To smack or not to smack? That’s the hot topic that comes up at least five times a year. Someone has killed a child or maimed a child or starved a child to death. Then it’s on for young and old. Everyone has an opinion. There are the experts, many of whom disagree with smacking and the parents who come in all shapes and sizes as they do.
There are as many opinions as there are parents and parent types (single, married, divorced, and gay). They aren’t ever going to do to their children what their parents did to them; they used to get the strap at school and it never hurt them, in fact it turned them into solid citizens; a little smack on the bottom never hurt anyone and it teaches them a lesson.
Earlier this year a woman hit her child with a wooden spoon. She was quoted as saying that she only uses a spoon when her child is being naughty. That she talks it through with her child first and gives her a ‘fair chance to rectify the situation.’ On the surface of it, it sounds reasonable, but why the spoon? Why not a slap with an open hand to the bottom? Surely it hurts less than the spoon but still gives the child a message. Either way, the message is that violence is not acceptable to resolve issues unless it comes from a parent.
In a democracy the government has no power to call the shots when it comes to when to have children or how many to have or who should be allowed to have them. When things go wrong it can only work indirectly through government agencies. But time and again these agencies have proven ineffectual because neither the money nor the laws are enough back up the overworked and embattled representatives.
Smack seems an innocuous word. It’s used far too often to describe something that’s a lot more violent. If an adult is in control of his or her temper then the occasional smack administered as a last resort and in extraordinary circumstance might work. But if a child breaks something precious or breaks that final straw at the end of a long day can that adult remain cool? I saw a man slap his daughter’s face the last week. She’d let go of his hand when crossing the road. You could see the adrenalin pumping. He reacted through fear. But I could tell that he didn’t make a habit of it. The little girl, she couldn’t have been much older than 8, sobbed and said over and over again, ‘you hurt my feelings, daddy.’
In the real world we tell our children that violence is wrong. That you don't bully and if you yourself are being picked on try sorting things out with your tormentor. We teach that negotiation is the way. We don’t smack our neighbours, even if they irritate us beyond belief, we don’t get stuck into them if we’re tired or have had a bad hair day. We believe that we are far too civilized to take it out on our neighbours. And of course if we are tempted they would slap us back with a writ.
People often say my child, my decision. I think we need to do for smacking what we did for smoking. It was in the too hard basket until people campaigned to have the laws changed and enforced.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Leaving the Hundred Acre Woods
Published in a Children's Magazine in 2009.
Rachel knocked her knee the other day and I offered to kiss her ‘boo boo’. She politely declined. In fact, the exact response that issued from those rosebud lips was: ‘No thank you, nanna, I can make it better.’ The look in her eyes said it all; Rachel has come to understand about the charade that adults play and wasn’t having any of it. I’ve been through this phase with her daddy, her uncle and her sister and have come to dread it.
It’s called the letting go stage; they let go and if you’re doing your job properly, you encourage it. As the king said to the White Rabbit in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, ‘Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: then stop.’ The thing with parents (and grandparents who spend a fair bit of time in their grandchildren’s company), it’s hard to know where to stop or where to begin. You’re so tempted to keep on cutting up their fish fingers for them for ever more, but there comes a time when it becomes necessary to put a fork and (blunt) knife in their little hands, avert your eyes, and let them mangle their food till they get it right. Rachel is a quick study and it didn’t take her long at all.
I encourage Rachel to brush her own hair; expect her to clear the table when she is done eating and have taught her how to make vegemite sandwiches. As her sister Dezzy once did, Rachel stands on a kitchen stool mixing an egg; I’m the sous chef who provides her with the salt, the pepper and the spatula. Chef Rachel stirs and I hold the frypan handle. She takes her plate and cutlery to the table and eats with a hearty appetite. Rachel has learned to make her first dish.
I give my grandchildren a chance to voice an opinion on issues that affect them and follow it through. Knowing that I can do it better or faster makes it the hardest thing to let go of.
When they visit us for the holidays, Dezzy checks out the weather online and chooses what she will wear. She’s become very good at it in the past four years but even on the odd occasion when I haven’t liked her selection I remind myself that it’s her choice that counts. Dezzy knocks on her grandparents’ bedroom door before coming in and expects the same sort of courtesy from us. As she’s the eldest of the two, I went through this necessary process with her first. It wasn’t as heartbreaking then because Rachel was still toddling around clutching her constant companion, Woof Woof, and calling out for my attention.
