Driving through town Big Brother spotted the familiar yellow-green brick of his school bus.
'There's my bus' he cried,' and look it is my bus driver,'
'She's very nice.' I said, thinking of all the times she lets me IOU the bus fare. 'But I don't know her name. Do you know what her name is?'
'Paul' he says after a pause.
Another pause. 'I didn't know she was a girl'.
Sitting at the dinner table. I smiled at Big Brother who was looking so angelic with his blue eyes. He's been very sweet lately, telling me every hour or so that he loves me. And will always love me, he assures me, even when he's naughty.
'Mum !' He exclaimed, 'you have gills! On your cheeks, when you smile! You're like a fish ! You can breathe under water! Look everyone - Mum has gills on her face - Here (he points to his cheeks)..... and there (he traces lines radiating out from both his eyes) and...there!" (He traces line after line across his forehead).
That's what they're from, alright, breathing while under water , isn't that what stress is? Keep calm and grow more gills.
Little Brother is more abstract in his observations. 'Do you know, mum ' he begins, ' do you know that when you jump off a cliff you should always wear a t-shirt.'
'Really?' I asked
'Especially, he continued slowly, sifting the thoughts in his head, 'if you are jump off a cliff and you don't have a parachute. Then, you always need a t-shirt. Because, you can always take your t-shirt up over your head like this (he demonstrates) and with one hand hold onto the sleeve and with the other hand, reach through and hold the other bit. And that will make a parachute.'
'Wow' was all I could think of.
'I've known that for a long time' he says.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Thursday, March 7, 2013
Good mum,bad mum
Sometimes it just all goes pear shaped. I think I've been a better mother since I have come to realise that there are highs and lows to be expected in everyday. Even as we enjoy the moment of a loving cuddle or caring sharing chat, we are aware of the icebergs big enough to sink the titanic that we navigate around. We avoid them as much as we can but sometimes we scrape past them and end in deep cold water, or languishing in a life raft. The shit hits the fan, the wheels fall off, the yelling voices come out, the tears fly and we beat ourselves up for bring less than Mother Theresa.
The patience of a saint, or as my friend describes it, it's scraping the bottom of your boots for a sliver more patience.
Just because I never write about my shipwrecks doesn't mean they don't happen. I am so awful to them sometimes. I yell. I stamp my feet. I slam doors. And then I put them in time out for doing exactly those things. I lie to them - 'maybe Santa will get you one for Christmas!', and I stretch time - 3 mins in timeout becomes 10 when I forget them. Or 10 mins on the computer becomes 2 because I'm desperate to get them to bed. I lose my cool. I hide in the toilet reading my book. I send them on errands to distract them when I know they won't find what they're looking for. I forget to brush their teeth, then blame my husband when my son develops 4 cavities. One day recently I had man flu and couldn't bring myself to get out of bed and make school lunches so I let them stay at home and play free on-line games. Another day my son had a bleeding nose in the car and I threw him back a spare nappy to stop the flow not realising until later that it had already been used, for number 2's.
But I love them and they love me. I never hit them, because I know I am their role model and they copy my behaviour, and it's absolutely not ok. I repeat to myself 'who's the adult? - I'm the adult' over and over again. I try not to hold grudges because they never do. I let the clouds pass then pick myself up and learn more about myself and them everyday. I have a glass of wine (after 4pm if i'm alone) and find an adult to have a laugh with.
I try not to be offended when Little Brother tells me he had a dream where I was a giant green gollum. Or when Big Brother announces loudly at school swimming sports in front of the kids and parents - 'look, mum, your moustache is getting longer! Look, Gus, my mum is growing a moustache!'
I hold onto the buzz I feel when Little Miss looks me up and down across her weetbix bowl and nods approvingly 'beautiful girt (skirt), mama' and I remember that tomorrow is another chance to sail the Titanic safely, happily into shore.
The patience of a saint, or as my friend describes it, it's scraping the bottom of your boots for a sliver more patience.
