Showing posts with label school is coming. Show all posts
Showing posts with label school is coming. Show all posts

Thursday, February 2, 2012

Look who's going to school

Just three short years ago, our little Lollipop was pooping in her nappy at the airport as she farewelled her cousins ("Mia 'n Emmaaaaaa! Where they be?") and using Scrapsy to "make my better". You'll be relieved that smell-o-vision is not an invention - I still remember the sting of my nostrils as we walked back to the car to change her. Wafting a scent worthy of Pepe le Pew behind us.

Un smelle vous finay!


Now the LGBB is a confident, excited, enthusiastic and friendly five and a half year-old ready to blow their socks off this year in Prep.  She'll be there tomorrow, white socks neatly pulled up, plonking along in school shoes a tad too large and trying to avoid head lice (yeah, right.... wish us luck with that!). And I daresay I'll do similar to what Marg Simpson does with all the other parents as they forlornly wave off their children to camp until the kids are out of sight - then I'll do a big air-jump "WOOP!" and high-five some other parent next to me. Because let's face it: all things must end. And we have spent her entire life so far with each other. It's time to branch out, for both our sakes.

But back then, the LGBB was still crafting the natural comedic timing that has become one of her signature traits. Oh how she makes my heart soar.  Even if she still does stop me from singing in EXACTLY the same manner as she tries on in this video. This is one of my favourites. It is SO her at that age.

I am so excited for her. For me. Yet slightly worried, ready for whatever comes next.

Ahhh, boy, they were not wrong when they warned it would go faster than I could believe possible.

Enjoy your young'uns! Despite it all - everything that is hard and feels ennnnnndless... - I hope you do indeed stop. Sit back. And enjoy it. x


Tuesday, January 17, 2012

2012: The Year of.... Getting my house back

Well, sort of.

I'm not going to bang on (much) about how I'm walking around the house already crestfallen that I will be alone for most of the day five days a week. And that it will at times probably remind me of all those days, years ago, where I would roam the house while Steve was at work and I had empty arms and only the memory of my baby to reach out to.

How times have changed. Why won't I dwell on this?

Because yesterday, it dawned on me:  when the LGBB starts school, I'm going to get my house back! I mean, I am going to be able to clean and tidy a room.... And it's gonna stay that way for the whole day!! This is a big deal when you work at home, tidying around a child (or children). Years ago, I gave over to the notion of being able to keep every room of the house spotless while there was a young person living here. Hell, I gave over to the prospect of having a house get all messed up when I started living with a man. But that's another issue entirely.

It seems like such a small thing. But I have a feeling it's going to actually be huge for me this year - the fact that I will be able to create some order, and I will be able to cast my eyes over things and my brain will register the orderliness. I think it will go a long way to brushing away some of the lingering blues, which I can safely call depression this far in to my life's journey, let's face it. That constant sense of never getting to the bottom of my list of what I would like to do in order that I feel like I've achieved anywhere near anything useful.... it's almost over.  I know it!

I hardly want to imagine it, but I am beginning to look forward to the days of mopping the floors and them actually staying dust, fluff and footprint-free! For up to 5 hours at the very least! Mercy me. And that I will be able to clean rooms completely without a single interruption, meaning I will be free to actually finish cleaning them and not just give them a cursory once-over saying "That'll have to do" because duty calls in another part of the house.

Mind you, this doesn't alleviate the issue of the three animals we share this home with. Sigh. I feel like I am running a créche for animals some days, what with all the mess I have to clean up after them. Not that I'm calling my child an animal..... Although sometimes.... hey, if the shoe fits.

"Let It Snow!"  This is why beanbags are evil.....


Is a house with some sense of order and/or cleanliness something that cheers you? Or do you not give a hoot either way?

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Shuffling, the Running Man... whatever you call it, she's all grown up now

Yesterday, I stood with the other new prep parents as we waited for the doors to open. It's just lucky for me that I got in a kiss of Lolly's squishy, plump cheek and a hug of her waif-thin frame before the teachers came out to start them on their first day of school transition (a process that will take the remainder of the month) because after that, I was eating her dust.

Whatever sentimental lump-in-throat, emotion-choking moment that might have come was well and truly stamped out by her confident hand-flick wave behind her in my direction - it said "See ya, wouldn't wanna BE yaaaah" - and I was left standing there going, "So..... that was it then?"

My work here is done.

This divine little creature who only yesterday (ok, well, more accurately maybe it was over 3 years ago) was delighting in the post-euphoria of her very first ever plane ride by breaking into dance, barely aged 2:



... and was the most adorable tantrum-throwing twonager:



... and a rocket scientist in the making:



... is now a school kid. Even though she still technically has two months of kinder left for this year. But best not to mention it around these parts, it's a touchy subject.

The LGBB went off to kindy today determined to showcase her latest dance move for the kids and teachers. Today she headed off all full of excitement about the morning spent at her new school which had given her renewed self-confidence to perform and speak up in front of others.

This is it. It's her moment. She is ready to unleash The Running Man on her peers. I hadn't the heart to tell her that *yawn* we've already been there, done that, back in the '80s because she loves Party Rockers just so very much. A little... too much, in fact.



So first, her class. Then... the world. Look out.

Yes. My work here is done.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Just in time for school: My own (belated) Mothers Day poem

I was cleaning the desk this morning and came across an exercise I have been meaning to complete. It's for the LGBB's kindergarten book her teacher has been compiling all year. It's a page where the mother has to write something to the child, their thoughts about the preschool year. In Lolly's book, there's a gaping page waiting for my contribution that was supposed to be made on/about Mothers Day back in May.

I have been putting it to the side. I think I've been in denial. I didn't want to even GO there. Of course, like so many stay-home parents, on some days I am climbing the walls to get away from the incessant nature of Lolly's grown-to-bursting inquisitiveness and hunger for stimulation and instinctive need to learn "stuff about stuff". Most days I roll with it. Some days I am far from civil about it.

Anyway, today was apparently the day where it all came spilling out of me. It wasn't as hard as I thought it might be. And it came out as a poem... which is weird, because I don't write those.



When I think of all the moments
That stop and make me smile
They always feature you
When you were small for a brief while


If I could pause this time with you
Before you go to school
I'd make the most of it all again
With outings to the pool


And visits to the 'cino shop
Which is where you learned to sit
So quietly with such good manners
While we played "Ladies" for a bit


Sometimes all your friends might come
Again as they used to do
Scrapsy, Bunny, and a teddy or Horace
You've more than quite a few


I'd take you to the park again
Or the library with your bike...
And we can do all these things still
Just after school now if you'd like


You and I have spent so long
Together while you've been home
You have made my life complete
Much more than you could know



So thank you for your happy smile,
Always beaming as you go
The way you find the joy in things
Is a treat to watch, you know



Your little golden head
Belongs to a big girl now
It's your last year home with me
We made it! Let's both take a bow...


You've been such a treasure to mummy
So I would like to say
Thank you to YOU, my lovely girl,
On my happy Mothers Day









Friday, October 28, 2011

Trick-or-treat friends: Why cheese in a box was better than Halloween

So Halloween is coming up on Monday here in Australia.

