Shouty Shouty

Oh how I wish I was one of those Mum's who serenely steers the ship of calmness through the choppy waters of family life. I would like to say I am the master of my inner shouty monster, but I would be lying.
Listening to the kids when they are playing nicely I feel happy to claim some credit via the role modelling I have done. However when it goes to custard, and things get all Shouty-Shouty, I am forced to admit I probably had a primary role in modelling that behaviour also.
Little Miss is a particularly faithful copier of my behaviour and perhaps that is it's taken me so long to notice my yelling.  The boys simply ignore me and I yell louder. Then they ignore me more and I yell louder. (when I put it like that the cycle becomes quite obvious).
But these days when I have to shout to be heard, Little Miss immediately shouts back at me, then turns to the boys and repeats the instruction over and over again.  She increases the effect by getting steadily louder and moving right up infront of them until she is yelling in their face. The boys yell back simply to be heard over the cacophony. It's like living in a cavern system with digital enhancement.
She also copies my tone of voice, or anything the boys say that gets a reaction.
'This dinner looks like snot' Big Brother says
One look will effectively shut him up, but Little Miss, the piranha of attention,  goes into repeat mode.
'Snot, Snot, I don't like snot. This looks like snot. I don't like eating snot. Why do I have to eat more snot than the boys. It's not fair!'
By that time I hit the decibel chart right up top.
 'It's NOT SNOT!'I yell, then add quietly attempting too late to be graceful ' It's frittata.'

Into battle I go

Parenting 101 - Choose your battles, I keep reminding myself. Unfortunately the battle that keeps choosing me is Little Miss vs swimming lessons.
It started with the trickle down effect. Big Brother had a scare when he was little and didn't want to put his head under. He got it within a few lessons. Little Brother watched Big Brother performing and decided that putting his head under was not going to happen. He took half a term for the teacher to crack and now spends more time under the water than above it. Little Miss 4 years old, watched both boys resist, though, and has been following their example for 3 terms now. I cant decide if she's actually worried about water, (hard to believe that when she waves gleefully as soon as she's actually in there) or maybe she's just extremely perverse. I fear it is the latter. There is an innate resistance to being told what to do.
It might be to do with my inconsistent battle plan. At times I have been taking the positive reinforcement tack, 'Well done, darling, you put your little toe in! amazing!'. Other times I've gone hard core 'If you cry I will sit outside'.  I've tried explaining the 10, 000 hours to be an expert theory. I've been good cop 'Just do what you can', and I've been bad cop 'If you dont get in that pool I will pick you  up and put you in.' ( FYI, bad cop only induces masses of parental guilt, I can't recommend it).  I've begged, bribed, removed Peppa Pig privileges, given the boys lashings of chocolates. I've told her she needs to be able to swim if she wants to come with us on our sailing trip around the world. Its put your head under, or boarding school. I'm embarrassed to read back and remember these things, but there it is, proof I'm no expert at parenting.
What's also hard to admit is my motivation for wanting her to bloody-well-get on with it.  Is it that I just want her to hurry up and learn so we can move onto clashing about something else equally unimportant in the scheme of things? Is this the blueprint for our relationship - driving lessons, me giving gruff advice on her future partner and parenting choices? I certainly don't want our relationship to develop into the epic recurring world championships of me vs. her.
Perhaps it is that I am tired of coaxing children into the swimming pool, considering I've been doing it 1,2, sometimes 3 times a week for 5 years.  Spending two hours a week beside a pool is not what you dream of when planning the nursery.
Perhaps it is because I absolutely love swimming, and want her to share the joy/pursue the  Olympic career of my dreams (Tiger Mum alert!) There's not many Gold Medals given out for doggy paddle.
Back to Parenting 101, though, my analysis and conclusion is this - I really need to chill out. It is not my responsibility to push, cajole and harange her, encourage or persuade, inspire and teach her - not while she is in the pool, anyway. Thats what I pay the teacher for. He will get her there, I have full faith.  I need to choose my battles more carefully. Next week I'm taking my reading book and letting her get on with it. Even at 4, she needs her autonomy and space to make her own decisions, and pushing her will only result in her pushing back. Better save my energy for bigger battles.

