Deck the Halls...

It's Christmas time again, and while I'm still just as in love with Christmas as ever, this year seems different from the others.

First, we are not spending Christmas at home. (And by "home" I mean my parents house, because even getting married and having children and turning 29 has apparently not changed the fact that I still feel like that is my home.)

And lets face it, no one does Christmas "right" except the family you grew up with. Everyone else does it a little funky - not badly, just different.

And secondly, I now have a four year old, and a two year old, who also love Christmas. . Last year they were too young to really be overly involved. Now, they want to be involved in everything Christmas. Even if The Attacks desire to be included stems purely from wanting to do whatever it is that Connah is doing.

This keeps me very busy. because as we all know, doing anything with children takes at least 18 times longer than doing it by yourself We have shopping, and wrapping, and baking (Yeah, I still can't cook... I just really like baking with the boys.... We hardly ever produce anything edible. but it's still fun.) We have attempted to visit Santa several times, but he's still far too scary to talk to, so we just have to look at him. From a distance. We have paper lanterns and snowflakes taped to every surface of our home. We have Christmas lists miles long which get added to daily. homemade cards covered in glitter are scattered everywhere, and gaudy tinsel and Christmas balls are hanging from random objects.

It looks like Santa vomited partially digested Christmas inside our house.

The Christmas tree is our saving grace. We took the boys to pick out our tree, and of course they needed the biggest tree that would fit inside our house. And it fits. Just. Ok, it's kinda bent over at the top from smushing into the roof, but it fit through the door, and that means it's not too big.

Connah decorated the hell out of that tree. Every bough within his reach had a decoration or six balancing precariously on the end of it's needles.

The Attack was totally getting in the spirit in his own way. Just stand back and hiff the decorations at the tree, and dance around like a nutter when one sticks. It's decorating and a game all in one. It's multitasking.


Yes, preparing for Christmas with two small children is hectic. Things are messy, and the decorations don't match, and the Christmas tree has way more decorations on the bottom 4 feet than the top, but it's also epically fun. They more than make up for the extra work they create just by amusing me with the crazy stuff they say:



Connah: "It's lucky Ashden didn't fall out of bed and break his neck last night, else he'd get no presents on Christmas."


Me: "Ash, do you like Santa?"
The Attack: "No."
Me: "Do you like the Christmas tree?"
The Attack: "No! I not!"
Me: "Well, do you like the twinkly lights?"
The Attack: *Stamps foot* "No! No! No!"
Me: "What do you like then?"
The Attack: "Me is like ASHDEN!"


Me: "Connah, do you want to go and see Santa and tell him what you want for Christmas?"
Connah: "Nah, I'll just e-mail him later."


Me: *Upon watching The Attack stare at the Christmas tree for an extended time* "What are you doing Ash?"
The Attack: *Pointing to a shiny Christmas ball* "Lookin at all da Ashden's peekin at me!"


Connah: "Ashden's looking at me and he's not allowed."
The Attack: "I is not! I is lookin at da pwetty Kwissmas twee!"
Me: *glance at The Attack who is staring very obviously and intently at Connah for the sole purpose of irritating him* "Ash can look at you if he wants, just like you can look at whatever you want."
Connah: "No, he's not allowed! He'll use up all the air around my head!"



Those two boys embody Christmas. They are joy, and excitement, and hope. And I will be taking them with me when I leave on Thursday to spend Christmas with a family that I did not grow up with.

I get to take Christmas with me, and that is all sorts of awesome.

Merry Christmas.



xox

In The Beginning, Part Two...

So, pregnancy sucked, but now (after a 17 hour labour which finished off the pregnancy nicely... in a blood-bath horror movie kind of way,) all your dreams are about to come true as you are presented with your slimy, bloody bundle of joy.



Does the love explode out of your every pore like a rainbow on crack?



No. No it does not.



For the first three days I was a bit bewildered. I think this is what people are talking about when they say the "Three day high" after you give birth. It's not a "high" it just doofty confusion from having just had your whole world turned on it's ass. You have a retarded grin on your face because you have no idea what's going on, not because you are blissfully happy... some adjustment time is required.



Adjustment time which has to take place in a hospital room with 8 other people who have also just given birth.



You are literally confined to your tiny little hospital bed, with a spit-through curtain that you can pull around for "privacy". And nurses that stop by every few hours to poke more needles into you, and give you charming information such as: "You can't go home until you have a bowel movement you know." Whilst looking at their watch and tapping their foot so that you are sure to know that you better do so right smartly, as you are taking up a precious 12 x 6 inch space that could be used much more effectively by someone else.



This did however, give me a fair bit of time to attempt to find the rainbows-on-crack love that I was sure to feel as I gazed upon the face of my sleeping newborn.



But I couldn't find it. It wasn't there. All I felt was an immediate sense of obsession. I was not staring at his sleeping little squished up alien face out of love and adoration, I was staring at him because if I didn't, an eagle would surely swoop through the window and steal him away. Or possibly the hospital would cave in on him.



When I finally got to go home, (yes, I lied to the mean nurse, but seriously, if I was going to explode from not going to the bathroom, I could bloody well do it at home.) It was much the same. I was obsessed, and still a bit confused as to what the hell I was supposed to do now.



This was not the way it was supposed to be. There was no great maternal instinct leading the way. There was just my obsessive need to make sure that everything was done exactly right. I had no real clue as to how to achieve this, only that it needed to be done. My activities narrowed down to a rotating schedule of feed time, cleaning up projectile vomit time, (seriously, this happened every feed - sometimes twice - for six months. That is a lot of vomit.) bath time, and settling to sleep time. Oh, and when he finally went to sleep, I'd worry about everything that could be done better. And the roof caving in.



Have you ever had a conversation with a new parent? The baby is finally sleeping, and you have just launched into a hilarious tale about your new kitten and how cute she is when she's trying to catch her tail, only to discover that although the new parent is nodding along to your riveting story, you sense that they aren't really listening.



Want to know a secret?



They are not listening. At all. Their ears are straining as hard as possible to hear any peep from the baby monitor to indicate distress, and their mind is frantically running through all the things they need to get done before the baby wakes up. Your story is just a slightly distracting buzz in the background. They kinda wish you would just shut up and do the dishes so that they can take a nap.



Other people seemed to inherit the maternal instinct thing. I'd see them at the grocery store while I was still pregnant, carrying their newborn sleeping babies in slings while they calmly went about their shopping in a cloud of serenity.



My first shopping trip went like this:



* Get to grocery store, take baby out of car seat and place into sling.



* Baby does not fit in sling properly. Try putting baby in sling a different way. Try 16 more ways. Conclude that sling is not made for babies, the baby store obviously sold me the one for ferrets with 6 legs, and throw it on the ground in a huff.



* Put now screaming baby back in car seat and drive around until he falls back to sleep.



* Return to grocery store. Carefully remove car seat from car and place into trolley.



* Manically zoom around grocery store throwing anything that looks remotely edible into trolley before baby wakes up.



* Finish shopping and pay for goods.



* Put still sleeping baby back in car.



* Feel proud for accomplishing simple task.



* Realize five minutes down the road that groceries are still in trolley in parking lot.



* Weigh up the amount of money spent against the effort of going back to collect the groceries, and just continue driving home.



* Remember that there was formula and baby wipes in groceries that will be needed in the next 20 - 45 minutes, and turn around to go back and collect them.



That was the day when I realized that nothing would ever be the same again. People can waffle on all they like about how you can still do all the things you did before you had children, but they forget to mention that it will now take an average of 18 times longer to do those things, so sometimes it's just not worth it. I started thinking about what would happen if I had two tasks to do in one day, and marveled at the ridiculousness of that thought.



I was lost. I was uncertain, and confused. My whole world had drastically changed, and I did not cope well with that change. For weeks, I zipped about just getting stuff done. Because that was logical and necessary, and I could do it. By the time I stopped to catch my breath, I realized I was already in love with my son. Epically in love. Rainbows on crack even.



