A Few Good Men - The Other Fathers

I grew up without a dad. Most of you already know that. I have written about it many times. Sometimes just a memory. Sometimes a letter. And sometimes just a mention here or there.

It wasn’t always easy but it wasn’t catastrophic either. Of course, my Mum had a lot to do with that. She was our Mum and our Dad and she did an incredible job. In many ways I believe I have grown to be the woman I am BECAUSE of my absent father. But that’s a whole other blog post!

So today, on the figurative eve of Fathers Day in Australia I am writing about the ‘other’ fathers in my life. The men that taught me all the good things that I needed to learn about all those dad-things. My experience has taught me that fathers come in many forms and wherever I can I like to acknowledge and celebrate that.

Uncle Arthur

The most constant male role model in my young life was my Mum’s younger brother Arthur. I’ve written about him before here but what I want to say about Uncle Arthur is this. He was only ever in my life as an Uncle and only part-time, as Uncles tend to be. My Opa [his father] died when I was very young and my other Uncle, Marcel, lived away so Uncle Arthur became the ‘man’ of the family by default. He would never have admitted it. That was just the way he was. But he did all the ‘man’ stuff required for the family. He moved the furniture and serviced the cars and fixed the houses. He was gruff and scary when he was grumpy. You did not fuck with my Uncle Arthur. But he was a strong and caring man who taught me many things, without even trying, about what life could throw at you and how best to dodge the shit. 

He was also pretty cool. One night, driving down Marion Rd in his Buick [he had THE COOLEST cars] a carload of hoons excitable young men pulled up next to us at the lights. I was in the front passenger seat and they started revving the engine of their souped up piece of shit car and yelling out lurid comments compliments at us. Uncle Arthur smiled at them and turned to me and said ‘You ready?’ ‘Yep’ I answered wide-eyed and unsure of what I needed to be ready for. And then the lights turned green and it was on like Donkey Kong. Those poor bastards blokes didn’t know what hit ‘em. It was exhilarating. He was shifting gears like a racing car driver and had his signature look of determination on his face. I was so excited that I was squealing and giggling and being totally not cool. At all. And then he slowed down and laughed and his dimples seemed deeper than ever. Like a little boy. As a girl I never understood the treasure that moment was. But as a woman, when I remember that time, I see how it impacted me. It has stayed with me for thirty years so far. He showed strength and fun and vulnerability and an unwillingness to back down that I’m sure made a mark on me. 

He has his own kids and grandkids who have missed him every day since he died eight years ago.  I know they will feel his absence this Fathers Day, as I do too, but they are so fortunate to have had that man as their father for the years that they did.

My Step-Dad Sal

Mum started dating Sal when I was a teenager. Before Tinder and RSVP.COM you had to meet people in person. Often by chance. I remember the day she came home and told me that she had ‘seen’ this man who worked a couple of boutiques down from her. “He’s GORGEOUS!” she gushed and I rolled my eyes. I was a teenager – that was the standard response to anything my Mum said. So their relationship began like a fairtytale. Really. They courted and went on dates and there was this new man in our life who had never been married or had his own children. But nothing phased him. He stepped into our ready-made family with a willing and generous heart. The relationships between my brother and I and Sal developed naturally and organically and as a result he has become the most present male in my life. He rode in the car with me and walked me down the aisle at my wedding. And then he handed me over [with enthusiasm and relief probably] to my husband. He only just managed to get through his speech as father of the bride because he cried like a baby. Really.

When something is absent from your life for such a long time, it’s often hard to recognise that you ever really needed it… or missed it. I managed to build quite a thick skin when it came to yearning for any kind of paternal support or contribution to my life. I just figured I was surviving without it, so couldn’t really need it. The simple logic of youth. But having such an engaged step-father softened me. He taught me the virtues of good, reliable men and he restored my faith in their existence. After years of going without, I finally had someone else to lean on. And his shoulders were so broad that he could take everything I threw at him without buckling. I can’t tell you what that does to a young woman’s self-esteem, because I don’t really know. What I do know is that I’m confident my opinions of men in general changed, for the better, because of my relationship with Sal.

My sons are his grandchildren as if bound by blood. He was at the hospital while my first son was being born and then in the birthing suite with my mum when he was less than an hour old. My boys call him Nonno and even though they know he isn’t my ‘real’ dad, to them there is no ‘realer’ grandfather. So they are second generation Australian with a French, Dutch-Indonesian, Ukrainian heritage and an Italian grandfather. #mongrels.

When I was growing up, we celebrated my Mum on Fathers Day. It just seemed appropriate. But then she got married to my replacement Dad and it’s always been Sal’s day ever since.