You prepare yourself for the time when you are permanently retired from active duty. Every little thing you teach children goes towards making them independent of you. You do whatever you can to ensure that the children in your lives develop into being the best and most self-sufficient human beings ever.
As I’ve said, Rachel is going through the Nanna / Daddy / Mummy can’t fix it any more stage and we have come to accept that the days of heartrending sobs on our collective shoulders for such tragic reasons as not being allowed dessert before finishing a main meal are over. I have seen her through her first word (it was nanna), the terrible twos and the reasoning threes. Now she is five and her world is expanding once more. The family members in her life will no longer be the final authority on all things. Rachel’s teacher is already wiser and her new friends cooler. One day there will be boyfriends, but I refuse to think about that. All I know now is that my darling who began school this year has one foot firmly planted outside the Hundred Acre Woods and there is no turning back.
And I can only be glad about that. I wouldn’t keep her from leaving even if I could do it. As an adult, I can appreciate the sweet innocence of Christopher Robin, Pooh, Tigger, Piglet and Eyore. They are what we remember fondly about the most carefree and the too fleeting time of our lives. But Christopher Robin and his friends have a lesson to teach us. They have remained the same lovable, unthinking innocents, since A. A. Milne gave birth to them 89 years ago. They have never grazed a knee or won a debate based on informed reason. And they will never experience that first kiss or know true love.
Rachel still loves fairy wings and wands; she adores gossamer dresses and princess crowns; life is lovely for her and she’s even learned to wait for dessert. I hope that life stays lovely, but when she and her sisters reach the rough patches that life generally throws at you I hope we have helped them to be strong enough to manage and learn from them. When Rachel finally leaves those childish things behind her I hope what remains will be the family values, the self reliance and the inner strength that I sense both Rachel and her sister possess; I hope what they learn along the way will keep them in good stead on their long journey through life.
Rachel knocked her knee the other day and I offered to kiss her ‘boo boo’. She politely declined. In fact, the exact response that issued from those rosebud lips was: ‘No thank you, nanna, I can make it better.’ The look in her eyes said it all; Rachel has come to understand about the charade that adults play and wasn’t having any of it. I’ve been through this phase with her daddy, her uncle and her sister and have come to dread it.
It’s called the letting go stage; they let go and if you’re doing your job properly, you encourage it. As the king said to the White Rabbit in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, ‘Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: then stop.’ The thing with parents (and grandparents who spend a fair bit of time in their grandchildren’s company), it’s hard to know where to stop or where to begin. You’re so tempted to keep on cutting up their fish fingers for them for ever more, but there comes a time when it becomes necessary to put a fork and (blunt) knife in their little hands, avert your eyes, and let them mangle their food till they get it right. Rachel is a quick study and it didn’t take her long at all.
I encourage Rachel to brush her own hair; expect her to clear the table when she is done eating and have taught her how to make vegemite sandwiches. As her sister Dezzy once did, Rachel stands on a kitchen stool mixing an egg; I’m the sous chef who provides her with the salt, the pepper and the spatula. Chef Rachel stirs and I hold the frypan handle. She takes her plate and cutlery to the table and eats with a hearty appetite. Rachel has learned to make her first dish.
I give my grandchildren a chance to voice an opinion on issues that affect them and follow it through. Knowing that I can do it better or faster makes it the hardest thing to let go of.
When they visit us for the holidays, Dezzy checks out the weather online and chooses what she will wear. She’s become very good at it in the past four years but even on the odd occasion when I haven’t liked her selection I remind myself that it’s her choice that counts. Dezzy knocks on her grandparents’ bedroom door before coming in and expects the same sort of courtesy from us. As she’s the eldest of the two, I went through this necessary process with her first. It wasn’t as heartbreaking then because Rachel was still toddling around clutching her constant companion, Woof Woof, and calling out for my attention.
You prepare yourself for the time when you are permanently retired from active duty. Every little thing you teach children goes towards making them independent of you. You do whatever you can to ensure that the children in your lives develop into being the best and most self-sufficient human beings ever.
As I’ve said, Rachel is going through the Nanna / Daddy / Mummy can’t fix it any more stage and we have come to accept that the days of heartrending sobs on our collective shoulders for such tragic reasons as not being allowed dessert before finishing a main meal are over. I have seen her through her first word (it was nanna), the terrible twos and the reasoning threes. Now she is five and her world is expanding once more. The family members in her life will no longer be the final authority on all things. Rachel’s teacher is already wiser and her new friends cooler. One day there will be boyfriends, but I refuse to think about that. All I know now is that my darling who began school this year has one foot firmly planted outside the Hundred Acre Woods and there is no turning back.