I'm sorry, I am going against the grain here and saying - as I have done consistently in previous years - we don't "do" Halloween. Just the whole headless, bloodied, ghoulish mask thing is one that freaks our sensitive little petal right out. See, the LGBB likes the idea of Halloween (what's not to love, on the surface? You dress up, you walk around your neighbourhood in groups of friends, you go door to door receiving sweets for nothing). But she always forgets that witches terrify her. Masks make her hysterical. And the sight of (even fake) blood has her father and I assured for the time being that she would not make a very good vet. Or doctor. Of any description.

I was talking to a friend earlier today about why it is that Halloween is such a big deal here. 'Have we missed something?' I always ask when I find that rare person who doesn't go in for the ritual.... a term I have to use loosely.

We were none the wiser after discussing it, realising that we are uneducated about the practice of Halloween and are more than happy to allow for people who partake in it. But that it is simply not something our children join in on (because of not enjoying the dress-up bit when it comes down to sheet-adorning, mask-applying crunch-time).

We agreed that all we see is a chance for our children (nothing personal here, just talking about her children and mine) to be delivered rather mixed signals: That out of the blue, we're encouraging the notion of going along with something simply because everyone else is doing what they collectively think is a good idea (peer pressure reinforcement... and don't you be thinking for one second that mothers aren't pressured by their peers!) and, more's the sticking point for me, be rewarded with so many treats it would make your eyes pop. The kind of treats that, at any other time of year, are meted out with great restraint in our house. Why would I be okay all of a sudden with the LGBB collecting lollies from strangers, only to bring them all back here and have what would effectively be (the way I ration them) a few months' supply of junk food? The thought of having all that in the house - and her being aware of it... and nagging me hour after hour for more - is more than I can sanely bear to imagine. These two things alone are simply not the kind of mixed messages I want to send her. Call me a prude. A stick in the mud. It just doesn't sit well with me.

It got me thinking, though, about my upbringing. Namely, the fact that we never did trick-or-treat-ing (we lived in a place where the houses were so spaced apart by paddocks that you'd be lucky to visit ten in a 1/2km stretch... too much for little feet!). But I wasn't short for treats. Oh, no. When I wanted the really good stuff, I had my friends. Better yet, I didn't have to pester anyone! They did it all and I just sat back and cashed in with eyes bigger than my little stomach.

Paula was the junk food friend. She was the kind of kid who pestered her busy mother for food even as she was finishing her final mouthful of the last thing she asked for (and received). In one 2-hour play at Paula's after primary school, I could be assured of an Augustus Gloop-type array of gluttony. Pure bliss and delight to my seven year-old eyes! Crisps, ice lollies, packets of Tic-Tacs, a choc chip biscuit or four. I remember the time I went there and was crestfallen to realise.... I had eaten so much I felt full. So full, in fact, that I couldn't possibly fit in the Wizz Fizz, popcorn or bowl of cocoa pops (because "cereal is a healthy snack") but did anyway. Oh, how I was ill.

Michelle was the soda fountain friend. Until the magical year we received one of our very own (1984, I believe it was), it was Michelle's house you went to if you wanted carbonated water mixed with the most disgustingly good imitation cola syrup. Oh, yeah. That was The Stuff.

There were others, each with their own delightful contribution to my childhood treaties stage. However, of all of them, Caroline was by far the top shelf friend. For you see, in Caroline's house one could be assured of the Expensive Cheese. The heavily over-processed long-life no-refrigeration-required-until-opening Kraft blue box cheese.

Oh my. I was instantly in love. With the cheese, not Caroline.

My childhood - sadly or not, you be the judge and keep the judgements to yourself thank you very much - was improved greatly by the discovery of thickly sliced "cheese in the box" (as we called it) sat atop white bread and stuck under the griller. The base of the cheese slices would go gooey, while the top would lift away up towards the heat and grill to browned perfection. Once cooled down a tad, you could stick your finger through the dome-puffed cheese crust and break it away. Delectable. Taking a bite, the cheese would ooze and string. Sheer. Delight. From-a-box.

I took a survey (of one) and discovered my friend also remembered the name of her Treat Friend - Margie. Margie who introduced her to slabs of real butter atop hot toast. Now, to a girl who'd only known fast and efficient margarine to that point in her life, the discovery of butter was akin to finding her religion.

So I maintain:  Halloween does not have to be. It never factored in my childhood and I was no worse off for it. Granted, I essentially thought cheese with a shelf life with no end-date bunged on some bread and grilled was the absolute shiz. But still... we won't be bowing to the pressure bestowed on us increasingly each year to join in that over-commercialized "festive fun" occasion known as Halloween. It's so northern hemisphere, it's almost embarrassing. Mind you, how in the heck we are going to continue to get away with this as the LGBB grows older is another thing. I guess I should also add a disclaimer here that I will "never say never" definitively. But for this year at least, once again, we'll be conveniently unable to hear the doorbell. Oh, what a shame.....

Go on. Hit me with your bah humbugs! I'm used to it!


Do you have a treat friend? Do you remember their name and what they had on offer at their house? Please share!




Tuesday, October 11, 2011

She's ba-a-ack: When preschool's not enough

There is one new thing I am coming to adore about my child and that is.... the moments of time we spend apart.

So slay me.

In the name of full disclosure, in these past two weeks:
I've yelled
I've uttered, "Ohhh fuck, pleeeeease go away for just one minute, pleeeeease" under my breath more than I am a lady enough to admit.
I've cried like a toddler myself and stamped my foot and even uttered the words, in retort to the latest demand request of her dearest heart, "But I don't WANT to."
I wished away the last one-on-one time I'm going to get to spend with her before casting her out into the big wide world of school.
I have felt like the Pied Piper like never before in my life... EVERY single room I enter, behind me - guaranteed - is a chatterbox child, a cat with such a loud bell on her collar (to prevent bird "accidents") that we should have just bought her a doorbell and been done with it, a bouncing "Me-first" Labrador trying to push her way to the front and an aging, brilliantine stick insect of a dog who trips over nothing and causes a hallway block wherever she goes.

We're growing a special person here. I know that. During the holidays, she was lucky enough to attend a short little two-day dancing and singing workshop with a friend. The children were asked to draw a picture of someone they admire "because they do good things or are very good at making people happy." They were then prompted to draw a picture of themselves and this person.

This person can help them follow their dreams and believe in themselves, the words prompt.

The LGBB proudly presented me with her picture. I saw one face and she confirmed there was one person in her picture. I asked her who it was, hopeful it was me but sure it would be her Dad.



"It's ME!" she said, in perfect preschooler narcissism.

And I thought, hell yeah! YES! She gets it. I love that she has drawn herself as the person she sees as believing in herself. My wish for her as she navigates the next 13 or so years of school is that she remembers she believes in her dreams. Her Dad and me, we always will too. It's a given. But sometimes, we forget to keep that faith in ourselves as adults. Have you forgotten?

I love my girl. I watch her a lot. I gaze at her without even realising I am. And yes, despite everything in my history... I know I take her for granted. I get frustrated with her, sometimes openly so she sees it, sometimes covertly so that it's just my internal organs that take a beating from the pressure-cooker stress I don't express.

I yearn already for the lost days of her childhood innocence. Before the big kids or her peers with the older siblings tarnish herr. School is approaching, fast. But for the past two weeks of school holidays (she went back to kindy for 6 glorious hours today where I spent half my time wading in delirious, lush sort-of-Me-time*), I couldn't care WHO takes her as long as she gets some mental stimulation that doesn't rely solely on me.