My father-in-law John [JP]

I miss JP. His death five years ago has left one of the biggest holes in my life. I hit it off with JP from the moment I met him. Truth. When Mark brought me home to meet his parents for Christmas dinner, JP poured me a vodka shot and we immediately fell into a rhythm with each other that stayed with us until, literally, the day he died. Even on his actual deathbed when he was beyond words and I gently cooled him with a damp cloth during his last hours, I felt our connection. And I had already begun missing and mourning him.

It’s hard to explain exactly what it was about him that I resonated with so much. By all accounts he was a kind man who worked hard and liked a joke or three, but it wasn’t that. I met him the year he retired so he was very present and perhaps that helped lubricate our relationship. He was always just around. Helping Mark out around the house, fixing and renovating and gardening. He helped set up the liquor store and then when we sold that he helped out in the warehouse – packing up orders ready for freighting. He knew all our staff by name and they all loved him.

Mark spoke to him nearly every day and that really made an impression on me. They touched base on everything. Family issues and developments. Church politics. International politics. What Mark was ‘wasting’ his money on that week. What Mark was ‘neglecting’ that week. If he ever called and I answered the phone, he was happy and willing to talk to me before and sometimes in lieu of Mark. He’d also happily tell me what I was ‘wasting’ money on or ‘neglecting’… as if I was one of his own. In fact, I always felt like one of his own.

When our first son Nathan was born – he was nameless for nearly a week. Somehow in the preceding 9 months of hell pregnancy Mark and I hadn’t agreed on a name yet so we were scrambling in the days before we left hospital to come up with something. We consulted with both sets of grandparents. ROOKIE MISTAKE. Do not EVER consult with grandparents about the name of your child. JP called me morning and night in hospital after scouring borrowed baby name books and the internet [he was VERY tech savvy] with ridiculous helpful suggestions of popular traditional Ukrainian names. He was so earnest and committed and I treasure those moments we shared. He made me laugh and then he laughed with me because he never took anything personally and was never scared of rejection. It made him very easy to be with. He put himself out there with us as a family all the time and made himself available to us as often as he could.

When I brought Nathan home it was JP who would drop around during the day and bring me food. Usually some soup he had made or his famous Bolognese sauce. He would invite himself over and rug the baby up and sit him outside in a rocker and talk to him as he tended to the garden. “Why don’t you go and relax?” he would tell me “Nathan is fine with me.”

He would make me cups of tea and stand in the doorway with his back to me chatting as I breastfed. He adored his grandsons and couldn’t get enough of them. He took them for walks and fed them some of their first solids and held them until they fell asleep. He played with them and talked to them and showed them everything he could. And I believe he nurtured Mark’s role as a father by pure example.

When he was very sick and going through treatment he moved in to our home with my mother-in-law and I was honoured to wait on him for those weeks. Every day I made him breakfast, morning tea, lunch, afternoon tea, dinner and supper. I have always shown love by cooking for and feeding people and I showered him with as much love as I could. It was heartbreaking watching him die but the impact he made on my heart is significant and I will always be grateful for it.

So this Fathers Day I do have a lot to miss but so much to celebrate and I give thanks to the other fathers in my life.

What got you talking in 2013

I didn't intend to take a break from blogging. I had every intention to keep on writing through the festive season. I really did. It's just that, life got so busy. Cooking, entertaining, cleaning, recovering by the pool. Repeat. Finding the space and time to write just hasn't been easy. Today I'm getting ready to head down the coast to spend NYE with family friends. It's only the second time since I had kids that we've been invited to someone else's place for new years so I'm excited. I love having people at my home too but sometimes it's nice to be hosted by someone else. 

I've got a couple of blogs brewing for the new year but in the meantime thought I'd put together a list of the ones that got you talking the most in 2013. If you're a new seventies baby [welcome!] this may be a good snapshot for you and if you've been here from the beginning [thank you!] you may remember some of these.

I love hearing from you so if you feel so inclined, please leave me a comment [positive or negative]. You're the second most important person that I'm writing for after all.


The one about my little sister, PIMA...   - this is my opportunity to mentor a young woman in today's world.

The one about the vagina... - guess what? Vaginas are not dirty... despite what marketers will tell you.

The one about my Dad... - sometimes it’s the quiet little memory in the corner, hoping to go unnoticed that, in fact, gets your attention.

The one about the paedophile... - sometimes sick fuckers look like nice guys... and girls.  

The one about my brush with fame... - I could have been Tania Senna. Just sayin'.

The one about obese kids... - what do you do if your kid is allergic to calories?

The one where I give my boys relationship tips... - there's a few mums around that I wish had dished this advice out to their boys. Would've saved me a lot of wasted time.

