I've got this

"Mum, I don't feel well'

Those words are always so heavily laden with dread but never more so than hearing them at two o'clock in the morning.

It's dark, it's cold and I'm in my deepest sleep. The voice comes from the left of me which is strange 'cause I can feel a small, warm body cuddled up to the right of me. Oh right. The youngest has made his way into my bed sometime earlier, slipping in unnoticed. It's the eldest who's standing next to the bed. Sniffling.

"You'll be ok hon. Just go back to bed and try to sleep it off"

I'm not good at being woken up in the middle of the night. When the boys were newborns I was ok because there was no middle of the night. I was working on a 24 hour clock broken into increments of 'feeds'. Now though, the middle of the night is not a good place for me and I will do anything to stay in bed. Including sending my sick son back to bed without any intervention from me. Which he does.

Exactly 8 minutes later he's back. 

"I still feel sick Mum. I feel really, really bad. I need you to come."

Ugh.

So now I'm up. Dressing gown is on and I'm at the medicine cupboard. Thermometer. Check. Kids Panadol. Check. Measuring cup. Check. Cup of water to wash down the Panadol. Check. Deep breath and smiling bedside manner. Check.

He's waiting for me all bundled up in bed. He's miserable which is very unusual for him. My eldest doesn't like a fuss. He hates to be sick so will usually do his best ignore all symptoms and just get on with it. Not tonight though. The thermometer beeps and confirms my lips-on-the-forehead assessment. 36.7C. No temp. 

"What do you feel hon?"

"My throat is really sore." 

I'm not a doctor but I have had 8 years of diagnostic training. I check his neck. His glands are up and he's a bit tender. Tonsilitis? No fever so probably not. I sit there in the dim light and consider what it could be. And then he coughs.

And he sounds like a seal barking.

"Oh hon, I think you've got croup."

"Is that bad Mum? I feel really bad."

"No hon, it's not bad. I'll make it better."

It's now 2.30am and I'm giving him Panadol. I promise to stay with him until he falls asleep again, which I know will be about the time that the Panadol kicks in. I slowly and gently rub his back and watch his 8 year old face relax.

I'm back in bed just after 3am and immediately I feel warm little feet against my legs. The 5 year old is still there, hogging my pillow. I'm awake now so I mentally prepare for the day ahead which will start in a few hours and which I'm facing with half a tank of fuel. A trip to the doctor; notify the school; cancel my morning's meetings; think about dinner 'cause we're clearly not going out now; be ready for the little one who'll be jealous that the big one is staying home and he's not.

I sigh, no longer pissed off that I've been woken up in the middle of the night. I feel strong. Tired but strong. 

I'm a mum. I've got this.

8 ways to exercise when you don't have time

I'm not one that exercises. I'm just not. I don't schedule time for the gym or for a run or even a walk. I always feel like that's a waste of time. Even though, I know that not true. It's just that in these time-poor days, planned exercise seems unachievable to me.

What I am good at, is incidental exercise. The kind of of exercise you don't need to make time for and that you don't realise you're actually doing. 

1. I walk my kids to school and back every day. I don't live far so it's not an arduous job. I know I'm fortunate to live that close but I watch every one line up in their idling cars to collect their kids from 'kiss and drop' and I think to myself, if they had just parked their cars at my place and walked... they would get there quicker, save some petrol [and fumes!] and get their body moving.

2. I raise my hills hoist clothes line up higher than it needs to be so that I am forced to stretch to hang my clothes out. It's a simple thing but when I'm hanging out at least one load a day, and often two, it's good for my arms and shoulders.

3. I don't waste my time looking for the closest carpark to the shopping centre door. The further from the door you look, the more car parks there are and the extra metres walk will do you good. Oh, and I ALWAYS return my shopping trolley to the bay. Even if it's far away. Even if someone's waiting for my park. It's not only a good way to move your body, it's also manners. 

4. Wherever I can, I take the stairs. Unless I'm going up to the 15th floor. I don't want to reach the top dead. 

5. I clean my house. Cleaning bathrooms, dusting, vacuuming, mopping and sometimes even cleaning windows once a week is a massive work out. Plus just making three beds every day gets the blood pumping.

6. Don't underestimate grocery shopping. If you're lucky enough to choose a trolley with shithouse wheels that won't steer straight, then we're talking real resistance training. Plus lifting full bags from trolley to car to kitchen does wonders for the arms.