By far, these have been the hardest holidays to bear yet. I'm telling you, if I didn't know better, I'd guarantee you that I could put up with sibling fighting on the hour every hour (with pop-fights every 10 minutes in between) if only it means I am not the single, solitary focus of her attention.

I am not enough.

I am enough.

Both of these realisations have occurred to me as I have clawed my way back to the relative solace of these 2-day-a-week (NOT ENOUGH ANYMORE!) preschool breaks we have from each other. We're at the pointy end of the year here and she needs more.

You know when you get to a stage where you are equally wistful about the end of an era and more than ready to start your new life? That's where I am right now. Have you ever been there with something in your life, on the precipice but not looking forward to the end either? Tell me about it in the comments!






*Me-time, my definition: Not having to respond or react or be answerable to a motor-mouthing preschooler while you pack a dishwasher, sort some washing, peg out 1,000 acres of new washing, take a conference call, handle an order or three for the business and ponder the direction of your book's characters.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Kinder friends: This is what I'mma gonna do

It's like this:

If you hadn't already gathered from how I post occasionally, I am really respectful of people's personal spaces and try not to assume too much. I'm even more deeply focused on ensuring I have ample time and space to recoup my own energy.

Same goes, at this point in her life, for my daughter.

To say it's been an interesting year, navigating all that comes with being the parent of a child "in the educational system", is putting it mildly. As so many of you would attest, it's a bit of a culture shock (of sorts) going from the world you assume you're setting up for your child and then getting smacked between the eyes with so much politicking and back-stabbing you'd be forgiven for thinking you were part of a multi-billion-dollar corporate conglomerate, not a kindergarten of families with similar-aged children.

But that is secondary, really, to my real heart-ache. The real sting. Here I was, thinking I could avoid - on behalf of my child - these things (in no particular order):

• the sexualised age. Full-stop. Just.... everything. Because we've all been forced to accept: Sex Sells. Apparently. Now, we can avoid all the music, all the commercials (we literally do not have any shows that include ad's in this house and if they do have ad's, we record it and invariably jump past those), but we can't avoid it when she goes to a friend's house, we can't vet what the dance teacher deems appropriate for the term dances, and next year it's all going to change again - the amount of exposure she is going to have from older children just makes me go cold;
• white bread. Please! Why do I feel the need to state my case for grainy bread? And why must it be pointd out, in front of my child and yours, that yours doesn't eat "any of that wholemeal or grain stuff"?
• dairy. Don't get me started (again). And yes, she gets enough calcium from her balanced diet, thankeweverymuch for being concerned and asking. But I'd rather her know that any cow-sourced products give her a sore tum, red cheeks and blocked nasal passages faster than she can say "dairy intolreance" and while she willingly asks for rice milk to avoid said pains, I'm happy to oblige;
• lollies. I know. What was I thinking? Steve used to rib me that I would be the most unpopular parent (more accurately, the LGBB the most unpopular kid in terms of play dates at her house) if I kept feeding her those mung bean biscuits I used to give her in place of rusks as a baby. Meh. What would HE know? *hiding stash*

I could go on. But I won't. It's probably a fairly predictable list after this.

My point is, despite avoiding this music, their accompanying music videos, TV shows where characters talk so shockingly to one another, dairy, white bread, highly sugared snacks...... it's all coming in on me. The weight of The World.

Compounding how it is at the pointy end of the final year before I wave my child off into the open arms of other people's family "cultures", I'm in this really strange ancestral-ties world, viewing things like growing vegetables in our backyard as surely a "do-able thing if my pioneering great-great-great-great grandfather could grow vegies in nothing but rocks and making his garden flourish so he could sell his produce to neighbours to earn enough money to bring the rest of his young family out from England." I don't quite fancy, then, the notion that it's okay to just give my child a diet with all the trimmings her friends have just because "it's their age, let them have fun while they're young."

Despite feeling like I'm losing this control - inevitably, I do understand this! You can't stop progress - I felt a little comfort this week when I realised I had made a decision that I could stand by. It involves who is invited in to our home. I want to preface this by saying, I am all for the LGBB making many and varied friends (she is someone who makes firm friends with people, she is not transient in her choices, but she is also a kid who will give anyone a go as long as they are respectful to her or others - I am fascinated when I have been afforded the opportunity to witness how she responds to children in this regard, my little moral yardstick is still standing by her guns - and I love how she welcomes interlopers in to her tighter-knit group even if the general vibe is an exclusiveness that comes with the age).

So I have decided that I must relax my fears about what is offered her (to eat, to watch and so forth) at friends' houses because I truly cannot cushion her from the world so much that she misses out on these friendship experiences. I have also, in a huge move for me, softened my stance on what treats and food I offer when her friends come here to play. Fairy bread, little cookies, M&M's have been known to be on the "treat only" menu as it happens relatively infrequently. But what I can (and will) be policing is who actually comes to play here.

I've realised that in the scheme of things, what she eats will come and go - err, literally - but how she feels will be what is really conditioning her and her outlook on the world. To that end, there are a few friendships that, at this point in her short childhood life, I can't with clear conscience welcome in to her home. The kids who perhaps have a heavier hand than others, that make the LGBB work hard to be a friend. The ones who expect her to be grateful of their attention. And call all the shots. Heaven forbid, the ones who even front up to me in my own home and tell me how it's going to be. At the age of five, I find this rather frightening (for the future).

That aside, I'm not saying I won't encourage these friendships - I do and I will continue to do so - but I will be tactfully avoiding play dates in our home, my daughter's Safe Place.

What about you? If you are a parent, I'd love to hear from you.
What is your sticking point? What did/do you try to avoid? And what has inevitably had to give?

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?

Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality. 
Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see.
- the incomparable Queen




I am watching my blog stat's dwindle a long, slow decline these days. I see conversations on Twitter and I just can't join in. Farcebook is fast becoming a ball and chain. It all feels heavy, the weight of this new social-media responsibility to reply to this, comment on that.

I see you all and I love what you're all doing. But I feel somewhat like the Bubble Boy lately. Can't quite put my finger on it. But one thing I can say is, for once in my life, it's not depression driving the outside-looking-in feeling. Huzzah!

There is a strong urge to purge at the moment. Many are doing it via getting their feelings out in blog form. And readers/followers of me will know I am nooooo stranger to that. What I am doing now, though, seems to be rather more tangible than the written word. But at the moment, my focus is not on writing. Right now, I am having to resist throwing out everything we own. I appear to be downsizing everything - what is the old adage, you have to let go of the old to let the new in?

Lately, I am feeling an apparently insatiable need to get physical. I am literally immersing myself in the physical world around me. Lightening my load as I do it. Engaging in this "real life", there is not much room for blog hopping and countless lost minutes on Twitter (which is my other... "real life"...).