The one that pissed off a lot of my male readers... - because women can't joke about sex.

The one in which I confess to not liking kids... - judge me if you will. 

The one where I weigh in on breastfeeding in public... - and two of my favourite photos as a mum.

So, that's the top 10 for 2013. Thanks for coming along for the ride... I hope to keep you reading and talking in 2014. 

Happy New Year guys. Stay safe. Stay happy. Love. Be loved. I wish you good times and sleep.

Tan xx

Being a mother is not the most important job in the world but...

image source: www.dailytelegraph.com.au

Let me start by saying I am NOT taking on Catherine Deveny. I.AM.NOT.

And these are the reasons why.

1. Because I really like and respect her [as a writer and particularly after seeing her on the SBS program, Go Back to Where You Came From] and 2. Because there’s no way I could come out unscathed... so I pick my battles. VERY carefully.

But her recent article {here} made me feel uncomfortable. Just a bit, but uneasy nonetheless. To be fair, I agree with much of what she said and I WHOLEHEARTEDLY agree with her assertion that being a mother is NOT, by any means, the toughest job in the world. It does not compare to many, many other far harder/tougher jobs performed throughout the world – whether you’re a working mother OR a stay at home mother or a guardian or a father or a carer. She is right and most of the mothers I know would also concur.

However, if I was taking Catherine Deveny on [which I am not], I would argue that it is MORE than just a relationship. It is certainly a job to care for your children. I have a relationship with my sister but I’m not listed as her ‘In case of emergency’ person. The person most responsible for her is. Her mother is. And her father.

Do mothers actually say ‘being a mother is the most important job in the world’? Sadly, yes some do. Some sprout it at school coffee mornings and playgroup and on social media to justify their own decisions, yearnings, sacrifices and losses. However, most [that I know at least] do not. 

In fact, the most common declarations I hear in my circle are:

“Being a mother is the most boring/relentless/exhausting/thankless/rewarding/mundane/gratifying/shitfully draining job I have ever done” And I would not be talking out of school to say that I have heard that all said over the period of one night with a group of mothers playing hookey with a bottle or 4 of sav blanc under their muffin tops.

I personally have said all of that. One trillion times. I have also said this. Being a mother is the most important job I HAVE EVER DONE. Because it is true. Because I have never had to run a country or be a judge or perform brain surgery or research a cure for cancer or counsel a child who has been abused. Because in my entire life, I have NEVER done anything more important than raising my kids. More stimulating? Sure. More respected? Probably. Critical to the bottom line of a business? Yep. Better paid? Abso-fucking-lutely. But more important? Not to me. Not to my husband. And not to my kids.

And this is where it all gets a bit grey for me. For... whilst I agree that being a mother [or carer or father etc, etc] is not the most important job in THE world, I believe that raising good people IS. Our children are the next generation of our world. They will grow into adults who will become the caretakers of our universe and our animals and our cultures and our history and the generation of children to follow. So with that in mind, ALL that are involved in this vital function of our future should also believe that it is, in fact, incredibly important. If there is a parent or carer or guardian [of any kind and regardless of how they came to be one] who has committed to taking their ‘job’ as the most important in their life, we should support them – NOT tease them.  Not try to ‘out’ them or ‘outdo’ them. 

It is our job, our responsibility and our obligation to do our very best to raise our very best.

Is it not?

Memory Melee

Sometimes I have so much to say that it all rushes forward at the same time and bottle-necks at the exit. And nothing can get out and all my thoughts begin to panic. There is an uprising and then my thoughts are rioting, in their bid for freedom and this internal mêlée paralyses me. So I sit and try to calm the panic. I sit and try to restore order. I sit and stare. I sit and breathe. I sit and sit. And nothing comes out but there’s so much. Years of memories and theories and anecdotes and opinions. But they’re all fighting to be heard. To be told. They all want their day in the sun.

“Pick me!” they say “I’m a great story.”

But sometimes it’s the quiet little memory in the corner, hoping to go unnoticed that, in fact, gets your attention. Sometimes you are drawn to the one making the least noise because sometimes, they need the sun the most. So I motion to that sweet little moment in time and gently nudge them forward.

“Go on” I say gently “tell me.”

And they do. And it is beautiful.

It’s very early in the morning. My mum and dad and baby brother are all sleeping. But I’m not. I’m awake and reading in bed. I read whenever I can but I’ve been reading for a while and I think it’s time to start the day. I head down the hall to the kitchen in my nightie. I don’t make much noise because I’m small and my feet are bare. I am four.