Just because I never write about my shipwrecks doesn't mean they don't happen. I am so awful to them sometimes. I yell. I stamp my feet. I slam doors. And then I put them in time out for doing exactly those things. I lie to them - 'maybe Santa will get you one for Christmas!', and I stretch time - 3 mins in timeout becomes 10 when I forget them. Or 10 mins on the computer becomes 2 because I'm desperate to get them to bed. I lose my cool. I hide in the toilet reading my book. I send them on errands to distract them when I know they won't find what they're looking for. I forget to brush their teeth, then blame my husband when my son develops 4 cavities. One day recently I had man flu and couldn't bring myself to get out of bed and make school lunches so I let them stay at home and play free on-line games. Another day my son had a bleeding nose in the car and I threw him back a spare nappy to stop the flow not realising until later that it had already been used, for number 2's.
But I love them and they love me. I never hit them, because I know I am their role model and they copy my behaviour, and it's absolutely not ok. I repeat to myself 'who's the adult? - I'm the adult' over and over again. I try not to hold grudges because they never do. I let the clouds pass then pick myself up and learn more about myself and them everyday. I have a glass of wine (after 4pm if i'm alone) and find an adult to have a laugh with.
I try not to be offended when Little Brother tells me he had a dream where I was a giant green gollum. Or when Big Brother announces loudly at school swimming sports in front of the kids and parents - 'look, mum, your moustache is getting longer! Look, Gus, my mum is growing a moustache!'
I hold onto the buzz I feel when Little Miss looks me up and down across her weetbix bowl and nods approvingly 'beautiful girt (skirt), mama' and I remember that tomorrow is another chance to sail the Titanic safely, happily into shore.
The best medicine
My dad has an amazing sense of humour. I have recently come to appreciate how much he uses it to carry on in the face of insurmountable challenges. It is the way he connects to people (and assesses how seriously they take themselves), instantly creating a bond through laughter, and quietly reminding them that he is so much more than a man with a bunch of broken ribs, pneumonia and a blocked bowel lying in a hospital bed after an accident.
He's covered in bruises and circumnavigated by tubes. "I'll know I've got the full set when they shove something up my bum," he jokes.
The nurse reaches down his shirt and attaches the ECG machine to assess why his heart is working too fast. 'Watch out what you grab down there' he warns. 'I'm not reaching that far,' she replies. He feigns shock 'I was talking about my nipples, what were you meaning?'
He laughs, and that sets off a round of hacking and coughing as his lungs work to bring together all the distant flecks of infection for the great expectoration. He's disappointed by his spitting range, as it gets lodged on either his nasal tube thats draining his stomach contents, or gets stuck in the oxygen mask. 'I can usually hit the arse of a fly at ten yards' he says by way of explanation of poor form.
The Physio helps him to sit in the chair as he explains his multiple medical problems. 'aren't you a work of art' she pronounces kindly, although he thinks she says 'arent you a right arse'. He tells her he is a spy for the medical association undercover checking out the treatment of patients by staff, and that he is going to report her. I tell him staging a motor bike accident to get into work was taking his pretend job too seriously.
We discover he coughs the most effectively after a laugh so the ICU nurses are encouraged to deliver their best line in the spirit of healing. I feel sorry for the consultant who doesn't take the time to listen to his patient, in this case to hear the joke he's got to tell. Every else who comes and looks after my Dad feels so much better afterwards.
He's covered in bruises and circumnavigated by tubes. "I'll know I've got the full set when they shove something up my bum," he jokes.
The nurse reaches down his shirt and attaches the ECG machine to assess why his heart is working too fast. 'Watch out what you grab down there' he warns. 'I'm not reaching that far,' she replies. He feigns shock 'I was talking about my nipples, what were you meaning?'
He laughs, and that sets off a round of hacking and coughing as his lungs work to bring together all the distant flecks of infection for the great expectoration. He's disappointed by his spitting range, as it gets lodged on either his nasal tube thats draining his stomach contents, or gets stuck in the oxygen mask. 'I can usually hit the arse of a fly at ten yards' he says by way of explanation of poor form.
The Physio helps him to sit in the chair as he explains his multiple medical problems. 'aren't you a work of art' she pronounces kindly, although he thinks she says 'arent you a right arse'. He tells her he is a spy for the medical association undercover checking out the treatment of patients by staff, and that he is going to report her. I tell him staging a motor bike accident to get into work was taking his pretend job too seriously.
We discover he coughs the most effectively after a laugh so the ICU nurses are encouraged to deliver their best line in the spirit of healing. I feel sorry for the consultant who doesn't take the time to listen to his patient, in this case to hear the joke he's got to tell. Every else who comes and looks after my Dad feels so much better afterwards.
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