In no particular order:
• I'm gardening like it's going out of fashion. Wait. It IS going out of fashion in some suburbs, I'm sure of it. Thirty local indigenous plants have gone into our backyard in the past fortnight with much more to come - look out for a post soon entitled.... "My Native Flora Brings All The Birds To The Yard", subtitled: - and their nectar is better than yours. No seriously, I could teach you but I'd have to charge.
• Life has given us lemons. Lots and lots of lemons. They say when life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Looking at my tree and contemplating that... well, that'd amount to a buzztonne of lemonade. Seriously, I'm literally picking so many lemons off our tree that I could keep every fish and chip shop in Melbourne in the little wedges for the next 12 months.
• I'm exercising daily (something I keep falling out of the habit of but this time I have to stick to it and properly bed it in because I NEED to feel fit again, I miss it after six years of lethargy)
• I find myself feeling the need to quiet my mind and prepare for next year. Hear me out! This is a big transition the LGBB and I are going through at the moment - she is off to school and I am heading into the world of..... glorious free time. Five days a week. I have heard people laugh at me (yes, AT me) when I say I won't know what to do with myself, jokingly, and they say I'll be bored before the first term is up. Ahhh, don't think so. Someone hold me to that, won't you? Will one of my blog readers still be reading then, I wonder? Steve? Wanna hold that baton til about April next year? I think you're the only one left reading, soooo whaddaya say.... cheque's in the mail, by the way.... [lone cricket chirping]

All of this means that my focus is on those (and that) around me in my physical world. My work and my study takes me out enough as it is, without the cyber-unseen world to do it as well. I am grounding myself at the moment and it feels good. Reaching out and wading in the immediate things I can see and feel and manifest - like a garden or helping out a neighbour or fellow preschool family - is what is enriching me right now. 

I have noticed for some time that this blogosphere (now spread so far that it affects and is effected by the Twitterverse and good old Farcebook) takes care of itself, whether you're here or not. Movements like RUOK day are great. But what about tomorrow? The in-your-face-ness about constantly having to be online to be remembered online is something I am still coming to terms with and working out how I truly feel about it. Everybody does it, it seems... but does that make it okay, healthy even, in the longer term?  It seems the only way to do be read/remembered/discovered in the first place is to constantly stay in touch, although it's a heck of a lot of clawing your way to the outside of the growing pile of online users and, as much as I adore this community and my blog, it just gets very... what's the word? Tiring? Neglectful of the physical world around us?

Do YOU know what I mean? Do you even agree? I may possibly have managed to offend my last few readers (ok, I'm being drastic, it's not all that bad... 100-something hits a day but still.... that's way less than what it was a minute ago, but more than it was 3 minutes ago, such is the nature of the Internets). But surely I'm not the only one thinking it's all a bit much. Truth is, I feel inadequate daily for not having the gumption to consistently do the same level of pimping and online exposure as I see the majority of my "peers" doing. Just. Can't. Keep. Up. And getting to the point where I'm unsure if I even want to try.

I'm exhausted with pimping myself, basically! So I'm going to be primping my garden instead for the next while. 

If you need me, that's where you'll find me. Now if you'll just excuse me while I let myself out and make a soothing cuppa, I've got some lightening to attend to.

Wherever you are and through whatever medium you're creating your own reality, don't forget to get out there amongst the mundane right in front of you. You might surprise yourself and enjoy it!

Love!









Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Where I get all sentimental over a lost tooth

Since the age of six months, the LGBB has been sporting teeth. I remember so well the day Steve pulled down her bottom lipso I could take this photo:

Look Ma and Pa, I done gone and grown a toof! Or two...

We were so excited to see this milestone. She was so excited we were within her vicinity. In fact, her ability to be chuffed at herself hasn't ever really been an issue for our LGBB.





The first tooth became wobbly about a month ago. It felt like it still had a lot of staying power to me.

But what do I, her mother, know?

Our little Lolly lost her tooth yesterday at preschool and didn't even realise. I was greeted by her gapless grin when I came to collect her. "It must have just happened!" the teacher said. "They were just outside eating broccoli from the garden..."

The culprit vegetable eaten and swallowed, the options are obviously that she either swallowed it or it fell out somewhere, never to be recovered for her scrap book. I have my first tooth. I thought it was a bit eugh growing up. But now I have my own child, I appreciate that my mother did that. It was more special to her than it ever will be to me. I get that... now.

I'm sad. I'll admit it! I am a sentimental sap, I am really quite glum about it. Of course, in the grand scheme of the state of the world, hey this is nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Still... we will never get to keep the first teeny, tiny, marvellous wonder of a tooth that was the first to grow and the first to fall out.

Our teeny, tiny, marvellous wonder. She's growing, she's growing, slow down, my tiny love, my beautiful growing big girl! Mummy has got to catch up and try to get used to this.



Complete with a big teardrop for good effect.
Awwwww.









Thursday, June 23, 2011

Party pissa: My kind of party

The LGBB and I have handed out all her party invitations (except for a few who will get letterbox dropped shortly).

It started with "You can invite TEN. Only ten." She wanted a disco karaoke party. I know. Did you just groan and laugh at the same time like I did? Weighing up the ratio of room size:her ability to befriend any child, I knew I had to set a limit early. But I also had a feeling it wouldn't be just ten in the end. Despite her initial statement - "No boys" - I also kinda guessed she'd try and sneak some boys in to the list when she realised she wanted them here. It's a recording that's made its way in to her head via some other little girl's vocabulary. Lolly has plenty of boy friends. She just sometimes forgets. And I sometimes forget to encourage her not to forget.

I admit, I took the easy way out. I was thinking of the head count only. If she said she didn't want boys, then that would instantly make it easier to keep the numbers down. "Fine," I said two weeks ago. "No boys then." Not that my floors and walls are the most spot-free in the world, I didn't relish the thought of a huge number of children descending in a party-frenzied furore on my house and furniture.

Fast forward to last weekend, after much gnashing of teeth and also realising that not only did she want to invite three boys from kinder, she simply HAD to (evidenced by the writhing on the floor holding her stomach as if she was trying to digest her own bad acting) have her cousins here as well, my little girl was not able to be convinced. I was secretly very glad that she had found her own way through it and realised she did want her boy counterparts to come and share in the fun.

Initially, I tried to advise her we could have a "family dinner" with her cousins and two of her other family-friends boys - make a night of it at a pizza place, I thought, which sort of helped smooth over my own social etiquette-bound self (I assumed all along that her beloved boys would not want to come to what was being touted by Lolly as a "disco princess fairy dance party"). And I wrote the five boys' names down and explained to her that they probably wouldn't want to come, and I talked up how fun a pizza night with her and them would be. She was confused. She wanted to invite them. It was boof-head ME who fed the stereotype.

It was sorted. For a few days. Lolly got to work drawing a poster in honour of her own birthday. It had balloons on it and pieces of pizza (spelled "pissa", which was, very much, a "pisser" to me and her Dad) with smiley faces. She was extra specially careful to ensure lines went from the pizza slices to each of the boys' names. So they wouldn't miss out.


Pardy piss-aaaaaa. Whassuuuuuup!


It broke my heart a little bit. And I gave myself a verbal shake and said "Wake up, ninny!" She was showing me in plain scribbles that her kids were segregated. For no real reason she could understand. I mean, who can be bothered listening to their mother crap on about how hard it is to keep the house clean? Right?

So the list grew. My limit blew out to fifteen. "Okay," I said, "FIFTEEN... but that is IT," I said.