And I can only be glad about that. I wouldn’t keep her from leaving even if I could do it. As an adult, I can appreciate the sweet innocence of Christopher Robin, Pooh, Tigger, Piglet and Eyore. They are what we remember fondly about the most carefree and the too fleeting time of our lives. But Christopher Robin and his friends have a lesson to teach us. They have remained the same lovable, unthinking innocents, since A. A. Milne gave birth to them 89 years ago. They have never grazed a knee or won a debate based on informed reason. And they will never experience that first kiss or know true love.
Rachel still loves fairy wings and wands; she adores gossamer dresses and princess crowns; life is lovely for her and she’s even learned to wait for dessert. I hope that life stays lovely, but when she and her sisters reach the rough patches that life generally throws at you I hope we have helped them to be strong enough to manage and learn from them. When Rachel finally leaves those childish things behind her I hope what remains will be the family values, the self reliance and the inner strength that I sense both Rachel and her sister possess; I hope what they learn along the way will keep them in good stead on their long journey through life.
On a Mission from Melbourne
I've agonised about whether or not this piece belongs here, but I've decided that it's a valid part of parenting and what happens to children, to parents and to the extended family when things go wrong.
Within walking distance of Bondi Beachhouse YHA, is Bondi Beach. Lush plants and tree lined streets surround us and refreshing sea breezes make it an idyllic holiday spot for my son David and me. But we’re not in holiday mode; we are on a mission from Melbourne. For several weekends each year it’s our little world; David’s, his children, Dezzy and Rachel, and mine. Our home away from home is comfortable, has spectacular views and most vital for somebody whose creaky old bones prefer the comfort of an indoor loo to stumbling down the passageway in the middle of the night, it has en suites. We’ve had the same room since we arrived on the YHA doorstep four years ago. We snooze on our separate bunk beds (I’m told I snore), keep our drinks cold in the bar fridge and make cups of soup or coffee using the room’s kettle. Last but very much not least, there is the very necessary bathroom. It’s home.
But it isn’t the building or its surrounds that matters, or even the free surfboards and snorkelling gear on offer that counts; it’s the constant that the place represents. Lilla works behind the check-in counter and gives our Pearlie girls access to computer games. David sets up some boppy music on his mobile phone, and when she’s not kayaking or leading a fun run, Sam the day manager joins Dave and the Pearlies for a twirl around the foyer. Yuki, when she’s not swimming with sharks or dolphins makes the place shine. Corrinne, who is Yuki’s colleague, says ‘bonjour’ to the girls and sometimes joins them at the common room table to have a chat. Steve the handyman keeps the place going; he’s friendly and staunchly loyal to the place. Steve takes the girls’ questions seriously and responds in kind. Once upon a time there was James, but he went back to England; Brad has gone off to Ireland with his girl Orla, and Andrew the travel bug comes and goes depending on his finances. It’s people who have made our place a home.
When our girls and their mother shifted back to her home town, the Melbourne mob got together for a brainstorming session. The options open to David as we saw it, was that he either communicates with his children long-distance or takes the more expensive option and travels to Sydney every fortnight. David chose both. I said that in that case I would come along at least once a month and we all discussed finances and the practicality of renting a unit for the weekend or a hotel room that would take the four of us. My sister who has been a bit of a traveller in her time suggested a Youth Hostel. As its name implies, Youth Hostels are marketed to young travellers with firm, tanned bodies and an optimistic outlook on life, but Sue assured me that the YHA will also take in worn-out old cynics as long as they don’t influence the young optimists.
The Friday night before each visit, Dave and I pack a couple of t-shirts each, spare trousers or jeans and a change of underwear. That takes up a tiny corner of each of the two suitcases we bring along. We fill the spaces up with board games, toys and books. I’ve been known to bring along an electric hand mixer to bake birthday cakes. Last year I baked Dezzy’s cake on the hostel’s commercial oven two days before her birthday. Sam always has little gifts for the girls and makes sure they feel special; and last year, Corrinne, conducted dozens of visitors in a cheery happy birthday sing-song for Dezzy.
