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

The Mercy Rule

Last week I received an email regarding my 10 year old sons’ school AFL football competition.

“If a team is 8 goals or more in front at half time the mercy rule will apply. Therefore this means the team 8 goals or more in front at half time has won the match and the last half will then be regarded as a scratch match. The dominant team will also be expected to swap 2-4 players with the other team for the third quarter and 2-4 players for the final quarter."

I was incredulous when I read it and so I do what I often do these days when I’m not sure about something, and put it out to my Facebook peeps. Now, let me just say at this point that if you have not yet liked the Seventies Baby Facebook page then you are missing out. Not only am I hilarious, this little community is incredible. And this online debate is a perfect example of the calibre of people that are part of it.

So, as I was saying – I was really surprised that such a rule was being implemented. It just didn’t seem right to me. Just like the decision that junior teams of all sports don’t score their games, so that there is no winner or loser. None of that makes sense to me.

But I wasn’t totally convinced it was a shit idea either. Here’s a snapshot of how the discussion went down:

FOR 

Angie : Junior leagues have used that rule for many years now. It was introduced to prevent children losing interest in football and relieving the negative feelings children can have towards sports when they are constantly defeated by large margins. At such a young age, kids should be encouraged to feel the joy of playing team sport, not segregated into winners and losers. I fully support the rule. As they get older, the rule will no longer apply. It all about learning how to be a part of a team and working together, even if it means helping out the other side so a game can continue to be played and the kids to have fun and exercise.

Linda : When they are in junior leagues they are playing to develop skills, knowledge and sportsmanship. Nothing speaks more highly of sportsmanship than the mercy rule, which recognises that there was a winning team without beating the crap out of them. It is demoralising and counter productive to young players and their interest if they are flogged, especially if it teams repeatedly flogged. You have to remember I junior levels there is such a variety of sizes and ages that it is not a level playing field in any respect at all. I think the mercy rule teaches respect when winning and helps players stay focussed on the game and not just on winning at all costs. As a junior level coach I highly support this rule.

Ilka : I have seen both sides - ice hockey where my son is on good teams and often winning by lots and soccer where he just started playing and has mostly lost, sometimes by huge margins. It is totally disheartening to kids to be beaten by 8 goals or more in any sport. With the 'mercy rule' they still know they've lost but they can finish the game with some positive feelings, improve their skills playing with better players and learn about being good sports. Translate this to life - do you want your kids to totally hammer others who are not as good at them in work, education. . And walk off the field triumphant in how much better they are, or to play hard, win well, and bring others along?

AGAINST 

Elizabeth : Not a fan - no incentive to be better and I think it would actually humiliate and demoralise the other team more than just letting them lose. Here, you're so crap that we need to replace you with a better player for the rest of the game.

Adrienne : We get world class surgeons, chefs, scientists, etc because some people are built to strive beyond the norm - how do they learn how to do this if everything is 'fair'? Kids also need to learn how to work out what they are good at so they can pursue those things and excel at them - they have much better lives if they are exceptional at some things rather than being mediocre at everything (or falsely believing they are exceptional at everything because their parents have told them they are). As a youth worker and teacher I see young people every day with no ambition because either they believe there is no benefit to success (you get the same outcome no matter how good you are) or they already think they know everything because they have never failed at anything. We need to teach them it is ok to fail, so they keep on trying and don't give up on things at the first hurdle. Remember Thomas Edison!

Rebekah : Ridiculous coddling behaviour, the upcoming generations are going to reach adulthood without any real experience learning to deal with disappointment. We all feel bad for our kids when they lose or don't do well at something, but teaching them that when things aren't going well people will take it easy on you is setting them up for a rude shock - isn't part of childhood learning the life skills necessary to function as an adult? Seems to me that kids are being robbed of the chance to deal with negative emotions when the stakes aren't as high... how will these generations cope when they lose their job, house or don't get what they want in life? ...personal bugbear of mine if you couldn't tell lol

See how impressive the Seventies Baby community is? I mean seriously. I love the time everyone took to share their thoughts and I especially love the respect. Because grown-ups know that it’s ok to have a different opinion.

Ultimately, both sides of the fence have developed their opinions based on what they believe will achieve the best outcome for well-adjusted, non-arsehole adults. I’m so impressed.

And as for my opinion? Well… the jury is still out. I see merit on both sides of the fence but then I am a long-time fence sitter.

My son has also been in both camps. Last year his team was the kind of team you see in movies which would attract a tough, unorthodox coach to swoop in and take the losers to victory in a nail-biting final. They were pretty shit and they were annihilated NEARLY every week... but every win was so sweet! They got through that season by celebrating good quarters, even in games they lost, in lieu of winning entire matches. This year their game is very strong but last year’s losing form is never far from their minds.

