already

So no big deal but my 8 year old walked home from school by himself today.

Except it feels like a big deal. It feels really momentous and I feel equal parts proud and sad. Well maybe not that equal. A little bit proud. A bit more sad.

We have only ever walked to and from school so he knows the one block route well, having walked it twice a day for the best part of 4 years now. He's been campaigning to make the trip unaccompanied for some time but Stefan, my youngest is not ready for that and I'm not ready for Nathan to be responsible for him yet. So we negotiated that on the days that Stefan has a class after school, Nathan could walk home on his own. We talked about starting slow, with me meeting him at the first corner for a couple of times, then extending it to the next corner for a couple of times and then finally to make the trip home. I told him it was best for him to ease into it until he was comfortable. But I know that you know that it was me who needed time to get comfortable.

You see the thing is, I've always been hell-bent on raising independent kids. I believe it is right and I believe it is doing them a disservice to not. So I am proud that we're at this milestone. I am. Really. It's just that the downside to raising independent kids is that with independence comes a diminished need for me. We all know that day will come, but already?? My baby boy used to need me to lay down with him at night before he went to sleep. He used to instinctively reach for my hand wherever we walked. I used to be his world and he would randomly wrap his little arms around my neck and plant big, wet, open-mouth kisses on my cheeks... just because. 

So you can imagine how my heart reacted when just before I was about to leave to meet him at our agreed corner that the door bell rang and there was my baby boy who simultaneously looked so small and so grown up all at once. "Hi Mum" he says BEAMING. "You don't need to meet me at the corner Mum, I can do it all on my own".

And as I internally dropped to my knees and wailed in pain, I beamed back and hugged him SUPER tight and said "I know you can".

Oh FFS, you know what? I'm crying [just a little bit] as I write this so I guess I'm a lot more sad than I thought. As much as I've been gearing up for this exact development, it's hard to let go. So tonight, as I tucked him into bed and he asked me to whisper something in his ear before he went to sleep I whispered "I'm so proud of you Nathan. You're such a big, grown-up boy and you really proved how responsible you can be to me today. But I'm a little bit sad too because you're not my baby anymore."

And he smiled such a proud and pure smile and wrapped his arms around my neck, pulling me close and whispered in my ear "I'll always be your baby Mum".

And my heart exploded.

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?

The thing no-one told me about returning to work

When I found out I was pregnant with my first baby, I was two years into running my own business after resigning as the General Manager of a local telecommunications company. I had my own label and a fledgling menswear boutique that had not yet hit the income level required to pay for a full-time manager. At the time, I worked it 7 days a week to cover expenses and take a minimum wage home. 

I hadn’t planned on being a mum yet but I always knew the kind of mum I wanted to be. I wanted to be present. Invested. Full-time. I CHOSE to close the shop to allow myself to be that mum. I don’t see that as a sacrifice. I see that as a choice. My choice. Just as it was my choice to not return to paid work before both my kids were in school. I didn’t sacrifice my work to raise them. I didn’t sacrifice myself to raise them. I chose to become a mum. I chose to have children and I chose to parent them full-time. 

Was that easy? Fuck no. 

Was making the decision easy? Absolutely. 

Would I do it again? In a heart beat. IF I was going to have any more children. Which I’m not. DO YOU HEAR ME?? 

Anyway...

I was, voluntarily, out of the paid workforce for 8 years. 

Let me say that again, for impact. 8 YEARS. 

That’s nearly a decade of being driven by the needs of my children as a first priority. Yes, many times even before my own needs. ‘Cause, you know... I’m a mum right? It’s an incredibly demanding and taxing job which extends well past full-time but I gave it my everything.

My youngest starting school heralded the end of my full-time, stay-at-home mum role and the beginning of my part-time paid work role. Which should have been easy and perhaps even seamless in its transition. One would think.