The Joy of the Upper Hand

Parenting is a tight rope walk, balancing the adoration of unconditional love with the sheer inconvenience of being utterly and totally responsible for another human being, or three. The job description - a blue line - is fiercely inadequate, inbox is fathomless, there are precise requirements for what goes in to what comes out, responsibilities cover from what and how organic/trendy it's clothed in, to how functional it's internal parts are, status of emotional well being, and whether you're banking on a Hutt Valley High, or Harvard.  Even when these children aren't immediately in the vicinity of your being, they constitute a constant worry.  They are a whop-arse can of hassle.
Many, including myself,  would say it's worth it, of course, for the love. The joy, the love, the way they snuggle into your innermost heart and stimulate a flood of love-a-mones from that primeval set of neurons set to recognising and adoring a miniature yet cooler version of yourself.  For the egotistical, there is always the small possibility, the chance, the far flung idea that your reconstituted set of genetics and nurturing attention to organic reusable nappies and omega-3 may just bring forth the next Mandela/Sam Morgan/Lorde.
For the vestigual child in me, though, there are times when it's just so good to get my own back.  Even with my own children. Those little victories that remind me that I still have the upper hand, that the slave is also the master. Some examples?
I guess banana mixed with avocado mush food for a baby was one of my first small twinges of joy. Huh! Spot the veges in that! (That's for keeping me up all night.)
Confiscating their Halloween sweets (too much sugar for those precious teeth) and then scoffing them all in the bath after they've gone to bed at night.
Convincing them that the TV only works on rainy days.
As they get older they learn about electricity grids and suchlike, but that only increases the challenges of maintaining the percieved upper hand. I'm not unkind or autocratic about it. I love and respect their autonomy and ability, right from the start, to be masters of their own destiny, and people in their own right.
However I was rather thrilled the other night with a small victory in this miniature and imagined arena - I'm still patting myself on the back while chuckling at my slyness. For it is the stuff of legends - I am she, the Mum who convinced her happy children that desert consisted of a chocolate treat when it was also, and actually, a worm tablet.

Questions and Answers of the year

'There's only one toilet and ..... I don't like the look of it..' Miss 4 years old announced of the bach's perfectly functioning worm composting toilet.
'Why doesn't Santa have a car?' she asked when we tried to explain the whole sleigh, reindeer, chimney facade at Christmas. Something about that situation just didn't add up for her.  What is the point of horses with horns , as Little Brother described them. She is fond of the practical details.
She likes counting her fingers, often ending up with eleventy, which is disturbingly close to ten, but just doesn't ever sound quite right. Better count again.
'Do the worms stand up when you are doing wees ?' - another question on the composting toilet - not that she is having a bar of it - she found a potty in the basement and decided to do it old fashioned toddler style, still not really liking the look of the one toilet, even after a week. At least these days she empties it herself.
And today, a full eight days after christmas she comes up to me and says 'Mum, I think I know what santa did. '
'Really? ' I asked, a little worried. 'what do you think he did ?'
'Well, Santa must have gone to our house and gone into THAT box under your bed, and got out those two tennis bats and ball, and then put it in his santa bag, and then brought it to me (at our bach) and then put it into my stocking!'
'He is amazing, isn't he? ' I agreed, ' I think you are right! Thats probably what santa did.' [Urgent note to self - find a new location for stockpiling presents.]
I have no doubt the questions and observations will just keep on coming this new year. Her mind is wide open and sucking in the information wherever she can find it. School seems a long way off, but I am sure it will also be here in the blink of an eye. I hope to catch and answer as many of these amazing questions this year, before she starts asking a teacher instead.
Welcome to a New Year, Farewell to an old one. Here's to new questions and new answers, the discovery of new types of toilets, relocation of present boxes, and trying to keep one step ahead of my daughter

Little Brother has a way with words

Little Brother has always been an alternative thinker, a philosopher, what I'd call an old soul. His perspective on life is emerging as a comedian, and a philosopher. He pulls me up all the time, like the other day when I found popcorn all over the floor.
"Who dumped this popcorn on the floor? " I ranted.
(Apparently I'm all about the shame and blame).
" Well, It was half Miss A, then quarter of  Big Brother and quarter of me" , he confesses in perfect fractions.
I thought that was impressive blame apportion, but I blustered on " well, you absolutely MUST NOT leave food on your bedroom floor.....that is why we eat at the table.....food dumped like this will bring ANTs  and RaTS  and MiCe and everything .... and we'll get sick and it's just NOT hygienic" I continued in full flow (apparently I'm not so good to moderating my inner drama queen).
Eventually I stopped. Silence. Then, Mr 6 chimes in, ever the voice of reason,  "Mum, its not the worst disease you can get .... popcorn on the floor".

Earlier that day we arrived home and they asked to play on the computer -
 " OK, get in your pjamas and you can play until dinner" was the unexpected reply.
"You are the best mummy ever" he cries. " you could only be better if you were.... better! "

Then there is his school writing - these two were published in the school newsletter-

Blue
Blue looks like lightning strikes.
Blue sounds like a cat hitting a mattress.
Blue tastes like blueberries.
Blue feels like air you can touch.
Blue is big chills on the skin.

Surprise
I asked Mum "What's for dinner?"
She said "Surprise!"
I ran to the table because it sounded so yummy like hot dogs or a hamburger, but it was casserole. Dis...gus...ting!

At the table on Friday night BB was discussing a new magic show he wanted to watch. ' It is so awesome! When I grow up I just want to be a magician!'
Little Brother join in with perfect comic timing  ' And when I grow up....I just want to be...... able to take off my pants in public!'

