to travel the subway alone and make his own way home. ‘One sunny Sunday’ she left him at Bloomingdales armed with 20 dollars, a map, a subway ticket and her blessing. She scoffed at the idea that strangers were lurking nearby just waiting to ‘abduct’ her ‘adorable child.’ It was a strategy calculated to make her detractors feel silly. We must be neurotic is the inference, if we believe that until a child is old enough to protect himself from cunning predators it’s our duty to vigilant on their behalf. I wasn’t convinced by most of Skenazy’s flip justifications and contradictions. She trusted her son to negotiate his way home safely, but worried that he’d lose a cell phone if she provided him with one. It was his first excursion alone but she didn’t think it appropriate to ‘trail her son like a ‘mommy private eye’, New York was hardly ‘downtown Baghdad’ so by comparison NY must be safe. I don’t think Skenazy is a bad mother. I just see her as somebody at the other end of the parenting spectrum. There are the overprotective hovering mums at one end and those like Skenazy at the other. The rest of us are in-betweeners muddling along the best we can. We don’t pretend we know it all; it’s not possible given that we’re rank beginners when our first child arrives. Like any other worthwhile profession, there’s a learning curve involved to good parenting.
Three decades ago my five year old son had already ‘figured out’ how to get home on his own, ‘no problem’, he said, or something like it, I’m paraphrasing as I wasn’t listening at the time. Most young mums tend to zone out occasionally if they value their sanity. We had been walking to and from school all year. It was only a 20 minute walk, but there was a busy highway to negotiate. In hindsight (and ain’t that a grand thing) I should have taken more notice because halfway through the school year, David did walk home by himself.
I was only five minutes late, for heaven’s sake. I took the bus to catch up time and when I arrived, David had left. He had hiked his school bag higher on his shoulder and walked confidently out the front gate along with his peers and their parents.
I scoured the streets then made my way home. My neighbour came out of her house holding the hand of a safe but teary David. He’d been standing outside our front door crying so our neighbour had taken him in and plied him with milk and scones.
I was pretty teary myself and immensely relieved. I hugged David then shook him and asked what had possessed him. It was a spur of the moment decision that could have taken a scary direction, one that doesn’t bear considering. The only good thing that had come out of that event was a lesson learned that thankfully hadn’t proved disastrous.
Given a couple of extra years and David would have come home with friends and his younger brother for company, there’s safety in numbers. He would have a couple of years’ worth of life experience under his belt and the road rules down pat.
If you tell a five year old child not to talk to strangers, he will nod as if he understands, except that in his mind a stranger has fangs and claws. Even if you tell him that a stranger could be a smiling stranger who offers him sweets and ice cream a child is used to doing what he’s told to by adults. What hope would he have had if somebody had forced him into a car?
In January this year a man attempted to abduct a 10 year old boy from a car park in Melbourne’s south-east. This boy was waiting for his mother in the family car when he was approached by a man who offered him lollies. When the boy refused to come with him the man tried to pull the boy from the car. He was unsuccessful that time. But if this man had pulled harder or persisted it could have had a negative ending for that boy and his family.
Adults make hundreds of decisions every day based on life experience and even then they can’t count on getting it right every time. How can you expect it of a five or even a nine year old? Every parent has a responsibility to keep his or her children safe until they’re ready to do it on their own.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Thursday, December 2, 2010
The Wheels on the Bus
I was on my way home longing to put my feet up and ready for a cuppa. Browsing at the local shopping complex really takes it out on me these days. Opposite me on the bus sat a woman and her two children. She was perched at the edge of her seat ready to spring into action like the proverbial jack-in-the-box. A two year old girl was in a pram and her brother who looked three or four, an energetic bundle, was busy making mischief. He grabbed his sister’s drink bottle and she shrieked till she got it back; he poked her, she shrieked some more, then he tried to free himself from his mother’s grasp so he could run down the other end of the bus. She threatened to take away privileges, he ignored her.
The two were stuck in that vicious cycle that mums who have more than one child under school age often find themselves. The little boy had misbehaved to get her attention and his frazzled mum gave it to him as he instinctively knew she would. The fact that it was the wrong kind of attention didn’t seem to matter to him. He’d had his mum all to himself for at least two years and now he was forced to share it with a puny, useless little thing who couldn’t talk, couldn’t play games and for some reason he wasn’t able to comprehend, got things her own way all the time. Unfair!
And threats were never going to work on him. At his age he couldn’t conceive as far ahead as the next day or even the same afternoon. ‘You’re going to your room as soon as we get home if you don’t behave’ got that mother nowhere.
An elderly woman sitting next to me implied that if it would all be different if she were in charge. ‘If I had you for two weeks, you’d know what’s what,’ she said. ‘I’m not known as the dragon lady for nothing.’ I visualised a large wooden spoon in this lady’s past and shuddered. The boy ignored her and the mother, at whom it seemed aimed, didn’t respond but I could tell that she felt shamed.
So, what should the mum have done? The answers, never simple, are sure to come to her thick and fast when the children are all grown up, or at least old enough to go to school and give her a break and a chance to think. I usually mind my own business but the poor mum looked so done in I wanted to help.
When my grandchildren and I are out and about I bring along some distractions: a favourite book, colouring book and pencils and the trusty notebook I always carry with me. The latter is used for playing hangman which, for those who haven’t experienced it in their youth, is a game that requires you to think and to know how to spell. Even before she could read, my granddaughter Rachel loved to play ‘I Spy.’ She was most enthusiastic about the game even if she usually got the words wrong. ‘Book doesn’t begin with ‘D’, it begins with ‘B’, Rachel, but good try.’ I made up stories that involved my granddaughters. They weren’t good stories but I don’t think they noticed, children love being the central characters whether in real life or in a story.
I whipped out my notebook book and a biro. ‘Would you like to draw something for mummy?’ I asked. The little boy stopped mid-rampage. I held the notebook out. He looked at his mother who nodded and he slowly took it from my hand. Peace reigned for the five minutes he was on the bus.
I don’t think my actions turned that little boy’s life around or his mother's for that matter. Dealing with the young and the boisterous is too complex a matter for simple solutions. It’s just that as I watched this young mum going under I was overcome with an intense a feeling of déjà-vu. I knew then that whether past, present or future, thousands of mothers have been, are, or will experience the same sort of distress. I imagined this mum sitting on a bus one future day; watching a similar scene playing itself out and nodding knowingly. Perhaps then, she will do as I did and be one mum offering another a lifeline.
The two were stuck in that vicious cycle that mums who have more than one child under school age often find themselves. The little boy had misbehaved to get her attention and his frazzled mum gave it to him as he instinctively knew she would. The fact that it was the wrong kind of attention didn’t seem to matter to him. He’d had his mum all to himself for at least two years and now he was forced to share it with a puny, useless little thing who couldn’t talk, couldn’t play games and for some reason he wasn’t able to comprehend, got things her own way all the time. Unfair!
And threats were never going to work on him. At his age he couldn’t conceive as far ahead as the next day or even the same afternoon. ‘You’re going to your room as soon as we get home if you don’t behave’ got that mother nowhere.
An elderly woman sitting next to me implied that if it would all be different if she were in charge. ‘If I had you for two weeks, you’d know what’s what,’ she said. ‘I’m not known as the dragon lady for nothing.’ I visualised a large wooden spoon in this lady’s past and shuddered. The boy ignored her and the mother, at whom it seemed aimed, didn’t respond but I could tell that she felt shamed.
So, what should the mum have done? The answers, never simple, are sure to come to her thick and fast when the children are all grown up, or at least old enough to go to school and give her a break and a chance to think. I usually mind my own business but the poor mum looked so done in I wanted to help.
When my grandchildren and I are out and about I bring along some distractions: a favourite book, colouring book and pencils and the trusty notebook I always carry with me. The latter is used for playing hangman which, for those who haven’t experienced it in their youth, is a game that requires you to think and to know how to spell. Even before she could read, my granddaughter Rachel loved to play ‘I Spy.’ She was most enthusiastic about the game even if she usually got the words wrong. ‘Book doesn’t begin with ‘D’, it begins with ‘B’, Rachel, but good try.’ I made up stories that involved my granddaughters. They weren’t good stories but I don’t think they noticed, children love being the central characters whether in real life or in a story.
I whipped out my notebook book and a biro. ‘Would you like to draw something for mummy?’ I asked. The little boy stopped mid-rampage. I held the notebook out. He looked at his mother who nodded and he slowly took it from my hand. Peace reigned for the five minutes he was on the bus.
I don’t think my actions turned that little boy’s life around or his mother's for that matter. Dealing with the young and the boisterous is too complex a matter for simple solutions. It’s just that as I watched this young mum going under I was overcome with an intense a feeling of déjà-vu. I knew then that whether past, present or future, thousands of mothers have been, are, or will experience the same sort of distress. I imagined this mum sitting on a bus one future day; watching a similar scene playing itself out and nodding knowingly. Perhaps then, she will do as I did and be one mum offering another a lifeline.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Better to give than to receive?
I’ve heard that it is better to give than to receive so I tested out that theory last New Year. I combined my New Year’s resolution with the inspirational truism and offered my excess weight to friends, fellow countrymen and friendly strangers but they were having none of it. It was post the festive season and people had plenty of their own to give away. The competition and I gathered on dark street corners, flipping open belted raincoats at the propitious moment. Please sir, was the plaintive plea, take a kilo home for the missus and the kids, they will thank you.
That tactic did not go down a treat, so I decided cold turkey was the go. If I wanted to lose the kilos I needed to give up eating altogether. That didn’t work any longer than it took to wolf down a chocolate croissant. I needed to nourish the brain cells while planning my strategies. The in between meals are even harder to give away than the fat. And pre dinner nibbles are my downfall. That’s why I love breakfast, there’s no thinking involved. It’s either cereal, or eggs on toast with the trimmings. It’s quick to make and easily scoffed down. Just talking about it gives me an urge for a Spanish omelette. I sat al fresco at my favourite greasy spoon munching at a Danish and slugging down a cappuccino and decided I had to give up on giving up food.
A really nice lady took me around my local gym and introduced me to the equipment. It was a vast, intimidating and confusing array of tortured metal. Each piece specialised in toning up different muscles I was told. The only two I recognised from a past life were the bike and the treadmill. I chose the latter thinking it couldn’t be too hard given that I’ve had a fair bit of practice in walking (although not recently). After five minutes of that I felt light headed. Perhaps I’d lost a kilo off my head. Did I want to try out the aerobics class, the nice lady asked? I checked out the taut bodies that had poured themselves into spandex and decided that I didn’t.
When I got home and weighed myself I discovered that I hadn’t even managed that one kilo. Should I try sensible eating and long walks? Maybe once I have been through all the diet literature
That tactic did not go down a treat, so I decided cold turkey was the go. If I wanted to lose the kilos I needed to give up eating altogether. That didn’t work any longer than it took to wolf down a chocolate croissant. I needed to nourish the brain cells while planning my strategies. The in between meals are even harder to give away than the fat. And pre dinner nibbles are my downfall. That’s why I love breakfast, there’s no thinking involved. It’s either cereal, or eggs on toast with the trimmings. It’s quick to make and easily scoffed down. Just talking about it gives me an urge for a Spanish omelette. I sat al fresco at my favourite greasy spoon munching at a Danish and slugging down a cappuccino and decided I had to give up on giving up food.
A really nice lady took me around my local gym and introduced me to the equipment. It was a vast, intimidating and confusing array of tortured metal. Each piece specialised in toning up different muscles I was told. The only two I recognised from a past life were the bike and the treadmill. I chose the latter thinking it couldn’t be too hard given that I’ve had a fair bit of practice in walking (although not recently). After five minutes of that I felt light headed. Perhaps I’d lost a kilo off my head. Did I want to try out the aerobics class, the nice lady asked? I checked out the taut bodies that had poured themselves into spandex and decided that I didn’t.
When I got home and weighed myself I discovered that I hadn’t even managed that one kilo. Should I try sensible eating and long walks? Maybe once I have been through all the diet literature
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Sterilising Parents?
I’ve always believed that parenting should be a privilege not a right. I believe that possessing the prerequisite organs to produce children or having access to invitro fertilisation should not give people automatic right to breed. That's my right in a democracy. Unfortunatel democracy works for everyone, even bad parents. Two women in France suffocated their new born babies (several between them). One of them was quoted to have said that two children was enough. Women in this country have dumped babies in cardboard boxes and left them to die. The sympathy is less for the babies and more for the state of mind of these women. Some men are violent to their children or violate them or throw them off bridges. Despite the myths and the emotive issues surrounding parenting, not everyone is suited to it.
That’s why I understood Norman Geschke’s outburst. Geschke is a former Victorian ombudsman who believes that parents who consistently abuse their children should be sterilised. He wrote ‘several scathing reports on child-protection services [or lack of them]. As this was between 1980 and 1994 I assume that he doesn't believe much has changed since that time. Greschke said that 'keeping children with abusive parents is "sentencing" vulnerable kids to a life without proper care.’ My first instinct when I read that he wanted absusive parents sterilised was to want to shout hooray from the rooftops. It was a wonderful fantasy for the two seconds that it lasted. Then I thought it through and I was forced, reluctantly, to disagree.
Love it or hate it, what you get in a Democracy is governments that you can toss out if they do the wrong thing by you and a powerful lobby group called people power. Whenever an issue comes up experts are hauled out to respond with quotes but seem to let it all sink into back into the subconscious once the furore is over. Victoria's Child Safety Commissioner Bernie Geary ‘savaged the concept [of sterilisation] as inhumane.' Stating what’s obvious to the rest of us is one thing, but the public expects more from a Child Safety Commissioner. How much more impressed I would have been had he followed up that statement with an idea for a workable solution on protecting children.
I know about Joe Tucci the Australian Childhood Foundation's chief executive. because he is not only constantly called out for an opinion, but because he is constantly proactively championing for children's rights and pushing for change whether asked for an opinion or not. Tucci doesn’t believe in sterilising abusive parents either, he believes in harsher rules for parents who have a history of abuse. And he wants the rules about terminating rights to be clearer than they currently are. Sounds simple doesn't it?
Here’s an idea. Instead of getting emotive about sterilisation, why don't the experts push for stronger laws that will not hesitate in taking vulnerable children from their abusive parents? No second chances, for heaven’s sake. We jail people who steal money but give abusive parents second chances. How inconsistent is that? Despite the neo-think and neo-babble coming from some quarters, children are not better off with such parents. I suspect part of the problem is that there's not much of an infrastructure in place for those children, which makes it even more reprehensible.
There is a 'paid' and voluntary system of sterilisation in the US, but our democratic rights don't allow for compulsory sterilisation. Sorry Mr Geschke, it’s not going to happen. So now that we have parents' rights all sorted out, why not focus on children. Immediate action without the usual pitty-pattying around political correctness. Surely that’s what most of us want. Why not push for hefty jail sentences? I’m sure the civil libertarians will be up in arms about it all, but let's give them a swift clip across the ears, they will be the first to tell you it didn’t hurt and just maybe it will jog their collective consciences and remind them that the vulnerable are also worthy of their attention.
As I said, it was a nice dream while it lasted, Mr Geschke, but sterilisation is barbaric, it's uncivilised. And for those who disagree, think of this – once you curtail one freedom there’s always going to be some power mad politician taking things a step further. That’s how things get changed, one little step at a time so you don’t realise the intended and or even indirect consequences till it’s too late. Pretty soon, just like Hitler’s Germany, nobody but the blue eyed blonds will be acceptable. And they had better watch out that they don’t get old and grey, because eugenics would be a bright idea waiting to happen just around the corner.
That’s why I understood Norman Geschke’s outburst. Geschke is a former Victorian ombudsman who believes that parents who consistently abuse their children should be sterilised. He wrote ‘several scathing reports on child-protection services [or lack of them]. As this was between 1980 and 1994 I assume that he doesn't believe much has changed since that time. Greschke said that 'keeping children with abusive parents is "sentencing" vulnerable kids to a life without proper care.’ My first instinct when I read that he wanted absusive parents sterilised was to want to shout hooray from the rooftops. It was a wonderful fantasy for the two seconds that it lasted. Then I thought it through and I was forced, reluctantly, to disagree.
Love it or hate it, what you get in a Democracy is governments that you can toss out if they do the wrong thing by you and a powerful lobby group called people power. Whenever an issue comes up experts are hauled out to respond with quotes but seem to let it all sink into back into the subconscious once the furore is over. Victoria's Child Safety Commissioner Bernie Geary ‘savaged the concept [of sterilisation] as inhumane.' Stating what’s obvious to the rest of us is one thing, but the public expects more from a Child Safety Commissioner. How much more impressed I would have been had he followed up that statement with an idea for a workable solution on protecting children.
I know about Joe Tucci the Australian Childhood Foundation's chief executive. because he is not only constantly called out for an opinion, but because he is constantly proactively championing for children's rights and pushing for change whether asked for an opinion or not. Tucci doesn’t believe in sterilising abusive parents either, he believes in harsher rules for parents who have a history of abuse. And he wants the rules about terminating rights to be clearer than they currently are. Sounds simple doesn't it?