Dave and I set our alarms for quarter past four. I haul my aching bones out of bed at three thirty and make some coffee; Dave bounces out of his room looking perkier than he has a right to at 4.15 am; he’s fully dressed and ready, lugging his suitcase behind him. We head for the car and Melbourne airport; chatting quietly, talking strategies and anticipating the fun time ahead. In Sydney we hire a car for the weekend, pick the girls up then do the weekend shop for one breakfast, two packed lunches and two dinners. We have a routine. It’s not exciting but it gives the impression of normalcy which is the aim. David brings the girls down from their upstairs flat. Their faces glow. We hurtle towards each other, arms outstretched and hug; words spill out on both sides as we try for a month’s worth of catch-up. They look different each time. It’s not only that they’ve grown a bit since the last time I saw them that makes me sad, but also that something indefinable I see in their faces that speaks of life experiences we’ve not been involved with.
On Saturday afternoon Dave and I lie on our bunks, chatting with the girls in a desultory way; I’ve cooked, they’ve played and we’re all exhausted. Then we get our second wind and all go back to the common room for dinner. Afterwards, Dezzy and I play ‘Hangman’ or ‘I Spy’, and Rachel who hasn’t learned to read yet, participates in her own inimitable way. It’s been a long day. On Sunday we’ll go for a drive, or see a movie or do some browsing.
Before we know it we’re back at the airport waiting for our flight home; as usual it’s all gone faster than we’ve expected, faster than we’ve wanted it to. Dave and I don’t talk much; we’re deeply into our own thoughts about the visit; storing away little images to take out and treasure late at night. But mostly what I’m doing is thinking how thankful I am that David is part of a supportive family network. The girls visit us in the school holidays; we come and see them regularly. We talk; we never stop communicating. I’m grateful that we have between us all managed to normalise an abnormal situation as far as it’s possible to do so. What I’m thinking is that it’s a miracle.
I can pick a separated dad out a mile off these days. He and his children are usually at McDonald’s; it’s family friendly there and neutral territory. The children and the dad face each other across a table littered with chip and burger wrappers. The dad has that haunted look of somebody on a blind date; the formal and stilted conversations probably run along the same lines. The kids look as if they’d rather be elsewhere, but they gamely hang in there. He is their weekend dad.
Within walking distance of Bondi Beachhouse YHA, is Bondi Beach. Lush plants and tree lined streets surround us and refreshing sea breezes make it an idyllic holiday spot for my son David and me. But we’re not in holiday mode; we are on a mission from Melbourne. For several weekends each year it’s our little world; David’s, his children, Dezzy and Rachel, and mine. Our home away from home is comfortable, has spectacular views and most vital for somebody whose creaky old bones prefer the comfort of an indoor loo to stumbling down the passageway in the middle of the night, it has en suites. We’ve had the same room since we arrived on the YHA doorstep four years ago. We snooze on our separate bunk beds (I’m told I snore), keep our drinks cold in the bar fridge and make cups of soup or coffee using the room’s kettle. Last but very much not least, there is the very necessary bathroom. It’s home.
But it isn’t the building or its surrounds that matters, or even the free surfboards and snorkelling gear on offer that counts; it’s the constant that the place represents. Lilla works behind the check-in counter and gives our Pearlie girls access to computer games. David sets up some boppy music on his mobile phone, and when she’s not kayaking or leading a fun run, Sam the day manager joins Dave and the Pearlies for a twirl around the foyer. Yuki, when she’s not swimming with sharks or dolphins makes the place shine. Corrinne, who is Yuki’s colleague, says ‘bonjour’ to the girls and sometimes joins them at the common room table to have a chat. Steve the handyman keeps the place going; he’s friendly and staunchly loyal to the place. Steve takes the girls’ questions seriously and responds in kind. Once upon a time there was James, but he went back to England; Brad has gone off to Ireland with his girl Orla, and Andrew the travel bug comes and goes depending on his finances. It’s people who have made our place a home.
When our girls and their mother shifted back to her home town, the Melbourne mob got together for a brainstorming session. The options open to David as we saw it, was that he either communicates with his children long-distance or takes the more expensive option and travels to Sydney every fortnight. David chose both. I said that in that case I would come along at least once a month and we all discussed finances and the practicality of renting a unit for the weekend or a hotel room that would take the four of us. My sister who has been a bit of a traveller in her time suggested a Youth Hostel. As its name implies, Youth Hostels are marketed to young travellers with firm, tanned bodies and an optimistic outlook on life, but Sue assured me that the YHA will also take in worn-out old cynics as long as they don’t influence the young optimists.
The Friday night before each visit, Dave and I pack a couple of t-shirts each, spare trousers or jeans and a change of underwear. That takes up a tiny corner of each of the two suitcases we bring along. We fill the spaces up with board games, toys and books. I’ve been known to bring along an electric hand mixer to bake birthday cakes. Last year I baked Dezzy’s cake on the hostel’s commercial oven two days before her birthday. Sam always has little gifts for the girls and makes sure they feel special; and last year, Corrinne, conducted dozens of visitors in a cheery happy birthday sing-song for Dezzy.