And she nodded and did her wide-mouthed old-soul matron grin and presented me with 22 names. Off the top of her head. It was pitiful, the indecision over who she had to leave off if she absolutely HAD to invite another. In the end, I couldn't do it to her. She is the sort of kid, I suspect, who like me would take in any number of strays (people, animals, she doesn't discriminate).

After negotiations were finalised, I wrote a number down and slid the paper across the kitchen bench to her in silence, nodding suggestively - This is a good number, take the deal - and she nodded back at me. We settled. We're idiots like that. She doesn't even know what I was parodying. But she thinks I'm a cracker crack-up. Whatever.


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A post from the incomparable Mrs Woog has stopped me in my tracks this morning. It reminded me of the message I was unwittingly sending to my daughter and I was relieved that I had not encouraged her to go with her no-boys rule. Go read this: Performing Princesses.

I'm not saying I don't think boys *want* to dance or come to a fairy/princess/girly-girl party, but I am saying I sometimes get so blinkered that I just expect they'll not want to come. I almost supported my daughter's decision not to invite who she truly wanted to be here. Based on gender. When it wasn't really what she wanted anyway, it was what she had heard in "the playground."

I am lining up for a smack. Take a number. I'll bend over shortly.


------------------------

Nineteen invites are going out today. Eight of them are for boys. I came home from distributing them into the parents' folders, made a cup of tea and sat down to discover that post. I read it and felt humbled and confirmed.





Friday, June 10, 2011

Come on, folks, this isn't kindergar... oh wait. Yes it is.



Subtitled: Rage against The Machine.

A sizeable chunk of my chill days away from the blog has been spent bobbing around in a stormy ocean of kindergarten politics, gripping tightly to a flimsy little makeshift raft that I had to hastily fashion from committee meeting notes, agendas and a spare pipe cleaner or two. The antics going on right now are in the realm of the unreal, to me, the likes of which I had heard about on various grapevines but never properly accepted as real or ever bound to happen - I thought those telling the stories were surely exaggerating or had just encountered good old-fashioned bad luck.

But no.

Kindergarten committees in Victoria. Ahhhh. The stuff of legends.

A place where a select few parents come together once a month and pretend (or not) to be a cohesive group for the sake of the other 50-odd families they are effectively representing and pulling the weight for. Who knows, perhaps of those other 50-something families, a large portion have "done time" in previous years and vowed never again would they go on the kinder committee. Their hair (the preservation of) and their health were more important to them.

I get that. Now.

Did you know, Victoria is the only state/territory that doesn't have some form of Education body as the provider or responsible agency for its preschool facilities? The Department of Human Services governs the structure of this branch of my child's early learning life. And now, seeing the inner workings of a preschool committee in this state, I'm not entirely sure it's the best or most appropriate way to conduct the program.

Our teachers are great. Love both of them. The kinder itself is wonderful. The care and environment they provide is very sound. But when it comes to costs of running it all? That's where the system can fail abysmally. See, here, a kindergarten is only as good as its fundraising efforts. A preschool with the latest educational/teaching aids and learning toys and so forth has only gained those by way of a combination of savvy teacher and clued-in parents on the committee getting their collective act together to ensure a steady flow of funds during the year. Basically, a preschool in Victoria is only as good as its previous year's committee and how well they grovelled for cash. How well they pretended to be ex-lepers haggling for a spare sheckle.



Is this fair? Is it right?

Actually, it's not the fundraising I have an issue with. It's the structure of the voluntary parent committee I see as problematic. I thought (HA) I could get past any concerns or hiccups. It's only for a year, I told myself when I signed up as Secretary. It's for the children, I reminded myself when cracks began to appear and the true sluggish nature of a group of overworked and unpaid parents kept coming together once a month. Our well-meaning little group has denigrated to the point of no return.

Now, we are on the verge of a show-down to rival the WWE. It's astonishing.

And all I can really do is put my student's hat on and take notes on the sidelines. Detach and observe. See how large personalities are gorging on their over-important egos, muddying the real job we have got to do here. This is not a battle about who's more important or who's got more say over whom. This is about putting one unpaid person at the helm of a group of unpaid people and giving them a modicum of power (usually in title alone - President) to get a rather large task seen to. Let's face it, this mob has nothing to lose if they are not in the business of acting decently towards others. A woman scorned is a scary thing. I've seen it at point blank range.

All of this isn't even to mention the anger, people. The anger! Where does it come from? I know I've got some. I've got lots of the stuff. Or so I thought, until I came across that intriguing creature known as the kinder committee member with an axe to grind. Wow. It seems my pocketful of kryptonite is not as radioactive as I imagined. My rage is nothing compared to this. And there is one reason why I don't even bother getting so pent-up: This, this kinder committee, this year - quite possibly the only one Steve and I will experience with a child of ours (yes, he is on the committee too) - is not important enough to spend so much of my energy. Over what? Something that will last for another 5, 6 months tops. My aim is to work with whomever is left on the committee to the end of the year and hope like hell we're not leaving the bank balance in an embarrassing state. Despite the fact that it personally represents a bittersweet turnstile year for our only surviving child, the antics being pulled by the blinkered few are just disappointing.

When it comes down to it, the volunteer committee represents society in some respects. There are the "gunners", the "doers", the committed, the rubber-neckers. There are the outspoken, there are the martyrs. There are the peace-keepers and the silent. And there are the downright missile-seeking train wrecks.

What would happen, I wonder, if people could get out of their own way a little more often and accept responsibility for their brazen energy-spills? What if they were able to rein in some of their rage - or actually, not feel it over such unimportant stuff in the first place?

Is it possible to talk your ego down from the ledge? Do you dissolve situations in your mind easily once you step back, detach and realise it is not the place for you to be taking anything personally? Do you hold on even once you see something was not directed at you personally? When you're in a committee, how do you handle yourself? Do your own internal rules change - do you blend in to the collective, or do you stand out and stand up for things you believe are right? No right or wrong here, I'm just interested.

In this situation - the good old kinder committee - I just don't feel it enough to make it about me. Even if someone else was making it personal, against me, an "attack" by a committee member would be difficult for me to take on. Because I can put other things aside and get on with the job (with whomever is left after any stand-offs and walk-outs and sackings and resignations).

Is that too Pollyanna of me?  Eh, suck it up. I'm the best and worst person to have on your committee. I am your Homer Simpson to their Drederick Tate.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Survival of the fittest

I'm not as fit as I thought. I ran out of steam just three days in to the two-week marathon that is

*cue the music in a minor key*

The School Holidaaaaaaays  mooo-hahahahaaaa.

I admit to finding it very hard this year so far, this one-on-one with the main beautiful 'thing' in my life that causes me to keep breathing and living - the LGBB - because if it's at all possible, she seems even more mentally voracious this year. I get up early just to be ready for her. She gets up moments after me. No matter WHAT time of day I rise. No kidding, if I get up at 5:15, there she is at 5:20. If I get up at 6:50, there she is at 6:51. HOW??? It's uncanny. She's always done it. Only on the rare occasion do I get a blissfully peaceful half hour or more to myself in the mornings. Usually, I have to grab a blanket and order her to lie next to me because "it's far too early for anyone to be up.... Er.... and uh, do as I say, not as I do...."

