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?

And Then He Vomited All Over the Floor

I saw the grossest thing last night. We were shopping at the Central Market and a little boy just stopped in the middle of the packed aisle, just in front of the Smelly Cheese shop and VOMITED all over the floor. Then he walked a bit further and VOMITED again. But that wasn’t enough. No, he went for the trifecta. This kid vomited 3 fucking times, right where he stood. People were in disbelief, shaking their heads and a couple of women even shrieked. It was like a movie scene and I would’ve given the mother, who allowed her child to chuck up his just-ingested chinese dinner all over the ground, a look of pure reproach if that mother wasn’t ME.

You know that feeling you get when you’re totally panicking and don’t know if you want to cry or scream for help and you are trembling from sheer adrenaline but you have to stay totally and utterly calm?

No? Well lucky you.

I find the Adelaide Central Market stressful at the best of times. Yes, it’s cultural and full of life and colour and sound and smells. Yes, the produce is fresh and often times cheaper than the supermarkets. Yes, the kids love it. All the freedom and sampling and different languages. But I’ve always found having kids at the market a bit stressful. There’s so much activity and noise that it’s easy to lose track of where they are and what they’re doing… and what they’re eating.

We were half way through my vague, yet gourmet, shopping list which said only – fruit, cheese, weekend bread, meats, dutch licorice – when Stefan [you knew it would be him, right?] starts wimpering by my side. I can’t stand wimpering. It’s right up there with whingeing and whining. Just speak properly and tell me what’s wrong, for fuck’s sake. So he’s wimpering and scrambling through my bag for his water bottle, which also annoys me because my bag is on my shoulder and he’s pulling on it as he’s rummaging through. I’m trying to select my cheese for the weekend and I’m just about to let my rapidly intensifying feelings known when I see the look of fear in his eyes. By now he’s managed to get his water bottle out and he’s sucking on that thing like his life depends on it. Which as it turns out, it sort of did.

He had a whole Dutch licorice coin, about the size of a 20 cent piece lodged in his throat and it was precisely at the point that I realized he was choking that the world around us slipped away. And the sound of my accelerated heart beating filled my head.

It’s a terrifying feeling to be rendered useless as your love struggles before you. I COULD NOT let him know that I was terrified though… because he was. And one thing I knew, was that if he panicked, we would be in a world of trouble. So, against a rising wave of hysteria, I dropped everything I was holding, got down on my knees in front of him and told him ‘it’s ok baby’.

And he said ‘no Mum, it’s not. It hurts so much – what do I do?’

And I didn’t know what to tell him! Oh, the mother-guilt of not having the answers for my boy in trouble. But I said that the fact he was talking was a good sign and the fact that he could drink was a good sign… without actually knowing if any of that was true. And then, because I was scrambling for something to hold on to that would get us out of this because by this stage he was bright red and sweating and the wimpering was on its way to wailing and I was wondering how long an ambulance would take to get there I asked him ‘what do YOU feel like you need to do?’ and he said ‘I have to get it out of my throat Mum but I’m scared!!’ 

Then he drank and drank and then he gagged. Oh fuck, shit was about to get real. Stefan HATES vomiting. It freaks him out. So his emotions have now kicked into DEFCON 1 as he prepares for the assault which is imminent. And I went into full ‘protect my cub’ mode and, still on my kneews, held him, rubbed his back and gave him permission to hurl his cookies all over the market floor. Not once. Not twice. But three powerful times until I saw that black fucker come out. At which point, the adrenalin was too much for my boy and his knees buckled from all the shaking and I picked him up and took him away. Leaving the spew, the judgement and the disapproving stares behind me without a second glance.

What would you have done?

What do you see?

It’s lunch time at King’s Cross in Sydney. There’s a couple walking along, hand in hand, laughing and looking in shops. He’s tall with a head full of thick, grey hair. Light eyes and fair skin. He’s smoking. He looks about 45 years old. The girl with him is young. Dark skin, dark eyes and long dark hair all the way to her bum. She looks a little bit Asian, but her nationality isn’t clear. She’s wearing a denim mini skirt, lip gloss and a small, red, studded shoulder bag skims her exposed thigh. She clutches his arm as they walk and every now and then he pulls her to him and kisses her cheek. She giggles when he whispers things in her ear. She looks about 15.