Dave and I set our alarms for quarter past four. I haul my aching bones out of bed at three thirty and make some coffee; Dave bounces out of his room looking perkier than he has a right to at 4.15 am; he’s fully dressed and ready, lugging his suitcase behind him. We head for the car and Melbourne airport; chatting quietly, talking strategies and anticipating the fun time ahead. In Sydney we hire a car for the weekend, pick the girls up then do the weekend shop for one breakfast, two packed lunches and two dinners. We have a routine. It’s not exciting but it gives the impression of normalcy which is the aim. David brings the girls down from their upstairs flat. Their faces glow. We hurtle towards each other, arms outstretched and hug; words spill out on both sides as we try for a month’s worth of catch-up. They look different each time. It’s not only that they’ve grown a bit since the last time I saw them that makes me sad, but also that something indefinable I see in their faces that speaks of life experiences we’ve not been involved with.
On Saturday afternoon Dave and I lie on our bunks, chatting with the girls in a desultory way; I’ve cooked, they’ve played and we’re all exhausted. Then we get our second wind and all go back to the common room for dinner. Afterwards, Dezzy and I play ‘Hangman’ or ‘I Spy’, and Rachel who hasn’t learned to read yet, participates in her own inimitable way. It’s been a long day. On Sunday we’ll go for a drive, or see a movie or do some browsing.
Before we know it we’re back at the airport waiting for our flight home; as usual it’s all gone faster than we’ve expected, faster than we’ve wanted it to. Dave and I don’t talk much; we’re deeply into our own thoughts about the visit; storing away little images to take out and treasure late at night. But mostly what I’m doing is thinking how thankful I am that David is part of a supportive family network. The girls visit us in the school holidays; we come and see them regularly. We talk; we never stop communicating. I’m grateful that we have between us all managed to normalise an abnormal situation as far as it’s possible to do so. What I’m thinking is that it’s a miracle.
I can pick a separated dad out a mile off these days. He and his children are usually at McDonald’s; it’s family friendly there and neutral territory. The children and the dad face each other across a table littered with chip and burger wrappers. The dad has that haunted look of somebody on a blind date; the formal and stilted conversations probably run along the same lines. The kids look as if they’d rather be elsewhere, but they gamely hang in there. He is their weekend dad.
Terrible Twos
Published in a children’s magazine some time in 2007. I’m not naming names because some of it was edited and I have gone back to the original version.
My two year old granddaughter slapped a perfect stranger at the play park. All the poor kid wanted was a turn at the slide, but as Rachel saw it, she was protecting her territory. ‘Mine’, she said, and slapped his cheek. ‘Make nice, Rachel’ I responded. I took her unwilling hand and got it to stroke the victim’s now rosy cheek. He was a sweet little boy who was surprisingly bemused by the whole situation. He stood quietly for an instant, letting Rachel do her thing then tottered off to see his mother.
It turns out that she was keeping a watchful eye just behind me. ‘Terrible twos’? she asked. I smiled and nodded but knew for certain that her vision of that phase and mine were necessarily different. I was well rested and filled with memories and hindsight. She was in the middle of a personal parenting nightmare full of sleepless nights and harried days. Two year olds are what is colloquially known as ‘in your face’ day and night. It’s an intense but mercifully short gig. The daily mantra from the moment parents haul themselves out of bed to the second they tuck their little ones into theirs for the night is ‘don’t touch, do share, don’t smack.’
‘We don’t smack, Rachel.’ I explained it for the four hundred and fiftieth time since her arrival on my doorstep. I wasn’t talking in the third person and didn’t mean it in the ‘royal we’ context. I wanted her to know about our family tradition. My parents did not smack me, I did not smack her dad and her dad does not smack his children. This meant nothing to Rachel, of course. The very next thing, she did was to try and depose her long suffering but doting six year old sister Dezzy from her swing. Rachel hasn’t got the hang of civilised behaviour yet, but I’m persisting. ‘Share,’ I said. ‘Wait for your turn, Rachel,’ but ‘mine’ is a concept more easily learned than ‘share’ when you are two. I once heard Lauren Bacall talk about herself at 19. She said it was the age when you learned about life and people. I think learning about life begins with the Terrible Twos (TTs). They are alert and aware and raring to go. We are the ones who are alarmed because they’re so energetic about it. The good news is that two is the phase where rudimentary reason takes shape. The bad news is that applying it to the budding mind can give you RSI of the throat.
