The Playdate V2.015

We didn’t have playdates when I was growing up. We just went to our friend’s houses. Our mums often didn’t even check if that was ok with each other… or if they were even home. I’d leave the house on my bike [without a helmet] and say “I’m going to Liz’s” and Mum would say “ok” and that would be the entire logistical arrangement for the visit. Then when I arrived at Liz’s, unexpected but welcome nonetheless, we would tell her mum “We’re going to Allison’s” and she would say “ok” and off we would go. And at some stage [before the street lights came on] we would all end up home again. Tired but happy and already wondering what and who the next day had in store for us.

Kids from the neighbourhood would turn up at our front door, bold as you like and say “Hi, is Tania home?” and if Mum was in the mood, she would welcome them in and direct them to my room or the backyard or wherever I was and we would just hang out. There were no activities. There were no pre-prepared snacks. If we complained about being hungry Mum would tell us to have a piece of fruit or make a sandwich. Chips and packaged snacks were party food so there was never any of that in the house and if there WAS some, it was for special guests. Not bratty kids just dropping around hoping to freeload the ‘for special guests treats’.

When we were kids, fronting up at a friend’s house uninvited was so normal that we didn’t care if we were welcome or not. If they weren’t allowed to play that day, we accepted that and moved on. We then decided for ourselves whether it was worth trying another friend nearby or whether we should just head home. And every day we developed resilience. Being turned away from friends’ and neighbours’ homes were gentle and appropriate rejections that strengthened our emotional muscle. I never understood the importance of those rites of passage. Until today.

My eldest took himself off to his own playdate today. For the first time. In his ten years of living.

When I watched him ride off down the street, with nothing but his tennis racket on his back I felt a twinge of anxiety. I’ve written about letting go before so these feelings are nothing new. Except they are. Every time he takes another step toward independence there is a new feeling in my heart. Every time he makes another decision without my counsel I see his chest grow with the breath of the man he is becoming. I watched him overcome his own anxieties too. He did a dry run before the main event earlier in the morning and yesterday he asked me to drive past his friend’s place so he knew exactly where it was and how to get there. As he was preparing to leave at precisely the time we had worked out he needed to in order to arrive punctually [VERY important to this child] he ran through his own checklist with me “So Mum, this is the way I’m going to go [explains, in detail, his route]. It should only take me about 3 minutes [yes, he's THAT precise] shouldn’t it? And then I’ll come back the same way… but how will I know it’s time to leave?”

Whoa. At that moment I understood that there are so many important lessons in independence that our ‘new’ way of parenting is robbing our kids of. How can I expect my boys to make the right choices, when they are not given enough opportunity to make any at all. If I am making all of their social arrangements, for example, without their involvement what are they learning? Until today, I would tell him when we need to leave, drop him off and tell him when I would be back. Until today, I’m certain he paid no attention to any of that. He just went on his merry way until such time as I returned to collect him or his friend’s mum brought him home.

The way things were done when I was a kid weren’t altogether right, by any means, but I don’t reckon the way things are done today are either. I’m looking for the sweet spot in the middle of the two for my lot.

So today, for the first time ever, I made arrangements with his friend’s mum ENTIRELY by text. I didn’t send him off with a drink and BYO snacks. I didn’t settle him in and tell him when I would return. I texted the mum when he left home and she texted me when he arrived. It was ALMOST like the way we used to do ‘playdates’ back in the day. Almost.

#babysteps

Did I let that girl down?

Some time last Friday night I became middle-aged. One minute I was standing at the bar in my leopard print pants dancing to Blurred Lines like the 30 year old I think I am and the next minute I was a 42 year old mum.

I know exactly when it happened too. It wasn’t when I had to come inside because it was freezing in the courtyard and despite my sensible outfits layers, I needed to stand in front of the open fire. It wasn’t when I realized that all the guys that caught my eye [in a harmless, non-cheating kind of way] were beardless, looked a bit tired and all had grey hair. It wasn’t even when I ordered a gin and tonic because I understood that if I had another glass of pinot gris, I would feel queasy and not be able to sleep well and I knew I had to be up early in the morning. It was precisely at the moment that I watched a young woman gyrating between two equally young men in a very tight, very troubling kind of human sandwich.

I had been watching this girl [I know technically she’s a woman but I’m middle-aged now and that makes her a girl] randomly throughout the night. She was young. Maybe early to mid twenties. Blonde and fresh and confidently attractive. She was dancing around with a group, I couldn’t tell who exactly she was with but there were at least two other girls that I think she was with. She was having a lot of fun and I had been watching her with a mix of admiration and envy. Admiration at her ability to dance –vigorously – without spilling her drink and envy as I remembered that feeling of abandon that overcomes you when you’re young and out and feeling gorgeous. She was wearing a short playsuit with stiletto heels and a deep, plunging, ruffled neckline. She looked gorgeous. She was drinking but I couldn’t tell how drunk she was. I know this is all sounding weird and you’d be forgiven for wondering if I’m actually some sick kind of stalker but I’m going somewhere with this.