Everything got a lot easier after that. Because it's easy to give up things that never really mattered anyway for someone you love. And it's fun to spend 3 hours at the grocery store marveling with your child at all the bright colours, instead of rushing home to clean the house. And it's rewarding to watch your son sleep, and know that he is happy, and safe, (and the roof is probably not going to cave in on him,) because you have provided him with everything he needs.



Yes, my whole world had changed - nothing would ever be the same again.



And that is awesome.





xox

In The Beginning...

"I knew I loved you before I met you."

I have heard many variations of the above quote, referring to unborn children.

Ah pregnancy, that blessed state of tranquility that comes from knowing you are nurturing a living creature inside you. You walk on clouds of peace and serenity, and glow with the light of a thousand twinkling fairies...

Or not.

Anybody that knows me can tell you that pregnancy was not my favorite thing.
I was not peaceful and serene, I did not fall asleep every night on a bed made of clouds and wishes, and most disappointingly, I was not aglow with the light of a million fairies.

Instead, for the first trimester, I was sick. Constantly. Morning sickness is like being perpetually hungover. .I found it ironic that I was living the healthiest lifestyle I ever had, and yet felt like I was dying of some tropical disease that gradually sapped away my energy and will to live. It was awesome.

The second trimester highlights included headaches, insomnia, dizzy spells, heartburn, (I didn't even know what heartburn was before pregnancy, I seriously thought my stomach acid was trying to drown me the first time it happened.) and of course, random and untimely bouts of crying, usually about something vitally important like the cat sitting in my seat, or the cookies not having enough chocolate chips in them....
Also, this was about the time that the novelty of pregnancy wore off and I discovered that I did not like sharing my body.

And the third trimester. It is disturbing enough being eight times your original body mass, without having complete strangers feel that since you are pregnant, they have every right to publicly grope your huge stomach.
Sleeping is a joke, as there is no possible way to lie comfortably when you are the size of a small planet, and if you do happen to catch a few minutes sleep, it's only to wake up for the eleventy-billionth time to go to the bathroom, because your bladder has been squished down to virtually nonexistent. And if I hear one more person say: "It's to help prepare you for when the baby comes, and you have to get up during the night" I will poke them in the eye. It prepares you in the same way getting nipped by a crab prepares you to be eaten by a shark - not at all. It's just annoying.

Speaking of which - have you ever noticed how annoying other people are when you're pregnant? They say stupid things, and think stupid things, and do stupid things. It's like they've been hiding their idiotic ways for all the years that you've known them, waiting for you to be at your most vulnerable, and then POW! They spew forth their annoyingness in a great sea of irritation that you slowly drown in every day.

And they wonder why you're so moody. "It's the pregnancy hormones." you see them whisper knowingly behind their hands, after you justifiably made the idiot who just ate the last cookie cry.
And you have to respond, because for some reason people believe that now that you are pregnant, you can't hear them when they are sitting two meters away gossiping about you, and you need to let them know that it's just not true. So you open your mouth to kindly tell them that deafness is not one of your symptoms, and what falls out instead is:

"No actually, it's not the pregnancy hormones, it's because I'm not a fan of drowning slowly in an endless supply of your stupidness,"

Hmmm, maybe just a teny bit of pregnancy hormones....

It did not help that all the other pregnant people I saw seemed completely in love with their pregnancies and unborn children, while I was still waiting to feel 'at one' with my miraculous miracle, and failing miserably.

I didn't bond "properly" during my pregnancies. I wanted a baby, I was hopeful, I was excited, but I didn't feel the great and powerful love that seemed to smack everyone else in the face as soon as they conceived. This worried me for a while - I was obviously going to be a pretty sucky parent if I couldn't even love my fetus - until I actually sat down and considered my beliefs regarding love. Then it made perfect sense:

First, I believe that all love is the same. We play various roles within love; romantic, friendship, family ect, but it is the relationships that we attach to love that are different. Love in essence is all the same.
Secondly, I believe that you have to know someone to love them. You don't have to meet them, in fact, it's probably better if you don't - that takes out all the compatibility, and 'how they make you feel about yourself' junk, and lets you just see the person. (Yes, stalking is completely acceptable in this scenario.) If you love someone, it should be for who they are, and since a persons core self very rarely changes, it should also be forever, regardless of what they do, or whether or not you are still in their life.

And now back to my original point:

I didn't know my pre-natal children. The fact that they were a part of me at the time was irrelevant - I didn't know them any better than I knew my kidneys or my liver. I couldn't fall in love with the idea of who they were, when who they actually were would probably be completely different.

While figuring this out was a relief (maybe I wasn't going to suck at parenting, yay!) It also meant that I had to wait until I met my baby before I could experience any awesomeness.

Hmmm, waiting. I don't like waiting.

And pregnancy is looooooooooooooooooong. By the time you have hit 30 weeks, you feel like you've been pregnant forever. Seriously, you start saying things like "Remember back when...." and "There was this one time, back in the day...." like you're a nostalgic old man reminiscing about his childhood.

I actually started hunting for information on the longest known pregnancy, and found a woman who had been pregnant for three years. Now that I am sane again, I realise that that was most likely uber-crap, but at the time it seemed completely plausible.

All people that say things like "No one is pregnant forever you know." And "As soon as it's born you'll be dying to be pregnant again." Should be kept out of arms reach of the pregnant person they are speaking to. Do you know why heavily pregnant woman are not famous for murder? It is because they can't run fast enough to catch and slaughter stupid people. That is the only reason.

During my last month of pregnancy with Connah, a friend asked how I was feeling, and I told her. A woman who overheard us felt that it was her responsibility to inform me that some people can't even have babies, so I should just be grateful and not complain about a little discomfort. (Yes, she did walk away from this encounter with all her limbs still attached. Just.)

I know some people can't have children. I know some people lose their babies during pregnancy. I know some babies die. I know.
But me smiling and telling people I feel great when I don't, does not change any of that.

I was miserable while I was pregnant. But I wasn't miserable about being pregnant, I was ecstatic to be pregnant, I just wished I didn't feel like crap the whole time.

I get a lot of people saying: "It can't have been that bad, because you decided to have a second child."

Yes. Yes it was that bad. Worse probably, because it was four years ago and now I have brand new sparkling memories to fill up my brain, so have trouble remembering the horror.

But yes, I did purposely put myself through that horror again, because the child you get out of the deal is totally worth it. Worth it a thousand times over. Worth being pregnant for the rest of my life for - though I'm sincerely grateful that that is not necessary. Because I would go crazy.



xox

You make the whole world smile...

Back in the later months of my pregnancy with Connah, my midwife mentioned something to me about a Dr Sprott mattress cover. I obediently wrote down the name in the back of my pregnancy book, promising to look into it. (Although, I was most likely just thinking about baby names and pixie dust...)
Then she mentioned that it could reduce the risk of cot death.

Cot death.

There is not much that will strike icy fear into the heart of a happily pregnant person dreaming about baby names and pixie dust, but SIDS is made up entirely of icy fear.

I brought the cover, put it on the bassinet mattress, and had a baby.

Now I was a mother, and while before Connah was born the thought of SIDS struck me with icy fear, after he was born, the thought made me physically sick.

My fear quickly turned into an obsessive need for information, so I researched, and what did I find?:

A 100% successful crib death prevention campaign has been going on in New Zealand for the past 11 years. During this time, there has not been a single SIDS death reported among the over 100,000 New Zealand babies who have been using this method.

And just what is this magical method? Wrapping the mattress your baby sleeps on in a specially formulated polyethylene cover - a Dr Sprott mattress cover.

I won't get into the specifics of what causes cot death, and how this cover prevents it, because that will take far too long. Google it. Here is a good place to start:

http://www.cotlife2000.co.nz/

This "theory" has been repeatedly challenged over the past 11 years, but no one has been able to discredit any part of it.
It's very compelling and it makes complete sense. It logically explains every factor already known about cot death.