Here’s an idea. Instead of getting emotive about sterilisation, why don't the experts push for stronger laws that will not hesitate in taking vulnerable children from their abusive parents? No second chances, for heaven’s sake. We jail people who steal money but give abusive parents second chances. How inconsistent is that? Despite the neo-think and neo-babble coming from some quarters, children are not better off with such parents. I suspect part of the problem is that there's not much of an infrastructure in place for those children, which makes it even more reprehensible.
There is a 'paid' and voluntary system of sterilisation in the US, but our democratic rights don't allow for compulsory sterilisation. Sorry Mr Geschke, it’s not going to happen. So now that we have parents' rights all sorted out, why not focus on children. Immediate action without the usual pitty-pattying around political correctness. Surely that’s what most of us want. Why not push for hefty jail sentences? I’m sure the civil libertarians will be up in arms about it all, but let's give them a swift clip across the ears, they will be the first to tell you it didn’t hurt and just maybe it will jog their collective consciences and remind them that the vulnerable are also worthy of their attention.
As I said, it was a nice dream while it lasted, Mr Geschke, but sterilisation is barbaric, it's uncivilised. And for those who disagree, think of this – once you curtail one freedom there’s always going to be some power mad politician taking things a step further. That’s how things get changed, one little step at a time so you don’t realise the intended and or even indirect consequences till it’s too late. Pretty soon, just like Hitler’s Germany, nobody but the blue eyed blonds will be acceptable. And they had better watch out that they don’t get old and grey, because eugenics would be a bright idea waiting to happen just around the corner.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Letting go
I have deleted the original and totally re-written 'When do you let go.' This the great thing about a blog. Once you send your piece off for somebody else to publish, it's no longer your call what happens to it or how it's edited. Hope you like this version better.
When do you let go? It’s a question every mother since the dawn of time has asked herself. As far as I know, no one has come up with the definitive answer yet. Neither had I one Monday morning many years ago. Or maybe it was a Tuesday. When one day merges into the other it’s hard to tell. Whatever the day, my routine was set in stone. I would have been busy counting, changing and soaking nappies. After that I’d feed my child, play with him, clean up after him and prepare his evening meal. The conclusion I came to when a stray thought interrupted my busy routine, was that it was no time to philosophise, there was a seemingly endless vista of years ahead of me, lots of time to work things out. I put off the question, till I could give it my full consideration.
No time to do that on my first child’s first day at kinder. I was too busy dealing with my stressed child. David cried and clutched my hand. I gently disengaged it with some soothing words about our meeting again soon. I did some weeping myself on the way home and wondered why I couldn’t take a leaf out of our cat’s book. We had found a home for her kittens. In only a matter of weeks Toffee had no trouble at all turning a disinterested back on her frolicking children. Given a couple of months more and she wouldn’t have known them had they had passed her in the street. I wiped away the tears and went home to clear up the chaos and get ready for the next round. I didn’t have time for self pity.
There was excitement at the local primary school on David’s first day. We were surrounded by mothers and by hyperactive children. Others, first timers, stood around quietly watching as the veterans gathered in little groups talking and their children who obviously also knew each other played chasey. Not knowing or caring that there was an etiquette to these things, David tried to extricate himself from my grip. He was raring to go and meet these children. He wanted to make friends, and he instinctively knew that hand holding wasn’t what a school boy did. Anyhow why was I keeping him from that big adventure that his dad and I had been preparing him for? I looked at the well scrubbed young man; his usually unruly curls were damped, his crisp white shirt already needed tucking in, grey shorts exposed two skinny little legs, a scabby knee and several bruises. It was obvious that David was ready for school, but was I?
I pushed that thought back into the subconscious void where all uncomfortable thoughts go. My husband and I thought we had prepared for it all, but we hadn’t counted on our own reactions when David came home chattering about the best little teacher in the world. From that time on it was, Miss Smith said, Mr Brown said all the way through primary school. David continued to consult us, but we became increasingly aware that we had competition. Our son’s horizons had expanded and a host of Miss Smiths were going to be vying for our boy’s attention.
Occasionally parents could still be useful, helping out with homework, ironing uniforms and moonlighting as chauffeurs. And what did I think of this or that girl, David wanted to know. He felt a bit awkward and unsure. I took it to mean that I had a mandate to express my thoughts and did it, constantly. But one day he stopped asking or listening. In fact he discouraged any sort of dialogue on the matter. David was making up his own mind about girls and life and the universe. It was devastating to be demoted from a proactive parent to a figurehead, devastating but not sudden. The indicators that my son had become independent of us had been there if I had chosen to take notice.
I'm much wiser after the event. I know now that parenting is a series of letting go. Children know it instinctively, but it’s such a slow process that it takes parents a lot longer to pick up on it. When you begin with vulnerable and reliant children and have committed you life to them for years or even decades, it's hard to notice when they have finally stopped needing us. When they finally distance themselves from us and our windmill arms it's only natural that we are left bereft. I know now that if we play our cards right and constantly remind ourselves that our children are on loan to us only, we could have a life after they have left us. Well, we could have a life till they haul us out of retirement for babysitting duties, but that’s another story.
When do you let go? It’s a question every mother since the dawn of time has asked herself. As far as I know, no one has come up with the definitive answer yet. Neither had I one Monday morning many years ago. Or maybe it was a Tuesday. When one day merges into the other it’s hard to tell. Whatever the day, my routine was set in stone. I would have been busy counting, changing and soaking nappies. After that I’d feed my child, play with him, clean up after him and prepare his evening meal. The conclusion I came to when a stray thought interrupted my busy routine, was that it was no time to philosophise, there was a seemingly endless vista of years ahead of me, lots of time to work things out. I put off the question, till I could give it my full consideration.
No time to do that on my first child’s first day at kinder. I was too busy dealing with my stressed child. David cried and clutched my hand. I gently disengaged it with some soothing words about our meeting again soon. I did some weeping myself on the way home and wondered why I couldn’t take a leaf out of our cat’s book. We had found a home for her kittens. In only a matter of weeks Toffee had no trouble at all turning a disinterested back on her frolicking children. Given a couple of months more and she wouldn’t have known them had they had passed her in the street. I wiped away the tears and went home to clear up the chaos and get ready for the next round. I didn’t have time for self pity.
There was excitement at the local primary school on David’s first day. We were surrounded by mothers and by hyperactive children. Others, first timers, stood around quietly watching as the veterans gathered in little groups talking and their children who obviously also knew each other played chasey. Not knowing or caring that there was an etiquette to these things, David tried to extricate himself from my grip. He was raring to go and meet these children. He wanted to make friends, and he instinctively knew that hand holding wasn’t what a school boy did. Anyhow why was I keeping him from that big adventure that his dad and I had been preparing him for? I looked at the well scrubbed young man; his usually unruly curls were damped, his crisp white shirt already needed tucking in, grey shorts exposed two skinny little legs, a scabby knee and several bruises. It was obvious that David was ready for school, but was I?
I pushed that thought back into the subconscious void where all uncomfortable thoughts go. My husband and I thought we had prepared for it all, but we hadn’t counted on our own reactions when David came home chattering about the best little teacher in the world. From that time on it was, Miss Smith said, Mr Brown said all the way through primary school. David continued to consult us, but we became increasingly aware that we had competition. Our son’s horizons had expanded and a host of Miss Smiths were going to be vying for our boy’s attention.
Occasionally parents could still be useful, helping out with homework, ironing uniforms and moonlighting as chauffeurs. And what did I think of this or that girl, David wanted to know. He felt a bit awkward and unsure. I took it to mean that I had a mandate to express my thoughts and did it, constantly. But one day he stopped asking or listening. In fact he discouraged any sort of dialogue on the matter. David was making up his own mind about girls and life and the universe. It was devastating to be demoted from a proactive parent to a figurehead, devastating but not sudden. The indicators that my son had become independent of us had been there if I had chosen to take notice.
I'm much wiser after the event. I know now that parenting is a series of letting go. Children know it instinctively, but it’s such a slow process that it takes parents a lot longer to pick up on it. When you begin with vulnerable and reliant children and have committed you life to them for years or even decades, it's hard to notice when they have finally stopped needing us. When they finally distance themselves from us and our windmill arms it's only natural that we are left bereft. I know now that if we play our cards right and constantly remind ourselves that our children are on loan to us only, we could have a life after they have left us. Well, we could have a life till they haul us out of retirement for babysitting duties, but that’s another story.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Quitting
I woke up one morning to find both nicotine and oxygen jockeying for first place in my affections and the nicotine was winning hands down. It wasn’t unexpected the indicators had been creeping up on me for years: coughing up phlegm, developing a gravelly voice and coughing fits when laughing, no laughing matter, but I had ignored them. That morning had been a scary one, I had finally reached what gamblers and alcoholics call ‘rock bottom.’ My lungs seemed to have packed it in and there was nowhere left for me to go. That was the day that I went cold turkey and stopped smoking for good.
I had tried every other trick in the book, that’s why I knew it had to be cold turkey. I slept in thinking that a later start would drive some of that nicotine out of my system. I sat in my arm chair and knitted or read or watched TV and kept myself distracted as long as possible. I once had an idea that if I took half the cigs out of my daily packet I could decrease my intake till I was down to none.
Those ideas were bound to fail. I hadn’t been able to make a move without those cigarettes for four decades. Whatever the occasion, I had to have something in my mouth. My pals and I, together, first thing in the morning out in the garden, last thing at night we were inseparable enjoying the sunset, and all those other occasions in between. From first puff to last gasp. There wasn’t a thought or an action without my constant companions along for company. Something more drastic than feeble ideas based on desperation was expected. I knew what I needed to do but I was in denial and not ready to do it.
There were no patches back then, but they wouldn’t have helped. Like gamblers and alcoholics and like overeaters, I had a compulsive personality and would just have got hooked on the patches. I was that good girl who cleaned her plate at dinner; I ate all the chips then worked my finger round the pack to find the crumbs and salt hiding down the bottom, I finished all that I started. It was impossible to leave a cigarette unsmoked, I had to suck up every leaf of tobacco and would have inhaled the butt if I could.
Even though not another cig has passed my lips in over a decade since that day I can’t say I was an overnight success. It took a forty year journey of stops and starts to get me to that place and two determined years before, to paraphrase other compulsives, I ‘let go’ of those cigs.
Fear for my life had stopped me cold and anger was what kept me going until all that nicotine was flushed out of my system. I used to hear what those chemicals were doing to me but this was the first time I was experiencing them first hand. It must be different for everyone because my mother stopped smoking and was cranky for a whole week, then it was over. She never looked back. It took me a couple of years. Getting rid of the nicotine was painful. My chest constricted, a cartload of spiky heels did their daily cha cha up and down my body. I was determined to eject that nicotine.
A recent Cancer Council advertisement tells people not to give up giving up. It's positive and encouraging. Each smoker has to reach the rock bottom stage and decide for him or herself what it will take to quit. There isn't a universal panacea but like the Cancer Council, I think that anyone can do it if they keep on keeping on.
I had tried every other trick in the book, that’s why I knew it had to be cold turkey. I slept in thinking that a later start would drive some of that nicotine out of my system. I sat in my arm chair and knitted or read or watched TV and kept myself distracted as long as possible. I once had an idea that if I took half the cigs out of my daily packet I could decrease my intake till I was down to none.
Those ideas were bound to fail. I hadn’t been able to make a move without those cigarettes for four decades. Whatever the occasion, I had to have something in my mouth. My pals and I, together, first thing in the morning out in the garden, last thing at night we were inseparable enjoying the sunset, and all those other occasions in between. From first puff to last gasp. There wasn’t a thought or an action without my constant companions along for company. Something more drastic than feeble ideas based on desperation was expected. I knew what I needed to do but I was in denial and not ready to do it.
There were no patches back then, but they wouldn’t have helped. Like gamblers and alcoholics and like overeaters, I had a compulsive personality and would just have got hooked on the patches. I was that good girl who cleaned her plate at dinner; I ate all the chips then worked my finger round the pack to find the crumbs and salt hiding down the bottom, I finished all that I started. It was impossible to leave a cigarette unsmoked, I had to suck up every leaf of tobacco and would have inhaled the butt if I could.
Even though not another cig has passed my lips in over a decade since that day I can’t say I was an overnight success. It took a forty year journey of stops and starts to get me to that place and two determined years before, to paraphrase other compulsives, I ‘let go’ of those cigs.
Fear for my life had stopped me cold and anger was what kept me going until all that nicotine was flushed out of my system. I used to hear what those chemicals were doing to me but this was the first time I was experiencing them first hand. It must be different for everyone because my mother stopped smoking and was cranky for a whole week, then it was over. She never looked back. It took me a couple of years. Getting rid of the nicotine was painful. My chest constricted, a cartload of spiky heels did their daily cha cha up and down my body. I was determined to eject that nicotine.
A recent Cancer Council advertisement tells people not to give up giving up. It's positive and encouraging. Each smoker has to reach the rock bottom stage and decide for him or herself what it will take to quit. There isn't a universal panacea but like the Cancer Council, I think that anyone can do it if they keep on keeping on.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
A girl's worst friend
Cooking and ironing are a girl’s worst friend. At least they were mid last century when we were bound to the indispensable ironing board and to quote an advert for kitchens the ‘focal point of much food preparation’. Thankfully today we are liberated mums making our mark in the workforce, carving out careers. No time to cook or to iron.
While it’s true that in more recent times we have been lured back into the kitchen the focus these days is more on nourishing our creative urges than a yearning for the return to the daily and thankless grind. I can’t see women giving ironing a second chance when they can give themselves some extra ‘me time’. Why should we when for the measly price of a salad roll and a cup of coffee somebody else can do it for us. I have taken a straw poll amongst friends and family and I am pleased to say that the only women who still speak fondly of those good old days are women of my mother’s generation. My theory is that their rosy coloured memories have more to do with remembering what it was like to feel useful than a love for manual labour. These wives and mothers not only juggled a routine that would fell an ox, but also managed to find time to iron hankies, bed sheets, pyjamas and shirts. In fact, any item that got in the way was grist to their ironing mill.
I’m not made of such stern stuff. I refused point blank to iron hankies. But I raised two sons and began ironing their cute little shirts when they were five. I kept it up till the shirts were adult size and not so cute. Imagine working your way through mountains of shorts and shirts each week and not being able to complain because everybody else was doing the same.
My partner in life still wears shirts; he hasn’t cottoned on to casual wear yet, but ten years ago I discovered that ironing was bad for my health. I was forced to give ironing up. Coincidentally it was around the same time that I had accidentally dropped my iron to the ground from a great height. Neither it nor I have been the same since. I went down the road to my local shopping centre and bought a bunch of polyester cotton shirts that could drip dry if they were hung the right way. I replaced my bed sheets and pillow slips and replaced cotton hankies with disposable Kleenex (much more hygienic). Everything else goes to the dry cleaners.
Every now and again a salesperson stops me in my tracks at my local department store and offers me a demonstration of her whiz bang iron, a snap at three hundred dollars. Granted that it’s shiny and streamlined with lots of mysterious buttons to press, but in the end it’s only a slicker version of my old one. My response to the sales pitch is to ask a pertinent question: will it iron without my assistance. Until the day I get an answer in the affirmative I intend to walk on by with a sneer on my face.
While it’s true that in more recent times we have been lured back into the kitchen the focus these days is more on nourishing our creative urges than a yearning for the return to the daily and thankless grind. I can’t see women giving ironing a second chance when they can give themselves some extra ‘me time’. Why should we when for the measly price of a salad roll and a cup of coffee somebody else can do it for us. I have taken a straw poll amongst friends and family and I am pleased to say that the only women who still speak fondly of those good old days are women of my mother’s generation. My theory is that their rosy coloured memories have more to do with remembering what it was like to feel useful than a love for manual labour. These wives and mothers not only juggled a routine that would fell an ox, but also managed to find time to iron hankies, bed sheets, pyjamas and shirts. In fact, any item that got in the way was grist to their ironing mill.
I’m not made of such stern stuff. I refused point blank to iron hankies. But I raised two sons and began ironing their cute little shirts when they were five. I kept it up till the shirts were adult size and not so cute. Imagine working your way through mountains of shorts and shirts each week and not being able to complain because everybody else was doing the same.
My partner in life still wears shirts; he hasn’t cottoned on to casual wear yet, but ten years ago I discovered that ironing was bad for my health. I was forced to give ironing up. Coincidentally it was around the same time that I had accidentally dropped my iron to the ground from a great height. Neither it nor I have been the same since. I went down the road to my local shopping centre and bought a bunch of polyester cotton shirts that could drip dry if they were hung the right way. I replaced my bed sheets and pillow slips and replaced cotton hankies with disposable Kleenex (much more hygienic). Everything else goes to the dry cleaners.