What I didn’t know is that, actually, it’s a big shift in your thinking. That just dropping the kids off at school is not enough to trigger the highly efficient, super productive, over achieving paid work hormone that I had in spades previously. What I didn’t realise is that spending 8 years immersed in the minutia of motherhood can dull the professional senses a bit. That whilst I can juggle dinner, homework, grocery shopping, washing, cleaning and homemade biscuits all while organising the latest family get-together with the phone between ear and shoulder with the flick of the hair and a smile on my dial, getting your head in the business game takes a bit more deliberate thought. 

Being accountable to my husband and kids is NOTHING like being accountable to the ‘bottom line’ of a project budget. The deadlines of full-time motherhood have some room either side and if there is a day that I just can’t get my shit together, well everything will be ok. The house may look like it’s been ransacked, we might eat toast for dinner and the kids may be a bit stickier than usual when they go to bed sometime way past their bedtime but the next morning that day will be over and all will be alright. I forgot that to have a slow day when you’re working for someone often has quite serious repercussions.

When I worked full-time I was SWITCHED ON. Plugged in. Sharp. So much so that I even handled my personal relationships with the same business-like manner. In fact I still have an email from a corporate colleague comparing my 2 hour labour to my ‘usual efficiency’ performed at work. [HA! As if I had anything to do with that] I had mantras and routines and gym schedules and wool blend suits and the blessed Friday night drinks. I prided myself on my professional reputation and identified myself through my work. And then for 8 years I didn’t.  

And now that I’m back in the paid-work saddle, I’m working over-time to function part-time.

Did you have a big break from paid work? Have you experienced even some of what I’m talking about?

Please say 'yes'.

Love Rush

Do you ever look at your child and hurt with love?

It’s Sunday night. Hair night. So the boys are showered and gleaming and smelling like apples. I sit on the black leather couch sandwiched between them as we watch X Factor together. We’ve just finished home-made pizza for dinner because Sunday night is also my night off for dinner and Mark’s default dinners are pizza or barbecue. Last night was kebabs on the coals, so that was his barbecue card taken care of leaving tonight for pizza. One made by Stefan, one by Nathan and one by Mark. I have one piece of each and proclaim them all to be as delicious as each other [which is, actually, the truth]

Nathan is fully invested in X Factor. FULLY. Because it’s a competition and he loves himself a good competition. He has decided that we will all barrack for a different act, but Stefan wants to barrack for the same act as Nathan, so this causes issues because it's not a competition if you're both on the same side but Stefan doesn't like to lose so hitches himself to Nathan's winning wagon. He's clever like that. Stefan is into the show as much as he’s into anything which is quite a lot until he gets bored of it. Today he’s been complaining of his throat hurting when the sides touch, which is his way of saying ‘swallowing’ so he’s even more cuddly than his usual 120%. He wants to go to bed because he’s tired but he knows Nathan will stay up until the end of the show which means he will have to go to their shared bedroom alone and he does not want to do that, because his throat hurts and ‘I don’t want to be alone Mum’ So instead he pulls the hood of his dressing gown over his head to block out the light and goes to sleep in my lap, holding my hand. And I look down at his gorgeous face in his peaceful, warm slumber and my heart hurts. I hold his perfect little hand that no longer has those adorable baby dimples and instead has long fingers and nails that I notice need cutting and I think ‘didn’t I just cut them yesterday?’ But it wasn’t yesterday. It was weeks ago and I don’t know where that time went. 

He sighs and I absent-mindedly pat his bottom and I remember when his whole body used to fit in my lap which surely was just last year but my heart skips a little bit because I know it’s been many years and as I’m gently tracing around his cheeks with my fingers, Nathan stretches out next to me and his legs are almost as long as mine. When the fuck did that happen? I pull him into me and I feel him relax as he rests his head on my shoulder and I’m taken back to when he was just a baby, before Stefan, and it was just Nathan and I and we were so in love with each other. When even the simplest moments between taking him out of his stroller and putting him in the car seat were opportunities for intense cuddling and big, wet, open-mouthed baby kisses on my cheek. And I’m quietly grateful that he still kisses me goodbye before he runs off to class in the morning at school.