The thing I can’t shake is the accidental lesson we may be teaching our young folk by supporting the mercy rule. And that is one of ‘giving up’. There’s a message that ‘you’re not good enough to finish this game’ that comes with that rule. In a game of Aussie Rules football, it’s completely achievable to score eight goals in two quarters. My feeling is that by stopping official play at that half-time mark because one team is so far ahead [or behind, depending on your perspective] may actually be counterproductive to the losing team. “Don’t bother trying any more – there’s NO WAY you can recover”

If that rule was in play last year, there may have been many strong quarters our boys missed out on celebrating. And this year they may not have bothered trying at all.

What are your thoughts on the Mercy Rule?

A Man Called Uncle

When I found out I was pregnant, I wanted to tell my little brother as soon as possible. I wanted to let him know that my baby was going to change his place in the world. I was excited that me becoming a mother would elevate his status from little brother to Uncle. I had already seen what an incredible big brother he was to our little sister so I had it on good authority that he was going to nail the Uncle role too and I was excited because I knew just how important Uncles are.

Growing up without a dad around meant that my Uncles [who have both since died of cancer] were very valuable to me. Cut from the same cloth as my mum, these men showed me unconditional love and family and loyalty.  I watched them with their own daughters and saw them be tender while still being strict as hell. I spent time in their homes and learned that grown-ups could argue and still love each other and seeing them with their sons helped me understand that boys could be affectionate too. They were the kind of men that people didn’t mess with and they knew about man-stuff like cars and laying carpet and plumbing. They helped my Mum in the absence of her husband and they helped my Oma when my Opa, their own dad, died. They weren’t around all the time but their impact on our lives was significant in my mind.

They taught me that being tough is a girl thing too in a way that my Mum [who, for the record was VERY tough] couldn’t because she was too busy trying to teach me to be a lady. Like the time that she found 10 year old me in the local park in a fist fight with some older boys who were bullying one of the neighbourhood kids. She was SO cross with me and drove me straight to my Oma’s where my Uncle Arthur was visiting for lunch. She angrily presented me to him “Look at your niece!” she cried, shaking her head at my tangled hair and bloodied knuckles and scraped knees. “What happened?” he roared, furious. And as I told him of how I defended that other kid and stood up to the ring-leader, with a shaky voice still full of adrenaline and a darkness in my eyes which all my family share when angry, his face softened… and then he almost smiled [and I understand now that he wasn’t furious at me but at who had done that to me] “Did you hurt that little bastard?” Puzzled, I nodded, unsure of where this was headed and he kissed me on the top of the head, put his hands on my shoulders and looked me square in the eye and said “Good. I’m PROUD of you. Now go and clean yourself up like a good girl” Of course, that wasn’t the end of it and quite the debate ensued between brother and sister over the rights and wrongs of fighting things out but what that did for me that day was empower me. I was still in trouble with my Mum but I felt like I was part of a bigger thing and that someone else ‘got’ me and had my back – and that someone was a man. In hindsight, I realise that I have always yearned for non-sexual male approval and I understand that I would probably be in a very different place today if I hadn’t had the support from my Uncles in my formative years.

My boys have their dad in their lives. He’s present and hands-on and an amazing role model but that doesn’t make their Uncles any less relevant or necessary in my mind. They adore their Uncle Jason. He grew up with their Mum and can stand up to her without getting into a fight. He tells them stories of when we were kids and the things we used to get up to. He makes a point of sharing his time equally between the two and uses every opportunity to teach them any small thing. He demonstrates that family doesn’t have to all live under one roof to love each other and that siblings are siblings forever. The time that he spends with the boys is all about the boys. There are no chores or distractions for him. His job isn’t to discipline them but we share the same values so his messages are consistent with mine. He’s a bit cool so the kids sort of idolise him and he knows it so uses that status to educate them without them even knowing what’s going on. He is always respectful of and to their parents, though he often makes a point of telling me what a bitch I am to them when they’re out of earshot.

Of course there are plenty of lessons that he can’t teach my boys but that’s the thing about Uncles. They don’t have to. For me it’s enough that my kids know that someone else knows them and loves them. That a man, who is not their father can show them strength and affection. 

And that I was right. My little brother is a kick-arse uncle.

A lesson I didn’t teach my son

My eldest boy, Nathan, cried himself to sleep tonight. And when I say cried, I mean he sobbed. Loudly. With big tears rolling down his cheeks and noises that occur when one is simultaneously heartbroken and desperately trying to stifle the pain.