Every now and again a salesperson stops me in my tracks at my local department store and offers me a demonstration of her whiz bang iron, a snap at three hundred dollars. Granted that it’s shiny and streamlined with lots of mysterious buttons to press, but in the end it’s only a slicker version of my old one. My response to the sales pitch is to ask a pertinent question: will it iron without my assistance. Until the day I get an answer in the affirmative I intend to walk on by with a sneer on my face.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
On Rejections
Every writer gets rejected at one time or another, even seasoned writers. They are the first to complain that being known is no protection from rejection. Admittedly they are less prone to it than those of us aspiring to success are but those are the vagaries of the publishing business. Once you send off that submission it’s a waiting game even for working writers. I have a friendly editor who knows my work but I still have to wait two to three months to hear whether or not my work has been accepted.
Even that friendly editor decided that a piece I wrote about my grandson wasn’t right for his magazine. That’s the thing – if you’re aiming for a particular publication you need to study your market. Ask for their guidelines, see what they say about who gets in and who doesn’t. Sometimes your piece is terrific but you’ve failed to check out the magazine you’re aiming your article at. Pick a magazine that has the sort of articles you yourself feel able to write, then go through it then buy several issues so you are familiar with the format and the issues.
Even once you’ve done all that you have to expect the occasional rejection. And you’ll have to work out for yourself why it’s been rejected. Editors are usually quite busy and don’t like to be asked. Also, they rightly feel that if they explain it leaves you a loophole for argument.
There are lots of reasons why, even though you have written something terrific, the piece has boomeranged. Of course sometimes it isn’t as terrific as you think it is which is why it’s a good thing to give yourself some distance from your article and get back to it at a later date. (Although with newspaper submissions that are current topic related there is only a 4 day window of opportunity.)
The thing not to do is to give up, either on faith in your writing or confidence in your pieces. Revisit a piece when you’ve had some time to cool off and re-write and re-send it to the same place. Be sure you know it’s a better product. If it’s more of the same then you will have lost the chance at having something else published by that magazine.
Sometimes it’s better to find another place for your piece. Once you have revised it to suit another market, or have decided it’s just fine as it is, send it off. When I wrote a piece about my grandson, Eden, my friendly editor, who usually doesn’t make comments said that if he accepted every article written by doting grandmothers he’d have no room for anything else. It’s a successful magazine, but I think that there’s no room for complacency. It could do with a grandma section. Needless to say, I didn’t jeopardise my relationship with this editor. What I did do, was find another market for Eden. And I’m pleased to report that his story is on a talking book now and giving much pleasure to blind people in Yorkshire.
Even that friendly editor decided that a piece I wrote about my grandson wasn’t right for his magazine. That’s the thing – if you’re aiming for a particular publication you need to study your market. Ask for their guidelines, see what they say about who gets in and who doesn’t. Sometimes your piece is terrific but you’ve failed to check out the magazine you’re aiming your article at. Pick a magazine that has the sort of articles you yourself feel able to write, then go through it then buy several issues so you are familiar with the format and the issues.
Even once you’ve done all that you have to expect the occasional rejection. And you’ll have to work out for yourself why it’s been rejected. Editors are usually quite busy and don’t like to be asked. Also, they rightly feel that if they explain it leaves you a loophole for argument.
There are lots of reasons why, even though you have written something terrific, the piece has boomeranged. Of course sometimes it isn’t as terrific as you think it is which is why it’s a good thing to give yourself some distance from your article and get back to it at a later date. (Although with newspaper submissions that are current topic related there is only a 4 day window of opportunity.)
The thing not to do is to give up, either on faith in your writing or confidence in your pieces. Revisit a piece when you’ve had some time to cool off and re-write and re-send it to the same place. Be sure you know it’s a better product. If it’s more of the same then you will have lost the chance at having something else published by that magazine.
Sometimes it’s better to find another place for your piece. Once you have revised it to suit another market, or have decided it’s just fine as it is, send it off. When I wrote a piece about my grandson, Eden, my friendly editor, who usually doesn’t make comments said that if he accepted every article written by doting grandmothers he’d have no room for anything else. It’s a successful magazine, but I think that there’s no room for complacency. It could do with a grandma section. Needless to say, I didn’t jeopardise my relationship with this editor. What I did do, was find another market for Eden. And I’m pleased to report that his story is on a talking book now and giving much pleasure to blind people in Yorkshire.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
The Sunday Roast
I’d like to reinstate the tradition of the Sunday roast. For those who have never experienced the custom, it was a ritual passed down the generations from father to son. The father regaled his boys with past glories, of family get togethers and of roasted vegetables and chunks of meat smothered in gravy. His eyes glazed over as he talked about the best cook in the world. I spent hours in the kitchen trying to live up to the fable, peeling, cooking, basting and trying to keep the family tradition alive until my son's girlfriends and other people’s dinner tables saved me.
It’s been a couple of decades since I basted a leg and mashed my last parsnip, but after watching Jamie Oliver and Nigella I find myself, against all natural inclination, longing to do it all over again. Along with thousands of others, I’m yearning to deglaze a pan and smother some Kipfler potatoes in olive oil and garlic. And I want to casually create truffle tarts with raspberries for dessert or something equally decadent. In other words I want to exhaust myself on the altar of haute cuisine. It’s a sacrilegious thought I haven’t had since I cut the shackles that kept me barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen several decades ago.
But I can't help myself. There’s been a resurgence of cooking shows and their spin off DVDs and cookbooks. I can’t walk past a kitchen shop without dropping in to lust after a Kyocera Ceramic knife or to finger a scanpan. It’s all I can do to resist a Mezzaluna or pestle and mortar to help me pound my herbs. I confessed my fantasy to a friend, who admitted she was also hooked.
She’s thinking of starting a campaign to have the kitchen replace the theatre room as the centre of the family home. Maybe she and her mob will have a family cook in.
I blame Jamie and Nigella for making it all look easy. Three course meals are completed in a half hour session. One minute they’re peeling a veggie, the next some complex dish is bubbling nicely on the stove. And no matter how many saucepans have gone into the preparation of one dish the bench is always spotless and not a squashed minty pea in sight. I want to know their secret.
We've been lured back into the kitchen, but it's not just the daily grind this time round and it's not just us. My sons handle a spatula with confidence and my son the vegetarian can whip up a gourmet meatless meal before you can say tofu doesn't cause greenhouse gases.
If I close my eyes the memories come thick and fast. I see us all as we were in those heady days. Dad at the head of the table, carving, the boys chattering like monkeys as they set the table, mum trotting in and out of the kitchen bringing on the minty peas and glazed carrots. Just the four of us, my partner and me and the two teenage boys getting stuck into the traditional lamb roast, veggies and conversation.
It’s been a couple of decades since I basted a leg and mashed my last parsnip, but after watching Jamie Oliver and Nigella I find myself, against all natural inclination, longing to do it all over again. Along with thousands of others, I’m yearning to deglaze a pan and smother some Kipfler potatoes in olive oil and garlic. And I want to casually create truffle tarts with raspberries for dessert or something equally decadent. In other words I want to exhaust myself on the altar of haute cuisine. It’s a sacrilegious thought I haven’t had since I cut the shackles that kept me barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen several decades ago.
But I can't help myself. There’s been a resurgence of cooking shows and their spin off DVDs and cookbooks. I can’t walk past a kitchen shop without dropping in to lust after a Kyocera Ceramic knife or to finger a scanpan. It’s all I can do to resist a Mezzaluna or pestle and mortar to help me pound my herbs. I confessed my fantasy to a friend, who admitted she was also hooked.
She’s thinking of starting a campaign to have the kitchen replace the theatre room as the centre of the family home. Maybe she and her mob will have a family cook in.
I blame Jamie and Nigella for making it all look easy. Three course meals are completed in a half hour session. One minute they’re peeling a veggie, the next some complex dish is bubbling nicely on the stove. And no matter how many saucepans have gone into the preparation of one dish the bench is always spotless and not a squashed minty pea in sight. I want to know their secret.
We've been lured back into the kitchen, but it's not just the daily grind this time round and it's not just us. My sons handle a spatula with confidence and my son the vegetarian can whip up a gourmet meatless meal before you can say tofu doesn't cause greenhouse gases.
If I close my eyes the memories come thick and fast. I see us all as we were in those heady days. Dad at the head of the table, carving, the boys chattering like monkeys as they set the table, mum trotting in and out of the kitchen bringing on the minty peas and glazed carrots. Just the four of us, my partner and me and the two teenage boys getting stuck into the traditional lamb roast, veggies and conversation.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Pocket Money
When I was ten, my dad gave me a shilling a week pocket money. That’s ten cents to those of you who aren’t familiar with pre-decimal currency. It wasn’t a fortune but given that a tram ride into the city cost three pence at the time (3 cents) it wasn’t too shabby either. You could get a lot of Lemon Drops with that money, Bulls Eyes, Bullets, Milk Bottles and a Choo Choo Bar, and I did. Then I ran out of funds and had to hang out for the next pay packet.
It wasn’t a very satisfactory situation, but given my inability to plan ahead the state of affairs remained the same until I was old enough to get casual work to afford my vices. By then I’d swapped sweets for books. I read all the classics I could get my hands on at one shilling and sixpence a pop (15 cents) and moved on to Science Fiction, three shillings (thirty cents). By the time my tastes had changed again, crime fiction, books were four and six pence, that’s forty five cents. They were still more affordable than they would be today for a child who tended to suck books up like they were bulls eyes; which was lucky for me, because I was no better about saving in my teens than I was when I got my first shilling.
So was there a lesson in there? I didn’t learn how to save (I don’t think it’s in my genes) and I didn’t learn to moderate my spending. But I enjoyed the self-determination that pocket money gave me. And I understood that if I wanted to buy more than my pocket money could provide, it was my responsibility to supply the shortfall and to do that I had to work. I liked working and enjoyed the freedom to buy what I wanted (within reason) without having to ask permission or begging for it. There is something demeaning about being beholden to someone for favours.
At the same time I was equally happy with the no strings attached pocket money situation at home. I wasn’t subtly or overtly blackmailed into earning my pay. It wasn’t a prid quo pro system at our place. (That’s Latin for something for something.) I just took it for granted that my parents did what they did and if children washed a dish or made a bed to help a family unit function then it was a family thing and not to be confused with what was expected of you in the outside world.
Some parents ask themselves and each other, what possible good pocket is money is if it can’t be used to control children. Others believe children should wait till they can get casual work and learn something about the real world. Should I? Shouldn’t I? How much? Every young parent agonises about it. I don’t think there’s a wrong answer; in the end every parent usually makes a decision that is based on his or her personal experience. What I think is that pocket money buys hair ties or lollies or those small toys beloved of little children that fit into tiny hands. While they are spending we can fit in a maths lesson about how much an item is worth, how much (if any) change they would get and how much money they need to save for the more expensive items they crave.
Our children live in an adult world where it is parents who set the ground rules about what to do or not do, what to touch, what to eat and when to sleep. Pocket money allows them some control. It’s up to the parents what sort of lesson they would like their children to learn, but whatever it is they need to bear in mind that their children will return the favour with interest, one day, when the tables are turned.
It wasn’t a very satisfactory situation, but given my inability to plan ahead the state of affairs remained the same until I was old enough to get casual work to afford my vices. By then I’d swapped sweets for books. I read all the classics I could get my hands on at one shilling and sixpence a pop (15 cents) and moved on to Science Fiction, three shillings (thirty cents). By the time my tastes had changed again, crime fiction, books were four and six pence, that’s forty five cents. They were still more affordable than they would be today for a child who tended to suck books up like they were bulls eyes; which was lucky for me, because I was no better about saving in my teens than I was when I got my first shilling.
So was there a lesson in there? I didn’t learn how to save (I don’t think it’s in my genes) and I didn’t learn to moderate my spending. But I enjoyed the self-determination that pocket money gave me. And I understood that if I wanted to buy more than my pocket money could provide, it was my responsibility to supply the shortfall and to do that I had to work. I liked working and enjoyed the freedom to buy what I wanted (within reason) without having to ask permission or begging for it. There is something demeaning about being beholden to someone for favours.
At the same time I was equally happy with the no strings attached pocket money situation at home. I wasn’t subtly or overtly blackmailed into earning my pay. It wasn’t a prid quo pro system at our place. (That’s Latin for something for something.) I just took it for granted that my parents did what they did and if children washed a dish or made a bed to help a family unit function then it was a family thing and not to be confused with what was expected of you in the outside world.
Some parents ask themselves and each other, what possible good pocket is money is if it can’t be used to control children. Others believe children should wait till they can get casual work and learn something about the real world. Should I? Shouldn’t I? How much? Every young parent agonises about it. I don’t think there’s a wrong answer; in the end every parent usually makes a decision that is based on his or her personal experience. What I think is that pocket money buys hair ties or lollies or those small toys beloved of little children that fit into tiny hands. While they are spending we can fit in a maths lesson about how much an item is worth, how much (if any) change they would get and how much money they need to save for the more expensive items they crave.
Our children live in an adult world where it is parents who set the ground rules about what to do or not do, what to touch, what to eat and when to sleep. Pocket money allows them some control. It’s up to the parents what sort of lesson they would like their children to learn, but whatever it is they need to bear in mind that their children will return the favour with interest, one day, when the tables are turned.
Monday, June 28, 2010
My son the vegetarian
Feel free to write to me if you have a simple but tasty vegetarian recipe you'd like to share.
Throw a vegetarian in with a bunch of meat eaters and you’d be forgiven for thinking that it’s the lone vegetarian who needs to adjust to the needs of the many meat eaters. If you did think it, you would be wrong.
My son the card carrying vegetarian caused quite a commotion when he confessed that he had converted. One day he was tucking into the Sunday roast, the next he was talking earnestly about being kind to cows and ridding the world of their flatulence. I was ignorant about vegans at the time or it would have completely unnerved me. Vegans are even stricter about what they eat. My partner and I are unashamed meat eaters. Vegetarian boy’s child, his brother and his children are all meat eaters. Don’t fix it if it ain’t broke is our family philosophy. Why fiddle around with beans and lentils when a slab of meat and a side of veggies will do the trick?
When I recovered from my panic, I remembered that my son no longer lived with me. I’d only have to consider his needs once a week when he came to dinner. Sensing there was more to it than serving up a batch of steamed broccoli I asked vegetarian boy (VB) for help. He thought he was being obliging when he assured me that he would eat whatever came his way as long as it wasn’t meat. But you can’t expect a hardened meat eater to slap together a meatless meal at a moment’s notice.
Heard of tofu? I had. I just didn’t know what it was, what it looked like or what it did. I had been quite happy in my ignorant bliss, now I was forced to take a crash course. There are two basic types – silken for dessert and firm for everything else. Tofu is the chameleon of the vegetarian world. It has no personality of its own so it absorbs the flavour of anything it comes into contact with. You can stir fry tofu, dip it in egg and bread crumbs to make a schnitzel alternative, crumble it and mix it with an egg, to add bulk. I tested the dishes out on my partner. He obliged for the sake of the VB but didn’t like the taste or the texture.
I used to think that pulses were what throbbed in your neck when you were angry. They turned out to be a fibre fix and an alternative source of protein. I cooked up a storm and served up chick pea stew, fennel and beans and cabbage soup minus the ham hocks and streaky bacon. My partner ate it all then tucked the napkin tighter round his neck and waited patiently for the meat course.
There was no meat course. And there seemed no obvious way to please everyone, so most of us adjusted to the weekly routine. Once a week VB gets the soup and lentils, the casseroles, the stir fries, my partner and I and all who share our table get to shred meat into our personal bowls. It has been a couple of years and I have collected a neat little repertoire of recipes. Along the way I have learned to like pulses and enjoy the occasional tofu burger but no amount of cajoling will convince me to toss a soy sausage on the barbie.
Throw a vegetarian in with a bunch of meat eaters and you’d be forgiven for thinking that it’s the lone vegetarian who needs to adjust to the needs of the many meat eaters. If you did think it, you would be wrong.
My son the card carrying vegetarian caused quite a commotion when he confessed that he had converted. One day he was tucking into the Sunday roast, the next he was talking earnestly about being kind to cows and ridding the world of their flatulence. I was ignorant about vegans at the time or it would have completely unnerved me. Vegans are even stricter about what they eat. My partner and I are unashamed meat eaters. Vegetarian boy’s child, his brother and his children are all meat eaters. Don’t fix it if it ain’t broke is our family philosophy. Why fiddle around with beans and lentils when a slab of meat and a side of veggies will do the trick?
When I recovered from my panic, I remembered that my son no longer lived with me. I’d only have to consider his needs once a week when he came to dinner. Sensing there was more to it than serving up a batch of steamed broccoli I asked vegetarian boy (VB) for help. He thought he was being obliging when he assured me that he would eat whatever came his way as long as it wasn’t meat. But you can’t expect a hardened meat eater to slap together a meatless meal at a moment’s notice.
Heard of tofu? I had. I just didn’t know what it was, what it looked like or what it did. I had been quite happy in my ignorant bliss, now I was forced to take a crash course. There are two basic types – silken for dessert and firm for everything else. Tofu is the chameleon of the vegetarian world. It has no personality of its own so it absorbs the flavour of anything it comes into contact with. You can stir fry tofu, dip it in egg and bread crumbs to make a schnitzel alternative, crumble it and mix it with an egg, to add bulk. I tested the dishes out on my partner. He obliged for the sake of the VB but didn’t like the taste or the texture.