7. Weeding. I like weeding. Bending, kneeling, pulling. Good movement and therapeutic. Plus you're outside... great for the vitamin D levels.

8. Dance, dance, dance, dance!!! I dance. Around the house. In the shower. When I'm driving in my car. I put my hands in the air like I just don't go care. I wiggle when I cook. I shuffle when I vacuum. I bust a move when I'm getting ready. I get down when I go out. Dance people. It's a winner.

What are some tips you have for those of us who don't exercise?

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?

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.

I am woman. Hear me raw.

Today

I am a working mum. My days follow a strict routine which involves ‘just another 10 minutes’ in bed every morning, regardless of what time I wake up. Those 10 minutes feel like those delicious stolen moments with a lover... but better because I’m alone in the bed and I can stretch out and remember my days when I didn’t have ‘a side’. In those 10 minutes I lament the too few hours sleep preceding them and dread the rat-race following them. I mentally check through my wardrobe and decide what I’m going to wear and hope to god that I’ve washed it and if I have, hope that I have hung it up and not left it in the washing basket. It is the only quiet time I will have to myself all day.

There are boys to be dressed and teeth to be brushed. Bags to be packed and lunches to be made. Husbands to send off and make-up to be slapped on. School to be walked to and teachers to touch base with. Meat to defrost and washing to be put on. Emails to answer and coffee to make. Traffic to negotiate and cars to be parked.

Then a day of work which, most days, is good but some days is not.

Followed by errands to be run and calls to be made. Appointments to squeeze in and dinner to be cooked. Washing to be hung out and coffee to make. School to be walked to and bags to unpack. After school snacks to prepare and homework to be helped with. Sports to be driven to and tables to be set. Baths to be run and stories to read. Dishes to be done and washing to put away. Uniforms to lay out and beds to collapse in.

It is gruelling and draining and gratifying and real.

Yesterday

I was a stay at home mum. My days didn’t follow any routine and I was almost totally at the mercy of my sons’ needs. Breastfeeding on demand. Tiptoeing around the house at nap-time. Scraping soggy teething rusks off the carpet. Rinsing off poo on sheets/clothes/cushion covers. Throwing out bibs that had mashed banana on them ‘cause that shit just does not come out in the wash. Toilet training. Manners training. Sleep training. Rich play. Fine motor skill development. Gross motor skill development. Socialisation. 

Some days time would stand still and I would wait, desperately for the husband to come home so I could turn myself off for 10 minutes. Just 10 minutes to not be the one who had to pick up the crying baby. Just 10 minutes to be alone and not feel guilty for the pleasure that would fill my bones to be quiet. And still. Other days time would steal my life away and I would despair that I didn’t have longer to float in the wonder of seeing the world through the new eyes of my baby. I would feel it slip through my fingers as I traced ‘round and round the garden’ on chubby little hands. I would watch it run away as I delighted in seeing those first, wobbly steps. I would look up, after feeling like I had only just sent the husband off to work to see him return and watch my son run to his arms. Happy to see another face. Eager to tell fresh ears about his day. And I would wish for just another 10 minutes to be alone with my boy.

It was exhausting and demanding and rewarding and real.

Long ago

Before I was any kind of mum I was a girl. Those days were all about me. They were about finding my place in the world and deciding where my world was. It was about working and partying and loving and earning and yearning. It was about learning. And the only real way to learn is to fail. So it was about failing too. It was about heartache. It was about self doubt. And it was about wonder. There were no 10 minute increments in those days. Going out for coffee lasted for hours. There was no grocery shopping. If I needed anything, I picked it up on the way home from work. There was only clothes shopping. Phone calls lasted all night on a phone with an extra long cord which would reach all the corners of my unit and never ran out of battery. Friendships were the most important relationships in my world. Other people’s children were to be seen, not heard. Mothers were to be ignored. Boys were to be toyed with. Washing was to be done in the middle of the night and hung out on the backs of chairs. Dancing was to be done. All night.

It was arduous and confronting and fulfilling and real.

Every day

Throughout it all I have been me. I have not always known who I am but I have been defiantly ‘me’ nonetheless. All my life stages are real. All my chapters are fulfilling. All my dreams are valid. All my pains are confronting. Being single and childless was tough. Being a stay at home mum was demanding. Being a working mum is challenging. The next path I travel down will also test me.  Each life stage presents something new to learn and overcome and enjoy. 