I watched her dancing up against one of the guys in a suit who did his best to keep up with her funk… and failed. Still he pulled her closer and as she spun around and backed up to him it was obvious that she wasn’t wearing a bra as her top gaped and showed just a bit too much to the gathering onlookers from time to time. Still, her hands were in the air and she was smiling and singing and it looked like she was feeling fantastic. I stole kind glances at her in between having my own good time with a great group of chicks and then I noticed that another guy had started dancing with them and that she was now sandwiched between the two. And it was tight in there. The boys could’ve kissed each other when she squatted between them and shimmied her way back up. Her eyes were closed and she looked like she was really happy to be there. With them. Like that. I watched on as another mate took photos or video on his phone of them dancing. I watched on as both the guys she was dancing with had their hands on her. Competing for space on her small torso. I watched on as her girlfriends clapped with encouragement and as she turned it up when they did. I watched on.

I can’t reconcile how it all made me feel and I am still confused. The young, empowered woman in me wanted to high-five her and say ‘You go girl! While you’re young and happy and without the burden of responsibility. Feel gorgeous. Be sexy. Flirt to heart’s content’. The middle-aged, protector in me wanted to march over, eye-ball the guys, erase the phone footage and tell her ‘You go girl! But remember that the minute you want to stop – I’m here, and I’ve got your back’

There was nothing wrong with her behavior and I sincerely HOPE this is not being misinterpreted as judgemental but it just made me feel so uncomfortable. Maybe she didn’t want to stop. Maybe she wasn’t drunk. Maybe it was playing out exactly how she wanted to. Maybe her own friends had her back. Maybe all those guys were her friends and this was just how they all partied together. Maybe. But maybe not.

I left not long after [it was already 11 o'clock!!!] so I don't know how the night ended for her. I hope it was exactly as she intended. And, regardless of what that may have been, that she still felt that way in the morning.

I remember being young and single and gorgeous and drunk. I remember dancing on packed dance floors. Hot and sweaty and sexy. Pushing myself up against guys and feeling their ‘appreciation’ at doing so. It’s a heady time and I loved it. Did I think I was doing anything wrong? No. Would I have appreciated some old bag keeping their watchful eye on me? Fuck no. Weirdo. So why can’t I shake the feeling that I somehow, just a little bit, let that girl down?

Home Alone

My 9 year old is not well. Sore throat, sniffles, flat. He’s the type of kid that will be outside kicking a ball from the moment he gets up until I yell at him to come inside yet yesterday he spent the whole day in his pyjamas in front of the tv.  Even with all that resting, he’s still not 100%, so he’s having another day off school today.

My youngest, however, is fine and so needs to go to school. We walk to school every day. We never drive because it’s only a block away and it’s not worth the drama of getting the kids in the car and finding a park and getting them out of the car etc. So I am faced with the dilemma of what to do with the sick one while I take the well one to school.

“I’ll just stay home, Mum” offers my ever logical first born.

It’s not the first time he’s offered this solution, by the way. He first began his “Home Alone” campaign when he was 7. Declaring that it was ridiculous that he shouldn’t be allowed to stay home on his own for short periods of time. In support of his argument he told me:

1. I won’t answer the door
2. I won’t answer the phone
3. I know how to get myself a drink or something to eat
4. I know how to go to the toilet
5. I won’t go outside
6. If there’s an emergency, I’ll call 000

All of which is incredibly sensible and reasonable and logical – just like him. However, all the logic in the world cannot sway a mother’s protective spirit and so his application was denied.

While I was preparing for my day in the shower this morning, I considered the logistics of walking Stefan to school while Nathan was sick and I thought about his well presented argument from 2 years ago. He has already proven to be responsible enough to walk home on his own from school and I can complete the entire drop-off trip in 15 minutes if I push it. And so it was decided. Nathan would stay home, by himself, for the first time in his life today.

When I was growing up, my single mum worked several jobs at once to make ends meet so my younger brother and I were often home alone. We had our own key to the house and had rules and also had chores. One of mine was to start dinner, every day, so that we could eat at a reasonable time once Mum got home from work. My job was to peel potatoes and cut chips. With a knife. But we survived that. We lived in a housing trust home which had little security, no gates and no real protection from the outside world. We left the front and back door open until we went to bed and most of the time we played on the actual street, where the cars drive, riding our bikes without helmets. We survived that too. It wasn’t the life my mum imagined for us and I am certainly not singing its praises but we were ok fending for ourselves and we weren’t the only ones. It was quite the norm in the 80s and in our neck of the woods.

