Dear Mother of All Boys

Dear Mother of All Boys,

I see you there, with your tired eyes and heart bursting with love. You are a mix of exhaustion and gratitude and pride. Just like all other mothers but something about having all boys, sets you apart. Just a bit. There’s something about only having sons that changes the mother experience. I know this because many of my friends are mothers of all boys. I know this especially, because so am I.

It’s not something that is easy to put a finger on but there is certainly something special about having a family full of sons. From what I can tell, the dynamic is different than in the families of only daughters or those with both sons and daughters. And the perspective definitely is. Years of managing testosterone will do that a woman.

People will say ridiculous things to you. “I don’t know how you cope! Boys are so… boisterous/loud/energetic/difficult. You’ve got your hands full! You need a daughter” They will dress it up as if they are sharing knowledge, but they don’t know anything because those people are almost definitely not mothers of all boys.

If they were they would understand having all sons does not mean that the family is incomplete without a daughter.

They would understand that yes, the days are loud in a house of all boys. The volume level can reach insane, shut-the-fuck-up heights from playing and cheering to all-out arguing but that only makes the quiet time so much more precious.

They would understand that the very same boys that try to actually physically destroy each other for such heinous acts as touching each other’s stuff, changing the tv channel in the middle of a show or teasing each other for missing a goal will also spend hours side by side watching a movie or playing PS4. Often in the same day.

There are a lot of balls in your life when you’re a mother of all boys. There are quite literally balls everywhere. In our household we have basketballs, footballs, soccer balls, tennis balls, bouncing balls, cricket balls, petanque balls, billiard balls, ping pong balls, marbles, ball-bearings and testes. Yes, I mention testes because in our house one can not mention ‘balls’ without a snigger, smirk or all out guffaw from the boys. Balls=testicles. All day. Every day.

The washing line is full of jocks and socks and there are grass stains on all the pants knees. We go through fifteen litres of milk a week and a box of band-aids every month. Grazes, cuts, burns, splinters and blisters all feature heavily around these parts. And just for the record… boys do cry. Big rolling tears, often mixed with sweat that drop onto mum’s shirt as she holds her crying son to her bosom. “Oh my God! Mum said ‘bosom’! Bahahahaha… that is SO wrong Mum.” Boobs=hilarious. All day. Every day.

Farts are extremely popular. Smelling them, doing them, pretending you didn’t do them and making fake fart noises using ANYTHING are also hilarious. Interestingly, flushing the toilet is not popular at all. Probably because most of the wee doesn’t make it into the actual bowl anyway. There is piss on the floor. Constantly.

Mothers of sons and daughters will look upon you with a mix of pity and admiration as they can only imagine that your job must be twice or thrice as hard as hers is in your family of boys because her boy is possibly the troublesome one in her household. But for many reasons boys with only brothers seem to level each other out rather than egg each other on. Except for when they are actually egging each other on… that shit happens constantly and it NEVER ends well.

The competition is relentless in a family of all boys. There has to be a ‘first’ for everything. First to the car, in the shower, to leave the table, ready for school, in the pool, to the end of the street, to finish a game. And when they’re not competing they’re daring each other to jump, to taste or to climb. Often these dares or competitions end in a fight or tears or both but then it’s forgotten. Boys don’t hold grudges… for long.

There are no real mood-swings. Yet. There are only two moods. On and off. And despite what many may think about boys communicating, there’s A LOT of chatter. Sometimes too much… just like in other families.

My boys are messy and smelly even though I’ve taught them to put their stuff away and they shower every day. They have massive feet and sinewy legs and I can see their ribcage even though they eat constantly. They seem to be endlessly moving but when they stop I can still see the babies they were. They can’t help but gravitate to either one of their parents when we sit on the couch at night together and they are most comfortable resting their head on our shoulder or wrapping their long, skinny legs around ours. Boys may be boisterous but they’re affectionate too and there’s nothing sweeter than seeing a boy that isn’t afraid to cuddle their mum and dad especially after a tough a game of contact sport.

Having all boys seems to reduce the risk of subconsciously stereotyping. There are no gender specific behaviours in our household because there is only one gender [Mum doesn’t count. She is genderless. She is just MUM] So the boys cook and clean and pick flowers and go clothes shopping and listen to music and dance. There is no ‘daddy’s little girl’ or ‘princess’ or ‘mummy’s boy’ or ‘little man of the house’. There are just sons and brothers.

And there’s something about watching brothers together that warms my heart. Of course I know plenty of sisters who are close with their brother [I’m one of them!] but maybe it’s because I feel so strongly about MY brother that I’m so happy that both my sons have a brother too.

Dear Mother of All Boys, I want you to know that I LOVE my all-boy family. They teach me so many things all the time and I’m positive that being immersed in a world of testosterone and male energy has made me a better woman. It’s tiring and exhausting and there’s piss all over the bathroom floor but it’s also complete and chockablock full of gorgeous boyish love.

Plus, I save a fortune on hand-me-downs.