My journey is not unique. My lessons are not new. You may relate. You may disagree. You may learn. You may cringe. You may just quietly be thankful that someone else is struggling to get it all right too.

I will laugh. I will sob. I will exalt. I will grieve. I will succeed. I will fail. 

I will live.

It’s my story and I will share.

I am woman. Hear me raw.

Dear Chrissie, I have a confession too...

I'm addicted to judging.

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

It shamed ME.

Let's get some things out of the way. 

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

My view remains unchanged.

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

You would think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love and strength to you Chrissie,

Tan xx

10 Parenting Rules – and I broke them all

Confession. 

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

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

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

#1 - I will not use a dummy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.. shut up.

In a minute

I went back to work today after two weeks home with the family for the holidays. On the quiet, blissful drive into the city, I thought about all the things I was sick of saying and sick of hearing. I can write about it calmly and with perspective because I'm alone at the moment. 

I have no need to repeat myself. Again. And again. 

There is no need to raise my voice or stamp my foot or slam my open palm on the kitchen bench yelling 'that's enough!' 

I have no urge to mutter 'for fuck's sake' through my clenched teeth while breathing in long, slow and deep breaths. 

I am not hiding behind the locked bathroom door to escape the madness for a couple of minutes and I am not glaring at my husband's back as he is doing something so important on his iPhone/iPad/iMac/iSuck that he seems not to hear the madness.

Lalalalalala... I may open a bottle of wine and raise my glass to the silence.


Top 10 most repeated things I've said this summer so far:

"In a minute"

"You have 5 more minutes"

"Sit properly at the table"

"Don't hit your brother"

"No"

"Brush your teeth"

"One... two.... " [I don't often get to three but when I do...]

"Now with your manners"

"Shut the back door"

"Wash your hands"


Top 10 most repeated things I've heard this summer so far:

"I'm bored"

"What can we do now?"

"No"

"Why not?"

"You promised!"

"It's not fair"

"Can we go to...?"

"When?"

"Mum"

"He hit me!"


I plan to say more of:

"Ask your father"

"Yes"

"Have fun"

"See you when I get back"

What about you? What are you sick to death of saying??

Happy New Year - 12 lessons from 2012

I love a new year. I love saying goodbye to the old and looking forward to the new. I love that everyone gets all sentimental and grateful and earnest. I love that people are resolute in their good intentions, that are almost always broken, and that young and old alike celebrate side by side.

It's a great time to reflect. It's a proverbial line in the sand for us to stop at. To get on our marks. To go. Travel down a new road. Take a new path. Start a new race.

In fact, the whole of last year was a line in the sand for me. My 40th year. It was a great year of discovery and celebration and an expanding girth. It was also a significant year of learning. 

Here are 12 unexpected things I learned in 2012.

1. Blondes don't have any more fun than brunettes... but the greys are much less noticeable!

2. Throwing a surprise birthday party for someone you love is EXTREMELY stressful but may well be even more special for the host than the guest of honour. I hosted two and the joy they both brought me was unimaginable.

3. Making a conscious and public effort at being grateful was easier than I thought and actually filled my heart with light.

4. My 7 year old is a 'stand up and notice' kind of awesome soccer player AND has courage enough to face his fears to perform on stage for the school production.

5. There are still far too many moronic Americans who believe in a 'right to bear arms' and I have been ASTOUNDED at some of the ridiculous arguments I have read in the case to support that lunacy.

6. Returning to paid work after a long time at home is a tough adjustment and I will certainly be doing my best to support any friends taking that journey.

7. The definition of a wolf in sheep's clothing... as discovered by too many women in my life.

8. My 5 year old has such strong and unexpected willpower. Last year he made the decision to swim without floaties and to give up night nappies and to ditch the training wheels on his bike. He did it himself and they each took only days to accomplish. Certainly makes my job easier.

9. It's really easy to make jam!

10. Celebrating your own milestone birthday in grand and lavish style is an absolute must at least once in your lifetime.

11. Bridesmaids. Best chick flick. Ever.

12. I am a story teller and some of my stories, are your stories too.

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

Attitude of Gratitude

So, on the first day of December this year I committed to having an attitude of gratitude for a month which I would share with my Facebook friends each day. I didn't come up with the idea myself. I was inspired by The Mums Lounge "Attitude of Gratitude Photo Challenge" because I have been feeling more grateful lately and because, to be quite frank, I like that it rhymed.