I used to think that pulses were what throbbed in your neck when you were angry. They turned out to be a fibre fix and an alternative source of protein. I cooked up a storm and served up chick pea stew, fennel and beans and cabbage soup minus the ham hocks and streaky bacon. My partner ate it all then tucked the napkin tighter round his neck and waited patiently for the meat course.
There was no meat course. And there seemed no obvious way to please everyone, so most of us adjusted to the weekly routine. Once a week VB gets the soup and lentils, the casseroles, the stir fries, my partner and I and all who share our table get to shred meat into our personal bowls. It has been a couple of years and I have collected a neat little repertoire of recipes. Along the way I have learned to like pulses and enjoy the occasional tofu burger but no amount of cajoling will convince me to toss a soy sausage on the barbie.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Thumb sucking
Every little edge counts when you're busy raising children. Only it becomes a two edged sword if your child sucks his thumb. It seems a blessing at first. But try separating a child from his / her thumb and see how far you get.
Twelve might be the witching hour for some people but for me it was time to haul out of a warm bed and take off to the hospital. I was about to give birth to my second child. This time round I had a pit stop to make. I had to deliver a toddler to his grandparents before I could deliver myself of his brother. I went through a mental check list ending with one child, a giant bag of jelly beans and a well sucked thumb. Luckily the latter was firmly planted in my son’s mouth. I was grateful for that thumb. If it had been a favourite pacifier Murphy’s Law would have dictated I would have had trouble finding it.
It was David’s first ever sleepover and both the jelly beans and the thumb were going to ensure the experience was a success. The jelly beans were a onetime treat, but David’s thumb was his constant companion. He communicated around it, soothed himself to sleep with it and if it fell out of his mouth he would shove it right back without the need of an intermediary. I didn’t have to sterilise David’s thumb or pick it up off the floor and suck it clean. And I didn’t have to frantically backtrack through my day to find his favourite well gummed soother.
It seemed like a great break to a harried young mum until four year old David put his thumb to one side like a hitchhiker so that the portrait photographer could capture the moment. It hit me then that his pacifier sucking contemporaries had kicked their habit cold turkey two years earlier. One day David’s friends were drawing on their soothers as if their lives depended on it and the next it was conveniently lost. My child was sucking on unchecked. Try confiscating a thumb.
I tried. I pulled at it. It came out with a resounding pop then found its way back. I straightened the arm and smoothed it down by his side then watched it moving slowly back into place like the creaking hinge of a closing door. The more I tried, the less I succeeded. My son was going to be a sissy-boy on the first day at school. I knew it. His reputation would follow him through high school and university. He would never rid himself of the label. First impressions are lasting impressions. I panicked.
Friends and family handed out well meaning advice: nail polish the offending digit, sprinkle it with pepper or band aid it.
If he had been younger I might have considered it. But I thought that I’d have a better chance of succeeding with a four year old if I took the path of reason and distraction. I gave David the ‘big boys don’t’ speech; he took the thumb out for a while. It hovered nearby in case of an emergency and was back in place once I’d finished my speech.
While David watched Sesame Street, I peeled an apple, sliced it and placed a plate in his hand. We constructed brick towers and put together countless puzzles. Keeping things positive, I tried to tread the fine line between praise and discourse, between distraction and bribe. I’m all for bribes in small doses and in a good cause. A trip to Luna Park, Dave, if you can keep your thumb dry for the afternoon. An extra scoop of ice cream, Dave, with sprinkles on top? Sometimes it worked, sometimes it almost worked. By the time the school year loomed we had almost got it down to the evenings.
On the morning of the day David began school he had lapsed. I didn’t think a last minute lecture was going to be helpful. I said nothing.
When I came to pick David up from school he had a best friend and I’m thankful to report that it wasn’t the thumb. After that first day, it was an on again off again affair for a few months, but only at home and usually when he was tired.
My mother says that the first child is like a guinea pig. The first time mum is on a learning curve. She makes and learns from her mistakes hoping that they aren’t going to be irreversible. I hadn’t yet understood the danger that a thumb represented. Had I done so I would have gladly inserted a pacifier between my second child’s pink gums the moment his thumb started twitching. Had it twitched. Luckily for both of us a soothing tone and a gentle pat on the back did the trick every time, then as now, making the agony of separation unnecessary.
Twelve might be the witching hour for some people but for me it was time to haul out of a warm bed and take off to the hospital. I was about to give birth to my second child. This time round I had a pit stop to make. I had to deliver a toddler to his grandparents before I could deliver myself of his brother. I went through a mental check list ending with one child, a giant bag of jelly beans and a well sucked thumb. Luckily the latter was firmly planted in my son’s mouth. I was grateful for that thumb. If it had been a favourite pacifier Murphy’s Law would have dictated I would have had trouble finding it.
It was David’s first ever sleepover and both the jelly beans and the thumb were going to ensure the experience was a success. The jelly beans were a onetime treat, but David’s thumb was his constant companion. He communicated around it, soothed himself to sleep with it and if it fell out of his mouth he would shove it right back without the need of an intermediary. I didn’t have to sterilise David’s thumb or pick it up off the floor and suck it clean. And I didn’t have to frantically backtrack through my day to find his favourite well gummed soother.
It seemed like a great break to a harried young mum until four year old David put his thumb to one side like a hitchhiker so that the portrait photographer could capture the moment. It hit me then that his pacifier sucking contemporaries had kicked their habit cold turkey two years earlier. One day David’s friends were drawing on their soothers as if their lives depended on it and the next it was conveniently lost. My child was sucking on unchecked. Try confiscating a thumb.
I tried. I pulled at it. It came out with a resounding pop then found its way back. I straightened the arm and smoothed it down by his side then watched it moving slowly back into place like the creaking hinge of a closing door. The more I tried, the less I succeeded. My son was going to be a sissy-boy on the first day at school. I knew it. His reputation would follow him through high school and university. He would never rid himself of the label. First impressions are lasting impressions. I panicked.
Friends and family handed out well meaning advice: nail polish the offending digit, sprinkle it with pepper or band aid it.
If he had been younger I might have considered it. But I thought that I’d have a better chance of succeeding with a four year old if I took the path of reason and distraction. I gave David the ‘big boys don’t’ speech; he took the thumb out for a while. It hovered nearby in case of an emergency and was back in place once I’d finished my speech.
While David watched Sesame Street, I peeled an apple, sliced it and placed a plate in his hand. We constructed brick towers and put together countless puzzles. Keeping things positive, I tried to tread the fine line between praise and discourse, between distraction and bribe. I’m all for bribes in small doses and in a good cause. A trip to Luna Park, Dave, if you can keep your thumb dry for the afternoon. An extra scoop of ice cream, Dave, with sprinkles on top? Sometimes it worked, sometimes it almost worked. By the time the school year loomed we had almost got it down to the evenings.
On the morning of the day David began school he had lapsed. I didn’t think a last minute lecture was going to be helpful. I said nothing.
When I came to pick David up from school he had a best friend and I’m thankful to report that it wasn’t the thumb. After that first day, it was an on again off again affair for a few months, but only at home and usually when he was tired.
My mother says that the first child is like a guinea pig. The first time mum is on a learning curve. She makes and learns from her mistakes hoping that they aren’t going to be irreversible. I hadn’t yet understood the danger that a thumb represented. Had I done so I would have gladly inserted a pacifier between my second child’s pink gums the moment his thumb started twitching. Had it twitched. Luckily for both of us a soothing tone and a gentle pat on the back did the trick every time, then as now, making the agony of separation unnecessary.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Giving up modern convieniences? Not on your life!
Is progress necessarily a good thing? Well, yes, I can't do without my mod cons. But do we pay a price for it? Yes again. Here's my fourth draft. I'm not sure how I feel about it yet so am giving myself time to digest.
My computer broke down recently, which sent me into a spin. My laptop has taken a fair few mutations to get it to the sleek laid back little black number that gives me so much pleasure. I turn it on before my morning coffee and tuck it in last thing at night. It sends me my mail and teleports me anywhere I want to go. We travel the information superhighway together. But most importantly it has a word processor function. I wouldn’t exactly go as far as to say that it’s my muse, but I couldn’t have written this article alone. Did I mention it has a thesaurus? Progress, I guess you’d call it. I love progress, but have come to realise that there’s a price to be paid for it.
On the day before the breakdown I had been taking a walk and as is usually the case when you’re inhaling large quantities of fresh air and thinking of nothing in particular, some idea that had been germinating in the subconscious found its way to the fore. I sat down immediately on the nearest brick fence, whipped my pen and notebook out of my capacious handbag and captured the thought. That’s as far as the grey cells were willing to take me till I could find time to settle down at my desk, place my fingers on the home keys of the computer and tap out the first draft.
What had I done before computers? I managed, because I didn’t know any better. I checked the snail mail letter box did my research wherever I could find it, including the local library and sacrificed many biros, note pads and trees in the interests of communicating my thoughts with anyone who cared. If I have lost the knack it’s because I have let myself be lured by the ‘undo’ and cut and paste keys. I’ve lost that special connection between thought and pen that I once had and now I let my fingers do the talking.
At some time or another we have all dumped the old in favour of the shiny and new. But we are discovering that progress is a two-edged sword. As a global village we can communicate via a bunch of media in an instant but many of us are not capable of sustaining face to face dialogue. We’ve come a long way since the Wright brothers but flying produces the emission of gases that contribute to global warming. We have refined our foods in the name of convenience and wonder why we are unhealthy and out of shape.
Knowing all that I do, do I want to give up any of my mod cons? Not on your life! I don’t and neither does anybody else on the planet. Even those people who can quote statistics chapter and verse that confirm how much each convenience to us is damaging to the planet are guilty of straying from the straight and narrow. If they’re not living in caves they watch television like the rest of us do. They drive cars and they buy pre-packaged food. I would wager that most of them are not vegetarians.
The New Scientist (December 2006) says ‘the livestock industry is degrading land, contributing to the greenhouse effect, polluting water resources, and destroying biodiversity.’ I’ll go as far as admitting to my feelings of guilt, but I refuse to give up meat, I like meat. I won’t wear plastic shoes, either. They make my feet sweat. And although I resisted for the longest time I’ve got used to the mobile phone. Mine is only a discard that my son gave me when he upgraded several phones ago, but it’s become a handy tool. Despite stories linking radiation to mobile phones there are more than 4.3 billion people worldwide using them.
I don’t think it’s in us to go back to the good old days when television ended at four in the afternoon and telephones were fixed to the wall. So what’s the answer? Well, it’s obvious that if I knew, I’d be running the country at the very least. But I think that instead of overwhelming us with shiny gadgets, scientists and inventors should either find a way to make the gadgets we have safe for us and for the planet or else create viable alternatives. It’s more than obvious that we are only going to give up our mod cons if there’s something to replace them. Teleportation as an alternative to flying would be acceptable. Electric cars seem to be on the horizon, and then maybe we can stop using up what’s left of our fossil fuels.
I have a terrible secret to impart. I love the undo and cut and paste keys. I’m not sure that I want to give them up. But I have discovered that I don’t like the feeling of being totally reliant on computers to do my thinking for me. I have decided a happy medium would be to take some time out from my electronic friend and sit for an hour each day, away from temptation, with a pen and notebook in my hand, writing and re-writing my articles.
My computer broke down recently, which sent me into a spin. My laptop has taken a fair few mutations to get it to the sleek laid back little black number that gives me so much pleasure. I turn it on before my morning coffee and tuck it in last thing at night. It sends me my mail and teleports me anywhere I want to go. We travel the information superhighway together. But most importantly it has a word processor function. I wouldn’t exactly go as far as to say that it’s my muse, but I couldn’t have written this article alone. Did I mention it has a thesaurus? Progress, I guess you’d call it. I love progress, but have come to realise that there’s a price to be paid for it.
On the day before the breakdown I had been taking a walk and as is usually the case when you’re inhaling large quantities of fresh air and thinking of nothing in particular, some idea that had been germinating in the subconscious found its way to the fore. I sat down immediately on the nearest brick fence, whipped my pen and notebook out of my capacious handbag and captured the thought. That’s as far as the grey cells were willing to take me till I could find time to settle down at my desk, place my fingers on the home keys of the computer and tap out the first draft.
What had I done before computers? I managed, because I didn’t know any better. I checked the snail mail letter box did my research wherever I could find it, including the local library and sacrificed many biros, note pads and trees in the interests of communicating my thoughts with anyone who cared. If I have lost the knack it’s because I have let myself be lured by the ‘undo’ and cut and paste keys. I’ve lost that special connection between thought and pen that I once had and now I let my fingers do the talking.
At some time or another we have all dumped the old in favour of the shiny and new. But we are discovering that progress is a two-edged sword. As a global village we can communicate via a bunch of media in an instant but many of us are not capable of sustaining face to face dialogue. We’ve come a long way since the Wright brothers but flying produces the emission of gases that contribute to global warming. We have refined our foods in the name of convenience and wonder why we are unhealthy and out of shape.
Knowing all that I do, do I want to give up any of my mod cons? Not on your life! I don’t and neither does anybody else on the planet. Even those people who can quote statistics chapter and verse that confirm how much each convenience to us is damaging to the planet are guilty of straying from the straight and narrow. If they’re not living in caves they watch television like the rest of us do. They drive cars and they buy pre-packaged food. I would wager that most of them are not vegetarians.
The New Scientist (December 2006) says ‘the livestock industry is degrading land, contributing to the greenhouse effect, polluting water resources, and destroying biodiversity.’ I’ll go as far as admitting to my feelings of guilt, but I refuse to give up meat, I like meat. I won’t wear plastic shoes, either. They make my feet sweat. And although I resisted for the longest time I’ve got used to the mobile phone. Mine is only a discard that my son gave me when he upgraded several phones ago, but it’s become a handy tool. Despite stories linking radiation to mobile phones there are more than 4.3 billion people worldwide using them.
I don’t think it’s in us to go back to the good old days when television ended at four in the afternoon and telephones were fixed to the wall. So what’s the answer? Well, it’s obvious that if I knew, I’d be running the country at the very least. But I think that instead of overwhelming us with shiny gadgets, scientists and inventors should either find a way to make the gadgets we have safe for us and for the planet or else create viable alternatives. It’s more than obvious that we are only going to give up our mod cons if there’s something to replace them. Teleportation as an alternative to flying would be acceptable. Electric cars seem to be on the horizon, and then maybe we can stop using up what’s left of our fossil fuels.
I have a terrible secret to impart. I love the undo and cut and paste keys. I’m not sure that I want to give them up. But I have discovered that I don’t like the feeling of being totally reliant on computers to do my thinking for me. I have decided a happy medium would be to take some time out from my electronic friend and sit for an hour each day, away from temptation, with a pen and notebook in my hand, writing and re-writing my articles.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Empty Nest Syndrome
Here's another piece on a topic that is dear to my heart. It describes how I felt when my children left home and I found myself with nothing much to occupy those brain cells. The reason you're getting it minus the million or so usual drafts is that I wrote it five years ago. I don't think the topic has dated so hope you will be able to relate to my experience.
Thirty odd years ago, an elderly woman collared me in the street and ‘coochie-cooed’ my toddler son and baby boy. ‘Enjoy them while you can, dear,’ she said. ‘They’re all grown up before you know it.’
If I’d had a decent brain cell left that wasn’t sleep deprived I would have responded with a tart, ‘Can’t come around too soon for me, lady”. Leaky breasts and children who squealed like whistling kettles in the night did not gel with my experience of other people's well-fed, smiling children.
By the time I was knee-deep in nappies and anklebiters, it was clear to me that motherhood was like belonging to the mafia. You can never leave it. It may leave you - in fact it usually does after a couple of decades – but you can never ditch the job description. Children give you sleepless nights, the terrible twos, and the importuning thirty-twos...when they give you more sleepless nights, heartburn and a chance to give up your Saturday nights all over again.
American psychologist Marie Hartwell-Walker says that leaving home isn’t an event, but rather a process of them growing up and us letting go. She doesn’t know the half of it. What about us growing up when they let go? We’ve done our duty. We’ve loved our children unconditionally, protected them in their innocence and taught them our values by example. If we’ve done a good job we’ve produced a marked improvement on the earlier model; we’ve prepared them for life after us. But where do we go next?
Hindsight is a wonderful thing. I see that now. That woman was right. Before you can say Empty Nest Syndrome (ENS), you have a spare room or two to fill.
I had this fantasy in those long-ago days crouched on the toilet seat, with a copy of Cleo and a pair of earmuffs to block out the entreaties from the other side of the door. Like Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady, all I wanted was ‘a room somewhere’. I wanted a child-free den of my own, a rocking chair and an antique writing desk. I wanted a room lined with books where I could sit, read and eat chocolates all day long. The thing about fantasies is that once you can have them they lose their potency.