So why isn’t this profound and critically important information making the headlines of major newspapers? Why aren’t cot death researchers and the authorities advising parents to wrap their babies’ mattresses? Why are the manufacturers still adding fire retardants and other chemicals to mattresses?

One possible reason is that mattress manufacturers are required to use fire retardants through government regulations. Admitting that these chemicals are causing deaths would mean admitting to major liability. Also, SIDS charities, and fundraising for a cure for cot death, has been a significant source of funding for medical researchers. Unfortunately, the ongoing and expensive research (which only ever seems to come up with more “risk factors”) has pushed aside the simple and inexpensive solution of mattress-wrapping; a solution that actually works.


The reality of waking up to find your previously happy, healthy baby dead, is an especially brutal little corner of Hell that my mind has trouble fathoming.

I once had a dream that Connah drowned, I was taken to identify his body, which I did, and then everybody filed out of the room to let me say goodbye to him.
And I stood there, waiting.
I knew he was dead, and still I waited. I waited until he sat up on that cold metal table, and I took his hand and led him home.

My brain refused to accept that he was gone forever, even in a dream, so I can only dimly comprehend the bewildering agony that parents who lose their children are forced to endure.

Do your own research. Come to your own conclusions. But while you're doing that, for the chance of saving yourself that agony, buy a $20 piece of plastic, and follow the instructions.



xox

Violent Tendencies...

To Spank or not to spank?

Most people have a pretty good idea of whether or not they plan to use physical means to discipline their children before they are born.

I, of course, had to do much research on the matter, and found that generally people fall into one of two groups. And those groups don't like each other much.

These are the war cries of the two different groups:

# 1: If you don't spank your child, it means you don't love them enough to discipline them.
We are mammals. If we look at any other mammal, we see them bite and swipe at their young, not to cause them unnecessary pain, but to teach them. Immediate reaction to solve unwanted behavior. ( - Go spanking! It solves all problems, possibly even world hunger - Yay!)


# 2: Hitting is completely unnecessary, and emotionally destructive - It should not be included in discipline.
We are human, and have managed to master many complicated skills and evolved thought processes during our time on earth. We are able to rise above our primitive beginnings and provide a more complete corrective method. ( - Hitting is barbaric. Don't do it or you'll turn back into a monkey!)

So, after taking in both very convincing arguments, realizing that I don't really fit in either category, and forming my own idea's and theories on the matter, I decided that I would not be using physical discipline on my children.

I am not disputing the fact that physical discipline works. Of course it works! You are threatening a small person with (mild) physical violence. That's gotta be pretty scary when you're small - and fear is a great motivator...

But there are much better ways. And I'm not saying this in the flowery PC "We mustn't ever blow too hard in the general direction of a small child least we knock it from it's feet and cause it slight mental anguish, and possibly a brain hemorrhage." way.

I'm saying, that if you lead out of fear, the child rarely gets the opportunity to test it's own moral compass, instilling at a young age, that the only reason you don't lie / steal / kick your brother / spit on the cat, is because if you do, you will be punished.

There are so many adults out there that fully admit that the only reason they don't steal / kill ect, is because they fear the consequences if they get caught. (Call me crazy, but I kinda want my boys to not kill people because they have assessed all the relevant information, and decided that it is not the right thing to do.) These are usually the same adults that spout the famous "My parents used to hit me, and it didn't do me any harm." line.

I suppose it depends on how you define "harm."
(I mean, for a start these people seem to want to kill other humans.... that seems a bit harmful to me...)

Even when done in a corrective manner hitting can cause pain, resentment, anger, frustration, fear, embarrassment... the list goes on...And all this coming directly from a child's main source of nurturing and information - their parents.
What a devastating cocktail for developing self esteem and trust

.
It is a very personal choice, and one that I believe should remain with the parents. They are the only ones who know what their own capability's are, and therefore how they are best able to teach and correct their children.

By saying this, I am not advocating the statements that "It's the only way some kids learn." Or "I've tried everything else, and this is the only thing that works."

*Cough* Whatever. *Cough*

I am saying that it depends on your desired outcome. If what you are trying to do is stop behavior from happening, quickly and (relatively) effectively, without worrying too much about (possible) long term effects, this is a good way to go. And you may get a pretty well behaved child out of it, so if that is your desired outcome - congratulations, you win :)

My desired outcomes have always revolved more around the adults my boys will become, so I'm not prepared to have good kids at the (possible) risk of sacrificing self-aware adults.

What about danger? Surely if your child is about to run onto the road / touch the fire / drink the toilet cleaner, you need to give it a quick slap on the hand so that it knows immediately to stop what it's doing?...
Yeah, I can't really answer that. I've never had to. Is that the product of good preparation, or are my children just naturally not inclined to do those things? (Since I've put in a LOT of work in this department, I like to think it's good preparation, but in reality, it could be either :)

And while it's something I have chosen not to do, I really don't have a problem with other people using physical discipline on their children, as long as it is a conscious choice that they have made.

It's the hitting in anger that I disagree with. Any physical action combined with anger changes it's intended meaning. If a child does something wrong, and is corrected by spanking out of anger or frustration, I believe the lesson is lost. Maybe not always for the child, but for the parent. It ceases to be a moment where we can teach our child, and becomes all about punishing.

Disclaimer:

I realize that this is a pretty touchy subject for many people - most people in my life have chosen to physically discipline their children, so I know that they believe - just as emphatically that I do - that they are doing the right thing by their own children.
I don't need to prove to them that I am right, and they are wrong. I have no interest in trying to "convince" people that my way is best, but if I can make even one person think about why they are doing something that they previously hadn't really though about - even if it's only to think that I am completely full of crap, therefore re-confirming their opposing view - well, that just explodes with all sorts of awesome :)




xox

The Sky is falling...

The Attack is now two. No longer a baby, but a little boy. How the hell did that happen?

He has managed to get through his babyhood without allowing anybody other than me, occasionally Mark, and my mother, to pick him up. Others still do sometimes of course, but they usually set him down again pretty quick - it's not worth going deaf over.

He still loves animals. He is still reckless. He is still stubborn. He is still honest....Mostly.

He is the child that will always tell me what happened if I didn't witness it firsthand. ("Connah donked my head!" "Me poked Connah's eye." "My did it! MWAHAHAHAHA"... He never refers to himself as "I" or "Ashden", in fact, I think I've only heard him say his name three times in his whole life...)

I have observed with fascinated horror, his first epic two and a half hour meltdown... over a Youtube video that he didn't want to watch again, and Connah hit "replay" anyway.

I have fished him out from under the water when we have gone swimming, six times in one hour. He is never more than half a meter away from me, so gets yanked out pretty damn quick, but he just gets so excited that he forgets that his head has to stay above the water. Repeatedly.

He has developed a friendship with a pigeon, who was sick for a short time. It was kept in a cage for a week, and The Attack spent that week having "holds". It is a homing pigeon, so once it got well it was released back outside. He catches the thing every day, and carts it in the house. He will carry that pigeon around for hours. And it lets him.

Raising Ashden is like raising a completely different breed of human to Connah.

With Connah, I have always been very focused on his emotional and mental development. It feels like if I let my guard down for a minute - answer one question wrong, or fail to notice when something has disturbed him and he needs an explanation from me - I'm somehow dooming him to a lifetime of emotional repression and/or ignorance.
I'm very careful with his physical safety as well, but I don't really feel as though I'm fighting a constant battle with that. I just don't take unnecessary risks.

With The Attack, it's flipped. He usually responds to emotional or intellectual stuff just as I'd expect him to, and while he still questions pretty much everything in the world, I don't feel that he is bewildered by it. He just wants information.

His physical well being is a different matter.

Every morning when he wakes up, I'm a little bit surprised, and very, very grateful.