My dad likes to start his day with coffee. I know this because I see my mum make it for him every morning. Today I am going to make his coffee. Because I love him and it will be nice for my mum to have a rest. I get his favourite cup. I’m very proud of myself because mum keeps the cups in the high cupboards but I’m clever. I pull out the drawers and use them as steps to reach the high cupboards. I get the tin of coffee and put some in the cup. 2 big spoonfuls looks about right and I’m very pleased that I remember Dad has sugar too. I put in 4. One for each of my years. All good instant coffee is made with water from the kettle. I’m not allowed to turn it on so I don’t. I pour the cold water from the kettle into Dad’s favourite cup but only half way. I haven’t forgotten the milk! I fill the rest of the cup to ALMOST the top and stir up that morning coffee.

It takes me the longest time ever to get back down the hallway to my mum and dad’s bedroom because I can’t move too fast or I will spill the coffee. So with two hands I gingerly make my way across the house in my nightie and bare feet and slip into their darkened room. They are STILL asleep so I put the coffee next to my dad and climb into bed with him to wake him up. Which he does, almost immediately. His moustache tickles me when he kisses me good morning. But I don’t care. I love it.

“I made you a coffee Daddy”

My mum sits up bolt upright. “Tania! You KNOW you’re not allowed to use the kettle!” She’s mad at me and she looks scared so I tell her that I know. And I didn’t. And she calms down. Until she sees the cup. “How did you get that cup down?!”

I explain everything and everyone is calm again and then I wait, expectantly for my dad to try his coffee. He exchanges [possibly pained] looks with my mum and sits up in bed, with me tucked under his arm and starts his day with my cup of coffee. Every. Last. Drop.

The memory of that cold cup of coffee keeps my soul warm.

Dear Dad

Sorry I missed your birthday this year. I’ve always found it ironic that my French Dad’s birthday is on Australia Day and that while I celebrate being an Aussie I always raise a glass of wine and say a ‘salut’ to you too. It wasn’t always that way, of course. We used to celebrate your birthday, just the two of us, at a beach somewhere. It was what I needed for a long time. I’m happy we’re past that now.

It’s been a while since I’ve written I know. I’m sorry for that too. Life is just so busy these days and I am consumed with living every minute to the fullest. Mum reckons I get that from you. She’s probably right.

I know I always told you that I wanted to marry you. Or at least a man like you and sadness would touch your smile when you would say 'No. Not for you ma petite chere'. Turns out you were right. Life with Mark is good. You like him don’t you? I know. What’s not to like? I wish you were here to drink with us. I’m sure marrying a man in the wine industry was more destiny than accident. He thinks so too. Have I told you what a good palate I have? It’s true. Mark reckons it’s in the genes. I don’t argue that. I like the inference. He’s different to you. Considered instead of reckless. Calm instead of passionate. Controlled instead of emotional. Consistent instead of irrational. He’s a good husband. Let’s face it, he’s a better husband than you were. That’s not an accident either.

Do you remember when you used to have all your friends over and Mum would cook French food for everyone and you’d all sit around the kitchen table and drink wine until all hours of the morning singing... and crying? My kids will never have those memories of their Dad and I’m happy for that.

Jason is doing ok. He misses you but keeps his feelings close to his chest. Sometimes he’ll be telling me a story and wave his hand about and I feel as though a younger you stands before me. It’s disconcerting. Mum feels it too and I see that it makes her happy and sad. She’s coming to visit you this year. 45 years after she met you and she’s finally going to see where you’re from. No, she could never be accused of being radical. You two. So different.

So, life is good Dad. Nathan just turned 8 and Stefan will be 6. I can hear you exclaim “Already??” I can’t believe it myself. It only seems like yesterday that I was telling you that I was pregnant and sharing the wonder of growing your grandchild in my bloody huge belly. Nathan is so proud that I gave him your name as his middle name. He tells everyone. Especially Stefan. Just something else to tease him about. I know you are proud of my boys. Do you see yourself in Nathan? I do. His eyes. His face. His mouth. His body. So much of you in him. It makes my heart burst. Stefan is a bit more of a mix of Mum's side and Mark’s side of the family. He’s got your passion though. And your hair. 

They talk about you sometimes. They’re learning French at school and have excellent pronunciation. They love reminding their class mates of their French heritage too. Now that we’ve cleared up the confusion that they are not actually Aboriginal. Don’t ask, Dad.

It’s been a bumpy ride, as life tends to be, but the bumps seem to be in the right places. I’m sorry it’s been so long. I know I promised that it wouldn’t be. I’ll write more often. I promise. Again.

I miss you Dad.