My whole house was a den. What I wanted post-ENS was a life of my own. But ENS found me unprepared. I’d been given the glad hand and a box of chocolates for work well done. I was free as a bird with nothing to do with my time. Free as a bird in its empty nest. We just love to borrow avian analogies, but no self-respecting bird lets its children hang around for decades the way that we dumb humans do. The chicks get tossed out at what mum perceives to be the most appropriate moment and then she gets on with life.
Go forth old woman and start afresh. That was my idea. Do some brain-cell aerobics and take on a writing course. It was great. I enjoyed the stimulation of learning something that wasn’t child related and even contributed opinions to class discussions that didn’t begin with, ‘You’ll never guess what the children did yesterday’. I only wish I’d done it earlier.
Childbirth was a lark – a breeze compared to emerging from the child-rearing decades rusting away in suburbia. I was a mature age student. My classmates had the confidence, I had the wrinkles. I had the advantage of life experience, they had the benefit of time. Sounds equitable, but they could always get the life experience whereas time was running out for me.
If I’d had to do it again, I’d have prepared for the ENS two minutes after saying ‘I do’.
Feminist Gloria Steinem said, ‘There is no such thing as integrating women equally into the economy as it exists...Not until the men are as equal inside the house as women are outside it.’ With those words ringing in their ears, women have trained their sons so that women can reap the benefits. So take advantage. There are a growing number of fathers who are brilliant at parenting. You see them everywhere on the weekends, confidently feeding their toddlers babycinos, riding their helmeted brood through sub urban streets and guiding their children’s reading material at the local library.
TAFE courses are still affordable. Some tertiary institutions have child care centres tailored to cater to the mature-aged student so you and your children can simultaneously encounter social and educational experiences. Do a university subject to see how you like it. You’ve got two decades. By the time you’re free you will have several degrees under your belt and a new career.
Take up bungee jumping, learn conversational French or the gentle art of flower arranging. Be a good role model for your children. They will thank you for it someday. Whatever you want to be when your children grow up, do whatever it takes to prepare for it so that middle age doesn’t find you wandering the streets with nothing better to do than to accost parents strolling innocently along with their children.
Thirty odd years ago, an elderly woman collared me in the street and ‘coochie-cooed’ my toddler son and baby boy. ‘Enjoy them while you can, dear,’ she said. ‘They’re all grown up before you know it.’
If I’d had a decent brain cell left that wasn’t sleep deprived I would have responded with a tart, ‘Can’t come around too soon for me, lady”. Leaky breasts and children who squealed like whistling kettles in the night did not gel with my experience of other people's well-fed, smiling children.
By the time I was knee-deep in nappies and anklebiters, it was clear to me that motherhood was like belonging to the mafia. You can never leave it. It may leave you - in fact it usually does after a couple of decades – but you can never ditch the job description. Children give you sleepless nights, the terrible twos, and the importuning thirty-twos...when they give you more sleepless nights, heartburn and a chance to give up your Saturday nights all over again.
American psychologist Marie Hartwell-Walker says that leaving home isn’t an event, but rather a process of them growing up and us letting go. She doesn’t know the half of it. What about us growing up when they let go? We’ve done our duty. We’ve loved our children unconditionally, protected them in their innocence and taught them our values by example. If we’ve done a good job we’ve produced a marked improvement on the earlier model; we’ve prepared them for life after us. But where do we go next?
Hindsight is a wonderful thing. I see that now. That woman was right. Before you can say Empty Nest Syndrome (ENS), you have a spare room or two to fill.
I had this fantasy in those long-ago days crouched on the toilet seat, with a copy of Cleo and a pair of earmuffs to block out the entreaties from the other side of the door. Like Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady, all I wanted was ‘a room somewhere’. I wanted a child-free den of my own, a rocking chair and an antique writing desk. I wanted a room lined with books where I could sit, read and eat chocolates all day long. The thing about fantasies is that once you can have them they lose their potency.
My whole house was a den. What I wanted post-ENS was a life of my own. But ENS found me unprepared. I’d been given the glad hand and a box of chocolates for work well done. I was free as a bird with nothing to do with my time. Free as a bird in its empty nest. We just love to borrow avian analogies, but no self-respecting bird lets its children hang around for decades the way that we dumb humans do. The chicks get tossed out at what mum perceives to be the most appropriate moment and then she gets on with life.
Go forth old woman and start afresh. That was my idea. Do some brain-cell aerobics and take on a writing course. It was great. I enjoyed the stimulation of learning something that wasn’t child related and even contributed opinions to class discussions that didn’t begin with, ‘You’ll never guess what the children did yesterday’. I only wish I’d done it earlier.
Childbirth was a lark – a breeze compared to emerging from the child-rearing decades rusting away in suburbia. I was a mature age student. My classmates had the confidence, I had the wrinkles. I had the advantage of life experience, they had the benefit of time. Sounds equitable, but they could always get the life experience whereas time was running out for me.
If I’d had to do it again, I’d have prepared for the ENS two minutes after saying ‘I do’.
Feminist Gloria Steinem said, ‘There is no such thing as integrating women equally into the economy as it exists...Not until the men are as equal inside the house as women are outside it.’ With those words ringing in their ears, women have trained their sons so that women can reap the benefits. So take advantage. There are a growing number of fathers who are brilliant at parenting. You see them everywhere on the weekends, confidently feeding their toddlers babycinos, riding their helmeted brood through sub urban streets and guiding their children’s reading material at the local library.
TAFE courses are still affordable. Some tertiary institutions have child care centres tailored to cater to the mature-aged student so you and your children can simultaneously encounter social and educational experiences. Do a university subject to see how you like it. You’ve got two decades. By the time you’re free you will have several degrees under your belt and a new career.
Take up bungee jumping, learn conversational French or the gentle art of flower arranging. Be a good role model for your children. They will thank you for it someday. Whatever you want to be when your children grow up, do whatever it takes to prepare for it so that middle age doesn’t find you wandering the streets with nothing better to do than to accost parents strolling innocently along with their children.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Children behaving badly in supermarkets
I recently experienced a toddler tantrum happening in the middle of a supermarket line up. Thankfully it wasn't a personal experience. But it did bring back old memories.
There was a toddler having a tantrum in my local supermarket. He gulped and he sobbed. He took deep hiccoughing breaths and he shrieked. You would have thought he’d just been told he was an orphan. The shrieks became howls of rage. Cheeks were puffed and tears flowed. Tiny fists pummelled at the mother’s thigh. I watched her hovering over the child and felt for her. Should she ignore the child? Should she smack? Would a sharp retort of ‘stop it this instance’ have any effect or even be heard above the rising rage.
It’s hard to think of a course of action in the middle of a tantrum. The child isn’t listening, a bunch of strangers are judging you and there are constant reminders of the child’s desire on display. All are getting in the way of a quick or reasonable resolution. Everybody warns you about it but no one knows what to do. They roll their eyes and tell you that it’s just a phase that we have to put up with. And you secretly believe that when your time comes you will know what to do. But you are wrong. Your children may look like Uncle Harold before he had that nose job or even have their mother’s raucous laugh, but your children’s thought processes are alien, you will never comprehend them.
I remembered a three year old toddler with lively brown eyes whose hair was curly and (as the song goes) whose teeth were pearly. He was dressed in a cunning little denim outfit and looked like an angel. Or at least that’s what the grandmotherly types who stopped me in the supermarket aisle and chucked him under the chin thought. They asked coyly which shelf I’d taken him off. Where could they get one just like him? That was usually at the beginning of our shopping adventure. ‘Take him’ I thought as the angel’s chubby little hands reached for a colourful packet of super refined junk food. Take him now before the ruckus starts. But they just smiled, coochie cooed and moved on.
David and I worked our way up and down each aisle stopping only to grab a product off the shelf and to tick it off my list. Whenever I turned my head for an instant, then back again a foreign object had magically found its way into my trolley. Two steps forward and one step back and an ever increasing tension happening on both sides. David was thinking that it wasn’t fair. Here he was, in goodie heaven but not allowed even one thing for himself. What was one bag of lollies in the scheme of things when mummy got to fill all her stuff into the trolley? I was thinking, ‘why me?’ Each week I was hopeful of a quick entry and exit and a tantrum free experience. Each week I was disappointed.
‘Wahhh!’ Well, almost. The lip trembled but he was going to give me one more chance. ‘Mummy, can I have some Coco Pops. Please, please, please, please, mummy?’ When I had a bit of energy I let the pleas wash over me but I kept forgetting the checkout where they saved the best for last. The granny types who’d been so admiring earlier were looking at David with sympathy, the poor little lamb, it’s not his fault he’s got a bad mummy, and shooting daggers in my direction. It was all too much for me. I did the only thing open to me; I capitulated. I am a bad mummy, I agreed. I can’t control my own child.
There’s a second school of thought that believes that parenting is a hard gig and mothers of tantrum children deserve our sympathy. I’m with them.
The disapproving lot will tell you that if you give in to a tantrum at the supermarket you are providing some sort of blueprint for the child or setting a precedent. They are right. Once you say yes to a child the lesson is learned: ask and you shall receive and if you don’t get what you want a tanty on the floor will do the trick. On the other hand who can blame him (or her). I mean if you’d discovered a successful formula wouldn’t you work it for all it was worth?
An idea born of sheer desperation came to me one day. It wasn’t a new idea, I did what parents since the dawn of time have done once they’ve run out of options. I bribed my child. ‘How would you like a chocolate frog, David?’ David would like nothing better. I put one in his hand and told him to hold on to it till we got to the counter. ‘Now don’t lose it, will you?’ The heat had turned it to mush by the time he got to eat it. But it was the best chocolate frog he’d ever tasted. And peace reigned.
When the desire for a chocolate frog waned, and the eyes started roaming again I filled up a large jar with lollies, chocolate bars and wafer biscuits and told David he could choose one when we got home from the shopping. At first David would spend large chunks of time each day contemplating this treasure and anticipating the treat. On the appointed day a chubby arm would dip into the jar and pick something out. After a while familiarity lost it its glamour it and became a natural part of David’s weekly routine. This happened just in time because before David and I knew it, our family had extended by one. David made it his mission to introduce his baby brother into the family tradition.
There was a toddler having a tantrum in my local supermarket. He gulped and he sobbed. He took deep hiccoughing breaths and he shrieked. You would have thought he’d just been told he was an orphan. The shrieks became howls of rage. Cheeks were puffed and tears flowed. Tiny fists pummelled at the mother’s thigh. I watched her hovering over the child and felt for her. Should she ignore the child? Should she smack? Would a sharp retort of ‘stop it this instance’ have any effect or even be heard above the rising rage.
It’s hard to think of a course of action in the middle of a tantrum. The child isn’t listening, a bunch of strangers are judging you and there are constant reminders of the child’s desire on display. All are getting in the way of a quick or reasonable resolution. Everybody warns you about it but no one knows what to do. They roll their eyes and tell you that it’s just a phase that we have to put up with. And you secretly believe that when your time comes you will know what to do. But you are wrong. Your children may look like Uncle Harold before he had that nose job or even have their mother’s raucous laugh, but your children’s thought processes are alien, you will never comprehend them.
I remembered a three year old toddler with lively brown eyes whose hair was curly and (as the song goes) whose teeth were pearly. He was dressed in a cunning little denim outfit and looked like an angel. Or at least that’s what the grandmotherly types who stopped me in the supermarket aisle and chucked him under the chin thought. They asked coyly which shelf I’d taken him off. Where could they get one just like him? That was usually at the beginning of our shopping adventure. ‘Take him’ I thought as the angel’s chubby little hands reached for a colourful packet of super refined junk food. Take him now before the ruckus starts. But they just smiled, coochie cooed and moved on.
David and I worked our way up and down each aisle stopping only to grab a product off the shelf and to tick it off my list. Whenever I turned my head for an instant, then back again a foreign object had magically found its way into my trolley. Two steps forward and one step back and an ever increasing tension happening on both sides. David was thinking that it wasn’t fair. Here he was, in goodie heaven but not allowed even one thing for himself. What was one bag of lollies in the scheme of things when mummy got to fill all her stuff into the trolley? I was thinking, ‘why me?’ Each week I was hopeful of a quick entry and exit and a tantrum free experience. Each week I was disappointed.
‘Wahhh!’ Well, almost. The lip trembled but he was going to give me one more chance. ‘Mummy, can I have some Coco Pops. Please, please, please, please, mummy?’ When I had a bit of energy I let the pleas wash over me but I kept forgetting the checkout where they saved the best for last. The granny types who’d been so admiring earlier were looking at David with sympathy, the poor little lamb, it’s not his fault he’s got a bad mummy, and shooting daggers in my direction. It was all too much for me. I did the only thing open to me; I capitulated. I am a bad mummy, I agreed. I can’t control my own child.
There’s a second school of thought that believes that parenting is a hard gig and mothers of tantrum children deserve our sympathy. I’m with them.
The disapproving lot will tell you that if you give in to a tantrum at the supermarket you are providing some sort of blueprint for the child or setting a precedent. They are right. Once you say yes to a child the lesson is learned: ask and you shall receive and if you don’t get what you want a tanty on the floor will do the trick. On the other hand who can blame him (or her). I mean if you’d discovered a successful formula wouldn’t you work it for all it was worth?
An idea born of sheer desperation came to me one day. It wasn’t a new idea, I did what parents since the dawn of time have done once they’ve run out of options. I bribed my child. ‘How would you like a chocolate frog, David?’ David would like nothing better. I put one in his hand and told him to hold on to it till we got to the counter. ‘Now don’t lose it, will you?’ The heat had turned it to mush by the time he got to eat it. But it was the best chocolate frog he’d ever tasted. And peace reigned.
When the desire for a chocolate frog waned, and the eyes started roaming again I filled up a large jar with lollies, chocolate bars and wafer biscuits and told David he could choose one when we got home from the shopping. At first David would spend large chunks of time each day contemplating this treasure and anticipating the treat. On the appointed day a chubby arm would dip into the jar and pick something out. After a while familiarity lost it its glamour it and became a natural part of David’s weekly routine. This happened just in time because before David and I knew it, our family had extended by one. David made it his mission to introduce his baby brother into the family tradition.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
How to get your children to listen to you
Hooray! It's done. Hope you like it.
My husband is a primary school teacher who uses a piano accordion (a creature lives and breathes in this big grey box, can you guess what it is?) and three monkeys to capture his students’ attention. Even the rough and tumble grade six boys aren’t ashamed to stop him in the school ground and ask what Nerk, Nerkette and Cousin Nokki have been up to on the weekend, and why does Nerk have a bandaged head they want to know? (Nerk is the naughty and troublesome one and therefore everyone’s favourite.) Once he has their interest, my husband says, they are his for the rest of the year, ready to learn to listen and most importantly ready to take instruction. At the beginning of each year there’s a bit of getting to know you happening, so they’re still a bit wary and he tries to balance a friendly persona with a teacher’s authority. The monkeys have done half his job for him and by the time the children realise that they have the power to disrupt, they’re in high school.
If you are a teacher, you work in a controlled environment. If you are parent and don’t like to smack to reinforce obedience what do you do? My husband is the first to admit that having seen him at his best and worst he will never be a mystery to his children. They found his stuffed toys and exotic stories entertaining but not enough to keep them entranced longer than it took to tell the tale. He says that by the time the class gets to know him and wise up to his methods, they move on to the next grade where they have to get used to a different set of rules. At home children tend to hang around for a couple of decades till you’re forced to turf them out. By that time they know all there is to know about you and it had better be good.
There’s a short term solution, but it is only effective as long as your children are shorter and weaker than you are. If you can pick them up, tuck them under one arm and haul them off into their bedrooms for time-out you’re in charge. The moment they can reciprocate you’re in trouble because the hormones have kicked in and you haven’t built up a relationship based on mutual trust and respect.
The (open) secret to success is to use brains over brawn. My husband and I acted as a team to foil our offsprings’ attempts to play us off against each other. We agreed that no matter what the request we would not be influenced by ‘but dad (or mum) said yes’, there had to be a parental consensus. No snacks were allowed before dinner and homework came before television. Sleepovers were only for school holidays and pleas of why can’t I have an expensive electronic gizmo like my friend James, got a response of I’m not James’ mother / father.
Our children’s gripes often seemed trivial but we recognised that they were as important to them as ours were to us, so we paid them attention. Such important issues as why the older child got to stay up an extra hour before going to bed were resolved by discussion and negotiation. The older brother had more homework so an extra hour of leisure time was his privilege. The younger brother didn’t exactly like the end result, but knew that his turn would come and that he could expect the same fair outcome when he was in the right. On the other hand, being three years behind his brother in everything did have its frustrations.
Our children were not immune to loud sounds, just those that came from us. Speaking quietly forced them to stop their crash and burn games and listen. As repeating an instruction ends in a sore throat and a headache, and asking ‘how many times have I told you to put your toys away?’ only gets a shrug, we finally bought a box with a lock and put their favourite toys in it. Being deprived of their Mario Brothers hand held game for even one day seemed like forever but did wonders for their hearing and taught them about consequences. It also hardened us to pleas for mercy. We thought it was a good result all round.