Do you see anything wrong with that picture?

The cops on the street did. Young, underage sex-workers make good business at the Cross. And they make that business with older guys. So the cops intervened.

They stopped the couple in the street and much to the protests of the man, they separated them to question them. The young girl looked scared but she answered all the questions honestly as she watched the man from afar try to defend himself. He was mad. He was outraged. And he was loud. Most people went about their business, but plenty stopped to see what was happening. The girl was mortified. She was confused. She was embarrassed. But mostly she was deeply offended. So she squared her, not 15 but 11 year old, shoulders and said “That’s my dad”

Did the cops do the right thing?

It was this article on Mamamia this week that reminded me of that day. Of how it’s easy to misread a situation at face value. I couldn’t understand how the police could possibly think that I was a prostitute or that my dad was one of ‘those’ guys. It was a very special outing for us and I was thrilled to be out and about in my school holidays. My mum had bought me a brand new handbag that, until then, I was so proud to wear. I had always looked older than my years and I felt bad for that on that day. I felt as though I had invited the judgement into our innocent world. I felt guilty and I felt mad for a long time [and my dad was seething] But now, as a woman and as a mum, I’m glad that happened. I know I didn’t do anything wrong and I think the police did the right thing too.

Has something you have done ever been grossly misjudged?

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

Dear Chrissie, I have a confession too...

I'm addicted to judging.

Your raw, live confession of your inability to give up smoking while you're pregnant did not shame YOU. 

It shamed ME.

Let's get some things out of the way. 

I'm not a smoker. I completely and utterly detest smoking. I do not and did not allow smoking in my house or my car even when smoking was the cool thing to do. I am anti cigarette advertising. I don't believe people should smoke in the vicinity of non-smokers. I don't believe people should smoke in the vicinity of children. I don't believe women should smoke when they're pregnant. Not even 'just a couple' to get them through.

My view remains unchanged.

But here's the thing. I have always KNOWN smoking is an addiction. An illness. I have always KNOWN this unrefutable and logical fact. Many people in my family were smokers. My own father died very young of throat cancer from the smokes. So I have had a lot of exposure to the mental illness that drives addiction. I understand it and will happily tout my opinions intellectually around a dinner table. You would think that understanding addiction so well and campaigning for the fair treatment of addicts would manifest itself as compassion.

You would think.

Yet, it seems, that I am only compassionate in theory. I have seen many pregnant women smoking. It would anger me. It would disgust me. I would feel compelled to make eye contact with that woman and scowl as I shook my head at her grossly irresponsible and SELFISH behaviour. I would think horrible things about that woman. I would judge her as uneducated, poor, rough, undeserving, disgusting and negligent. Never would I consider how impossible it is for some people, even pregnant women, especially pregnant women, to stop an addiction dead in its tracks. I would feel only contempt for her. Never compassion. Ever.

I'm proud of you and inspired by your courage. It is true, you only came clean once you knew you would be 'outed'. Your confession was born of shame and fear of your deceit being discovered. It's still courageous to be honest though, regardless of all that. It is also true, that as a public figure there is always the risk of being snapped doing something you wish people would not ever know about you. You still have a right to choose what you share and don't share though. 

I've been reading lots of online discussions from people on either side of the fence. Many defending you but so many condemning you. I'm not on either side of the fence. I feel like I'm impaled ON it. I'm sorry you are imprisoned so surely by your addiction that you would justify risking harm to your unborn baby. I'm sorry that I am one of millions of women who have made it seem impossible for you to ask for help. 

I'm happy that you have been forced to 'come clean'. As you have learned, that is always the hardest step to make. So many have said things along the lines of 'would you care if it was someone not so famous or well loved?' The answer is 'NO' and that is the point. What better way to be an influential public figure than to share your own pain to teach us all a lesson in compassion? We do love you. We do relate to you. To hear a woman we know, love, relate to and respect share such heartache and shame is very confronting. You're not a slapper bogan living on the dole with 3 kids from 3 different men with a burnt out car in your front yard and hydroponics in your roof. [see what I did there???] Your confession is shocking to us.Your confession gives us perspective. Your confession is catalystic.