I still check on him several times every night.
I still get that thrill of fear in the pit of my stomach when he sleeps slightly longer than I expect him to.
I still call to see how he's doing when he's with my mother during the mornings, and panic if I can't get through on the phone.
I'm always so happy to see him after a few hours of separation.

This is my battle for Ashden - feeling like it's not his emotional stability, but his life that is under constant threat if my vigilance should falter.
It's not even accidents that I fear for him, it's feeling like he will disintegrate, that his very substance will slip through my fingers and evaporate while I'm not looking.

I'm pretty sure it's all in my head, and I think it stems from subconsciously remembering that there was a time when he wasn't going to exist. I just can't quite believe that he is really here for good.

After Connah was born, I very quickly re-assessed my desire to have three children, and decided that I was happy just having the one. Not because giving birth was so hideous and traumatising. (Although it kind of was.) And not because he was a difficult baby (Although, he kind of was...) But because I felt that if I had another child, I would be taking time, energy and attention away from Connah. What possible reason is there for that? Crazy talk!

I don't know what it was that changed my mind. I do know that all those reasons for only wanting one child are still logical, and valid to me. I do have less time, less energy, and less attention. Because, much as I like to think otherwise, I am not a superhero. (Only at night when no one is looking...)

And I do know that while those reasons are still valid, I can not feel anything but gratitude for whatever overrode them, because now that I know Ashden, to think of living in a reality that doesn't include him seems ludicrous - there would be huge Ashden-shaped hole in my world, and I would probably never even realize why it seemed so incomplete...

This also makes me very aware of that once-thought-of third child, and what I may be missing out on by shutting that door forever...

But that is a story for another day :)


xox

Great Expectations...

I use this blog as my sounding board. I'll talk to people when I want feedback, or opinions, but I've discovered that in writing things out, I get a much better understanding of what I actually want and think.

It's also great for explaining my actions to anyone who cares to understand them:

I hate disappointing the boys. I will do just about anything to avoid it. This is kind of an add-on to the "no lying" thing. If I say something is going to happen, it is damn well going to happen. (We have had several trips to the zoo in the pouring down rain because of this "rule".... I don't think Mark likes it very much....)

This is all fine when I'm in control of the situation, but sometimes I'm not. Others do not share my obsessive need to follow through.

And why should they? These are not their children, and if something comes up, or circumstances change, they should be able to adjust their plans accordingly. But I don't have to like it. (And I just want to take this opportunity to thank everyone in my "first circle" for busting your asses trying not to break plans when you make them with us.... even if it's only 'cause you know I'll throw my toys if you do :)

I try not to tell the boys that something is going to happen until it's pretty much set in stone, to avoid things falling through. They still do of course, but not often.

I have been criticized for this. People have told me that I am not preparing my children for the "real world", where disappointments are a regular part of life.

And while I understand this point of view, I do not agree with it.

Yes, disappointment can be a part of life, but should we expect it?

No.

I want the boys to have high expectations, of themselves and of others. I want them to aspire to greatness, and not to just accept it when life (or people) throw crap at them.

You work through the crap to get the result you want.
You don't keep people that are constantly disappointing you in your life.
You follow through once you have committed to something.

These are important traits to me.

I am their main example of what a person is capable of, and if I do everything in my power to make something happen simply because I have said it will, it will teach them that once you have given your word, you honor it.


Even if it gets a little bit hard? - The car has a flat tyre, and our friends said they don't want to go anymore. Oh look, now it's raining. Really hard.

Yes, damn it! ESPECIALLY when it gets a bit hard! Fix the car, or use a taxi/bus/train/boat. Go by yourselves, or find more friends. Get a coat.


Does all this following through mean it will automatically produce the desired results?

No, this has a flip side just like everything else. I can't control how the boys are going to absorb the information. I could just be setting them up to be disappointed in the world...

So should I not try? Of course I should, this is the way my logic and intuition are telling me to go. Logic states that the potential results outweigh the possible risks, and intuition says that the information will processed the way I intend it.

Lead by example

Expect the impossible.

"Be the change you want to see in the world."


And so I shall.




xox

Truth...

Connah: "What makes us die?"

(Seriously? I seriously have to answer this?)

Me: "You mean people?"

(You are only three, I am not ready to talk about you and death in the same sentence.... I will never be ready to talk about you and death in the same sentence.)

Connah: "Yeah, what makes people die?"

(This is safer, we are not talking about you anymore. I can explain generic causes of death without hyperventilating....)

Me: "People can die from lots of different things, they could have a really bad accident, or get very very sick, or live for a long time and die when they get too old for their bodies to keep going."

(Honesty.... stick to the truth and everything will be fine...)

Connah: "So... when I get really old...... I have to die?"

(Screw honesty. No baby, only bad people die. You are going to live forever...)








Me: "Yes."

Bemused, Bewildered and Confused...

Every parent knows about the "Why?" phase. That lovely time in early childhood where you are constantly pummelled by a steady stream of questions.

But what if it's not a phase?

About a year ago, Connah entered the "why?" stage. He has not let up since.
I answer hundreds of questions a day. Every day. Most are relatively easy to answer, but quite time consuming - he does not accept standard yes or no answers.

Some are not so easy to answer. I am starting to feel like a giant idiot, because I now spend a good deal of time stammering and floundering around trying to come up with logical answers to seemingly simple questions.

Google has become my best friend.

Connahs questions come out of nowhere. Sometimes I can link them back to a conversation we've had, but not always. Also, he usually refuses to discuss the context in which these questions arise from, so even when I have an answer, I'm not entirely sure it contains the information he was after.

I love that he questions things. I love that he has an interest in gathering knowledge in his head. I love that I can help him do that.

I wish I had all the answers.

Connah's questions this week that have left me a stammering idiot:


"Why is blood red?"

"What if two boys want to have a baby?"

"How many people are in jail?"

"What makes fire burn?"

"No, I mean: why is fire hot?"

"If you pour water on a dead fish, will it come alive again?"

"What if you put it in a bucket with HEAPS of water in it?"

"Why don't foxes hatch out of eggs?"



Any takers?


xox

Living on Mars...

I am surrounded by males.

I live in a house with:

One husband.
Two sons.
One Tyrannosaurus-Rex dog.
Three cats.

All of whom are male, except for one of the cats. We decided to risk the title of "Crazy cat people", and adopted her in order to chill out the males, because they hate each other, and are not shy (or quiet) about expressing that hate.

This was a massive fail, as the female - Azaria - is petrified of everything, and will not stay still for long enough to be of any benefit to anyone. She comes inside to eat, if no one is looking, but that is all. Once The Attack got lucky and caught her, convinced that she needed a "hold" (everything needs a "hold"...) That did not end well. One year olds do not have the required skills (or body armor) needed to deal with an onslaught of that magnitude.

So, I went off on a bit of a tangent there, but the point was this: Boys. Everywhere.

This isn't inherently a bad thing, I like boys. It can just be a lot sometimes.

Boy-cats, who are nearing their "twilight years" are not overly pleasant to begin with. They are whiney. And mopey. And get really mad when you move them off of your seat. Add to that the seething hate they have for each other, and you get a spray-fest with each of them trying to claim territory in the house, even though they have lived together for seven years. (Yes, they are both neutered, and shouldn't be spraying, their hatred makes them freaks of nature.)
They have been confined to the lounge if they are inside now, as for some reason the lounge is neutral territory, and they are content to simply glare at each other across the room.

Boy-humans are much more pleasant, but tend to come complete with an obsession for cars. This appears to be a factory setting, one that could only be changed with vast modifications prior to importing.

In our house, there are little cars everywhere. There are cars in the bath, and cars in the beds. They are in every corner, and on every surface. If you sit down on the couch, and it's a bit uncomfortable, check under the cushions. There will be cars.
I recently went to make a coffee, and found a car in the mug I was about to use. No big deal, get a new mug.... oh, another car, what a surprise. Maybe I'll try this one... or this one..... or this one. Yes, you get the idea, a car in every mug. Splendid.