I've dropped from last year having 18-20 hours of child-free time per week to just 11. I've felt it. Keenly. And those extra hours when my child is home with me - my home is, obviously, where we live, but also my workplace as well as an ongoing renovation site - feel just a little more claustrophobic this year. Even though the LGBB is at the same time becoming more and more enjoyable (read: less whingey) to be around. She's a sheer delight. But even she needs something else other than her mother, one on one, for all these seemingly dragging hours every week.

I wish I could give her more. I wish siblings were not so unattainable.

This year, the weeks during Term 1 seemed even more tricky to navigate in terms of juggling the LGBB's needs, my needs, work life and home duties. I get just two days a week [she does two kinder sessions of 6 hours and 5.5 hours... sounds like lots of time, doesn't it? It's really not] to cram in as much relatively free-thinking Me-Time as I can. I class this Me-Time as anything that doesn't involve having to cater to a little person who is self-sufficient but who just chooses to come sit by me. And interrupt every. Two. Fecking. Minutes. Because I am awesome. Obviously. There is just no leaving me alooooooone.

So it's time for me to catch up on paid work. Time for me to clean a hole in clutter on the kitchen benches. Time for me to run a vacuum over the floor as fast as I can. Time for me to get grocery shopping done. Time for me to meal plan (Ha! hahahahaha, never happens). Time for me to at least consider what I should make for dinner.... Many things it's time for me to do. Which makes the time the LGBB away feel crammed and hectic, but at least I'm on my own to do them for that little while.

Funny. Ironic. Hypocritical of me. When just six years ago, I was lamenting being "alone, alone, alone" day after endless, mind-numbing, heart-searing day. Funny, also, when I am desperate for school to start - in both a "please, make it come so I can get lots of delicious hours to do my work and writing and study" and a "please, don't ever let the time come so I can keep her coccooned from this cruel world of taunts and opinions and judgements and Justin Bieber songs."

It seems I cannot be satisfied, I think is the point of this post.

As you were.


Oh, no wait. I did have one question before you go:

School Holidays - love 'em or hate 'em? And why?

Friday, March 25, 2011

Thank God I Blog

When you pat my dog, Jazz, it's a really satisfying pat. You know like when you pat a horse? A really smacky-good pat? Well. There's something very comforting about giving Jazz a honking great pat. And she loves it. So that's a bonus. She is such a solid dog. If I patted Pepper like that now, she'd wince. She is far too frail for anything more than very gentle movement.

As Pepper slips further into senility (there is surely no further she can go, she is quite past it now), I am coming to really appreciate that little purchase Steve and I made during our first Christmas without Ellanor, in 2004.

Everything is speeding up, not slowing down. Do you feel it?

Jazz was a pup! I must have blinked, for now she is a middle aged dog.


Jazz and Pepper in 2005

And today, wisened old Pep and chunky Jazz the clydesdale


Jazzy was supposed to be an "only child" - Steve's cat, the beloved ginger and white boy we named Rusty - died in early 2005 from skin cancer, when Jazz was about six months old. He was 14. We still miss him very much and talk of him from time to time. Fact: He was 1m long from tip to tail, tall and lanky like his "Dad". He was our original "furbaby". He and Pepper were all we had, during all those years of trying to bring home a baby, and even before that - when we didn't even know what troubles lay ahead.

When we brought Jazzy home, Pepper was already ailing like she was at death's door. Now, she seems to be in a race to outlive the young brown Labrador who's been brushing things off tables around our home with her ridiculous novelty-sized tail since 2004. Pep should be dead. She really should. But something is keeping her here. She gave me the most intense, gracious, unconditional love and connection I could ever imagine an animal was capable of giving. And I am her palliative care nurse now. I owe her.

So here I was this morning, completing the enrolment forms for the LGBB. We've picked a school for next year! I am relieved it's sorted. Once Steve and I took the tour last week, it was a pretty clear winner for us.

As I signed the final page, I suddenly came over very emotional. And as usual, tears followed.

Not happy tears, not sad. Just tears. This is something we missed doing for Ellanor. With Ellanor. Here is our family, all around us, and I don't know what my little girl would look like now. I don't know whether she'd prefer to wear the school uniform dress or the track pants and polo shirt. Would she be chocolate ice cream or strawberry? Would she mercilessly tease Lolly? Would Lolly even exist??

So. The end of another era. I thought, somehow, the outings with the LGBB to local coffee shops (with Scraps, of course - he is such a coffee fiend) were never going to end. That we would be able to share these times with each other whenever we wanted. But I am about to lose her to school. Soon, these moments will be just that: moments in time. A thing of the past. And the thought leaves me quite bereft, for the time being.


"Thmile, Thcrapthy!"


It snuck up on me, this one. This little emotional release that was simmering under the surface.

I reached for the phone to call a dear friend who is forever going to be in the same situation as us with all these milestones. She lost her firstborn, a daughter, mere months after we lost ours. We lost babies in between, around the same time as each other, uncanny as it sounds. She called me after she got pregnant again (with the son who is now about to turn five) and told me she'd had a dream where she was riding a white horse and came to find me in the middle of a beautiful forest. She lifted me up on the horse and we rode it together. Less than four months later, the LGBB found her way to my womb.

I left a blubbery message for my friend this morning, for I was not teary before I rang. But just hearing her voice unbolted the safety valve and I blurted. I won't need to apologise. We have an understanding, she and I. I asked her in the message if she had filled out enrolment forms yet for her son and how she had found the experience. Surely a reason to catch up over a coffee sometime soon.

My little baby has been replaced by a young girl rapidly growing in her independence. Not that I would expect or want anything different for her. I have taught her to be independent. It's how I survived my childhood. One day soon, she won't need me at all. I didn't realise how much I need her to need me, this tall leggy blonde who already at the age of four has a joyous glow and the kind of knock-em-dead natural poise I always wished I'd had. I have the glow... but I don't have any poise, not like her, that's for sure (must get that from her Dad, he is, after all, the one I call Daddy Long-Legs). If she can overcome her shyness, this kid will be more than comfortable on a stage, she is that theatrical it's almost embarrassing at times.

"Life is a Cabaret, old chum"
I guess I just have to stay open and grateful to the times I am sharing with my beautiful daughter. They have become so much more precious and poignant this year already as I realise I'm about to be on my own again.

So it will be back to me and whichever dogs are still alive this time next year. I told my brother last time they visited two years ago that, surely, it would be the last time Pep would be here. I've been telling him that since the year 2000 - no kidding there - so who knows?!

Please, please let there be something solid for me to pat and hug. If Pepper does outlive Jazz, as she is threatening to do, I'm screwed.

The thought quite overwhelms me at times.

Thank God I Blog, that's all I can say. I think I might get that made up on a sticker for my car...



This post is part of FYBF, currently being hosted by Where's My Glow. Thanks Glowless!



Monday, December 6, 2010

Please retract my Mother of the Year nomination

I'm so proud! Look at the words sounded out - "SOBH" for sorry, "ADICST" for asked... It's so exciting to see our child's expression in writing!!


This here is the Sorry Note that I was presented with most forlornly (and not a little manipulatively by my tongue-in-cheek smirking) four year-old daughter yesterday.