It's the end of the day and my heart is bursting with love and pride but it aches just a little with guilt too. Because today, those gorgeous boys drove me mad. They fought with each other and dobbed on each other and pushed each other’s buttons. And every time they came to me with some bullshit complaint about the other, I got a little bit more pissed off. Each time that I had to tell them to stop fighting, or stop playing with the ball in the house, or turn the tv down, or remind them to use their manners, or go outside to play, or just shut up... my voice rose just a little bit more. So that by the end of the day, just before pizza, I didn’t want to look at them anymore. I didn’t want to hear their whining. I didn’t even want to be around them.

And I wonder, how can that be?

And I answer, because you’re a mum.

Easy ways to look fantastic

"Wow! You look fantastic!"

Everyone loves to hear that. Everyone loves to feel that they look fantastic. And looking fantastic is different for everyone. For some it is looking fit. For some it is looking healthy. For some it is looking well-dressed. For some it is looking happy. For some it is looking fatter than usual. For some it is looking slimmer than usual. For some it is as simple as not looking tired.

For me, it’s a combination of things. Looking good has always been important to me, but over the years, my definition of looking good has changed quite a bit.

Now that I’m a mum in my 40s, I don’t have the time, energy or money to dedicate to being gorgeous. So I’ve developed a loose regime of tips, tricks and products to make the best of what I’ve got in a time-poor, cash-poor lifestyle. I play to my strengths, don’t sweat the small stuff and always remember that attitude is everything.

I love my shoulder

I was out with my chicks a couple of weeks ago and one of them commented that I always have my shoulder out at parties. It’s true. I love my shoulder. I like to show it off. One of the all-time, greatest pieces of advice any stylist will ever give you is ‘dress to your strengths’. For me, my strength is my shoulder. Either one, it doesn't matter. I don’t like my legs. They’re dimply and one of them has a varicose vein the size of a rope running along the length of it thanks to my second pregnancy so I’m not keen to get the pins out. My arse is tired and my tummy has more hang than pot these days so I wear tights pants and long, loose, off-the-shoulder tops. My particular favourite is a batwing. Peplums can go fuck themselves unless you’re really slim and 25 years old. Which, clearly, I am neither.

Pre Beyonce Blonde

Exercise: What part of your body do you love?  Do your clothes show it off, or hide it?

I’ve got good boobs

If I’m not rockin’ my shoulder, then I’ve got the girls out. Gravity has taken its toll on my boobs, but a good push-up bra creates magic. Magical cleavage. I head to David Jones once a year to be measured properly for a well-fitted and flattering bra.

Exercise: When was the last time you were measured for a bra?

Hands

Hands are always on show and, having European heritage, I use mine to talk so I keep them looking good. I keep my nails short so that when I have time to paint them, they don’t chip too easily. One of my pet-hates is chipped nail polish. That goes for toes too. My other pet-hate is different nail lengths on the same hand. You know, when someone has 3 long nails and 2 short ones. Those broken nails aren’t going to catch up lady! Cut them all the same length and start again.

Exercise: Is your nail polish chipped? Are your nails the same length?

Embrace the mid-heel

I walk like a bloke. It’s true. I do. So sky-high stilettos and platforms don’t really feature in my wardrobe. I bought the sexiest, most delicious gold pumps for my 40^th birthday party but I’ve never worn them since. Sometimes you just have to make peace with what you know and what I know is the mid-heel is my friend.

Exercise: Be honest – can you walk in heels? If you can, I’m EXTREMELY jealous because they look sensational, but if you have not yet tried the mid-heel... I urge you to.