I held him on my lap for a long time. His long, 8 year old legs wrapped around me and his face buried into my shoulder. It’s not regular behaviour for him. Not much really affects him. He’s unusually pragmatic for a primary school kid, so I really feel for him when he’s upset. I just could not work out WHY.

We’ve had my little two and a half year old nephew with us today. Three boys in the house is actually not too bad. My boys are really patient with their cousin and love to just hang out with him. But sometimes, even though he’s a really good boy, we forget that our house is no longer ‘toddler proof’. And we are most often ‘reminded’ by something going wrong. And something went wrong tonight. Clearly more wrong than I initially thought.

Rest in peace, Sticky Slinky x

One of Nathan’s little toys was broken. Beyond repair kind of broken. It was a piece of crap in my opinion. A little man made of that horrible sticky stuff that you can throw against a wall and it will ‘climb’ down. Like a slinky but sticky. A sticky slinky man. I could NOT see the big deal about his 'death by toddler' but what Nathan sobbed to me, took me by surprise.

“I worked so hard to get him, Mum”

Wait... What?

We don’t do pocket money here yet. We believe kids should help out around the house as part of their contribution to the family and it’s only for things ‘above and beyond’ the call of duty that they should earn money for and there’s not much of that required. Plus, we just don’t think young kids need to have their own money. I’m not saying it’s the right way or the wrong way, it’s just our way. We try to create opportunities for them to earn ‘experiences’, like “if we all weed the garden we can go to the park” or something like that. So I couldn’t understand what the hell he was talking about when he told me he’d worked for something.

I racked my foggy, pinot gris brain for a memory of him working for Sticky Slinky and came up with nothing. And then, through the fog, I remembered. He brought Sticky Slinky home from a party he went to on the weekend. An Intensity party. Where the kids go along and get unlimited access to ‘arcade’ games for a couple of hours. Games which produce tickets depending on your skill levels. Ergo, the better you are at the game, the more tickets you get and the more tickets you get, the better your redemption rate.

Are you still with me?

Nathan ‘worked HARD’ earning those tickets. He teamed up with his best mate and they worked a system out to get the maximum number of tickets possible and then they took their ‘earnings’ to the 15 year old gatekeeper who told them what they could ‘buy’ with their loot. Turns out Sticky Slinky required the most amount of tickets. And now he’s dead. And Nathan is devastated.

And that’s how, without me even trying, my son learned the value of working for something. 

What's a lesson your kid has learned that you didn't teach them?

What does a mum look like?

My mum looks amazing. She looks strong and proud and determined. She looks fit. She looks like a tiger, always ready to pounce, always protecting her cubs. She looks like a lady with painted nails and coloured lips. 

She looks like a kick boxer, always in her family’s corner. 

She looks like a dancer. She looks like a dad. She looks like a daughter who is sad without her mother. She looks like a child laughing with my boys. My mum looks like a racing car driver with her seat laid back and her gloved hands on the wheel. She looks like a bread winner. She looks like a model walking in heels with a strut I’ve never been able to imitate. She looks like a boss. She looks like a clairvoyant, calling on her intuition to predict the future. She looks like a clown holding court with her hilarious stories. She looks like a counsellor always ready with advice – sought or otherwise. 

She looks like an inspiration. She looks like an aspiration.

My boys’ mum looks like me. I hope they see a mum that looks like their protector. I hope they see a mum that looks strong and fit. I hope they see a mum with arms big enough for the whole family. I hope they see a mum with a heart that shines through her eyes whenever she looks at them. I hope they see a mum that is larger than life itself when they stand behind her for protection. I hope they see a mum that laughs with them. I hope they see a mum who’s not ashamed to cry. 

I hope they see a mum with magic in her kisses. 

I hope they see a mum who stands on the sidelines chanting their name and heading their fan club. I hope they see a mum who knows when to be quiet and let them shine. I hope they see a mum who is a mind reader that somehow knows what they’re thinking even when they don’t. I hope they see a mum who they will always want to hug. I hope they see a mum who is a master chef. I hope they see a mum that’s important to the whole world, and not just theirs. I hope they see a mum who is fair. I hope they see a mum who leads. I hope they see a mum who will follow their dream too. I hope they see a mum who is smart and has the answers. 

I hope they see a mum who’s not afraid to tell them that she doesn’t know. 

I hope they see a mum who thinks she’s beautiful. I hope they see a mum who looks for the beauty in others. I hope they see a mum who delivers on her promises – good and bad. I hope they see a mum they can respect. 

I hope they see a mum that they can point out to their friends and proudly say ‘That’s my mum’

What does a mum look like to you?

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