Don’t make promises you can’t keep and keep your promise whether it’s in your favour to do so or not. If you take them to the dentist and say it won’t hurt, it had better not hurt. There’s something in the old saying about preferring the devil you know. In the end, being afraid of the unknown is a lot worse than knowing what to expect. If they have been absolute stinkers and you’ve previously promised to take them to the park keep your word. My children had squabbled all morning and into the afternoon. I was exhausted. I didn’t want to take them. Words of reproach and justification were trembling on my lips, but I had heard that although elephants never forget children are even better about remembering and using it against you. My sins were going to come back to bite me if I had reneged, I knew it. And they knew it.
I’d like to say that we turned out perfect children. But how can imperfect parents who are constantly learning on the job do anything but their best, then cross fingers and hope it all turns out? Even now that we are empty nesters we’re surprising ourselves about how much we still have to learn. I will admit that our boys have turned into perfectly nice adults who are good to their parents and each other. And at the risk of sounding like one of those advertisements you see in the local paper for lovelorn singles seeking each other out, my children drink in moderation, don’t smoke and they don’t go out looking for trouble. They are respectable citizens raising the next generation in the family tradition of discipline, exotic stories about naughty monkeys and mysterious creatures that live in grey boxes.
My husband is a primary school teacher who uses a piano accordion (a creature lives and breathes in this big grey box, can you guess what it is?) and three monkeys to capture his students’ attention. Even the rough and tumble grade six boys aren’t ashamed to stop him in the school ground and ask what Nerk, Nerkette and Cousin Nokki have been up to on the weekend, and why does Nerk have a bandaged head they want to know? (Nerk is the naughty and troublesome one and therefore everyone’s favourite.) Once he has their interest, my husband says, they are his for the rest of the year, ready to learn to listen and most importantly ready to take instruction. At the beginning of each year there’s a bit of getting to know you happening, so they’re still a bit wary and he tries to balance a friendly persona with a teacher’s authority. The monkeys have done half his job for him and by the time the children realise that they have the power to disrupt, they’re in high school.
If you are a teacher, you work in a controlled environment. If you are parent and don’t like to smack to reinforce obedience what do you do? My husband is the first to admit that having seen him at his best and worst he will never be a mystery to his children. They found his stuffed toys and exotic stories entertaining but not enough to keep them entranced longer than it took to tell the tale. He says that by the time the class gets to know him and wise up to his methods, they move on to the next grade where they have to get used to a different set of rules. At home children tend to hang around for a couple of decades till you’re forced to turf them out. By that time they know all there is to know about you and it had better be good.
There’s a short term solution, but it is only effective as long as your children are shorter and weaker than you are. If you can pick them up, tuck them under one arm and haul them off into their bedrooms for time-out you’re in charge. The moment they can reciprocate you’re in trouble because the hormones have kicked in and you haven’t built up a relationship based on mutual trust and respect.
The (open) secret to success is to use brains over brawn. My husband and I acted as a team to foil our offsprings’ attempts to play us off against each other. We agreed that no matter what the request we would not be influenced by ‘but dad (or mum) said yes’, there had to be a parental consensus. No snacks were allowed before dinner and homework came before television. Sleepovers were only for school holidays and pleas of why can’t I have an expensive electronic gizmo like my friend James, got a response of I’m not James’ mother / father.
Our children’s gripes often seemed trivial but we recognised that they were as important to them as ours were to us, so we paid them attention. Such important issues as why the older child got to stay up an extra hour before going to bed were resolved by discussion and negotiation. The older brother had more homework so an extra hour of leisure time was his privilege. The younger brother didn’t exactly like the end result, but knew that his turn would come and that he could expect the same fair outcome when he was in the right. On the other hand, being three years behind his brother in everything did have its frustrations.
Our children were not immune to loud sounds, just those that came from us. Speaking quietly forced them to stop their crash and burn games and listen. As repeating an instruction ends in a sore throat and a headache, and asking ‘how many times have I told you to put your toys away?’ only gets a shrug, we finally bought a box with a lock and put their favourite toys in it. Being deprived of their Mario Brothers hand held game for even one day seemed like forever but did wonders for their hearing and taught them about consequences. It also hardened us to pleas for mercy. We thought it was a good result all round.
Don’t make promises you can’t keep and keep your promise whether it’s in your favour to do so or not. If you take them to the dentist and say it won’t hurt, it had better not hurt. There’s something in the old saying about preferring the devil you know. In the end, being afraid of the unknown is a lot worse than knowing what to expect. If they have been absolute stinkers and you’ve previously promised to take them to the park keep your word. My children had squabbled all morning and into the afternoon. I was exhausted. I didn’t want to take them. Words of reproach and justification were trembling on my lips, but I had heard that although elephants never forget children are even better about remembering and using it against you. My sins were going to come back to bite me if I had reneged, I knew it. And they knew it.
I’d like to say that we turned out perfect children. But how can imperfect parents who are constantly learning on the job do anything but their best, then cross fingers and hope it all turns out? Even now that we are empty nesters we’re surprising ourselves about how much we still have to learn. I will admit that our boys have turned into perfectly nice adults who are good to their parents and each other. And at the risk of sounding like one of those advertisements you see in the local paper for lovelorn singles seeking each other out, my children drink in moderation, don’t smoke and they don’t go out looking for trouble. They are respectable citizens raising the next generation in the family tradition of discipline, exotic stories about naughty monkeys and mysterious creatures that live in grey boxes.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Ethical considerations
I really wanted this site to be a positive one, but I couldn't pass this awful issue by. To paraphrase Trevor Hotten, artists ‘often do things that depict the very sad part of ... society.' So do writers. I think that Hotten's submission for the Archibald Prize is a sad indictment on what society will accept these days in the name of freedom of expression.
The Archibald Prize is Australia’s most important portraiture competition. No wonder; there is fifty thousand dollars in it for the artist and the tremendous kudos of the win. The Archibald is popular with the masses because they usually know the subject so are focusing more on how they feel about him or her rather than the art.
Right now the masses aren’t too happy about one particular submission. An artist called Trevor Hotten has submitted a portrait of Dennis Ferguson, a paedophile and repeat offender who had spent 14 years in prison and Brett Collins a Coordinator for Justice Action and a spokesperson for the Prisoners Action Group.
The spirit of the competition is to submit a painting of ‘some man or woman distinguished in Art, Letters, Science or Politics.’ It may have sometimes strayed from the original intent, but this portrait is about as far away from the aim as you can get. That portrait will link the two subjects inextricably together forever. I doubt it will win, but the controversy about this year's competition will leave a bad taste in my mouth until next year.
Protecting prisoners' rights is reasonable. Somebody has to advocate for them. But it needs to be balanced out with the rights of victims and that's something I rarely hear happening. Advocating for Ferguson harms the rights of victims and their families, and makes things intolerable for those who have young children to protect. People want to feel that they have a right to be safe from harm.
Hotten defends his submission with the usual mantra of ‘artists... [having] the right to express themselves without censorship.’ Since the dawn of time that has been the mantra of every artist who offers us something unpleasant to look at or to think about. The great thing is that that sort of art isn't likely to last into the future. Artists seem to believe they are beyond the humdrum of the rest of the community and needn't bother about ethical considerations. I think it's time somebody shamed them into it.
I’ve only seen the portrait in the newspapers and it may be that it’s lost something in the translation but it seems to me both flat and lackluster; it lacks dimension. Whatever it is that Hotten means to be expressing, the painting gives no indication to me of what it can be. He’s been quoted as having said that artists ‘often do things that depict the very sad part of ... society or even what people find vile. But it's important [they] visually capture these things.’ Unless his painting has something more to say than that he has captured a likeness I don’t see the point. We’re living in a digital world, after all. On the other hand, once you’ve left a painting's presence you’re meant to be moved by more than an exact image captured on canvas. I’m yet to be convinced that I would be moved that I would be moved by it if I ever bothered to be in its presence.
The Archibald Prize is Australia’s most important portraiture competition. No wonder; there is fifty thousand dollars in it for the artist and the tremendous kudos of the win. The Archibald is popular with the masses because they usually know the subject so are focusing more on how they feel about him or her rather than the art.
Right now the masses aren’t too happy about one particular submission. An artist called Trevor Hotten has submitted a portrait of Dennis Ferguson, a paedophile and repeat offender who had spent 14 years in prison and Brett Collins a Coordinator for Justice Action and a spokesperson for the Prisoners Action Group.
The spirit of the competition is to submit a painting of ‘some man or woman distinguished in Art, Letters, Science or Politics.’ It may have sometimes strayed from the original intent, but this portrait is about as far away from the aim as you can get. That portrait will link the two subjects inextricably together forever. I doubt it will win, but the controversy about this year's competition will leave a bad taste in my mouth until next year.
Protecting prisoners' rights is reasonable. Somebody has to advocate for them. But it needs to be balanced out with the rights of victims and that's something I rarely hear happening. Advocating for Ferguson harms the rights of victims and their families, and makes things intolerable for those who have young children to protect. People want to feel that they have a right to be safe from harm.
Hotten defends his submission with the usual mantra of ‘artists... [having] the right to express themselves without censorship.’ Since the dawn of time that has been the mantra of every artist who offers us something unpleasant to look at or to think about. The great thing is that that sort of art isn't likely to last into the future. Artists seem to believe they are beyond the humdrum of the rest of the community and needn't bother about ethical considerations. I think it's time somebody shamed them into it.
I’ve only seen the portrait in the newspapers and it may be that it’s lost something in the translation but it seems to me both flat and lackluster; it lacks dimension. Whatever it is that Hotten means to be expressing, the painting gives no indication to me of what it can be. He’s been quoted as having said that artists ‘often do things that depict the very sad part of ... society or even what people find vile. But it's important [they] visually capture these things.’ Unless his painting has something more to say than that he has captured a likeness I don’t see the point. We’re living in a digital world, after all. On the other hand, once you’ve left a painting's presence you’re meant to be moved by more than an exact image captured on canvas. I’m yet to be convinced that I would be moved that I would be moved by it if I ever bothered to be in its presence.
Olá and Buon giorno to you
I've been cooking and experimenting a lot with Asian dishes in the past decade, we love that sort of food in this house. I will no doubt come back to doing that again one day but for the moment I am all cooked out and would like to try my hand at something new. I am wondering if anybody out there has a couple of traditional Portuguese and Italian dishes to share with me. (Not pizza by the way, I've made it for my granddaughters. That is, I rolled out the store bought dough and they put on the toppings. But if there's any easy non-yeast way to go about it, I wouldn't mind knowing.)
The recipes can't have exotic ingredients which I am not likley to find unless I get on a plane and visit (wish I could afford to). Something simple for a beginner, but delicious. I admit my ignorance, I know some few things about Italian food, and nothing about Portuguese food. The nearest I've come to Portuguese is Nandos but I suspect that there's a lot more to it than Peri Peri sauce, delicious though that is. One of my children is a vegetarian, so if there are such things as Italian or Portuguese vegetarian dishes I would appreciate it.
The recipes can't have exotic ingredients which I am not likley to find unless I get on a plane and visit (wish I could afford to). Something simple for a beginner, but delicious. I admit my ignorance, I know some few things about Italian food, and nothing about Portuguese food. The nearest I've come to Portuguese is Nandos but I suspect that there's a lot more to it than Peri Peri sauce, delicious though that is. One of my children is a vegetarian, so if there are such things as Italian or Portuguese vegetarian dishes I would appreciate it.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Slugs and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails
Sometime in the late ‘seventies, experts wanted girls to play with trucks, and boys to be given access to the kindergarten corner reserved for pots and pans. The wisdom of the day was that offering boistrous boys dolls would socialise and calm them; it was also thought that the genders would learn to understand each other at an age when they were the most easily influenced and it would help do away with stereotypes.
We have a female Deputy Prime Minister, now, whose partner is a hairdresser so the latter wasn’t such a bad idea as far as it went. But while the experiment of the genders moving beyond the stereotypical boundaries has been relatively successful, turning ‘slugs and snails and puppy dog tails’ into ‘sugar and spice and everything nice’ and vice versa is a harder ask and not necessarily desirable. Each gender has its own attributes and failings and as parents it’s our job to appreciate the former and work on the latter.
Girls tend to be less distracted than boys are. They hear you when you speak; they listen; which is why they express themselves better than boys do. My granddaughters draw, paste, paint and sit patiently for large chunks of time rearranging figurines and dolls house furniture. Their dolls have names and a back history; and Dezzy and Rachel have opinions on how the rooms should be arranged. They love the playground park and will see saw and swing with the best of them, but they will happily get back to something sedate once they get back home.
Belinda Neall, author of About our Boys: A practical guide to bringing out the best in boys, believes that it is ‘essential that boys be allowed to be physical and do activities that use up their energy...even those boys who don’t like sport or aren’t very active usually have active minds that are drawn to action and adventure in their imaginary play’ or in what they read or what movies they watch or video games they play. Boys run when they can walk, they shout when they can talk and they flip back their Superman capes and chase after real or imaginary objects. Stick a doll in a little boy’s hand and he will most likely turn it into an aeroplane and run around the house making zoom, zoom noises. Then he will pull the doll apart to see what it is made of. No amount of role reversal is going to change that for long. You can sit boys down for craft activities and they will even enjoy it in small doses, but after a very short while, just like a steaming kettle, if you plug the opening they will either find another outlet or burst in the attempt.
I had no luck distracting my boys from kicking a ball around the back yard or getting them off the monkey bars long enough to consider role playing with Barbie or one of her sisters. There was a tree in our back yard that was taller again by half than our house. One fine day, when things were quieter than I was used to, I looked out the kitchen window and caught sight of five year old David two thirds of the way up that tree; his younger brother stood nearby, looking on in admiration. My hair stood on end, as it generally does when terror and adrenalin kick in. The conversation went something like this:
‘Hurry down David.
No, no, take your time. But be quick
Be careful! Hurry up, won’t you? Be careful, darling.
There you go, nearly there. It’s all right. It’s all right.
You naughty boy! You naughty boy! What on earth got into you?!’
The answer was a tearful shrug. Had he been more articulate, Dave might, like George Mallory the English mountaineer, have responded with ‘because it is there’. Mallory and his climbing partner Andrew Irvine disappeared on their way up Mt Everest in 1924; Mallory’s body wasn’t found for 75 years. And that’s it in a nutshell. Some men and most boys just can’t help themselves. When they are attracted to danger and adventure, personal cost becomes irrelevant. Girls are cautious and too imaginative about the consequences to themselves, to risk doing something like that.
But if nature can’t be tamed, we can at least tweak it a bit. Thankfully it is not all pre-determined. Boys will be boys, as the saying goes, except if it’s relating to something that isn’t good for their health. In that case feel free to stick your oar in. In their late teens, my sons accused me of raising them to believe that it’s better to talk yourself out of a fight than to use your fists. Apparently they had lacked the belligerence required of the post-pubescent male to survive in the school environment; I had put them at a distinct disadvantage, they said, all the way through high school. Now they’ve come full circle and are grateful. And they no longer have a problem expressing themselves. Sooner or later most boys will grow out of leaping before they look, and hopefully some girls will have the self confidence to take a bit of a chance occasionally and leap. It’s all a matter of balance and of giving things a helping hand.
Girls are easier to raise because their primary carers are usually women and have some personal insight into the various phases that they go though; women identify a lot more closely with girls than with their male progeny. Unless there are experiences of brothers or male cousins to draw on, we see boys as strange entities to be dealt like ticking time bombs; gingerly and at a distance. They pick their nose and scrape their knees and neither they nor their hair is capable of staying down for too long.
My idea, of a good time, once upon a time, was to lie stomach down on the carpeted lounge room floor and work my way through all the fairy stories there were; the Grimm(er) the better. My boys wouldn’t leave me alone, for five minutes at a time; ‘hey mum, look at me, I’m doing a handstand’ or ‘mum can we keep this lizard / stray dog / bird with a broken wing?’ It’s necessary to encourage that wonder and to not crush their spirits when adding nurture to the mix. It’s important to keep their minds engaged and their bodies occupied.
Channel a boy’s energies into constructive activities like trampolining, bike riding and boy scouts and, as Belinda Neall, puts it ‘they won’t be lighting fires or throwing stones or take drugs to satisfy their sense of adventure.’ Encourage boys to climb monkey bars, and even trees if your ticker can take it. Get involved; play video games together and play board games. My brother banged his chest with his fists, tapped on doors and walls and drummed on our mum’s pots and pans with wooden spoons until our parents bought him his first set of drums. It didn’t do too much for their nervous system, but it kept my energetic brother occupied and all that practicing turned him into a first rate musician.
If you can exhaust your male children physically first, there’s always a chance that you can appeal to their cerebral side later. But there’s no use offering boys The Saddle Club or Ballerina Princess. They need a bit of J K Rowling magic, or Robert Muchamore’s child secret agents to stir their imaginations. Sue Bursztynski, school librarian and author of such nonfiction books as Your cat could be a Spy, and Crime time: Australians behaving badly, says that ‘ordinary boys as opposed to really good readers like information books ... about what they enjoy, whether it's cars or planes or sport or monsters. They love over-the-top information, which is why [borrowing] the Guinness Book of Records [at her library] is so popular. And when they do read fiction, it's often wacky fiction like Paul Jennings and Andy Griffiths. Or sports fiction - Specky McGee is very popular. But mostly, they like it true.’