The events leading up to Sorrygate were your usual Sunday afternoon home life antics:

Mum and Dad, in kitchen, trying to work out about half a dozen things at once. Also hoping desperately to hear each other over the din of their dear-born, making as much noise as a classroom of roudy children on a Friday afternoon. Mum snaps, says to child, "Oh for heaven's sake, would you PLEASE go and find something to do! Just for ten minutes!" Child walks away, arms by sides, not swinging, shoulders slumped and feet dragging ever so slightly for added effect.

At moments like these, I do not go after my child and placate. I can't. I have to give it a few minutes at least and then, more often than not, I go down to her and sidle in while she's playing. It's rare, for she is usually with me, nagging to be entertained, every minute of the day when she is here. We are still trying fervently to explain that there are days, particularly during the long stretches of weekends, where she needs to learn to amuse herself using her own imagination. That it's important she does this.

Yada-yada. We're still hoping it'll sink in.

So then. The note comes. By way of a morose-looking (but ever so cheeky still) LGBB, presenting it to me and telling me it says:

Mum. Sorry I asked for food. (name). Happy birthday.

Well just plunge a knife in my heart and be done with it, why don't you! (By the way, it's not my birthday, it's just something the LGBB likes to offer, it's her version of "Have a nice day!") Asking me for food, were you? How was I to know, when I was listening to another adult and trying to make a coherent reply and push that little nagging voice to the side for thirty seconds?! How was I to know that you needed food so badly that you had to ask for it while jumping and jiggling and writhing around as though you'd already eaten a bowl full of jellybeans and downed a litre of red cordial?!

Grrrrrr.

The rest of the afternoon passed by relatively peacefully. And I am just quietly ever so proud of our girl. Her first 'letter' to someone! Pity it was to highlight my apparent shortcomings as a parent.....

Thursday, October 28, 2010

What does your kids' lunchbox say about you?


Psssst..... Join me here tomorrow for a Cocktail give away!


This is something that I've always genuinely wondered but I am also always too nervous to ask because of the fear of backlash. Seriously! There is a certain defensive contingent of the Motherhood that bands together and takes down anyone seen to be having fun being a mother. Come on... you and I both know it's out there. You hear it in the play centres and playgrounds. I don't know about you, but when I come across it, I can sometimes (depending how strong I'm feeling that day) feel like hiding my efforts for fear of being picked on by fellow mothers for being a "try-hard" when, really, it's a usual and normal thing for me. Let me explain.

Ever since the LGBB has been going to occasional care, I have really enjoyed packing her a lunch (for the most part, you know, except those mornings where I just can't get going... rare for me as I'm an early rising morning person). Call it my hark back to Enid Blyton books - although there will NEVER be any tongue sandwiches served in this house, the LGBB has a no-tongue sanga guarantee - where the characters always sounded so excited to have their bottles of pop, cold chicken drumsticks and ooble-ooble biscuits, but I just get into the whole segmented, pieces of sandwich, little smattering of something sweet, healthy medley of snacks, lunch thing.

Lately, I have been experimenting with the Japanese bento box style of lunch. Think of it as scrapbooking but with food. With this, it can be as simple as taking a cookie cutter to a cheese sandwich and bingo! You have something that looks so special that it is devoured, no matter what action is going on around them.

A while back, Lolly also used to enjoy eating healthy things like cherry tomatoes, grapes and salmon sandwiches (if I took the crusts off, flatten with a rolling pin, then spread with cream cheese and thin sliced salmon before rolling up and cutting like sushi, it was even more exciting than triangles!). But then I started to notice that more often than not, particularly when she was at 3 year-old kindy two mornings a week, her lunchbox would come back with just the sandwich eaten. Lots of wasted, good, fresh, healthy food. And THEN.... she let slip one day that "Chelsea shared her yummy biscuit with me."

"Oh, really?" I asked, eyebrows so raised I thought they might lift off my face. I would have thought that was against some sort of policy. "What kind of biscuit?"

They were Oreo cookies, as it turned out. And it hadn't been the first time little Chelsea had shared her Superstar Mega-Tastebud Eye-Popping lunch box treats with her bestie, my daughter. Apparently, from the sounds of it, Chelsea is a child you want to be friends with - she has all sorts in that box, from the cookies to crisps. Adding insult to injury, the LGBB began to make statements that I knew she had heard from someone else, such as, "My lunch is yuck." You only have to know my kid and her love of not just plain old "cheese n budder" sandwiches but pretty much most foods to know that eating is on her list of Most Fun Things To Do - she is the only child you will find still sitting at the party table, finishing her plate.... and sometimes other people's before she grew out of it, oh dear.... long after the other children have run off again to play. She is a good eater. And I know her well enough to know that I keep her lunch food simple if I want it eaten - none of it had ever before been branded "yuck". Mushroom casserole, that was "yuck" and I could handle that, it was to be expected. Vegetable stirfry, that too was "yuck". But not a plain sandwich. So I knew I had to nip this in the bud quickly.

As it turns out, the biscuits were being sneaked to the LGBB - and I could tell, because she hasn't yet learned to fib, so the cheeky giggle and hand over the mouth as she told me kind of gave her away. I explained to her the importance of letting Chelsea eat her own lunch even if she was being nice by sharing. She kind of understood but, come on, what kid wouldn't pass up their salad lunch for a bikkie!? I know I would!

Far be it from me to decide for another's child what goes into their lunchbox, but I was not supremely pleased that my child's lunch was beginning to continually go uneaten in favour of these other delicacies. So I did my first "real" mum thing. I went to the teacher. She was gorgeous about it. No, they didn't allow children to share and, yes, she was going to encourage the girls to sit away from one another at lunch time (or go in different groups) because there were other issues of exclusivity beginning to form around Chelsea's desire to absorb every bit of the LGBB to the exclusion of all others - something I am deeply diligent about discouraging, but that's another post for another Mother Heart Linky day!

I now skewer those cherry tomatoes with little animal head shaped tooth picks (purpose made) and every cherry tomato is once again devoured. I make flowers with cucumber and 'stalks', I stick 'feet' under apple portions and make umbrellas out of other healthy little bits and pieces. It takes as long as cutting and then sticking them in the bottom.... and it guarantees they get eaten. She gets a cheese slice cut with little cookie cutters as well and, with some of the stamps and cutters my sister in-law sent me (she's Japanese, and lives in Japan... handy for my growing obsession because that is the home of food-in-cute-shapes!), I make penguins, bears, cars, boats.... And the LGBB is delighted. She's back to eating everything.

And now, to my question (and the reason why I ask it):
I have mentioned this food preparation fetish practice of mine to various friends with children of a similar age and their responses - these are friends, mind you! - range from "Oh GOD, I don't have time for any of that in the morning" to "Why would you want to make more work for yourself? Just shove some shit in a sandwich, cut it and bung it in a lunchbox. Seriously." I've also had a couple of "Awwww, I wish I had the patience but I don't" sort of backhanded compliments as well. And it has left me to wonder: With these sorts of attitudes from my friends, what am I setting my daughter up for at 4 year-old kindy next year or school the following year?

