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