My boys appreciated the energy consuming exercises of drama theatre. I welcomed their improved powers of concentration, their enhanced imagination and their self discipline. Young Mark wanted to skateboard. I offered to let him if he earned the money to buy it himself. It was a cunning ruse to buy me some time; if Mark was serious about earning a skateboard he would also appreciate and take care of it, and hopefully take care of himself. It gave me a chance to educate him in the dangers as well as the pleasures of skateboarding.
David took a child care course before he had children. His mostly female class cheered and whistled when he and fellow male graduates courageously mounted the podium and accepted their diplomas. I don’t think they had got the point yet that they’d ‘come a long way, baby’. Mark is capable of being his own man without sacrificing his tender (not his feminine) side. I’m still working on my granddaughters, but I hope I’ve succeeded in teaching my children to appreciate and respect it that although we are the one species there are two separate genders and both the genders and their differences deserve acknowledgement and respect.
We have a female Deputy Prime Minister, now, whose partner is a hairdresser so the latter wasn’t such a bad idea as far as it went. But while the experiment of the genders moving beyond the stereotypical boundaries has been relatively successful, turning ‘slugs and snails and puppy dog tails’ into ‘sugar and spice and everything nice’ and vice versa is a harder ask and not necessarily desirable. Each gender has its own attributes and failings and as parents it’s our job to appreciate the former and work on the latter.
Girls tend to be less distracted than boys are. They hear you when you speak; they listen; which is why they express themselves better than boys do. My granddaughters draw, paste, paint and sit patiently for large chunks of time rearranging figurines and dolls house furniture. Their dolls have names and a back history; and Dezzy and Rachel have opinions on how the rooms should be arranged. They love the playground park and will see saw and swing with the best of them, but they will happily get back to something sedate once they get back home.
Belinda Neall, author of About our Boys: A practical guide to bringing out the best in boys, believes that it is ‘essential that boys be allowed to be physical and do activities that use up their energy...even those boys who don’t like sport or aren’t very active usually have active minds that are drawn to action and adventure in their imaginary play’ or in what they read or what movies they watch or video games they play. Boys run when they can walk, they shout when they can talk and they flip back their Superman capes and chase after real or imaginary objects. Stick a doll in a little boy’s hand and he will most likely turn it into an aeroplane and run around the house making zoom, zoom noises. Then he will pull the doll apart to see what it is made of. No amount of role reversal is going to change that for long. You can sit boys down for craft activities and they will even enjoy it in small doses, but after a very short while, just like a steaming kettle, if you plug the opening they will either find another outlet or burst in the attempt.
I had no luck distracting my boys from kicking a ball around the back yard or getting them off the monkey bars long enough to consider role playing with Barbie or one of her sisters. There was a tree in our back yard that was taller again by half than our house. One fine day, when things were quieter than I was used to, I looked out the kitchen window and caught sight of five year old David two thirds of the way up that tree; his younger brother stood nearby, looking on in admiration. My hair stood on end, as it generally does when terror and adrenalin kick in. The conversation went something like this:
‘Hurry down David.
No, no, take your time. But be quick
Be careful! Hurry up, won’t you? Be careful, darling.
There you go, nearly there. It’s all right. It’s all right.
You naughty boy! You naughty boy! What on earth got into you?!’
The answer was a tearful shrug. Had he been more articulate, Dave might, like George Mallory the English mountaineer, have responded with ‘because it is there’. Mallory and his climbing partner Andrew Irvine disappeared on their way up Mt Everest in 1924; Mallory’s body wasn’t found for 75 years. And that’s it in a nutshell. Some men and most boys just can’t help themselves. When they are attracted to danger and adventure, personal cost becomes irrelevant. Girls are cautious and too imaginative about the consequences to themselves, to risk doing something like that.
But if nature can’t be tamed, we can at least tweak it a bit. Thankfully it is not all pre-determined. Boys will be boys, as the saying goes, except if it’s relating to something that isn’t good for their health. In that case feel free to stick your oar in. In their late teens, my sons accused me of raising them to believe that it’s better to talk yourself out of a fight than to use your fists. Apparently they had lacked the belligerence required of the post-pubescent male to survive in the school environment; I had put them at a distinct disadvantage, they said, all the way through high school. Now they’ve come full circle and are grateful. And they no longer have a problem expressing themselves. Sooner or later most boys will grow out of leaping before they look, and hopefully some girls will have the self confidence to take a bit of a chance occasionally and leap. It’s all a matter of balance and of giving things a helping hand.
Girls are easier to raise because their primary carers are usually women and have some personal insight into the various phases that they go though; women identify a lot more closely with girls than with their male progeny. Unless there are experiences of brothers or male cousins to draw on, we see boys as strange entities to be dealt like ticking time bombs; gingerly and at a distance. They pick their nose and scrape their knees and neither they nor their hair is capable of staying down for too long.
My idea, of a good time, once upon a time, was to lie stomach down on the carpeted lounge room floor and work my way through all the fairy stories there were; the Grimm(er) the better. My boys wouldn’t leave me alone, for five minutes at a time; ‘hey mum, look at me, I’m doing a handstand’ or ‘mum can we keep this lizard / stray dog / bird with a broken wing?’ It’s necessary to encourage that wonder and to not crush their spirits when adding nurture to the mix. It’s important to keep their minds engaged and their bodies occupied.
Channel a boy’s energies into constructive activities like trampolining, bike riding and boy scouts and, as Belinda Neall, puts it ‘they won’t be lighting fires or throwing stones or take drugs to satisfy their sense of adventure.’ Encourage boys to climb monkey bars, and even trees if your ticker can take it. Get involved; play video games together and play board games. My brother banged his chest with his fists, tapped on doors and walls and drummed on our mum’s pots and pans with wooden spoons until our parents bought him his first set of drums. It didn’t do too much for their nervous system, but it kept my energetic brother occupied and all that practicing turned him into a first rate musician.
If you can exhaust your male children physically first, there’s always a chance that you can appeal to their cerebral side later. But there’s no use offering boys The Saddle Club or Ballerina Princess. They need a bit of J K Rowling magic, or Robert Muchamore’s child secret agents to stir their imaginations. Sue Bursztynski, school librarian and author of such nonfiction books as Your cat could be a Spy, and Crime time: Australians behaving badly, says that ‘ordinary boys as opposed to really good readers like information books ... about what they enjoy, whether it's cars or planes or sport or monsters. They love over-the-top information, which is why [borrowing] the Guinness Book of Records [at her library] is so popular. And when they do read fiction, it's often wacky fiction like Paul Jennings and Andy Griffiths. Or sports fiction - Specky McGee is very popular. But mostly, they like it true.’
My boys appreciated the energy consuming exercises of drama theatre. I welcomed their improved powers of concentration, their enhanced imagination and their self discipline. Young Mark wanted to skateboard. I offered to let him if he earned the money to buy it himself. It was a cunning ruse to buy me some time; if Mark was serious about earning a skateboard he would also appreciate and take care of it, and hopefully take care of himself. It gave me a chance to educate him in the dangers as well as the pleasures of skateboarding.
David took a child care course before he had children. His mostly female class cheered and whistled when he and fellow male graduates courageously mounted the podium and accepted their diplomas. I don’t think they had got the point yet that they’d ‘come a long way, baby’. Mark is capable of being his own man without sacrificing his tender (not his feminine) side. I’m still working on my granddaughters, but I hope I’ve succeeded in teaching my children to appreciate and respect it that although we are the one species there are two separate genders and both the genders and their differences deserve acknowledgement and respect.
Monday, February 15, 2010
I didn't do it!!
On another matter, can I just mention that a father's group has asked if it could publish my piece: On a Mission from Melbourne. As soon as they have done so I will publish a link to the site.
I didn't do it is a universal cry coming from from the lips of little children wherever in the world they live. Certainly any child that I have either raised or had some experience with said it to me some time or another. Here is my second draft.
‘I didn’t do it’ said my granddaughter. It wasn’t a lie as much as an attempt to avoid punishment. Rachel was four years old at the time so she already understood what the consequences of being naughty might mean to her. But she wasn’t always sure what constituted naughty; it depended on the mood of the adults in her life. Safer to deny everything.
Rachel had done it of course, she had hurried from the dinner table to get to the front door and knocked over her water glass. There was water, water everywhere, including a liberal dose of it on a now sopping Rachel. Her favourite uncle had arrived and Rachel wanted to be among the first to greet him. Now she was stopped in her tracks watching anxiously for my reaction; getting into trouble was an occupational hazard. I could be a benign nanna or an angry giant. Which was I going to be?
I could have shouted and said ‘now look what you’ve done’. It’s the obvious and most automatic response that comes to the fore when disaster strikes. Possibly it’s because in any house where toddlers live calamity strikes and strikes often; it can be tiring for an already exhausted adult. Rachel is not an exception to the toddler rule; she slips, trips and sometimes breaks things. Rachel touches things she shouldn’t (once it was a hot plate). As my granddaughter sees it, there aren’t enough hours in the day to have fun and she is not about to miss a minute of it. Why walk when you can run, is Rachel’s philosophy? Why check first if you can rush in where Angels fear to tread? At four there’s a lot of exuberance and energy involved but not much life experience to draw on. Behaviour is a learned thing.
‘Why don’t you change your clothes; then you can help me clean up,’ I said. The response she had dreaded wasn’t going to eventuate. A reprieve! The colour came back to her cheeks and she tripped off happily to the bedroom. I watched her go, and remembered her father. He hadn’t done it either. David hadn’t knocked down my best china coffee pot playing ball in the house; it wasn’t his fault that his brother’s favourite toy was broken. The toy was a fragile bit of plastic, so he’d had a point there, but I seem to remember that David hadn’t had asked his brother could he play with it. Most of my waking hours had been spent juggling responsibilities and two boisterous boys so I wasn’t always capable of calm but I did sometimes succeed. I explained that playing ball in the house when he’d been told not to, required a consequence; and asked what did he think would fit the bill?
‘It wasn’t me, mum’ echoed down the corridors of time to arrive at this de ja vu moment. I am more rested, alert and a lot more composed these days and able to draw on experience. As a grandparent I get to revise some of the things I may have got wrong the first time round. Rachel sponged down the table and I mopped the floor. We talked as we worked.
‘Did you do it on purpose, Rachel? Or was it an accident?’ We had distanced ourselves from the disastrous moment. I wanted Rachel to take ownership of the situation and I felt I would get a more considered answer now. Rachel needed to take ownership of the situation and to understand the consequences.
‘It was an accident, nanna.’ I had witnessed the incident but even if I hadn’t I think it’s more a positive way to deal with things if you give children the benefit of the doubt until they prove you wrong. ‘Well, that’s okay then,’ I said and explained that it might be better next time to put her water glass in front of her instead of to the side. It was another experience in Rachel’s repertoire that I knew that she would not repeat.
The word consequence has two meanings. There was the consequence of the hotplate incident for instance. Rachel is a lot more cautious around heat now. The second meaning depends on adults dealing with each situation on its merits. Do we shout? I sometimes did when I was tired or if I had allowed outside pressures to influence me. If a toddler senses that consequences are fair, they learn from their mistakes. And although there are plenty more mistakes to be made, chances are they won't repeat them. Rachel learned that she needed to focus on her present actions and let the future take care of itself; I bought a plastic table cloth the very next day. Now that Rachel is a mature aged 6 year old she has left childish things behind. She's experiencing a brand new set of mistakes and consequences at school.
I didn't do it is a universal cry coming from from the lips of little children wherever in the world they live. Certainly any child that I have either raised or had some experience with said it to me some time or another. Here is my second draft.
‘I didn’t do it’ said my granddaughter. It wasn’t a lie as much as an attempt to avoid punishment. Rachel was four years old at the time so she already understood what the consequences of being naughty might mean to her. But she wasn’t always sure what constituted naughty; it depended on the mood of the adults in her life. Safer to deny everything.
Rachel had done it of course, she had hurried from the dinner table to get to the front door and knocked over her water glass. There was water, water everywhere, including a liberal dose of it on a now sopping Rachel. Her favourite uncle had arrived and Rachel wanted to be among the first to greet him. Now she was stopped in her tracks watching anxiously for my reaction; getting into trouble was an occupational hazard. I could be a benign nanna or an angry giant. Which was I going to be?
I could have shouted and said ‘now look what you’ve done’. It’s the obvious and most automatic response that comes to the fore when disaster strikes. Possibly it’s because in any house where toddlers live calamity strikes and strikes often; it can be tiring for an already exhausted adult. Rachel is not an exception to the toddler rule; she slips, trips and sometimes breaks things. Rachel touches things she shouldn’t (once it was a hot plate). As my granddaughter sees it, there aren’t enough hours in the day to have fun and she is not about to miss a minute of it. Why walk when you can run, is Rachel’s philosophy? Why check first if you can rush in where Angels fear to tread? At four there’s a lot of exuberance and energy involved but not much life experience to draw on. Behaviour is a learned thing.
‘Why don’t you change your clothes; then you can help me clean up,’ I said. The response she had dreaded wasn’t going to eventuate. A reprieve! The colour came back to her cheeks and she tripped off happily to the bedroom. I watched her go, and remembered her father. He hadn’t done it either. David hadn’t knocked down my best china coffee pot playing ball in the house; it wasn’t his fault that his brother’s favourite toy was broken. The toy was a fragile bit of plastic, so he’d had a point there, but I seem to remember that David hadn’t had asked his brother could he play with it. Most of my waking hours had been spent juggling responsibilities and two boisterous boys so I wasn’t always capable of calm but I did sometimes succeed. I explained that playing ball in the house when he’d been told not to, required a consequence; and asked what did he think would fit the bill?
‘It wasn’t me, mum’ echoed down the corridors of time to arrive at this de ja vu moment. I am more rested, alert and a lot more composed these days and able to draw on experience. As a grandparent I get to revise some of the things I may have got wrong the first time round. Rachel sponged down the table and I mopped the floor. We talked as we worked.
‘Did you do it on purpose, Rachel? Or was it an accident?’ We had distanced ourselves from the disastrous moment. I wanted Rachel to take ownership of the situation and I felt I would get a more considered answer now. Rachel needed to take ownership of the situation and to understand the consequences.
‘It was an accident, nanna.’ I had witnessed the incident but even if I hadn’t I think it’s more a positive way to deal with things if you give children the benefit of the doubt until they prove you wrong. ‘Well, that’s okay then,’ I said and explained that it might be better next time to put her water glass in front of her instead of to the side. It was another experience in Rachel’s repertoire that I knew that she would not repeat.
The word consequence has two meanings. There was the consequence of the hotplate incident for instance. Rachel is a lot more cautious around heat now. The second meaning depends on adults dealing with each situation on its merits. Do we shout? I sometimes did when I was tired or if I had allowed outside pressures to influence me. If a toddler senses that consequences are fair, they learn from their mistakes. And although there are plenty more mistakes to be made, chances are they won't repeat them. Rachel learned that she needed to focus on her present actions and let the future take care of itself; I bought a plastic table cloth the very next day. Now that Rachel is a mature aged 6 year old she has left childish things behind. She's experiencing a brand new set of mistakes and consequences at school.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
The Tooth Fairy
Fourth Draft.
Thanks to my regulars who keep on visiting. I haven't given up this site, or given up writing. It's just that a number of outside influences have conspired to get in my way and have slowed things down for me. (Slower than usual, that is.) I will revive!
'Will the Tooth Fairy find me in Melbourne, Nanna?
Rachel is a Sydney girl who pays regular visits to her Melbourne grandparents. Her questions come thick and fast the moment she steps off the tarmac at Melbourne Airport and are usually more demanding; they can range from how do aeroplanes stay up in the air to how many lollies can you fit in your mouth? Rachel’s front tooth was hanging by a thread and was causing her a fair bit of mental agony. I could see the mental cogs whirring and the questions forming. Thankfully the tooth fairy and I had done business before so were well acquainted. This time round I had all the answers to Rachel’s questions. I breathed a sigh of relief and got on with the necessary explanations.
‘Sure she will find you, honey.’ I said. ‘Tooth Fairies have antennas.’ They are like little divining rods that lead them to wherever the teeth are. And not only was there a Melbourne Tooth Fairy, I explained, there were hordes of them plying their trade worldwide and hauling their stash to their corner of Fairyland each night.
When we got home, I gave her the traditional apple to help things along. I mused that growing those teeth had taken up a third of Rachel’s life and caused many sleepless nights for all concerned, now she was happy to shed them without a backward glance. She munched and then we spent an exciting afternoon checking out the unattractive object of the Tooth Fairy’s desire.
‘Why do they want my tooth, Nanna?’