I'm embarrassed that I have been such an arsehole but I'm grateful to you for pointing that out to me.

I'm going to try to kick that habit too.

Love and strength to you Chrissie,

Tan xx

10 Parenting Rules – and I broke them all

Confession. 

I was one self-righteous, know-it-all bitch Before Children [BC]. It’s true. I knew it ALL. Anything wrong with a kid? It’s their mum’s fault. Sometimes their dad’s. But mainly mum... because she CHOSE the dad after all. In my, far from humble, opinion parents were entirely responsible for everything their kids did, thought, said and broke. 

And I knew WHY. Those parents didn’t FOLLOW THE RULES. There are rules in parenting that will guarantee a perfect child. Simple rules that I would often remind parents, even when they hadn’t asked, to help them. To guide them. To fix their brat.

Rules I swore to myself I would uphold. As the perfect parent embarking on raising the perfect child. *Insert wild, unhinged laughter here.

#1 - I will not use a dummy

It took me less than a week to let go of that one. Oh sweet, sweet dummy. How I loved the feel of you in my hand as I groped in the bassinet next to the bed under the blanket of darkness in the dead of the night to plug the screaming hole of my first born son. I brought a packet of them to hospital when my second son was born. I BEGGED him to take it. I tried every shape and size, even coating them in breast milk to TRICK HIM INTO SUCKING IT. Be careful what you wish you for. Turns out with number two I WAS the dummy. Take that you pious bitch.

#2 - My child will never sleep in the same bed as me

It's the second night of my life as a new mum and the midwife offers to take my screaming newborn to the nursery with all the other babies so I can get some sleep. 'Ok' I said as I watched her wheel him out of my room, ripping my heart out as she did. He was gone 15 minutes before I went to get him. This is how Mark found me when he got to the hospital in the morning. I promised myself it was just to get us through that one night.

Ahem. You know that feeling when you haven’t slept for 3 months and you’ve got up so many times in the night that you can’t remember putting the baby back to bed... where is the baby?? Did I feed him last time or just change his nappy? Did I feed on both boobs, or the same one twice? Why is he crying? Shhhhhh... rock, rock.... shhhhhhh... rock, rock.... shhhhhh rock, rock. Oh forget it, just lay next to me. THAT was how I broke rule #2 at home. And how, 8 years later, I simply just move over when I hear the sound of my 5 year old’s bare feet padding down the hall to my room in the middle of the night. He’s warm and cuddly. It gets a bit crowded when the 8 year old joins us every now and then, but I don’t turn him away either. Still feeling smug Tan?

#3 - I will not ‘pick my battles’. Every battle is worth it… and they need to learn that I’m the boss

Aahahahahahahaha. Ow, my sides are splitting. Dear BC TAN. You were an idiot. There are sooo many battles that have never been fought, won or lost here. Yes, you can wear your swim rashy on top of your jumper because it matches your rubber boots to the shop. Why not? Yes, you can take every teddy bear you own to bed because they will be sad without you tonight. Of course. No, you don’t have to eat the toast that I accidentally cut into triangles instead of squares. I understand it doesn’t taste the same. Just don’t cross me at bed time. That’s not negotiable. Most of the time.

#4 - I will not use food as currency to bribe my child

Well... what kind of values does that teach? I never understood the power of a promised [insert biscuit/yoghurt squeezy/ice-block/cupcake/smiley-face biscuit here] to ‘encourage’ a wilful kid to do just about anything really. Parenting Tip: carrying around any number of those bribes in your oversized handbag can make or break a public outing.

#5 - I will only feed my child organic, additive-free food

What?? Best intentions and all that.... My kids actually eat well. I’ve been pretty good at keeping their diet healthy. Additive-free is a stretch though and only organic? I’d have to take out a second mortgage to pull that one off. I have fed them McDonalds too. Oh the shame....