Lips

Often times, when you talk, people look at your mouth. So I wear lip balm to bed every night to keep my lips from drying or cracking. I also hate too much colour on my lips. Oh and I’ve tried because I love colour on OTHER people’s lip, especially red lipstick but it looks horrendous on me. I don’t bother anymore. Instead I buy variations of the same colour time and time again. Don’t believe me? Check out some of my current collection...

Exercise: Do you have a favourite lip colour? When was the last time you bought yourself a new lipstick/gloss?

Addicted to Accessories

I’m an accessory addict. I love necklaces and handbags and scarves and big earrings and bangle arm parties. I like to jingle. It’s the gypsy in me. A pair of hoop of earrings can make an outfit. Honestly.

Exercise: Do you like to accessorise? Be brave and start with a bangle or two, maybe even a statement earring. It’s fun and a really cheap way to lift an outfit.

Hair

I am INCREDIBLY grey. True.Story. I’ve been dying my hair for 21 years. In the lead up to turning 40 I had a ‘hair plan’. I would go Beyonce blonde for 10 years to help with my maintenance. Grey hairs aren’t so noticeable when your hair is lighter and when I turn 50 I’ll go short and grey. There. I’ve put in writing. If I’m still blogging in 9 years you can hold me to it. In the meantime, I’m at the hairdresser every 6 weeks getting my roots done. But I really should be going every 4 weeks. To extend the time in between, I have a secret weapon. If you have grey issues, you must purchase one of these. $10 from Priceline.

The miracle stick

BEFORE

The RIGHT SIDE [as you're looking at it] done - see the difference?

Exercise: If you struggle with keeping up with the grey hair regime, then get one of these sticks.

Make up with make-up

I was HOPELESS at applying make-up, so I took a course and now I’m really confident. I buy the right shades for me and know how to bring out my best features. Because I don’t wear it often, I invest in the good stuff and a tube of foundation can last up to a year for me.

Exercise: Is your foundation the right colour for you? Do you know how to apply your make-up properly? If not, why not book a session at a professional make-up counter [like MAC] and have them show you how to apply and then purchase the product they choose for you. You won’t regret it, I promise.

Smile

I spent a small fortune on braces in my 20s. It was the best money I ever spent. I don’t wear make-up every day. I don’t have the time or the energy and my hair is usually in the same twirled up bun I’ve put it in the moment I drag my tired arse out of the bed in the morning all day. So sometimes, all I’ve got for you to look at is glossed lips around a big smile. I reckon that’s what growing up is about. Realising that life is about feeling awesome, finding happiness is every day things and wearing your best smile.

Exercise: SMILE

So there you have it. If you see a jingling chick with tight pants and an off the shoulder bat-wing top in a mid-heel with glossy lips, short painted nails with a smile from ear to ear – be sure to say hi :)

What are YOUR cheap and cheerful look fantastic tips?

I'm a mum but...

I don’t like kids.

Well, it’s not so much that I don’t like them but more that they annoy the living shit out of me.

I know, that’s going to really surprise some of you, but I’m all about keeping it real and though I do, truly, love being a mum and love my boys, kids in general suck.

Now, I can put up with all the infuriating things my kids do because the upside is the love and joy they bring to my heart and life. Most times that’s tipped in their favour. Most times.

But when the kid’s not mine … weeeelll….I... struggle. And when a mum pushes her annoying kid onto me I can barely disguise my disdain.

Example. “Go on, Annoying Johnny, give Tania a kiss and a hug. Go on, show her that cute little dance move you do. Oh go on, sing that song you sing to me – she’ll love it.”

NO. No, I won’t. 

Dear parent of annoying kid, I’m glad you think it’s cute that your kid sings, dances, counts with claps and spins like a whirling dervish but I really don’t. I don’t care.

The thing is, sometimes I care. The same way I care about some grown-ups and not so much others. Some kids I can connect with and I’m genuinely amused with every little expression on their face. But there’s PLENTY that do not amuse me. There’s plenty that just piss me off and most of the time I deal with that the way I do anything annoying -- by ignoring them. By not engaging with them.