To me, when my young child is away in the care of someone else and surrounded by the different energies of upbringings represented by a whole swag of kids, I want her to open her lunchbox and remember that Mummy did something special for her and that she belongs. I don't want to "shove some shit" haphazardly in there and be done with it. I'm also not saying that I do the cutesy cookie cutter sandwich thing every single day either. But by and large, there will be something unique in her lunchbox and I am disappointed that there might (will) come a day that it causes her anguish because of being teased. For if the mothers who are my friends are willing enough to roll their eyes at the care I take, then I can bet there will be worse out there ready to let Junior know, when s/he comes home and says there's this girl who has shapes in her lunchbox (I admit, it probably looks uber-posh but come on! It's just a cookie cutter, I'm not whittling sandwiches into art with a sharp knife for hours!), I can guarantee there will be some whose responses to their children that will not be measured or respectful of the LGBB. And I know it can happen that way. And the only way I see avoiding it is to stop doing it.

From my friends' responses alone, I realise it may be intimidating to some mothers who see other mothers doing something that appears over the top for their children. I know I have done it. Judged, in fact, for if I am honest that is what I am doing. Without a second thought, I can wipe off my own feelings of inadequacy about not doing it "this way" like I have seen someone else do for their child and it sometimes, on a low day, makes me feel better if I tell myself how tedious it must be for that person to be constantly making sure their child is dressed perfectly or has a hair style that looks like an hour was spent on it. That's all MY stuff, though! That's a reflection of my feelings of shortcoming. I grew up with a mum who, now I am a mother I can see, was very self-conscious and used to put down the efforts of my friends' mothers to me. It is deeply sad to me, looking back now, that my mother was in such an intimidated place and, more so, that she found it acceptable to expose me to it.

Hmmmm! This post has ended up in quite a different place to where I thought it would when I began. However, my question still remains.... and I don't expect anyone to answer this publicly, unless you want to! Self-reflection is a personal thing.

What do you put more effort into over other things for your child? Is there any one thing in particular? And how do you really feel, as a person and fellow mother, when you see where an obvious effort has been made by another mother (or father)? Does it affect you in any way, or only on certain days?



 This post is part of Seven Cherubs' Mother Heart Linky, Thursday. 


Addendum: Considering Alliecat's really insightful comment, I think it's probably pertinent for me to point out that I realise the effort I put in to my child's lunch could possibly viewed as over the top ;)  But it is something I get a sense of satisfaction out of doing - it fulfils something creative in me as well as gives enjoyment and an element of surprise to her. Win-win in my books! Although I go to a certain amount of effort here, at least one area of my house or another is always a mess, I never iron, I'm lucky to brush my teeth and have a shower by 12pm some days (yes, still! yes, I know she's four) because I procrastinate about loads of stuff as a mother. So please don't be thinking I'm spinning all plates all the time just because I consider her lunchbox a chance for me to create a work of art. Cheeeeeers!

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

This is a job for..... Eddie Teddy

It's Eddie Teddy's turn to stay at the LGBB's place this week. This little kindy bear has been everywhere, by the looks of things.

Lolly has been waiting all year to get him to come and play with her and today, she was bursting with glee when she showed him to me when I went to pick her up. Only thing is, whatever began last night (along with the screaming, clawing at the wall while still asleep, bed-wetting nightmare she was having) and appeared to be dormant this morning, had surfaced again. And by 5.30, Eddie was called to arms - literally - and ended up spending his first early night with our poor poorly sausage. I think she's brewing an infection (of the "my wee's hurt" variety...) along with a head that feels like it's been in an oven and yet she's complaining of the cold.

Tough gig, but somebeary's gotta do it

And just as a side note, I am really loving what the kindergarten have done with this bear and encouraging the gathering of stories. How unique must every kindy bear be! So special. I can see, with the adornments on the pages of some of the parents who already have kids at school, that they know how it's done. The presentations are gorgeous - cute decorations, simple, very sweetly worded stories about where Eddie has been while staying at their house for the week, and such a precious memory for the class.

I forgot all the filled-with-wonder things that happen to young kids. I hope the innocence stays in all of them for as long as they feel safe to hold onto it and I wish for each of those sacred hearts a way for them to remain true to their inner self, regardless of all the fads and fashions they'll no doubt get bombarded with as they grow older.

Friday, August 6, 2010

And the winner is...

She holds the envelope in her hand.

Pauses a moment before gliding a thumb under the flap and ripping it open.

It is as she expected.

Acceptance. The place of choice.

But what is this? This is not relief she feels, not elation.

No, this is angst.

Suddenly, it's like a game show. She's on The Price Is Right. The crowd is shouting at her, telling her what to do, but they're all yelling something different so she can't make out what they're saying.

Does she go for choice number 2? Should she choose number 4, perhaps?

Everything she knew goes out the window. All that researching, all that time spent weighing up the pro's, the con's.

Now that she has the acceptance in her hand - her number 1, numero uno, top dollar, head honcho choice - she is suddenly not sure she should take the offer.


For this is not just her game! It's not even her life!

But the decision she makes here is final.

The crowd keeps hollering. She bites her lip. She got what she wanted but now.... Now, the allure of those words on the acceptance form in her hand are taunting her.

If she chooses to accept, there will be no more places offered. If she declines and states a new preference, she has to bank on that one being up for grabs.

And then she will have lost her originally offered first placement preference too.

Top dollah!

She doesn't gamble. But it is ever so tempting.

Was there something she missed?

Is this the universe's way of telling her to make a bolt for the other preference? The one that almost stole her heart, if not for this very late-comer onto the scene?

With a deep breath, she ticks the Accept Offer box. She cuts the form along the dotted line, marked with the little pair of scissors, and places the slip in an envelope.

Seals it.

The crowd is a mixture of cheering, clapping, and some disappointed "Ohhhhhh"s.

She drowns them out as she addresses the envelope.

"Kindergarten Enrolments Co-Ordinator..."

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

A storm in a mix-master

Caused by cupcakes. Apparently.

I'm very cross! Why are cupcakes deemed so unsafe to hand out at kindy that they have a blanket ban on the things?

I know, I know.... food allergies. Possibility of unsafe/unhygienic food practices in the home kitchen spells potential liability for the centre it was handed out in.

But how is it that the LGBB's party on Saturday was made up almost entirely of children from the same two government run child care places - who miss out on the home baked efforts of their friends' mothers when their respective birthdays come around - willingly and freely gobble down a home made, carseat slingshot cake and nobody thinks twice about it? Is it a case of these centres circumventing any ounce of responsibility/liability, have there really been cases of parents holding a centre to blame after becoming sick or having some reaction from a baked good? If a parent wants to stand with their feeble little home-baked offerings in Tupperware at the door, giving leaving parents the option of taking one or not for their child, is it not between the parents?? It's not like I was going to hold everyone hostage in the room until they folded and took a delicate little muffin, now, was it?

This is an open-shut case of the system gone mad, to me. Bureaucracy gone troppo. I just don't understand why we can't even have the option to offer, and decide. That's almost akin to someone telling you how to raise your child and what's best for them.

Ah, well. Sucks to be them. They miss out on my white choc-iced mini cupcakes, look at them in that photo up there, tinted in shades of pinks, yellows and greens. But I'm sad that they unwittingly take the fun out of birthdays for kids, who just want to share a bit of lurve with their buddies.

Do you have the same reg's at your child care places? Have you ever marvelled, as you stood at a birthday party with the very same kids, how the parents are okay with letting kids eat your party food if it's on your property? Has it ever occurred to you that it's these places making the rules that start instilling the fear into us at such a very tender age? (the kids' age, not the parents')

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