As I’ve said, hindsight counts for a lot. I’m not Rachel’s full time carer, just a well rested grandma on a two week baby sitting stint. I was therefore capable of some coherent thought, a luxury not afforded to me the first time round. And what I’ve noticed is that Rachel herself isn’t so terrible it’s the situation that’s become untenable for her carers. Rachel, a recent graduate from the horizontal crawl has taken the worst possible time to blossom. Having conserved her energy for months and having fooled us into believing that this sedate phase would last forever, she is now spending her energy in the most shameless way. Like the Scarlet Pimpernel, you see her here, there and everywhere else you don’t want her to be.
Rachel has this facility for pressing the right buttons just like her dad the computer programmer. She checks out what’s on TV, fiddles with the oven knobs, then turns the computer on and off. You might call her a terrible two. I see her as an energetic and adventurous two year four month old using sight, touch, movement and a heightened sense of awareness to get a handle on her environment.
When she’s not training as a computer programmer, Rachel points non stop: ‘what’s this, what’s that?’ And it’s not the big issues she’s asking about, like ‘where do babies come from?’ She’ll probably spring that on me in a couple of years when I’m least expecting it. Right now, Rachel is anxious to start up a dialogue with the adults in her life and is going about it the best way she knows how. Even in the two weeks she’s spent with us, her vocabulary expands at the rate of knots and she’s putting longer and longer sentences together. I can’t wait for the next morning just to see what she’ll come up with. Rachel is very fond of the word spatula and has unaccountably taken to the implement. It has a place of honour next to ‘woof, woof’ and ‘blankie’. She picks up items and examines them up close. She wants to take them apart to see what they’re made of. Rachel makes sure that I’m watching, then puts a counter in her mouth and grins, daring me to challenge her. I explain that she can choke and I hold my throat and make realistic sounds. She seems impressed and lets me take the now sticky item out of her mouth.
One thing that she will never get the chance to do is to rip the spine off my gold-edged, Moroccan leather bound collection of Shakespeare’s work because her father got there before her. Like the character in Hazel Edward’s book, ‘There’s a Hippopotamus on my roof eating cake,’ I had placed my ‘best book’ in my son’s way. Edwards’ story is about a little girl and her invisible friend. It’s well worth the many reprints that it has had over the last 25 years, but when I re-read it recently a couple of lines positively leapt out at me. It was ‘I drew in daddy’s best book. Daddy gave me a smack.’ She follows it up by saying that no one smacks the hippopotamus because, ‘he’s too big.’. The offending line has since been politically corrected to ‘daddy growled’ but growling or smacking aside, two things are obvious to me: if you’re big nobody smacks you and nowhere in this story is there any mention of malicious intent. If the dad in that story had left his treasure lying around within easy reach, surely the fault and the consequences were his to deal with.
What we need is a sort of 21st Century version of the 19th Century book ‘Enquire Within Upon Everything.’ If today’s experts weren’t busy contradicting each other on vital issues like breastfeeding versus bottle feeding they could get together and work something out. It took Samuel Johnson nine years to put the first English dictionary together; before 1755 everybody suited themselves when it came to spelling. It might have been a hard ask, but how glad are we now that he persevered?
And if the experts can get together, maybe the federal government can do the same. At the moment it’s each state to decide for itself. Parents today can ‘reasonably chastise’ their children in most states. (A soft sounding word with harsh connotations meaning ‘to punish, usually severely’.) In NSW the Crimes Act has been amended to say that ‘lawful correction’ is considered unreasonable if it’s too severe or if it’s going to last ‘more than a short period.’ Tasmania politicians have been considering reform for the last three years, which is why nothing has yet been done about it.
At any given time of day, Rachel knows what to expect from me and she is slowly learning what I want from her. The short answer is respect. My philosophy is, if I deserve it then so does she. I like to teach by example and Rachel is at the age that mimics. So far she has learned that her limited life experience won’t get her into trouble with me. I will not suddenly swoop down and shout at her or smack her (another soft word for a harsh action). If Rachel wants to go through my cupboards or tries to rummage through my drawers I give her a drawer of her own that she can put her little treasures into and take out of twenty times a day. I cover my lounge suite with a throw rug so that I don’t have to worry about sticky fingers. And her tantrums don’t faze me. I don’t care about being judged by outsiders. My focus is on Rachel. I give her a minute and a half because neither of us can take any more, then pick her up and give her a cuddle. She’s ready, now, to hear why she can’t have what she wants and we move on. The great thing about TTs is that they don’t carry a grudge.