Little cars are taking over the world.

Also, there is boy-talk. I now know more about construction and demolition vehicles than I ever thought possible. (Or necessary.)
It is a little hard being schooled in the basics by a baby:

Me: "Look, Ash, there's a bulldozer!"
The Attack: "No dozer! itza GWADER mummy."

So sorry. Yes, yes it is a grader.

Other hot topics of conversation in our house this week: Spiders, monsters, fighting spiders and monsters, remote controlled people, and the benefits of not wearing pants.

Mark is great for grown up talk, and can usually be counted on for a decent ethical debate. (I do love a good ethical dilemma...) He's not much good at discussing ponies and sparkly things though... I mean, he'll give it a go, but I can tell his heart just isn't in it.

Not that I really have an uncontrollable urge to start singing about unicorns and all things pink, and I really do love all the quirky, messy, unpredictable maleness that fills my days. It's just that sometimes, after spending an hour talking about the various bodily functions able to be performed in a bath, and their corresponding hilarity rating, it would be nice to talk to someone who understands why it's important to wear pants in public.


xox

Into the light...

We are coming up to the 10 month anniversary of Connah being enrolled in childcare. 10 months of bi-weekly hell, of which we have not missed one single session.

We are only now at the stage where the mere mention of kindy doesn't make him start obsessively rocking in a corner, counting down how many days until he has to go. I believe - dare I say it - that the worst is behind us.

Let me explain with a dog story:

Connah has never liked our dog, and I've never really thought twice about it. If Jax is a huge clumsy oaf to me, I can only imagine that it's much more unsettling to have him knock you around when you're only 3 feet tall.

A few weeks ago, Connah asked if Jax could come inside, so he could play with him. This surprised the hell out of me since he hasn't ever voluntarily interacted with Jax, except when he was a very small puppy.

I let the dog in, and the boys spent half an hour jumping all over him, all the while, Connah is patting him saying "He's a good dog now." and "I like Jax, he's my friend now."

And the light bulb went off.

I like Jax now. (Or at least, I don't resent him anymore.) It took all of half a day for Connah to catch on to my new attitude towards the dog.

I've always known that Connah is very sensitive to other peoples moods, especially mine. I just didn't fully realize how much my own personal opinions where helping to shape his own. I recently re-read all my childcare posts, and a question I wrote jumped out at me: "Am I hindering him?" Now I know the answer: Yes.

All the fake smiles, and "Kindy is fun!"s in the world were not going to convince him - he can read me too easily. I had to believe.

Crap.

Before I had children, I fully intended to go back to school and study after they were born. Mark was on-board with being a stay at home dad, and I really liked the idea of having a job that constructively used my brain.

Then they were born.

I had no defense against them. They blasted through to my core, and there they remain, tangled up in my soul.

I couldn't happily skip off to my new brain job every day - only see the boys on weekends, - I would be leaving my soul at home. You can't do good brain work with no soul.

And that is what it feels like when I leave Connah at Childcare - like I'm missing part of my soul.

I didn't know how to be Ok with that. It took me this long to see that most of the problems we were having were mine. I already knew about my issues, but I thought that just made it harder for me. Now I know that I was reflecting all the confusion and fear I had felt as a child, onto him, and he was absorbing it as his own.

I couldn't save me, so I was trying to save him. Every day, I try to save him. The thought that he in turn, was reading my hurt, and trying to save me, is a horrifying thought. No child should be burdened with that.

So I stopped viewing childcare through the eyes of my child-self, stopped trying to save him, when he didn't need to be saved. And it has stopped being devastating.

He is doing so much better now. He interacts with the children more. He voices his opinions occasionally. He even stood up and sung a song at mat time.

I think he will always be quieter than other children. He is introverted, he can be very literal, and he wants to understand everything. He finds other children with their carefree teasing nature difficult to figure out - children don't really explain their actions very often.

He doesn't always "get" them, but he is no longer isolated from them.

And that was really the whole point - not to make him "fit in", but to help him create positive experiences involving his peers.

So, it's taken the best part of a year, a lot of tears, epic amounts of learning, and a fair bit of soul-searching, but I think we are finally out of the shadows.

Can the fun start now, please?






xox

Free Range Parenting?...

Basically free-range parenting is the opposite of intensive parenting (which free-rangers would call: "overprotective" or "helicopter" parenting...)

It's the idea that if we wrap our children in cotton wool, and don't let them experience anything dangerous, we will raise an army of un-feeling robotic psycho-killers.

Or, more accurately, (meaning: without my dramatizing...) it's about hands off parenting. Teaching children to be self-sufficient. To not fear the world, but to see it for its experiences and opportunities from a young age.

This involves children being encouraged to play outside, able to wander independently. Parents do not freak out and run to get a coat if it starts to rain, or if they happen to look outside and see their child conversing with a stranger. If a child gets hurt, or sick, it is accepted as a natural part of growing up.

I am considered an "Intensive" parent.

I don't have excessive issues with germs. I'm not going to use one of those little covers that you put over the supermarket trolley to stop your child from touching it.
Rolling around in mud, eating food off the floor, and dog slobber is all part of being a child. I don't even own a hand sanitizer (gasp!)

Physical stuff is the same. Even though I flinch something wicked whenever one of my children falls, I'll still sprinkle the kitchen floor with baby powder, help them put on their socks, and watch them "ice skating". Their legs are almost entirely covered in bruises, but they love it.

The boys climb trees, ride motorbikes, and target shoot with guns. All of this is done under strict hands-on supervision, with many discussions involving rules and answering any questions that might arise along the way.

But I will not let them play in a public place unsupervised. I don't care if the playground is surrounded by a fence. I'm not worried about them getting out, I'm worried about what could get in.

And I believe that they should understand the risks, not to invoke fear, but caution. Because while the world is full of experiences and opportunities, it is also full of dangers that do not disappear simply because you are ignorant of them.

Self sufficiency will come on slowly, in direct relation to age, ability and experience. This just makes sense to me.
Why is it important for a five year old to be able to walk to the store by themselves? Seriously, they will probably learn to do it before they move out of home. (I do understand that the risk of them being snatched off the street is relatively small, but the commonly accepted idea of if they do something once and survive, then it must be safe, is mind boggling to me.)

I love the idea that "strangers are just friends you haven't met yet." and children could walk freely and safely amongst them, but that is not the world I live in, and children are not able to protect themselves.

We all have our own level of free-range comfort. We are all trying to grow great adults out of little people, which is an amazing amount of responsibility all on it's own.
So lets not judge each other for how we choose to go about it. We all do what we think is best, otherwise we wouldn't be doing it that way, but there is always room to learn.


Do you like how I just solved the whole issue with one little cliche sentence? You're welcome :)


xox

Acceptance...

It's about 10.30pm, and I am reading blogs, when I hear Connahs bedroom door close. This happens most nights - He gets up to come into our room, and always closes his bedroom door on the way out, to stop any cats getting in. (He hates cats in his room.)
So I immediately get up to take him back to his own bed. I go past his room on the way to collect him, and open his door so I don't have to juggle a sleepy Connah and a door handle, and happen to glance at his bed.

He is in his bed. Sleeping. With the blankets neatly tucked up to his chin, just like I left him three hours ago.

Who the fuck closed the door?

I check his room, and discover his sliding door is unlocked and unbolted - we had been playing outside earlier and I'd forgotten to lock it when we were done.

I run to the Attacks room. He is still there, sleeping.

Mark proceeds to check every corner of the house, including a perimeter search with the dog (dog finally came in handy...) Which turns up nothing.

In all likely hood, Connah has closed it himself. (Or really un-likely hood, since he hates having his door shut and would never intentionally close it with himself on the inside, let alone put himself back to bed without calling out to me...)

Maybe sleepwalking?....

Mark goes to bed, and I stay up way later than I intend. To hover ineffectually over the monitors, listening for any signs of disturbance.