What it's like to love a 9 year old boy

My 9 year old, Nathan, has been doing my head in lately. And by doing my head in I mean sending me batshit crazy. He has taken defiant to a whole new level and is throwing moodswings at me with the speed and agility of something that is really quick and agile. This week I was ready to sell him for a bottle of gin. But to be totally honest, I would have paid someone to take him away. This whole ‘you can’t make me, it’s my life’ attitude that has taken over his body has appeared prematurely and without warning. I have always expected it, but not so early. I’m not ready for that. I’m not prepared to enter into a relatively grown up argument with a child. And, despite his best argument, he IS a child. He hasn’t even hit double digits yet!

It’s weird watching something that you grew in your belly ‘become’. It’s even weirder to realise how little their ‘becoming’ has to do with you… and how much. He’s becoming a real person. With his own opinions and feelings and preferences. His body is changing. His voice is changing. He is growing up and out and most importantly, within.

This week was his junior school drama production. Two year two classes and two year four classes all performed one act per class. Nathan’s class had the fourth act. The three acts preceding it were excruciating. Not to say that the kids weren’t all awesome and cute and talented and funny. It’s just that I’m tired and grumpy and really couldn’t give a shit about anyone else’s kid [and just for the record, I know and love some of those kids but would still rather be home in my tracksuit drinking wine].

When the curtain rose on Act 4, I waited begrudgingly for my kid to do his thing, quickly, so we could get out of there. And then he walked out on stage and my heart skipped a little bit and my smile spread so wide that my face almost turned inside out. That was my boy. On stage. In the spotlight. With a gorgeous, strong and loud voice he delivered his lines flawlessly. I could sense his entire essence from my seat in the dark. I could see his confidence like an aura and fuck that made me proud. This was the same boy who was TERRIFIED of even the thought of performing only two years before. I watched him. And I saw him. When you love a 9 year old boy, it’s not often that you have the opportunity to just sit and watch. They’re always moving or scowling or catching you spying on them. But last night, I surrendered to the good fortune of my son performing. I have no idea what his act was about and I don’t know what anyone else was doing because I just could not take my eyes off him. I watched the way his body moved and his head tilted when he was listening. I watched his face light up like sunshine when he laughed. He was beautiful. He IS beautiful.

Loving a 9 year old boy is not always easy to do. It means there are times that he seems to have no interest whatsoever in anything that comes out of your mouth unless it involves football or Pokemon cards. There are times that he will have three helpings of dinner, gulped down without any regard for table manners and a week later a declaration that he HATES that exact same dish and he can’t believe he is expected to eat it. It means he no longer comes to the ladies toilets with me and fiddles with the stereo knobs from the front passenger seat in my car. It’s a time of slamming doors and lots of rolling eyes. My days are unpredictable with my 9 year old. Some days he is entirely full of boyish love for me and happy to cuddle up next to me on the couch for hours and other days it’s almost like he wishes everyone, including me, would just disappear. There’s a lot of bashing up the younger brother and passionate refusal to do the simplest and most regular of things. Like showering and brushing teeth. And the attitude. Oh my lord, what is with the attitude?! That’s not what I was pitching for when I was gently shaping my toddler. I’m all for my kids having their own mind, I just wish it was more like mine y’know?

So, sure it’s not easy but man it’s rewarding. Watching him from the dark of the audience while he was on stage was sublime. In one of the scenes, all the boys had to dance/walk on stage to Michael Jackson’s ‘The Way You Make Me Feel’. And there was mine, entering stage left. All rhythm and swagger. Following the choreography with perfect timing, singing along word for word. I was fixated on his facial expressions and the way he held himself tall and proud. I was in awe of him. Up there, on stage, completely independent of me. I watched him confidently cross the stage at the end of the performance to hand out the gifts to the volunteers and shake their hands. He didn’t tell me about that. He doesn’t tell me lots of things these days. I sat there and understood that I’m just not so necessary to his everything anymore. My boy is on his way to becoming a man and his mum is on her way to becoming obsolete. Once he looked to me for all the answers. Now it seems that he's always looking away. Into the world. I don’t expect the ride to be easy but nothing worthwhile ever is.

What’s it like to love a 9 year old boy? Consuming. Heart warming. Heart breaking. Exasperating. Exhausting. Uplifting. Tumultuous. 

And worth every bit of it.

Home Alone

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

What got you talking in 2013

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tan xx

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.

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?

ding, ding, ding....

"MUM!!!!!!! He hit me!!"

"MUM!!!!!!! He's annoying me!!"

"MUM!!!!!!! I'm bored!!"

"MUM!!!!!!! [insert some other infuriating comment here]

So... what DO you do when after 4 days of school holidays your kids want to kill each other and you're sick of breaking up the fights??

You HELP them :)

Forty minutes of slogging it out together and they're best mates again.

Now they are sitting together on the couch sharing a bowl of popcorn and watching ABC3.

That's a weird 'bloke thing', right?

Raising Men

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

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

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

I digress.

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

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

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

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

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

What the fuck happened to our men?

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

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

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.