If I haven’t much mentioned Rachel’s sister, it’s because like Big Foot, Dezzy is the mythical good child we all talk about in hushed whispers but never meet. We know someone who knows someone who has sighted a Dezzy child somewhere. Dezzy slept through most nights and gave her parents a break, she grew a full set of teeth but no-one noticed their arrival, and Dezzy tiptoed through the terrible twos with hardly an incident. This paragon is also a tolerant and loving older sister who lets herself be bossed around by her little sister. It’s obvious to those who know her that Dezzy’s blood is worth bottling but I’ve got the patent on that, so the rest of you will have to make your own arrangements.
I think the trick is that if you and your child are going to survive the TTs intact then you need the occasional break from each other’s company. A bit of a holiday. Parenting is like studying for the VCE only parenting is non stop. Even VCE students know that to function properly they need the occasional break. They need it and so do you. Bring a bit of sanity back into your life. Find a nice crèche to take over once a week then tuck yourself and a good book into bed for the day. Go for a walk. Drive to the beach and watch the waves ebb and flow, it’s hypnotic and very therapeutic. Swap roles with your partner once in a while and let him answer some questions. Give yourselves a break; you need to conserve your energy for puberty.
My two year old granddaughter slapped a perfect stranger at the play park. All the poor kid wanted was a turn at the slide, but as Rachel saw it, she was protecting her territory. ‘Mine’, she said, and slapped his cheek. ‘Make nice, Rachel’ I responded. I took her unwilling hand and got it to stroke the victim’s now rosy cheek. He was a sweet little boy who was surprisingly bemused by the whole situation. He stood quietly for an instant, letting Rachel do her thing then tottered off to see his mother.
It turns out that she was keeping a watchful eye just behind me. ‘Terrible twos’? she asked. I smiled and nodded but knew for certain that her vision of that phase and mine were necessarily different. I was well rested and filled with memories and hindsight. She was in the middle of a personal parenting nightmare full of sleepless nights and harried days. Two year olds are what is colloquially known as ‘in your face’ day and night. It’s an intense but mercifully short gig. The daily mantra from the moment parents haul themselves out of bed to the second they tuck their little ones into theirs for the night is ‘don’t touch, do share, don’t smack.’
‘We don’t smack, Rachel.’ I explained it for the four hundred and fiftieth time since her arrival on my doorstep. I wasn’t talking in the third person and didn’t mean it in the ‘royal we’ context. I wanted her to know about our family tradition. My parents did not smack me, I did not smack her dad and her dad does not smack his children. This meant nothing to Rachel, of course. The very next thing, she did was to try and depose her long suffering but doting six year old sister Dezzy from her swing. Rachel hasn’t got the hang of civilised behaviour yet, but I’m persisting. ‘Share,’ I said. ‘Wait for your turn, Rachel,’ but ‘mine’ is a concept more easily learned than ‘share’ when you are two. I once heard Lauren Bacall talk about herself at 19. She said it was the age when you learned about life and people. I think learning about life begins with the Terrible Twos (TTs). They are alert and aware and raring to go. We are the ones who are alarmed because they’re so energetic about it. The good news is that two is the phase where rudimentary reason takes shape. The bad news is that applying it to the budding mind can give you RSI of the throat.
As I’ve said, hindsight counts for a lot. I’m not Rachel’s full time carer, just a well rested grandma on a two week baby sitting stint. I was therefore capable of some coherent thought, a luxury not afforded to me the first time round. And what I’ve noticed is that Rachel herself isn’t so terrible it’s the situation that’s become untenable for her carers. Rachel, a recent graduate from the horizontal crawl has taken the worst possible time to blossom. Having conserved her energy for months and having fooled us into believing that this sedate phase would last forever, she is now spending her energy in the most shameless way. Like the Scarlet Pimpernel, you see her here, there and everywhere else you don’t want her to be.
Rachel has this facility for pressing the right buttons just like her dad the computer programmer. She checks out what’s on TV, fiddles with the oven knobs, then turns the computer on and off. You might call her a terrible two. I see her as an energetic and adventurous two year four month old using sight, touch, movement and a heightened sense of awareness to get a handle on her environment.