I finally decide to go to bed, resigned to the fact that I will get no sleep. I open the door to the hallway, and almost trip over Jax, who Mark had stationed outside Connahs open door.

I had one of those amazing moments where everything changes completely, though nothing has actually changed except my perception.

I have a dog.

I slept. And I was able to sleep because I knew that there was a Tyrannosaurus Rex wearing a dog coat patrolling the hallway. Nothing was getting in last night without us knowing about it.

Because I have a dog. (I feel like I'm at an AA meeting: "Hello, my name is Rachael, and I have a dog....")

I have fought against him for so long, trying to make him have as little an impact on my life as possible, (which, as it turns out, is not possible at all. He is fricken HUGE. And jumpy. You try to ignore something that is sailing about over your head, knocking you into trees as you try to make your way from the front door to the car. It's hard.)

The idea of actually trying to include him in my life seems odd. And a little bit ludicrous. The fact that he has managed to get through my resentment and distaste for him, and secretly forge a bond so that I was able to trust him to keep us safe while we were sleeping is fricken amazing. And a little sneaky.

So, it's taken a year to get here: I have a dog. I don't know if I'll ever love him, but I can appreciate him now. He has stopped staring at me for extended periods of time just to be annoying. He no longer eats the cat food every day deliberately to make my life more difficult - he does it because he's hungry - even though he's already been fed 12 times. He now smells like fresh daisies instead of the unusually strong musty wet dog that has been trapped inside a hot box for 6 months perfume that used to waft in a ten foot radius around him. (That one is a lie - he still smells like wet dog.) And when he sails about over my head knocking me around, he kindly misses the trees about half the time.

Perception is great.


xox

Captive hearts...

I once read that becoming a parent is like having your heart get up one day and start walking around outside your body.

When I first heard this, I thought "Yes! that is exactly what it's like!"

Because on the surface, it sounds like the description of a sweet but strong bond between a parent and their child. And it is. But once you grow accustomed to that warm glowy "bond", you realize that it is an extremely dangerous way to conduct your existence - being linked so completely to another being, that it's destruction will mean your own.

It also doesn't help that this "being" is free to frolic about independently, is virtually helpless, and has no concept of it's own physical safety.

So I make no apologies for having a minor panic attack whenever one of my boys is not exactly where I expected them to be - always having our small children within our line of sight is hardwired into us, a survival instinct not just to protect them, but to protect ourselves. It must date back to cavemen days when if they happened to wander off alone, they would be promptly eaten by a Saber tooth tiger....

But our hearts are not made to live outside our bodies indefinitely. And as our children grow older, we are faced with the daunting task of claiming small pieces of it back, so that we are capable of standing aside, and letting them fight off their own Saber tooth tigers.

Stupid parenting.

It would be so much easier if I could just kill all the tigers....


xox

To wish upon a star...

I read a quote recently, which stated something like: "I wish I was little again, when the hardest choice was picking which colour crayon to use."

I really didn't like being a child. Even though I wasn't capable of making choices for myself, the absence of them was still suffocating. I have never wished to go back to being little - I'll take the hard decisions of being an adult any day. At least I get to decide.

It did make me think though (apart from how much I hated being a child...) about what my boys wish for. Here's what made the list:

Connah's wish list:

#1: To have sticky enough hands to be able to climb walls.
- Spiderman obsession...

#2: The ability to make inanimate things "work".
- Connah has a great imagination... he'll construct (Or dictate the construction) of black spider suits (with legs made of stuffed socks pinned to his shirt), or tankers (cardboard box with a cardboard tube for a cannon), or webs (a ball of wool strung around everything in a room). But once completed, he expects his inventions to "work." The spider sock legs don't walk. The cannon doesn't shoot. He can not dangle from the web. That sucks. He plays with his constructions, but It's evident that he is disappointed that it's not "working" like it was supposed to.

#3: A never ending supply of silly string.
- To make webs.

#4: To have a fast forward button for the world.
- Things that Connah would fast forward include: Sleep, kindy, and time out.

Ashdens wish list:

#1: To be able to jump from the table to the couch.

#2: To have candy for breakfast. Every day. (Haha, I just realized that I could solve myself a daily drama if I'd just move the candy bowl out of the cereal cupboard.)

#3: To have a cat (or chicken) permanently attached to him.

#4: To have a mute button for the world.
- The Attack goes through phases of noises that he doesn't like. At the moment it's birds chirping. So a bird will fly overhead chirping it's happy little song, and you'll think "Oh, that's nice." Then you'll glance down to see if The Attack is enjoying the wonderful moment too.... and find him flat on his belly in the dirt, with his eyes squeezed shut, chanting "No! No! No! No! No Bird! No! No!"
A mute button may be helpful at such times.


So, if anyone knows any Fairies out there who are short on their wish filling quota - point them in our direction. Cause, the only things i can help with on those lists are the silly string, and the candy.

And they are not having candy for breakfast :p


xox

Lost and Found...

Ever since I wrote "Lessons" (Things I've learned since having a child.) I wanted to do a "Things I've lost since having a child." The results being...

The Lost:

#1: Sleep.
I used to be one of those annoying people who would make ridiculous statements such as: "Sleep is optional." or "You can sleep when you're dead." I have since learned that these statements are only applicable to people who are actually getting sufficient sleep. I am no longer one of them.
I also think those people are self absorbed arrogant idiots, who should think before spouting off useless crap. (Sorry former self, but seriously. Think before you speak.)

#2: My ability to lie.
This might sound like a strange one, but I used to be able to lie. Well.
I'm a firm believer in that sometimes lies are necessary. And to portray them convincingly was a talent that I was grateful for. (Although, I do admit to occasionally using this talent frivolously.... you know, someone would ask my name, and I'd spam out a fake name, which came with a fake personality - sometimes complete with accent....)
No longer. I can't lie anymore. I've tried, and I just end up a stuttering mess. My safest option now is to just shut the hell up. (Which does tend to freak people out a bit when they are asking direct questions, and I'm sitting there like a psychopathic goober, silently staring at them...)


#3 Drinking an entire beverage.
Anyone with children knows, that right from the moment they are born, you never get to drink a hot coffee again. Maybe the first sip, but after that you invariably get distracted with some baby orientated task, and by the time you remember, it's stone cold.
Then they learn to talk, and any time you dare pick up anything resembling a drinking vessel, you are assaulted with chants of: "Dink? Dink?" (Drink? Drink?) or "Tast? Tast ease?" (Taste? Taste please?) and when all else fails: "Pingers? Pingers in dere?" (Which means: For gods sake, if you won't let me drink it, at least let me waggle my grubby sticky fingers in your drink so that I can lick them.)

4: Fearlessness:
I have never feared death. I'm not really looking forward to the possible pain and trauma that could come first, but even that I don't fear... it reminds me a bit of childbirth: "Seriously? I have to do THAT? Fricken SERIOUSLY? You are OBVIOUSLY kidding....Ok, Fine. If that's what I have to do, I'll do it. (Seriously???!!!)
I suppose it's not really fair to say that now I fear death.... More accurately, I fear my absence in the boys lives, which is something that death would accomplish quite well.
I need to be the one to raise them. This is not a rational thought, just something that I feel.
So I am more careful. I drive more carefully, I don't take stupid risks, I try not to upset crazy ax murderers. And I don't walk alone at night anymore. If Jax can sort himself out, he could be my night walking buddy. What's the point in having a 16 foot tall 800 pound monster living in your back yard if he can't keep you safe on night walks? I'll talk to him.....

And the found:

Myself. Or, parts of myself that never would have existed if I had decided against having children.
I have unearthed inner strength and patients unheard of
I have discovered a ruthlessness that I was completely unprepared for. (I was prepared for all the maternal gooey crap that was supposed to accompany the birth of offspring, but nobody ever mentioned this.)
And empathy. I have always been able to logically decipher what people are feeling, and act appropriately, but I could never feel what they were feeling. (I mean, how can you feel what someone else is feeling? It's their feelings.)
Enter: boys.
I get it now. The whole "When they hurt, I hurt." thing that I really thought was just a bunch of uber-crap that lovesick twelve year olds spouted to each other. As it turns out: True. (Not for the lovesick twelve year olds.... just the concept of that level of empathy in general.)