Rest in Peace xx

Frank, my dear, doesn't give a damn

“You’ll never guess who just walked into the shop”

That’s how the phone call from my very good friend started today. It sounds delicious doesn’t it? Who? I almost squealed, excited. Hopeful for some gossip.

“That bitch, Deidre Smith*”

Oh. Not so delicious. Not gossip. Horrible, confronting and painful news.

Deidre is the wife of the man who molested my friend’s two children when they were very young. She is the mother of my friend’s ex-defacto, her children’s step-father. She is the woman who didn’t participate in the molestation but knew about it. Turned a blind eye to it. Kept quiet about it. Enabled it. 

She is the woman that my friend and I HATE.

It’s a strong emotion, I know. But it sits real and heavy in our guts. My friend, let’s call her Molly [because I don’t actually KNOW anyone called Molly] has grown children now, but at the time of their abuse they were both under 5 years old. Molly didn’t know what was happening then. But Deidre did. SHE KNEW. And we hate her for knowing and for sharing cups of tea with Molly and smiling in photos with Molly’s kids and for getting on with her life,seemingly unaffected.

There are many, many resources for childhood victims of molestation, sexual abuse and rape. There is support. There is a general level of public understanding and empathy. In our culture, at least. As there should be. But often, it is the family of the victims that are forgotten though they suffer too. Make no mistake the ripple effect of child molestation is more like a tsunami... some people drown, some people never return after being swept away and homes are destroyed.

In Molly’s case, her suffering is threefold. 

First she has had to endure almost crippling guilt at the realisation that this happened ‘on her watch’ and SHE HAD NO IDEA that it was happening. It wasn’t until her children were grown up that they finally revealed to her what they had suffered as preschoolers. 

Secondly she has had to deny her own deep, burning desire to exact revenge on her children’s abuser AT THEIR EXPLICIT REQUEST. 

And lastly,it is her ongoing struggle to support an adult son who battles debilitating depression and agoraphobia as a result of the horrific acts against him as a toddler.

There was never any reason to suspect the man who molested Molly’s children. I’m going to call him Frank because that’s actually his name and it feels good for me to ‘out’ him, albeit under a shroud of anonymity. Frank was a lovely man. He was friendly and funny and charming. He had good relationships with his friends and a pleasant, happy wife. Two successful, grown [childless] sons. He looked after his home well and loved Molly’s kids. AND THEY LOVED HIM TOO. Molly could barely believe it when she finally found out what had happened, it seemed so unlikely.

And that’s what I’m here to tell you. It’s not always obvious when children are being molested. In fact, it often isn’t. In this, real-life, example I can tell you the following truths:

• Those kids WANTED to visit Frank. EVERY TIME.
• Molly TRUSTED Frank.
• Neither of Frank’s grown sons gave ANY INDICATION that something was ‘not right’ with their dad.
• Frank’s own wife welcomed Molly’s kids into her home and turned a blind eye when Frank visited them in bed. And the bathroom. And the shed.
• Molly’s kids showed NO SIGNS of being uncomfortable or scared of Frank. 

The other truths I can tell you are these. When a child’s innocence is stolen by sick bastards like Frank, it affects the rest of their life and the rest of their family and the rest of their family’s lives. When pricks like Frank get their revolting paws onto babies, hearts are ruined. When disturbed fuckers like Frank are left unchecked, scars are formed and futures are destroyed and hatred grows and grows and grows.

My final truth is this. Sometimes sick fuckers look like nice guys... and girls. Sometimes the only thing standing between your child and some disgusting pig is you, your gut instinct and your perceived over-protectiveness. It is your responsibility to be ever vigilant with your kids. Don’t assume you’ll KNOW that there’s something going on. Hundreds of thousands of people have proven how easy something like this goes undetected. In the case of Molly’s family even her two kids didn’t know it was happening to the other.

My friend Molly hates Frank and she hates Deidre too. She was happy to hear that he suffered before he died. She was happy to know that his last days were not easy, just as her son’s days are not easy either. She had nothing to say to Deidre that day. She was paralysed with rage and her voice was strangled with betrayal. But Molly’s ready for her when she comes again.

And Deidre better watch her back.

*Deidre Smith is a make-believe name for a real-life monster.

Please, if your gut is telling you something isn't right with your little one... seek external help. Follow the links in this blog or contact your state government department listed here.

"the world is in greater peril from those who tolerate or encourage evil
than from those who actually commit it"
ALBERT EINSTEIN (1879-1955)

Mummy Tantrum

Do you know what sucks? 