In typical Rachel fashion she was not going to be satisfied until everything was known to her on the topic, especially as there was a whole dollar involved in this transaction. More questions were asked and answered. Fairies grind the teeth and sprinkle it on their cereal for calcium and they dust their wings with it to give them more staying power on those long journeys to and from Fairyland. (When her daddy had asked that question tooth power included fuelled dump trucks and locomotives.)
And where was Fairyland? For those of you not in the know, Fairyland is up Enid Blyton’s Far Away Tree. If you are lucky enough to find that tree it is right up the top, where a different and ever more exotic country lands each day.
Rachel and I spent a pleasant afternoon discussing the most effective place to put her tooth. We checked out and rejected several locations, including under the pillow: too easily lost and the mantelpiece in the lounge room. How would the Tooth Fairy know who it belonged to? We finally settled on dropping it into a glass of water and putting it on Rachel’s bedside table.
Ten year old Dezzy, Rachel’s sister, was at the other end of the room during this discussion, busying herself with something arty-crafty. She had her head bent low throughout it all but I could tell she was listening. She had long since extracted the last dollar from the tooth fairy, but being the nice child that she is, she wasn't about to spoil it for her sister. Dezzy just smiled and kept her counsel.
‘Tooth Fairies are shy, Rachel, yours won’t turn up until you’re asleep.’ It had been an interesting and exhausting afternoon, but Rachel wasn’t quite done yet. She clutched her tooth to her, Rachel had a request.
We added a letter to be placed under the glass. ‘Dear Tooth Fairy,’ Rachel dictated, ‘this is me, Rachel. You can have my tooth for your breakfast cereal. Could I have an extra fifty cents so I can buy a chocolate ice cream with sprinkles? Do Tooth Fairies have teeth?' Love, Rachel.’
Thanks to my regulars who keep on visiting. I haven't given up this site, or given up writing. It's just that a number of outside influences have conspired to get in my way and have slowed things down for me. (Slower than usual, that is.) I will revive!
'Will the Tooth Fairy find me in Melbourne, Nanna?
Rachel is a Sydney girl who pays regular visits to her Melbourne grandparents. Her questions come thick and fast the moment she steps off the tarmac at Melbourne Airport and are usually more demanding; they can range from how do aeroplanes stay up in the air to how many lollies can you fit in your mouth? Rachel’s front tooth was hanging by a thread and was causing her a fair bit of mental agony. I could see the mental cogs whirring and the questions forming. Thankfully the tooth fairy and I had done business before so were well acquainted. This time round I had all the answers to Rachel’s questions. I breathed a sigh of relief and got on with the necessary explanations.
‘Sure she will find you, honey.’ I said. ‘Tooth Fairies have antennas.’ They are like little divining rods that lead them to wherever the teeth are. And not only was there a Melbourne Tooth Fairy, I explained, there were hordes of them plying their trade worldwide and hauling their stash to their corner of Fairyland each night.
When we got home, I gave her the traditional apple to help things along. I mused that growing those teeth had taken up a third of Rachel’s life and caused many sleepless nights for all concerned, now she was happy to shed them without a backward glance. She munched and then we spent an exciting afternoon checking out the unattractive object of the Tooth Fairy’s desire.
‘Why do they want my tooth, Nanna?’
In typical Rachel fashion she was not going to be satisfied until everything was known to her on the topic, especially as there was a whole dollar involved in this transaction. More questions were asked and answered. Fairies grind the teeth and sprinkle it on their cereal for calcium and they dust their wings with it to give them more staying power on those long journeys to and from Fairyland. (When her daddy had asked that question tooth power included fuelled dump trucks and locomotives.)
And where was Fairyland? For those of you not in the know, Fairyland is up Enid Blyton’s Far Away Tree. If you are lucky enough to find that tree it is right up the top, where a different and ever more exotic country lands each day.
Rachel and I spent a pleasant afternoon discussing the most effective place to put her tooth. We checked out and rejected several locations, including under the pillow: too easily lost and the mantelpiece in the lounge room. How would the Tooth Fairy know who it belonged to? We finally settled on dropping it into a glass of water and putting it on Rachel’s bedside table.
Ten year old Dezzy, Rachel’s sister, was at the other end of the room during this discussion, busying herself with something arty-crafty. She had her head bent low throughout it all but I could tell she was listening. She had long since extracted the last dollar from the tooth fairy, but being the nice child that she is, she wasn't about to spoil it for her sister. Dezzy just smiled and kept her counsel.
‘Tooth Fairies are shy, Rachel, yours won’t turn up until you’re asleep.’ It had been an interesting and exhausting afternoon, but Rachel wasn’t quite done yet. She clutched her tooth to her, Rachel had a request.
We added a letter to be placed under the glass. ‘Dear Tooth Fairy,’ Rachel dictated, ‘this is me, Rachel. You can have my tooth for your breakfast cereal. Could I have an extra fifty cents so I can buy a chocolate ice cream with sprinkles? Do Tooth Fairies have teeth?' Love, Rachel.’
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Our responsibilities
Second draft.
Roman Polanski is a brilliant film director who also happens (in 1977) to have raped a 13 year old girl. I need not go much more into that as all the sordid details have been available for decades and in the news recently. Polanski was on his way to the Zurich Film Festival in 2009 to accept a Lifetime Achievement Award and was arrested. His friends and many of his colleagues were outraged. As they saw it, Polanski has been a model citizen and a productive one, since that one lapse. It seemed only reasonable to them that someone who had such an illustrious career should be excused.
It does sound reasonable put that way until you consider that the type of rape that took place was not done (inexcusable as it would have been) in the heat of the moment but was coldly calculated. Polanski gave this girl alcohol and a relaxant type of drug to make her compliant.
Polanski has charmed his colleagues and friends and even his film going audience, but the fact remains that there’s a darker side to Polanski. And that’s the one who has to pay for the crime, no matter how rehabilitated he seems or how brilliant his directing work. He doesn’t want to do it. Polanski allows his friends and colleagues and even his wife to justify him. Emmanuelle Seigner, Polanski’s wife, blames his actions on the ‘crazy age of sexual permissiveness’. I would have thought that even in the ‘70’s sexual permissiveness related to two consensual adults, not between a grown up and an unwilling child.
Polanski stole a young girl’s innocence and wrecked any trust that she would have had for adults. I can’t help thinking of that as I watch my young granddaughters move slowly away from their childhood. In a handful of years we’re going to have less control over their ever expanding world. Stranger danger is easy when they are five or six, how do you go about preparing children on the threshold of puberty. When I started going out to teenage parties my mother told me not to drink anything that I hadn’t poured for myself, as my drinks might be spiked. I thought that was hilarious at the time.
Last year there was an uproar about a photographer who made a living by taking photographs of young girls in sensual poses (with the permission of the girls' parents.) The community in general thought it was despicable but his artistic friends hotly defended him.
Times change as do fads and fashions, but what sort of society is it that finds preying on young innocents acceptable?
We have a responsibility to our vulnerable children to keep them safe from predators who come in all sorts of shapes and sometimes pleasing guises. If we can't push past the seemingly plausible rhetoric and recognise these people for what they are, what hope have our children got? It’s up to us to make sure our children are left to develop at their own pace and be allowed to keep their innocence as long as they need it. Rape is never acceptable in however it is disguised or presented, neither is artistic licence when it has to do with young innocents.
Roman Polanski is a brilliant film director who also happens (in 1977) to have raped a 13 year old girl. I need not go much more into that as all the sordid details have been available for decades and in the news recently. Polanski was on his way to the Zurich Film Festival in 2009 to accept a Lifetime Achievement Award and was arrested. His friends and many of his colleagues were outraged. As they saw it, Polanski has been a model citizen and a productive one, since that one lapse. It seemed only reasonable to them that someone who had such an illustrious career should be excused.
It does sound reasonable put that way until you consider that the type of rape that took place was not done (inexcusable as it would have been) in the heat of the moment but was coldly calculated. Polanski gave this girl alcohol and a relaxant type of drug to make her compliant.
Polanski has charmed his colleagues and friends and even his film going audience, but the fact remains that there’s a darker side to Polanski. And that’s the one who has to pay for the crime, no matter how rehabilitated he seems or how brilliant his directing work. He doesn’t want to do it. Polanski allows his friends and colleagues and even his wife to justify him. Emmanuelle Seigner, Polanski’s wife, blames his actions on the ‘crazy age of sexual permissiveness’. I would have thought that even in the ‘70’s sexual permissiveness related to two consensual adults, not between a grown up and an unwilling child.
Polanski stole a young girl’s innocence and wrecked any trust that she would have had for adults. I can’t help thinking of that as I watch my young granddaughters move slowly away from their childhood. In a handful of years we’re going to have less control over their ever expanding world. Stranger danger is easy when they are five or six, how do you go about preparing children on the threshold of puberty. When I started going out to teenage parties my mother told me not to drink anything that I hadn’t poured for myself, as my drinks might be spiked. I thought that was hilarious at the time.
Last year there was an uproar about a photographer who made a living by taking photographs of young girls in sensual poses (with the permission of the girls' parents.) The community in general thought it was despicable but his artistic friends hotly defended him.
Times change as do fads and fashions, but what sort of society is it that finds preying on young innocents acceptable?
We have a responsibility to our vulnerable children to keep them safe from predators who come in all sorts of shapes and sometimes pleasing guises. If we can't push past the seemingly plausible rhetoric and recognise these people for what they are, what hope have our children got? It’s up to us to make sure our children are left to develop at their own pace and be allowed to keep their innocence as long as they need it. Rape is never acceptable in however it is disguised or presented, neither is artistic licence when it has to do with young innocents.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Model Parents
Draft five. Expect many more. The lead in is much too long and the piece is too repetitive. I’ll be giving it a rest for a couple of days and let my subconscious work on it for a bit.
Whenever the subject of role models comes up, it has been a major irritant to me that the same people come up with the same complaints about airbrushed photos and beautiful models making it hard for young girls to aspire or live up to. I agree, unrealistic images and natural beauties make it impossible for the rest of us. We shouldn’t objectify these people we're told, I agree with that too. But I believe that neither should they have the responsibility thrust on them for how we feel about ourselves.
We chastise erring footballers for not living up to the image that young boys have of them; the same goes for swimmers, songwriters and actors. We can't even judge what we think of a song until we've seen the accompanying music clip of beautiful people prancing around singing indecipherable lyrics. Forget that most of us can’t sing or dance or prance worth a damn, we want to be just like them. And if these high profile types let us down, excepting politicians, they get a serve from the rest of us, (We know immediately what to expect from politicians so can’t be disappointed.)
The reason for my diatribe is Jennifer Hawkins. Hawkins is a lingerie model who recently posed nude for an Australian magazine, Marie Claire. The resultant furore wasn’t about the model disrobing. It had to do with the magazine’s claim that the beautiful and flawless (and un-airbrushed) Hawkins represented the rest of the less than perfect female population and was a desirable role model for young girls.
Had Marie Claire offered someone like the older and more shop worn Elle McPherson as an ideal to aspire to, the magazine might have got away with it. Elle is 46 years old and a mother of two children. Nature has been kinder to ‘The Body’ as she is known, than to the rest of us in the same situation. But the occasional picture that slips past the editor’s desk proves that life and gravity have also paid McPherson a visit. Having said that, even an un-airbrushed and tired looking McPherson is somebody we couldn’t possibly aspire to be like. How can we be? Her parents aren't ours. And let’s face it she is a stranger to us all. Where do we get off expecting her flaws to give us comfort about our own?
If we can learn anything at all from Elle, Jennifer and others like them, it’s that they do their best with what nature gave them; they work hard to maintain their health and their figures. If they were musicians, they would be practicing several hours each day to perfect their skills. I’m sure that models or former models do no different when it comes to tuning up their bodies. They work at being the best they can be and we can learn something from that. But I don’t think on the whole that society today is interested in that; society wants a quick fix; society wants somebody else to make sure it doesn't feel bad about itself.
Mention 1940’s actress Veronica Lake to older people and they will tell you she was famous for having a wave of hair covering her left eye. Thousands of women paid to have their hair styled and dyed exactly the same way. Great for hairdressers but the followers looked ridiculous. So did Veronica, but she was beautiful and could pull it off. As the saying goes, ‘imitation is the greatest form of flattery’. That's okay, but making high profile outsiders responsible for how we feel about ourselves places a heavy burden on them.
Doesn’t the role model status belong to parents? Some of us only have to look at our parents to know that the local Orthodontist can expect a visit from us when we hit our teens. It’s in the genes, stupid. If we have a sense of humour it’s because our parents do, or their parents did; if we have a sense of self and integrity we can thank our parents for raising us to believe in ourselves and to respect others.
My parents are dark haired and of average size. Being a pragmatic kind of child, like my dad, I knew almost straight away I was never going to be tall and blonde (hair dye and high heels don't count). They wear prescription glasses; I wear prescription glasses. My dad has a facility for languages, sings well and is a great dancer; something to aspire to even if I have two left feet and only speak one language. Both have a way of telling a tale that I think I have inherited, so when I check out my ugly, aging mug, I comfort myself that even though beauty has faded, I still have the gift of words that they gave me.
My parents have always loved me unconditionally and uncritically choosing to focus on my best features rather than point out what was wrong with me. I grew up on a diet of fan magazines featuring beautiful actors. I’d look forward to getting a new one each week and ogling them and reading about their fictional lives. I enjoyed myself immensely but thanks to the way my parents raised me, I never let it diminish me, and never felt the need to compete. Great role models, my parents.
Whenever the subject of role models comes up, it has been a major irritant to me that the same people come up with the same complaints about airbrushed photos and beautiful models making it hard for young girls to aspire or live up to. I agree, unrealistic images and natural beauties make it impossible for the rest of us. We shouldn’t objectify these people we're told, I agree with that too. But I believe that neither should they have the responsibility thrust on them for how we feel about ourselves.
We chastise erring footballers for not living up to the image that young boys have of them; the same goes for swimmers, songwriters and actors. We can't even judge what we think of a song until we've seen the accompanying music clip of beautiful people prancing around singing indecipherable lyrics. Forget that most of us can’t sing or dance or prance worth a damn, we want to be just like them. And if these high profile types let us down, excepting politicians, they get a serve from the rest of us, (We know immediately what to expect from politicians so can’t be disappointed.)
The reason for my diatribe is Jennifer Hawkins. Hawkins is a lingerie model who recently posed nude for an Australian magazine, Marie Claire. The resultant furore wasn’t about the model disrobing. It had to do with the magazine’s claim that the beautiful and flawless (and un-airbrushed) Hawkins represented the rest of the less than perfect female population and was a desirable role model for young girls.
Had Marie Claire offered someone like the older and more shop worn Elle McPherson as an ideal to aspire to, the magazine might have got away with it. Elle is 46 years old and a mother of two children. Nature has been kinder to ‘The Body’ as she is known, than to the rest of us in the same situation. But the occasional picture that slips past the editor’s desk proves that life and gravity have also paid McPherson a visit. Having said that, even an un-airbrushed and tired looking McPherson is somebody we couldn’t possibly aspire to be like. How can we be? Her parents aren't ours. And let’s face it she is a stranger to us all. Where do we get off expecting her flaws to give us comfort about our own?
If we can learn anything at all from Elle, Jennifer and others like them, it’s that they do their best with what nature gave them; they work hard to maintain their health and their figures. If they were musicians, they would be practicing several hours each day to perfect their skills. I’m sure that models or former models do no different when it comes to tuning up their bodies. They work at being the best they can be and we can learn something from that. But I don’t think on the whole that society today is interested in that; society wants a quick fix; society wants somebody else to make sure it doesn't feel bad about itself.
Mention 1940’s actress Veronica Lake to older people and they will tell you she was famous for having a wave of hair covering her left eye. Thousands of women paid to have their hair styled and dyed exactly the same way. Great for hairdressers but the followers looked ridiculous. So did Veronica, but she was beautiful and could pull it off. As the saying goes, ‘imitation is the greatest form of flattery’. That's okay, but making high profile outsiders responsible for how we feel about ourselves places a heavy burden on them.
Doesn’t the role model status belong to parents? Some of us only have to look at our parents to know that the local Orthodontist can expect a visit from us when we hit our teens. It’s in the genes, stupid. If we have a sense of humour it’s because our parents do, or their parents did; if we have a sense of self and integrity we can thank our parents for raising us to believe in ourselves and to respect others.
My parents are dark haired and of average size. Being a pragmatic kind of child, like my dad, I knew almost straight away I was never going to be tall and blonde (hair dye and high heels don't count). They wear prescription glasses; I wear prescription glasses. My dad has a facility for languages, sings well and is a great dancer; something to aspire to even if I have two left feet and only speak one language. Both have a way of telling a tale that I think I have inherited, so when I check out my ugly, aging mug, I comfort myself that even though beauty has faded, I still have the gift of words that they gave me.
My parents have always loved me unconditionally and uncritically choosing to focus on my best features rather than point out what was wrong with me. I grew up on a diet of fan magazines featuring beautiful actors. I’d look forward to getting a new one each week and ogling them and reading about their fictional lives. I enjoyed myself immensely but thanks to the way my parents raised me, I never let it diminish me, and never felt the need to compete. Great role models, my parents.
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