When I left Nathan home today, I locked the front and back doors [which he could still open from the inside] reminded him of every rule and locked the front gate behind me. I was gone for less than 15 minutes and my heart was racing for the entire time.

When I walked back in the house, he hadn’t moved from his position in front of the tv watching the soccer.

“Hey Mum” he says without looking up, completely unaffected and unaware of how momentous those 15 minutes were.

And now my heart is racing for an entire different reason.

Letting Go

Just before they walked out the back door, I reminded them of the rules.

• Stay on the footpath.
• Do not cross the road.
• DO NOT separate under any circumstances.
• If you see a stranger you may say hello and be polite but you are not to go anywhere with them. Not to their car. Not to see their dog. Not to their house. Not around the corner. Nowhere. If they ask you more than once – run back home. Screaming.
• If one of you gets hurt the other must drag you back home. Screaming. DO NOT separate.
• Do not go into anyone’s house. Not even their front yard. Not even if another child invites you in. Not even if they look friendly. Especially not if they try to convince you that your mum won’t mind. I will mind and you can tell them that. Then run back home. Screaming.
• Have each other’s back.
• Be sensible.
• Enjoy yourself.

“Yes Mum” they chimed, earnestly. And then, once they understood that the lesson was over, they bolted for the front gate and disappeared down the road. At the ages of 6 and nearly 9, it was the first time they were allowed to walk to the end of the street unsupervised. I gave them a bit of a head start and then surreptitiously peeked my head around the corner to watch them, briefly, saunter down the road. Even from my rear vantage point I could see a new attitude in their gait. A confidence almost busting out of them as they chatted to each other, walking along. I resisted the urge to watch them the whole way, as I understood that this first unaccompanied trip was as much a practice run for me as it was for them.

There was no reason that today marked the first day. The weather was fine and the boys were restless. Having spent the day amusing themselves while I worked, I just had the urge to loosen the apron strings a little. On the weekend, we spent the day at a city park and the playground that they wanted to play in was largely out of sight from where we were sitting. So naturally my first instinct was to only allow them to go if I could see them at all times. And naturally that lasted about 2.5 minutes. I didn’t want to couldn’t stay there to supervise them so we had, what was probably, our first real stranger danger talk. In hindsight, that’s probably what prompted today’s radical shift in parenting. The realisation that I’ve never really felt the need to warn my kids of external dangers because they’ve never really been exposed to them. And whilst I feel very happy and comfortable with my decisions to protect them during their young, vulnerable and formative years, I know they will never become the resilient young men that I’m planning for if they don’t start learning the important stuff really soon. They will never develop their own instincts for potential threat if they are always protected. They will never learn to navigate their own way through the world if they are not permitted to explore it for themselves.

And so the next step towards independence was taken.

With every new step, there’s a real sense of competence that I see in my boys which makes me proud. Their hunger for independence and achievement of more grown-up tasks scares me but it fascinates me too. Watching them grow physically, emotionally and mentally is exciting. Exhilarating. Exhausting.

For fuck’s sake woman, get a grip on yourself. They only walked to the end of the street!

But it is exhausting. The ‘on’ switch is always, well… on when your kids are taking the risks they need to take for them to learn and grow. Keeping them safe from all harm is certainly a lot less taxing on the heart. Giving them room to get hurt or sense danger or assess threat, in even in the mildest circumstances, puts me on high alert.

Which is why we’re starting off slow. Walking to the end of the street and back is step one. Step two will be around the block. Step three will be to the local playground. 

And by then they’ll be 18 so they can take a six pack of beers with them.

4 Friends Every Girl Should Have

Something old

This is my high school buddy. The one that I met when I was still a kid. That grew with me. That shared my firsts. The one that anchors me to my inner self. The one that knew me before I was a grown up. My longest relationship. The family I chose for myself.

Something new

This is my friend that my kids brought to me. The mum of their friend. The one I was drawn to despite not being in the ‘friend market’. The one that comes from a different place to me but shares the same values. The one that I see myself sharing my future with even though we don’t share a past. The friend I found after I discovered myself.

Something borrowed

This is my friend that is the girlfriend of my brother and brother-in-law. The sister of an ex boyfriend. The wife of a cousin. The one that is on loan while they’re together. The one I think about after they’ve split up. The one I’m friends with on Facebook.

Something blue

This is my boy-friend. The one that never crossed the line – and never will. The one that comes to me for girl advice. The one that likes clothes shopping with me. The gay one.