How, once you have kids, someone's priorities come second. Sometimes it's Mum's. Sometimes it's Dad's. It doesn't really matter - it's always someone's. And in our house, it sucks, 'cause it's MY priorities that take the back seat. Like my life isn't as important as anyone else's. My goals aren't as pressing and my needs aren't as necessary. And though I don't want to seem petulant, I just feel like stamping my feet and yelling "I'm important too!" 

Yes, I chose to take time away from my career to raise our kids. Yes, I'm happy I did and I'd do it again. Yes, I know someone has to be the bread winner and at the moment I'm not winning any more than a few slices but for fuck's sake, I want to start bringing loaves home again. Except I can't because I'm the family 'go to'. I'm the one that needs to drop everything when the shit hits the fan. 

Even when it's not my fan. Or my shit.

It's 11.45pm and my eyes are hanging out of my head but it's the only quiet I've had all day to just sit and write. Which is one of MY needs that isn't as necessary as everyone else's. I couldn't when the kids were at school because I had to work and deal with some family 'shit'. I couldn't after I picked the kids up because I had to get them ready for soccer because Dad got held up at his far-more-important-job so couldn't make it home in time. I couldn't when we got home because I had to cook dinner. I couldn't after dinner because I had to finalise a year 3 homework project with a nearly 8 year old. 

I know I should be in bed. Catching on the sleep deficit I've been living with for, I don't know, eight years now. I know I should be resting but my rest isn't as important as everyone else's. Everyone else is asleep. In the beds that I keep clean with a full tummy of the dinner I cooked. 

I didn't do the bath and bedtime routine though. I was lucky tonight. I ASKED for some TIME OFF so I could get some of my stuff done. And it was granted. 

Lucky I tell ya.

Is your kid allergic to calories?

The war on fat is a hot topic these days. Childhood obesity. Positive body image. Fat shaming. Kids on diets. Reality weight loss shows. 

I’m really interested by it all. Really. Not so much about adult obesity. I understand most of that but I’m fascinated by fat kids. I saw a really obese boy play soccer against my son’s team a couple of weeks ago. He was huge. He could barely walk, let alone run. He couldn’t reach for the ball. He couldn’t keep up with the pack. He certainly would have weighed more than me. And he was playing for an UNDER 8 team. I wondered why he’s overweight. I wondered what his parents are doing to allow him to be overweight. I felt sad for him because he’s so young and if he’s struggling now – what does that mean when he’s older. When his poor eating habits are entrenched. Are his parents doing his future a huge injustice? “At least he’s being active” one of the other parents said. Active?? Being active isn't gonna cut it for this guy. The kid is eating himself to the point of bursting!

I recently read The Heavy by Dara-Lynn Weiss. It's a memoir of a mother helping her overweight 6 year old daughter lose enough weight to no longer be considered obese. Thought provoking to say the least. Confronting to be more accurate. In it Weiss talks about how she allowed her daughter to be obese. How she enabled it. She talks about the backlash she received when she put her daughter on a strict calorie counting regime. What she believes was the only way her daughter could shed the kilos. She talks about how she was judged and how society made it so hard for her to teach her daughter how to make sensible food choices. How to manage her portions. Mothers who would override her parenting decisions at parties, feeling the need to defend her ‘poor little girl’. It pissed me off reading it. She talks about other kids who have allergies. To nuts, eggs, dairy, shellfish. Others who are intolerant to gluten and cows milk. The support those children get is enormous. Other mothers will willingly omit nuts from a party table or prepare special gluten-free treats so that their child doesn’t miss out. 

But what if your kid is allergic to calories? Is it not your responsibility, as their parent, to help them manage their food choices?

Have you noticed that everywhere you look there’s someone talking about loving yourself, and others, no matter what size we all are? Empowering men and women alike to embrace their bodies and to be unapologetic about their excess weight. It’s an important shift, I think, to help people who struggle with their weight to be less ashamed, embarrassed or defensive. It speaks to the emotions of all of us and supports us in our life choices. I think it is right that grown-ups get to choose how they want to live. Though I am confused that there’s a movement to say it’s ok for grown-ups to choose to be overweight but not for them to choose to be incredibly thin. How is starving yourself any less healthy or deserving of judgement than over-eating? Why do we celebrate eating cake and scorn dieting? And why – why – do we say it’s ok for kids to be overweight when they’re still kids? When there’s no medical reason that they should be.

Side note – I’d just like to point out, at this poignant stage, that when I talk about overweight kids, I’m not talking about those beautiful Michelin rolls on a baby or the rubber band wrists of a healthy toddler or the big swollen cheeks of a preschooler... ‘cause that shit’s just gorgeous.