I started off slow. A quick photo and something small in my day that I was thankful for. But, as all good things do, it gathered a momentum of its own and my thankfulness became more significant. 

My attitude actually changed. 

The commitment I made to having to stop each day and think of something to be grateful for, during a very busy time of the year, became my calm. I discovered that I have so much to be grateful for and that I have fallen into the well-known trap of taking my good fortune for granted. This month has reminded me to be extremely grateful for my journey in life. For the lessons I've learned. For the losses. For the gifts. For the growth. For the pain and for the joy. It's EASY to get caught up in the rat-race of life, particularly at Christmas time. It's soooo busy and everyone seems to want a piece of you and I have MANY times spent almost the entire month complaining. But this year, not so much. This year when I have caught myself whingeing about.... whatever, I have stopped and said 'Lucky you Tan, that there is space in your mind for such a silly complaint'. 'Lucky you that you do not live in fear. Lucky you that you do not live in pain. Lucky you that you do not live with loneliness. Lucky you that you do not live in darkness. Lucky you that you do not live in silence. Lucky you, Tan.'

I had planned to post something to be grateful for every day of December, but I stopped a couple of days ago. Not on purpose. I was running out of hours in my days and telling everyone how grateful I am was the first casualty of tasks I didn't have time for. I have still stopped every day though. Stopped and thought and felt lighter. And now, in the quiet aftermath of a marathon family Christmas lunch, I have stopped to think about what I am thankful for. And of course, on days like today, there is so much. Family. Love. Tradition. Giving. Eating. Playing. Fun. Togetherness. Sharing. It's almost a no-brainer but I have something more [yes more!] to be thankful for.

Attitude of Gratitude - Days 21-25 (!)

I am grateful for my friends who came along for the ride with me. All of my friends but especially the friends who are otherwise quiet on Facebook but have showed their support by 'liking' my post. It kept me honest. When I realised how many people were listening, it encouraged me to actually say something.

I am grateful for the friends [who I do not 'see' socially but with whom I share my Facebook life] that took the time to comment on my posts. Friends like Di, Riannon, Crawford, Monique, Josie, Mia and Mandy. When I realised how many people were touched, it encouraged me to dig deeper.

I am grateful for the friends who made a special effort to tell me how my Attitude of Gratitude posts had inspired them. Friends like Alischa, Isabelle, Kalyna and Isabella. When I realised how many people were inspired, it encouraged me to share more of myself.

I am grateful for my friend Polly who took my proverbial hand and travelled down the road of gratitude with me. When I realised I was not alone, it encouraged me to stay on the road.

I am grateful.

Step away from Mr Wrong

It still gets to me when I see women sell themselves short for men. Almost every woman I know has done it at least once. Shit, I've done it myself COUNTLESS times.

EVERY SINGLE thing that I am about to post is from recent real-life conversations with a number of women I know who range, in age, from 20 through to 60 years old. EVERY SINGLE conversation involved those same women justifying the very things they were complaining of... and that they SHOULD be complaining of.

This is my Top Ten list of signs that your Mr Right is wrong for you.

1. You don't exist in public

If you have not yet met his friends or family and you have been with him for longer than a few months [and you're not dating a refugee], there's a problem. Stop making excuses for him.

2. You give him a 'softy'

If he can't get it up, keep it up or seal the deal, there's a problem. Stop making excuses for him.

3. You're walking and dancing on your own

If he never wants to do what you want to do, there's a problem. Stop making excuses for him.

4. You are not John and Yoko

If he only ever wants to see you in bed, there's a problem. Stop making excuses for him.

5. You are not on an island

If he doesn't want you to see your friends or family, there's a problem. Stop making excuses for him.

6. You are not his therapist

If all he wants to do is talk about his problems and has no time to hear yours, there's a problem. Stop making excuses for him.

7. You are not a babysitter

If he expects you to look after his kid from another partnership all the time while he pursues the things he wants to do, there's a problem. Stop making excuses for him.

8. You are gorgeous

If he finds the need to tell you otherwise, there's a problem. Stop making excuses for him.

9. You are worth it

If you have to beg him for your needs to be met, there's a problem. Stop making excuses for him.

10. You are a grown-up

If you have to lie to him about where you're going, what you're doing and what you're spending, there's a problem. Stop making excuses for him.

Like I said to one of my gorgeous, smart, grown-up friends... he's not as good as you think.