Oh and don’t even get me started on the ‘birthday’ parent. You know who you are. You’re the one that offers your kid to help blow out someone else’s birthday cake. THAT DRIVES ME MAD. It’s not their birthday. That day is not about YOUR CHILD. Sometimes, the world doesn’t revolve around kids. It’s a lesson in resilience and humility that they need to learn. Also, when kids blow – they spit. I can tell you now that I will not eat any cake that a kid has blown the candles out on. Blegh.

I dread school concerts. I resist school plays. I downright refuse invitations to ballet recitals. Unless the stage is full of child prodigies [which my kids ain’t] then I’ve just spent $10-$30 to sit in a school hall on Facebook.

Yep, kids are annoying. And after two weeks straight with them during the school holidays I've come up with the following list. It's far from complete. Just saying.

My top 5 most annoying things kids [especially including mine] do are:

1. Interrupt incessantly

I’m TALKING. My mouth is moving, sound is coming out and hopefully an adult is listening. If I’m not talking then I’m trying to listen to someone else who is. Whether they are in front of me or on the phone now is not the time that I want to hear from you.

2. Involve themselves in grown up conversation

I’m sorry, how interested in your primary school opinion do you think I am? And kids who correct their parents during a conversation that doesn’t involve them. And kids who eavesdrop. And kids who flap about saying ‘she said the F word’. And kids who think it’s cool to be a smart arse to their parents in front of other grown-ups. And... and... and...

3. Use that annoying, whining voice

Mum, mum, mum, mum... It’s not fair. He hit me. Can I have a [insert something they’re not allowed to have]? Can we go? I’m bored? Why do I have to do that? SHUT.UP. My youngest is a drama queen and does this thing when he’s upset, particularly when he’s over-tired, where he will just cry. Out loud. It’s insane. And I tell him so. “If you’re going to make that noise, you need to take yourself to your bedroom because I do not want to hear it”. Mostly that just turns it into a wimper, but he gets the point.

4. Put their filthy hands all over the food

Kids do not wash their hands properly. It’s a fact. Also, I have seen mine wash their hands and walk out the bathroom picking their nose. What. The. Fuck. So, I hate it when they put their hands all over my food. When I entertain I purposely put out kids’ snacks and grown up snacks. Partly because I buy expensive cheese for the adults and the kids get cheap crap but mainly because I don’t like to share with grots. It makes me wild when mums let their kid’s hands on my grown up snacks. Especially the indecisive ones that have to pick up every fucking thing and put it back before they choose.

5. Complain about life

Actually, I haven’t heard many other kids do this but I’m sure they do. When mine complain about their life I go a bit mental. They’ve got the greatest life in existence. And the best mum. Be grateful.

Be honest... what annoys YOU about kids? And if you say nothing... can you please babysit mine this weekend?

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?

Happy 1st Birthday Seventies Baby

When I started blogging, I had two objectives. To write, which has always been a kind of therapy for me, and to share. As my 'voice' developed, I discovered something amazing. There is magic in the story. There is magic in me.  

"The stranger who tells our stories when we cannot speak not only awakens our spirits and hearts but also shows our humanity"   Mende Proverb, Sierra Leone

I always get a little bit nostalgic on birthdays, so I have spent the morning re-reading my stories and I thought I'd share a selection of my favourite posts from the last year that you may have missed or may just like to revisit.

1. My first post - the one about mums at school.

2. 50 Shades of Twilight - the one I had the most fun writing... [warning: involves anal plugs and nipple clamps]

3. Make My Day - the one that I go a bit mental in.

4. While you were sleeping - the one that makes me cry a little bit when I read it.

5. 10 Parenting Rules - the one that went viral.

6. Dear Men - the one where I write about dry-humping.

7. Stretch-mark Swagger - the one about my thighs.

Do you have a favourite? Is there a story you'd like me to tell?

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.

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