Parenting is a tough gig. There’s a thousand choices you have to make for your kids every day and sometimes the choice you made yesterday, you can’t be bothered making today. Like yesterday it was really important to me that the kids made their beds but today, in the morning melee, I didn’t care so much so they went to sleep in unmade beds tonight. Meh... But when you've got a kid who's constantly nagging you for food, most often unhealthy food, it's easy to be worn down. 

Consistency is hard and on top of that we all enter the parenting arena carrying our baggage and sometimes our own extra weight. I saw a commercial of the current The Biggest Loser season [no, I don’t watch it] which just happens to be about fat parents and their fat kids, where one of the daughters says something along the lines of ‘Why should I listen to what you’ve got to say about me losing weight when you’re so fat yourself?’ aaaah... I recognise that one. Do as I say, not as I do. I’ve played that one myself a couple of times I reckon. But I can’t help but think that if Mum had STARTED the healthy choices regime while her daughter was a lot younger, then they wouldn’t be in this predicament. 

And make no mistake, it’s a predicament. Apparently it’s a fucking epidemic.

 

Who really is to blame for childhood obesity? Fast food? Too much screen time? Too many sweets? Poor portion control? Not enough physical activity? Mum and Dad?

I’m saying all of the above. PLUS I’m going to add – the price and availability of good food. When you’re paying in the vicinity of $8 per kilo for fresh fruit/vegies, $5 for a loaf of bread and upwards of $28 per kilo for a lean cut of meat at the local supermarket then those monster packets of chips for $1.50 and family feasts at the drive-through for $25 look pretty appealing. In fact, they look almost impossible to say no to. Especially if you, the parent, really want them too.

Let’s help our next generation become grown-ups who understand healthy food choices. Who understand that being neither skinny or overweight matters but being fit and well does. Let’s stop giving in to their cravings. Let’s stop using food as an emotional pleaser. As a bribe and as a peacemaker. 

It won’t be easy. I know because I’ve already started. My boys are fit and well and currently have zero risk of being obese but I want them to understand what being healthy is all about. I’ve stopped using food as an incentive. I say ‘stopped’ because I used to. “if you eat this broccoli/bean/tomato, you can have a sweet treat after”. The more I thought about the culture that was breeding, the more I felt uncomfortable with it. Now I use play time as an incentive or a favourite activity. I realised I was teaching them that one group of food was a distasteful chore and another group was a delicious reward. Now I try to use language that presents all food as equally distasteful delicious.

Which is not to say that I don’t allow treats anymore. Oh, I do. But if I’m to be completely honest, they’re more for me than them.

And I reckon that’s the point of this whole post.

Raising Men

It’s not so easy to be a man today. What is a good man these days? Do you know? Do you think your son knows?

I have always had my feet planted firmly in the raising adults camp as opposed to the raising kids playground. It just makes sense to me. Start as you mean to go on and all that kind of logic. Having two sons means that I am deeply entrenched in the business of raising men. Good men. Men who will succeed in love and life and happiness and self. It is one of the greatest challenges of parenthood to have the foresight to teach the right lessons for an outcome that may not even exist.

I am constantly, CONSTANTLY thinking about the right lessons to teach my boys but, to be perfectly basic, it’s just so confusing. I am an empowered woman. I am empowered because my society has empowered me. Our focus has been and is to teach girls that we can be anything we want to be. Anything. Because the greatest power you can bestow upon someone is freedom. Choice. Independent thought. I know what a good woman is. A good woman is anything you want to be – unless you’re a bad mother. That is the mother of all sins in womanhood... pardon the pun. You can choose not have children. You can choose to adopt your children out. You can choose multiple fathers for your children. You can even choose to end a pregnancy to avoid having children. But if you’re shit at raising them... god fucking help you. 

I digress.

How can I teach my sons to celebrate their own selves when there is very little room to do that? 

Consider this – a young girl doesn’t like to wear dresses so much. She prefers to rough and tumble in a pair of shorts on the soccer field. Her parents are so proud and delighted that she’s so strong willed. They call her a tomboy. She’ll be able to do anything when she’s older, their friends say. On the other hand there’s  a young boy who’s not so keen on sport. He prefers to play music and dress ups and have tea parties. He likes pink. He’s interested in mum’s make-up and likes the feel of silk on his skin. His parents try to channel his masculine spirit into any sport then can. They downplay his creativity. They call him different. He’ll probably be gay, their friends say. As if that's a destination or a definition.

A strong willed girl is going places. A strong willed boy will have anger management issues. An emotional girl is understood. An emotional boy is a cry baby. A boy who gets into a playground fight school is aggressive and a trouble maker. A girl who gets into a playground fight at school is tough and can ‘hold her own’.