So I have lost some, and I have found some.

But I have learned immensely.


xox

Baby Humor...

Ok Ash, I know that if you ever decide to read this, you're going to hate that I ever wrote it down, but it was pretty funny, and I don't want to forget any of your quirky little antics. Deal with it :)

So, The Attack copies Connah. Whether he is crawling around the floor like a spider, or sliding down the stairs on his bottom, The Attack must do it too.
This is fine in most cases, (although his attempt at jumping from the chair to the couch was an epic fail...) but he has started following Connah to the bathroom. He can not copy. Because he is still wearing pants.
This is quite frustrating for him, and many a foot-stamping tanty has been witnessed following a bathroom trip.
A few nights ago, I got the boys undressed for their bath, and The Attack decided to take advantage of his naked state.
He ran over by the door, clutched his "man parts" in both hands, and looked at me over his shoulder:

"Pee?"

I looked down to see him aiming for the pile of shoes.
"Um, no Ash. You can not pee in the shoes."

What ensued was a half hour stumble around the house, with him finding more and more inappropriate things to ask if he could pee on, highlights of which included:

"Pee?"
"No, you can not pee on the couch."

"Pee?"
"No! you can not pee on your brother."

"PEE?"
"No, you can NOT pee in Connah's dinner."

"PEEEEEE?" (running after a fleeing cat...which looks pretty awkward with both hands busy...)
No Ash! No peeing on cats!."

By this stage, Connah and I were rolling around on the floor in hysterics, so of course The Attack runs over to stand threateningly above us... which is about the time I realized that even though he couldn't pee on purpose, he could, in fact, still go by accident, so I scooped him up and deposited him in the bath.

Good times :p :)



xox

Onto the battlefield...

I am the favorite. I don't say this with any sort of gleeful satisfaction at all. It is exhausting being the favorite.

Connah has upped his shunning of Mark lately, and The Attack - who soaks up everything Connah does like a sponge - is fast following suit.

I've done my "parental preference" research, and the general consensus is that it comes from having a strong sense of self (yay!) and learning that they are their own separate person with a bit of power to use.

Ok. Good. Important developmental milestone..... we like those.

So, we mustn't squish the sense of self stuff, but also can't let the boys wield their new found power for evil... hmmmm, more parenting greys....

We decided to keep letting them make all decisions that are relevant to them, (What clothes to wear / what cereal to choose for breakfast ect) and if they needed me to be the one that dresses them or makes them breakfast, so be it. But we also have routine tasks that Mark does for them, which are not open to debate.

This make bath time splendid fun. I really don't know why our neighbors haven't called the police to report all the screaming. It's very loud. And continuous. And goes like this:

"I WANT MUMMY TO BATH ME!!! WAAAAAAAAAAAA! I WANT MUMMY TO BRUSH MY TEETH! WAAAAAAA!!! I WANT MUMMY TO DRESS ME!!! WAAAAAAA!!!

Or, in The Attacks case, just: "WAAAAAAAAAA!!!! WAAAAAAAAAAA!!!! WAAAAAAA!!!!"

It goes on long after bath time is finished, with constant accusatory stares in my direction, whilst stating: "But I wanted YOU to do it."

It's awesome fun.

The other great thing about being the favorite is the tantrums you get to enjoy. If I'm not around, the boys are great for Mark, but as soon as I appear, the little horns start peeking through their hair.

This is not to say that they are bad children. They are amazing children, they are funny and smart, polite and thoughtful, imaginative and kind - they are everything I could have hoped for if I'd known what to ask for before they were born.

Again, more developmental stuff... They play up for me, because they are most secure in my love and commitment to them. They can test these fun little aspects of their personalities out on me because they know I'll never turn away from them.
This is kind of cool, because they are also absorbing my reactions to the tantrums, so it's another chance to teach them.

But....

Sometimes, when they have been awake most of the night, have refused to get dressed so are running around naked, one wants to wear a spiderman suit but won't choose which one ("You choose mummy." ok, how about the red one. "I DON'T WANT THAT ONE!!!" Then the black one... "I DON'T WANT THAT ONE!!!" That's all we have Connah. "BUT I WANT TO WEAR A SPIDERMAN SUIT!!!"), and the other has just sat on the cat (who immediately scratched him, so he is now howling) and are then both clutching at my legs, bawling their little eyes out because they don't want rice bubbles for breakfast....

Well, sometimes it's enough just to breathe, and know that awesome will be back soon...


xox

One step back...

Today I went to collect Connah from childcare, and he was sleeping. This is pretty unusual... he doesn't take a nap in the middle of the day often. So I spoke to his teachers, who told me that he had a great morning, but had been upset most of the afternoon. They didn't know why.

I woke him up to take him home, and when he saw me, he burst into tears and clung to me like a vine.
Hmmmm, something happened. But the teachers didn't see anything, and trying to get information out of a distraught Connah is fricken useless.

So I took him outside and started asking questions: "Did you hurt yourself?" "Did you want to go home?" "Did you get hungry / thirsty / need to go to the bathroom / get scared?" Each time he answered with a quiet "no". Until I asked: "Was your friend there today?"

"Yes, hick/sob".

"What happened with your friend Connah?"

"He said: "NO, I don't want to be your friend!" Sob/sniff dissolve into tears."

Oh Connah, I wanted to punch your friend in the face.

I know it's not something that I should say - that I wanted to punch a small child in the face. And I would never do it in reality, but I'm striving for honesty here, and honestly, I wanted him to hurt.
It didn't matter that he was only being a child, that it was just something to say, and he'll probably have forgotten all about it by Tuesday; Connah believes that he has lost his only friend. It was a gut instinct for me to protect. (Apparently, in this case my guts can't distinguish between protection and vengeance... it just wants to react.)

If it had been said to any other child, it would have been met with angry retaliation ("Well, my dad will beat up your dad!"...) Or nonchalance, ("Doesn't matter... I've got HEAPS of friends.... and you can't come to my birthday party!") But it was said to Connah, who took him at his word. and was crushed by it.

And just because I would never do it in reality, doesn't mean I can't do it here:

*PUNCH*.


xox

8000 shades of grey...

There are no real rules for raising children.

Most of us are aware of the basic guidelines: "Don't abuse them, try to keep them clean, feed and water them regularly, and let them have sufficient sleep." But anything after that, you're pretty much flying solo.

(And also, feeling a bit like a giant failure when you child refuses to sleep, decides that they will not put anything remotely healthy in their mouth, is constantly grubby no matter how many times you wipe them up, and is covered in so many bruises from falling off his own two feet, that you've started getting "The Look" from strangers on the street.)

There are resources for us to turn to: books, the internet, parenting workshops, advice from friends/family....

But none of it is right.

There is no "right" way to get your child to sleep, nothing that works for everyone. This irks my logical brain, because it really wants to follow a formula and get results - it knows how to do that. Sorry brain. No such thing exists.

So, again and again we are cast into the unknown, to figure out what is "right" for us. We stumble around in the dark looking for inspiration or evidence that will lead us down that glorious path, and, once on it, try to avoid the many distracting side roads, that somehow always look so much more appealing after a course has been chosen...

One of my "rules" is: "If it's not damaging you (physically, intellectually or emotionally) ,damaging anyone else, or destructive to property, go for it."

The theory behind this was that I didn't want to stamp out any creative or exuberant behavior, simply because It would inconvenience me, or wasn't social acceptable. Part of the "learning who they are" extravaganza.