Do you have an old, new, borrowed and blue friend too?

Viva la Vagina

Dear marketers, young girls, young boys and anyone else who's confused... vaginas are not dirty. Women do not need special soap or wipes for their intimate bits and quite frankly I’m offended that the products even exist.

What the fuck is going on?

I’m worried for our latest generation of girls and young women. It bothers me that the conversation they are involved in talks about hairless vaginas and intimate cleansing. It infuriates me that our latest generation of boys and young men are eavesdropping on that conversation. The conversation which carries, far and wide, this message.

Vaginas are unclean.

Remember early high school? I do. I remember lots of disgusting jokes about fishy smelling girls and snail trails and the grossness of periods. It was a tough time for a developing girl. It was shameful. We noticed that ‘down there’ did smell a bit. We noticed that there was that discharge that we couldn’t control. We were already embarrassed. We were already uncomfortable. But advertising wasn’t what it is today. There wasn’t social media. There wasn’t a life online. You copped the ribbing at school and went home and tried to forget about it.

Girls and boys are still the same today. Boys still joke about that stuff and girls are still uncomfortable. But now, they’re being told that the boys aren’t actually joking. Now, they’re being told they should be embarrassed. Not in those actual words of course. No it’s far more insidious than that. Today’s conversation is wrapped up in fancy packaging and words like Femfresh Intimate Wash and Libra Get Fresh Wipes. Make sure that dirty area is fresh. ALL.THE.TIME. And, while you’re at it, make sure you get rid of all that hideous pubic hair. You know, the stuff that differentiates your grown up vagina from that of a child. Eeewwww can you imagine it? A woman who smells like a woman with a hairy vagina??? #wouldntfuckherwithyourdick

Seriously, I’m mad. I can’t even articulate it without swearing. Profusely. The ads on tv offend me. The bottles of feminine hygiene I find in my ‘ladies lunch’ gift bag offend me. The entire fucking message offends me. I’m livid that girls my sister’s age are not only uncomfortable being a woman but have no idea how to celebrate it. They're waxing their vaginas to hairless peril just in case they hook up with a guy. A guy that’s probably only ever seen hairless vaginas.

You know what I don’t get? Men stink. Their arses smell and their balls sweat. Is there a ‘Manfresh Intimate Sack Wash’ for them? Do they have ‘Lynx Get Fresh Arse Wipes’ in their gym bags? Are they waxing their balls and their crack? Nope. Not a chance. Why?

I want to change the conversation, I just don't know how. I'm no activist but I am pissed off. And I do truly believe there's something wrong here. 

Don't you??

My brilliant body and the Stretch-mark Swagger

Do not be fooled by this photo... it's all about the angles and the filter x

I swaggered a little

As I walked to the water’s edge

The sweet sting of the morning sun

On my shoulders

My ponytail tickling the nape of my neck

I readjusted my bikini as I sauntered

Making sure it covered as much breast

As the scant triangles could

Tucking in a few wayward pubes that I missed

In my dry-razor touch up before I left home

Families flanked my sandy path

Mums, dads, babies

Pop-up sun shelters, deck chairs, eskies

I can hear a baby screaming, a young child laughing and a helicopter overhead

I held my head high as I made my way to the shoreline

I looked down at my belly, soft and protruding

So I sucked it in... just a little bit

But then I saw my thighs

Wider than my hips, lined with stretch marks, dimpled with cellulite

And let my breath out

I stood taller as I noticed my varicose vein

Which is more like a rope, snake its way down the length of my left leg

Knowing it will be there as a reminder of my second pregnancy

Until a time in my life that will permit me to have

The 7 days off my feet

Required for the operation to remove it

When I reached the water

And the waves lapped against my calves

I realised I could see my reflection

In the joy of my sons’ faces as they laughed

At my wincing against the cold of the ocean

Through their eyes I see my body

Is soft and warm and strong and protecting

I scowled at my husband as he joked

That I was being precious

And I could see that when he looks at me

He sees a body that created his family

His legacy

A body that has grown with him

A body he still loves

I smiled as I paraded

Proud to be me

In all my womanly glory

And I remembered a time when my body

Was younger

Firmer

Tighter

I remembered when my breasts were higher

And my arse stuck out and the only lines on my thighs

Were tan lines

And for a moment I became sad

Because when my body looked its best

I did not swagger

I did not saunter

I saw no glory

When my body looked its best

I focussed on the faults and trivialised the beauty

I saw only what it wasn’t and failed to see what it was

It’s only now that my body is older

and tired

and loose

and dimpled

and plump

and spotted with age

and striped with stretch marks

and mapped with veins

and creased with laugh lines

I see brilliance