Don’t mollycoddle your boys is the message I get loud and clear. They should be strong. Why are you crying little Johnny? Only girls cry... are you a girl? So, girls are allowed to cry and fight. They’re allowed to be girlie and tough. But boys? Boys are expected to act like men.  

And how should a man ‘act’? In this age where the traditional family unit is predominantly non-existent, there are no more villages to raise our children and we have CONSTANT access to every type of media, our boys’ role models are confusing. And, I suspect, confused. How does our society focus on our men today? By adoring massive sporting idols covered in tattoos who drink too much, take drugs, mistreat women and believe in their own infallibility so much that they jump from the sky expecting to survive. By glorifying our criminals in ridiculous television franchises like Underbelly. Today’s male tv sitcom characters are socially inept geeks, bumbling idiots, overtly camp or useless husbands berated by their wives. Our male politicians are represented as sexist, racist, backstabbers or just dickheads.

What the fuck happened to our men?

For me to raise good men I must be able to explain what a ‘good’ man is. I think this will mean explaining to my sons that, like their female friends, they also have choices. They can choose their own paths too. To be sporty, to be musical, to be creative, to be tough, to be emotional, to be open, to be loving, to be scared, to be brave, to dance, to be true, to cry, to be shy, to sing, to be competitive, to be alone, to be honest, to like dressing up, to be a reader, to be dependable.

Could a 'good man' simply just be a grown-up 'good boy', after all?

Big dreams in little bodies

It's been a big week for the boys.

School's back and that means the return of routine, early morning, get-ready fights, book covering and reunited friends. 

Nathan is doing cricket, tennis and swimming this term. He also starts pre-season soccer training. He just got back from a weekend away, boogie boarding with his best mate at Middleton. I ribbed him when he got home, his hair stiff with salt and sand still in his eyebrows "So, did you get sick of Charlie while you were there?". He looked at me, simultaneously perplexed and disgusted... 

"Mum. He's my best friend. You don't get sick of your best friend". Boom. 

Nathan's not much of a socialiser, unless it involves sport. So this year, again, he has opted to forego a birthday party for a trip to Melbourne to watch his beloved Blues instead. He's heavily campaigning that Charlie goes too. We've got a couple of months to work all that out but Nathan's a planner. He's really keen to start making some connections at the club because he intends to be drafted before he turns 18. Which, of course, means we will need to move to Melbourne. He understands that it could be difficult for Stefan to leave school though, so he's already in discussion with his Aunty Pauline to move in with her until we're ready to follow him over there. Righto. 

Then, over dinner this week, he announced that it was probably time for him to start working in the family business. Which, of course, is our hope too but we were expecting him to finish school first. He made a reasonable case that he could work part-time and even from home if the business would supply him with a lap-top and a phone. He could help pack wine but he doesn't have a forklift licence, so he probably couldn't do that yet. Mark said he's discuss with the board and get back to him. 

Meanwhile Stefan is, as always, travelling to the beat of his own drum. As he sat at the breakfast bar watching me cook dinner this week he asked when I would allow him to get a tattoo. He thought he might like one on his arm to begin with and thinks a dragon might be appropriate. I've always known his penchant for pictures on his skin as he's been doing his own texta tattoos since he was a baby. I was taken aback though, that he is keen on piercings too. He calls them screws. Screws in the skin. Sigh. 

I told him that we would talk about it later which he seemed to accept. His next request was for a blue mohawk. Are you picturing what I am? My beautiful boy with the sides of his head shaved, a bright blue spikey strip down the middle, a dragon sleeve on his arm and screws coming out of his face. 

I wonder if he will still sneak into my bedroom in the morning, hold my face in his hands and kiss me, whispering 'I love you mum' while he thinks I'm sleeping. 

He has no plan to play footy or live in Melbourne with his brother. He talks about having lunch with me at the Eiffel Tower and he fiercely disagrees with Nathan that Psy is the best singer in the world. "Adele has the best voice. Ever. Even better than Michael Jackson. Because he's dead." He told me, on the way home from a trip to the beach where Mark and the boys did some body surfing in the shallows, that he was going to teach his kids to do that too. "When I'm a Tato [dad], I'll stay with them in the water until they know how to do it. They'll love that Mum. They're gonna love me" 

Time has a way of creeping up on you. It can steal your plans and hijack your dreams and slap you in the face with stinging reality.

I'm excited that my boys can see their futures. I'm proud that they're navigating their way through life and setting goals for authentic journeys. It warms my heart that they value good friendships and understand the important things that parents do and see no shame in loving. 

I just wish that time would slow down a little. 

Am I happy that my sons share their dreams and have these conversations with me? Absolutely. 

I just didn't expect them to be 7 and 5 when they did.