So, beds get jumped on. Screaming "BANG SONG" in the car, over and over, to see who can get the loudest happens. Goop gets made out of dirt, water, paint, flour, and anything else they want to throw in to see what it does. 100 balloons are blown up and stuffed in the hallway so they can run through them - then are moved to the kitchen because "balloon land" can apparently not exist in the hallway - only the kitchen. Swims are taken in the middle of winter by putting the paddling pool in the house and filling it up with warm water (why not just fill up the bath? Because that is not a swim. It is a bath.)

And, my personal favorite to date: Walking through a crowded mall, with a two and a half year old that has just learned the correct name for all his body parts, and feels the overwhelming urge to sing a song about penises, and butterflies. (And because I know that you're dying to know what that sounds like, I'll demonstrate: Ahem.... "Penis, penis butterfly.... PEEEEnis, Penis butterFLLLLLY, PEEEENIS! PENIS BUTTERFLLLLY!!!!!!....."). It was pretty funny. Even with the dark looks I was getting from a mother who had all three of her "good" children sitting quietly in a trolley.

The hardest part in this is that I won't know until the boys are adults, whether this was a "right" path to take. Whether it assists them on the journey to self awareness, or helps turn them into inconsiderate, self centered brats. It's a bit of a gamble.

But, decisions still have to be made. We will continue to wade through the endless sea of grey, vainly looking for something even remotely black or white to cling to, and when that fails, and we are running out of time and energy to make a choice, we will find a shade to resonate with our lifestyle, and hope that we weren't just a couple of degrees off.


xox

Breaking through...

What is the answer to a child's extremely withdrawn and shy personality in public?

Is it exposure? If he's exposed enough, he will eventually get used to it, right?

Is it confidence? That if you can build up his confidence enough in private, that will give him confidence in public?

How about reason? If you can help him gain insight into why he feels so uncertain, he will be able to overcome it....

No. The answer my friends, is a magical Spiderman suit.

We got Connah a spiderman suit for Christmas. It cost nine dollars. He wore it once.

He then re-discovered it in his draw three weeks ago, and has not worn regular clothes since.

I first realized that it was a magic suit on the Monday night after he started wearing it. I was putting him to bed, and he asked, just like every other night: "What kind of day is after this sleep?" (There are three kinds: gran days, kindy days, and home days.)
"It's a kindy day tomorrow." I replied, bracing myself for his quiet "but I don't like to go there...." and the slide into the withdrawn shell he becomes.

Instead, he said: "I'm gonna wear my spiderman suit tomorrow, the kids will be soooo surprised to see my spiderman suit!"

Hmmm, that's new....

The next day, he went to Childcare in his suit. He did not cling to my hand. He did not cry when I left. He waved goodbye at the fence, and was off running before I even pulled out of the parking lot.

Magic.

I have read studies and reports on the psychological effects of wearing a costume, so I'm familiar with the concepts of gaining confidence and social skills through the wearing of one, but I have never seen it demonstrated this dramatically - It was as if he was very ready to take that step, he just needed a catalyst.

We now have two suits - a red and a black. I got the second because it was becoming quite a struggle to get the damn thing washed and dried every night so it could be worn again the next day.
Fail.
I now have two suits to wash and dry every night, because sometimes you NEED to be red spiderman, sometimes you NEED to be black spiderman, and most days you NEED to switch halfway through.

Have I taken the easy way out here? Probably. But, after almost six months of feeling like my guts is getting ripped out twice a week, I finally feel like we're making progress. The spiderman suit can stay. Best nine dollars I ever spent.

My theory is, that he will eventually feel comfortable without it. That the skills he is now learning will become part of who he is, so that when he moves on to the next phase, he will take them with him.

The other option is that he wears a spiderman suit for the rest of his life. Lets not go there unless we have to.


xox

Virgo rising...

I had forgotten how much fun one year olds can be. If you do not have regular access to a one year old, I highly recommend you borrow one for the day.

The Attack has always been a somewhat difficult baby. They say your second child is always easier then your first. They are so very wrong. And I thought I was pretty prepared because my first wasn't exactly a walk in the park.

No, The Attack is not easy. He has never slept well, has always been rather demanding, and
If he doesn't want someone to hold him, (or touch him, or look at him sideways...) then that person will damn well not hold him.... or, if they insist, he'll at least make the experience as unpleasant as possible so that they never want to try again.

This, however has always been more than balanced out by his all consuming charisma. This child sparkles.

I'll hear him start screaming at 3am, so I'll jump out of bed to save him from the monster, who must be dangling him by one leg over a pot of soup by all the noise he's making, and as soon as I enter his room, he is silent. I creep over to make sure he isn't suffocating on his meow meow, and see just his eyes peeking out from under his blanket. "Peepo. PEEEpo....PEEEEPO!" Yes, Ash. You are very cute and funny. Now go to sleep.

He is shockingly polite for a one year old. He always says please and thank you, and has recently started with "excuse me". This helps him get his own way a lot. Imagine you are sitting in a chair, doing your own thing, and a cute little face is staring up at you earnestly asking "Scuse eh pleah." (Excuse me please.) whilst patting your arm. You of course think he's trying to get past, so get up to let him through, whereupon he immediately clambers into your chair and starts zooming his car on the table. You have just lost your chair. Deal with it.

He finds joy in so many things: Bubbles, watching him run around trying to catch them on his tongue screaming "dinner!" is fricken hilarious.
Running as fast as he can, which is pretty slow but looks amazingly difficult, and dangerous as his body tries to keep up with his legs.
Holding animals. If they are small, great. If they are big, it makes it harder, but they will still be held.

Yes, everything is awesome when you're one. Which is what makes being around them so awesome as well.


xox

Living With Fear...

"The issue is not whether you are paranoid, the issue is whether you are paranoid enough."


When it comes to my boys, I am paranoid.

It does not stem from love, as I once thought it did. With love, there is a certain amount of acceptance, and trust that everything will work out - if not well - exactly as it should.

No, it is not love that creates paranoia, it's obsession. And obsession has no patients for acceptance and trust.

Parenting is hard. We are all told how hard as soon as people learn we are expecting, usually with a knowing smile, and an "You'll find out soon enough" gleam in the eyes. It is hard, but not for the reasons I was led to believe.

Do I enjoy having 3 hours of broken sleep a night for weeks on end? Not particularly.
Is it fun to be constantly turning down invitations to day trips, or nights out, or weekends away? No. No it is not.
What about the thrill of changing dirty nappies, tantrums, public scenes, and cleaning up vomit? Awesome stuff, but not my favorite activities....

These are the things I was led to believe would be hard, and they can be, but if we're working to a difficulty scale, they will never come close to comparing with the torrent of tragic scenarios that fly through my head on a daily basis.

What is it that I fear? The short answer is: Most things.

They mainly fall into three categories: I fear accidents, natural disasters, and people. Most of all people.

I will not elaborate on these things, to give weight to them seems like a taunt to the law of attraction, so they forever live like fog in my mind - I will not dwell on them, but seeing through the veil of mist influences every parenting decision I make. Can I avoid the law of attraction by deliberately not focusing? I hope so.

Are some people just in more danger than others? Is there some inexplicable threat hanging over my boys that I instinctively feel?... Am I only doing exactly what it takes to keep them safe?

Or, is my own self-importance feeding this?

I know parents, good parents who love there children emphatically, that don't seem to share this anxiety. They are aware of the dangers and risks, but know the chances of them happening are small, so can move on with little hindrance.

Statistics mean nothing to me. If the chance exists, it is a possibility, and therefore an attempt must be made to guard against it.

In saying all this, I know I can not protect them from everything - I'm not supposed to. Maybe one day I'll be able to send them to their grans house for the weekend, and not have that underlying feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach, not have the urge to call 50 times to see how they're doing.

One day, but not this day.

I have made a truce with the paranoia and obsession, and for the most part, the co-exist peacefully with the love. But they are always there in my peripheral mind, because, in all truth, if they are helping me keep the boys even the tiniest bit safer, I'm not prepared to give them up.


xox