When she’s not training as a computer programmer, Rachel points non stop: ‘what’s this, what’s that?’ And it’s not the big issues she’s asking about, like ‘where do babies come from?’ She’ll probably spring that on me in a couple of years when I’m least expecting it. Right now, Rachel is anxious to start up a dialogue with the adults in her life and is going about it the best way she knows how. Even in the two weeks she’s spent with us, her vocabulary expands at the rate of knots and she’s putting longer and longer sentences together. I can’t wait for the next morning just to see what she’ll come up with. Rachel is very fond of the word spatula and has unaccountably taken to the implement. It has a place of honour next to ‘woof, woof’ and ‘blankie’. She picks up items and examines them up close. She wants to take them apart to see what they’re made of. Rachel makes sure that I’m watching, then puts a counter in her mouth and grins, daring me to challenge her. I explain that she can choke and I hold my throat and make realistic sounds. She seems impressed and lets me take the now sticky item out of her mouth.
One thing that she will never get the chance to do is to rip the spine off my gold-edged, Moroccan leather bound collection of Shakespeare’s work because her father got there before her. Like the character in Hazel Edward’s book, ‘There’s a Hippopotamus on my roof eating cake,’ I had placed my ‘best book’ in my son’s way. Edwards’ story is about a little girl and her invisible friend. It’s well worth the many reprints that it has had over the last 25 years, but when I re-read it recently a couple of lines positively leapt out at me. It was ‘I drew in daddy’s best book. Daddy gave me a smack.’ She follows it up by saying that no one smacks the hippopotamus because, ‘he’s too big.’. The offending line has since been politically corrected to ‘daddy growled’ but growling or smacking aside, two things are obvious to me: if you’re big nobody smacks you and nowhere in this story is there any mention of malicious intent. If the dad in that story had left his treasure lying around within easy reach, surely the fault and the consequences were his to deal with.
What we need is a sort of 21st Century version of the 19th Century book ‘Enquire Within Upon Everything.’ If today’s experts weren’t busy contradicting each other on vital issues like breastfeeding versus bottle feeding they could get together and work something out. It took Samuel Johnson nine years to put the first English dictionary together; before 1755 everybody suited themselves when it came to spelling. It might have been a hard ask, but how glad are we now that he persevered?
And if the experts can get together, maybe the federal government can do the same. At the moment it’s each state to decide for itself. Parents today can ‘reasonably chastise’ their children in most states. (A soft sounding word with harsh connotations meaning ‘to punish, usually severely’.) In NSW the Crimes Act has been amended to say that ‘lawful correction’ is considered unreasonable if it’s too severe or if it’s going to last ‘more than a short period.’ Tasmania politicians have been considering reform for the last three years, which is why nothing has yet been done about it.
At any given time of day, Rachel knows what to expect from me and she is slowly learning what I want from her. The short answer is respect. My philosophy is, if I deserve it then so does she. I like to teach by example and Rachel is at the age that mimics. So far she has learned that her limited life experience won’t get her into trouble with me. I will not suddenly swoop down and shout at her or smack her (another soft word for a harsh action). If Rachel wants to go through my cupboards or tries to rummage through my drawers I give her a drawer of her own that she can put her little treasures into and take out of twenty times a day. I cover my lounge suite with a throw rug so that I don’t have to worry about sticky fingers. And her tantrums don’t faze me. I don’t care about being judged by outsiders. My focus is on Rachel. I give her a minute and a half because neither of us can take any more, then pick her up and give her a cuddle. She’s ready, now, to hear why she can’t have what she wants and we move on. The great thing about TTs is that they don’t carry a grudge.
If I haven’t much mentioned Rachel’s sister, it’s because like Big Foot, Dezzy is the mythical good child we all talk about in hushed whispers but never meet. We know someone who knows someone who has sighted a Dezzy child somewhere. Dezzy slept through most nights and gave her parents a break, she grew a full set of teeth but no-one noticed their arrival, and Dezzy tiptoed through the terrible twos with hardly an incident. This paragon is also a tolerant and loving older sister who lets herself be bossed around by her little sister. It’s obvious to those who know her that Dezzy’s blood is worth bottling but I’ve got the patent on that, so the rest of you will have to make your own arrangements.
I think the trick is that if you and your child are going to survive the TTs intact then you need the occasional break from each other’s company. A bit of a holiday. Parenting is like studying for the VCE only parenting is non stop. Even VCE students know that to function properly they need the occasional break. They need it and so do you. Bring a bit of sanity back into your life. Find a nice crèche to take over once a week then tuck yourself and a good book into bed for the day. Go for a walk. Drive to the beach and watch the waves ebb and flow, it’s hypnotic and very therapeutic. Swap roles with your partner once in a while and let him answer some questions. Give yourselves a break; you need to conserve your energy for puberty.
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