Half my continent life

As I was putting the rubbish out on the street last night in my floral P'Jamie's, I looked across the road to the crystallized harbour and the row of young neighbors sitting on the sea wall. They were in their twenties and just getting started for a rip roaring sunday night party, and I was nearly 40 and ready for bed. There is no use denying the passing of time and changing of priorities.
There have been a few reminders from the universe of passing time. My first grey.  The ache in my back. The way kids I don't know refer to me as 'that lady.' Ever increasing amounts of facial hair. My optometrist suggesting I leave eye surgery a few years so that it could also correct the quote "shortsightedness that also comes with middle age".
My sister tells me the year between 39 and 40 is the worst,  there's no escaping the passing days as they tick down but once you reach the date it gets easier to accept, there's a certain freedom, you never really get any older, birthdays cease to matter. I like that plan.
So far each decade has brought a new and exciting set of challenges and thrills. My teens were all about learning and setting myself apart from my family, my twenties were a festival of travels and work and carving out a life. My thirties so far (and they're not yet over) were all about the breeding and love and a learning curve so steep I am struggling to catch my breath at the top.
So, in a year's time I will hit 40, and statistically speaking I am likely to have
lived nearly half my life, (at least half of my continent life).
I have a year to work on what my 40's are going to about. I have an inkling of a plan to make them simply about being me.

Hi Ho Hi Ho ....

....It's off to work I go, after 8 years of being a stay at home mum.
Yes, for the past 8 (very lovely) years you might even say I've been a kind of sham Snow White (work with me on this analogy) who after sending her worker out into the world, passes her daytime hours sweeping, cleaning, cooking, joyfully carrying, bearing and then tending to the babies, all whilst singing harmoniously with small woodland creatures. Ok, I admit not so much cleaning and sweeping ever went on round here. But, as of the last few weeks, my stay at home time has come to an end. If you were being dramatic, and - I clearly am - you might say the axe has fallen, and cleanly chopped Snow White's head right off.
Poor old Snow White (please read me being facetious here).
Poor old me; it's been rather a shock.
So much of a shock that these days I am less Snow White and more one of the dwarfs.
First I was ACHEY. My body has reacted to the sheer physical shock of being back in a very physical job with no abdominals (missing in action after 3 pregnancies), a suspect pelvic floor (3 births later), and a generalised de-conditioning from possibly too many afternoon naps (no regrets there, though).
Next, I became HUNGRY, as the 8 hour day and increased brain challenge caused my metabolic rate to soar. Once I'd eaten every day I quickly transformed into SLEEPY, clocking up an average of 10 hours a night.
Ok, Ok, I admit it - I've also been HAPPY. It's great to be back doing what I used to love. I am re-discovering that I do have skills, and it's very rewarding work.
But, at times I've said hello to MOPEY, and WEEPY.  These are hard roles to reconcile, as hard as it is to honestly write about them. For these eight years I have loved being a stay at home mum, and I can only now appreciate how this role has formed a large part of my identity, fed my sense of self, and been a source of pride. It was simply who I have always wanted to be. Letting go of that title fills me with a deep sense of loss, an acute awareness of the passing of time, of moving on through the stages of my life. But, if I want to work, and part of me does, I need to face down the inevitability of being JUGGLY, the working mum dwarf (that sounded better in my head).  My plan is to follow the lead of inspiring family and friends who, like the thousands of other amazing juggling mums out there, get on with it. Being JUGGLY comes with her challenges and dealing with these will be my steepest learning curve since my third child was born and I realised I was truly outnumbered. The steep curve has led me to find my inner MANIC-y (that less well known dwarf). She is scary and should not be approached, rather carefully maneuvered into nearest bed, and left for those 10 hours.
My main nemesis, however, the one I fear becoming the most, as well as the hardest to admit to and avoid, is old GRUMPY. While this job lark has so many positives - its part time and will work around school hours once my youngest starts, its my first pay check for years, its resuscitating my hypoxic career - it is still a massive change for us all here on the ranch. I am at risk of the wind changing and being stuck forever with my GRUMPY face on, far too stretched to be nice to my kids (and husband) at the end of the day. I am not for one minute saying that I wasn't grumpy as a stay at home mum, but at least the kids largely copped what they caused. Internalizing GRUMPY will require scraping out a whole new bottom of my boots level of self control, and patience.
The 3 actual munchkins around the place have so far managed the change very well, notwithstanding monumental meltdowns from Big Brother and Little Miss. (So no change there at all).
Little Brother, aka THINKY, quietly asked me after my third day - Mum, did you get fired yet? '
'No! That wouldn't really be a good thing !' I said.
'Well, ' he reasoned, 'if you did get fired, then, you could just hang out with us all the time again!'
Can't argue with that.
Snow White is dead, Long live Snow White. (At least, until she gets fired).