#6 - I will limit my child’s television viewing to no more than 30 mins per day

Oh don’t look at me like that. How was I to know that I would do anything to have an uninterrupted telephone conversation or cook dinner without tiny 'helping’ hands or do a poo on my own or just sit and be quiet?? And with the new ABC stations there’s ALL DAY kids shows WITHOUT COMMERCIALS. The cheapest babysitting you’ll ever find. And you get to have a perve-fest on Sportacus. Eye candy eating sports candy... hmmmmm.

#7 - I will not ‘give in’ to my child’s constant nagging for something at the supermarket cash register

Unless I’m on my own with the kids and everyone looking has a grimace/scowl/frown/look of pain or pity on their faces. Oh wait. That’s every time.

#8 - My house will always be spotless… because that’s all I have to do. Look after my child and clean my house. Easy.

Yes, I’m shaking my head in disbelief too. One time while the tv was babysitting so I could enjoy  one of my uninterrupted phone conversations, my, single, super-neat friend said to me “I spent all morning cleaning and my floors are so spotless you could eat off them” I looked around in despair and replied “You could eat off mine too... ‘cause that’s where all the fucking food is”

#9 - I will never yell at my child. Yelling is just a loss of control reserved for incapable mums

Yes. I was deluded. I yell at the tv when someone’s annoying. I yell at bad drivers on the road and cyclists who forget that they’re sharing the road with bad drivers. I yell at my mum, my sister, my brother, my husband. I yell at the PLAYROOM when it’s in a mess. I yell at weeds when I pull them out and the root breaks off and stays in the fucking ground. I yell at my cupboard if I’m out of coffee. How the hell I thought I would EVER not yell at my kids, who drive me insane, still astounds me. I yell. They look alive. I buy myself 2 minutes peace. They go back to whatever it is. It’s a loud, predictable dance.

#10 - My child will not dictate my schedule. They will fit into my life, not the other way around

Oh.. shut up.

A study of mums at school...

7 mothers you'll meet through your kids

So I’m entering my third year of being a school mum. When your kid starts school – it’s like your first day too. Who will you meet? Will they like you? Will you like them? It has been interesting to me, since becoming a mum, the network you become a part of. The kindergym mums, the swimming lesson mums, the kindy mums, the Montessori mums, the playgroup mums and so on. I found myself weeding and sorting and sometimes picking the best of a bad bunch to align myself with. Other times being overwhelmed at the really good selection of new friends. I have seen a recurring type of mum over the last 7 years. A few in fact. Do you recognize any of these?

The Desperado

This Mum has an annoying kid – and she knows it. None of the other kids want to play with hers so she’s desperate to make friends with you so you can hang out and she can bring along her annoying kid to your playdates. She injects herself into conversations with you and other mums and laughs a little too loud at all your jokes and tells stories about her kid that you know are actually dreams. I always end up being friends with this mum.

The Teacher’s Pet

That was her position when she was in school and she wants her kids to follow in her footsteps. She’s the one on every committee, at every excursion and working at every fundraiser. Her kid is the one hugging past and present teachers and bringing in homemade gifts. I treat them with the same disdain as I did from the back of the class when I was in school.

The Recently Separated

This poor mum is a wreck. She’s missing out on every event and feeling terrible about it. Her kid is always in the wrong uniform, or costume and missing out casual days because they fall on dad’s days and he ‘never f*cking remembers anything’.

The Perpetually Separated

This mum looks hot. All the time. Your partner probably knows her name and feels sorry for the rough time that she’s having bringing up Dick and Jane on her own. I try not to stand too close to her in my leggings, oversized jumper and bed-hair bun.

The Functioning Alcoholic

This mum talks about drinking every time you see her. She’s either nursing a hangover, planning afterschool drinks or on her way to a liquid lunch. She brings grown-up bubbles to every event she’s invited to… including morning tea. You know her husband’s a useless prick.

The CEO

Who’s ever even seen this mum? She’s the one in the Mercedes Sports Car with tinted windows dropping her kid off at kiss and drop and picking them up from after school care. When you do see her, she’s on her phone negotiating a million dollar deal. I have CEO envy.

The Judgmental Bitch

This mum is standing in the playground watching your every move…and then blogging about it ;)