Step away xx

Sleep School aka 'Go the F*ck to Sleep'

My first born son was the centre of our combined family’s universe. The first grandchild on both sides. The first nephew. The golden child. He was a happy, smiley, easy-going baby who was a ‘good sleeper’.

My second born son came when my first born had just turned two. He entered a household that already travelled to the beat of the first born’s drum. He came to a mum who naively believed that he would simply fall into step and give me no trouble – like his brother. Instead, he had some health issues including failure to thrive which resulted in him being a terrible sleeper. No, not terrible. That’s far too polite. I created a fucking monster. And it is, unquestionably, my fault. I did ALL the wrong things. I let him fall asleep on the boob. EVERY TIME. I rocked him to sleep. I made him fall into step with a toddler’s routine instead of listening to the needs of a baby. And I should feel terrible about it except I don’t and I don’t because I paid the price. Well and truly. Oh yes, he made me pay. By 11 months he was on the boob every two hours around the clock. On a good day. On a fussy day that could be every hour. How much sleep do you think I was getting?

I was a basket case. Really. No, really. I ended up at a Child and Youth Health appointment during which it was assessed that I required immediate intervention and so my stay at Torrens House was booked.

My four days at Torrens House saved my [and my kids] life.

I was scared to go there. I don’t believe in ‘controlled crying’. My opinion is that it contradicts a mother’s fundamental need to attend to her child’s needs. It does not make sense to me, on any level, to give your child the perception that they are being abandoned. I have not researched this with any authority and I know of many mothers who have successfully used this technique and their children seem unaffected by it. But I am resolute in my opinion nonetheless.  So, I was scared that they were going to make me use this technique with my baby. It turns out though, that my opinion is supported by the staff at Torrens House. Their technique teaches babies to self settle in a totally supported way, with mum by their side at all times. It’s exactly what I wanted and it worked on the VERY FIRST TIME. I have shared this technique with other mums who found themselves in the same nightmare as I did and it worked for them too.

DISCLAIMER. I am not a trained health professional or child/baby specialist. I am a mum who has found this technique to be very successful. You should not try this without first being sure that your child is not suffering from any other medical conditions which may be causing their unsettled behavior.

Step 1

Routine, routine, routine...

There are suggested routines for babies of all ages which you could research and apply or you may have a good idea of your own. I don’t think it really matters but it needs to be consistent. Most babies respond extremely well to regular and expected behaviours. Basically you need to head into this knowing approximately when each day your baby should be sleeping [and how many times] and when bed-time is at night. This applies to meals [including breast feeding or bottle feeding] too.

Step 2

Location, location, location...

When first teaching your baby to self-settle, it is best for it to be in the same place every time. That may be a cot/bassinet in your room or they may already be in their own nursery. If they are sharing a room with another sibling, I would recommend moving them out for a little while. It could get a bit disruptive in there.

Step 3

That’s a wrap!

A key success factor of this technique is WRAPPING YOUR BABY. I was explained that most babies have a strong startle reflex [you know, when they jerk with their hands out to the side]. This can happen even when they seem to be sleeping soundly and it wakes them up. If they are not able to self settle, this is when they’ll call out for their dummy or YOU. If you have tried wrapping and your baby is getting out of that wrap then you either haven’t wrapped them properly OR the wrap is too small. I have found that larger babies need something like a cotton cot sheet for this to work. I helped a mum with a one year old boy [that was a challenge!] and we used a single bed sheet for him.

So, in line with your routine and AFTER you have fed them you will need to wrap them. I like to strip them down to nappy and singlet, depending on the weather/temperature in the room, and gently sing “time for sleep” while I’m doing this. I learned that this is a good ‘sleep trigger’ but it’s not essential.  Do not let one arm out because ‘they like it’ or keep it loose because ‘they don’t like being constricted’ or this will not work. The wrap needs to be firm. They will be able to move their arms within the wrap but they must be kept close to their body or the startle reflex will wake them up.

Step 4

Hush little baby, don’t you cry

Put your lovely, wrapped baby into their cot/bassinet awake. They may already be crying because this is all new to them and you’re upsetting their apple cart. It’s ok. With bigger babies, you can secure them in place [sounds worse than it is] by tucking another sheet across them and firmly under the mattress. This just helps the whole process. Quietly talk to them while you’re getting them settled. You could sing or just quietly and calmly explain what you’re doing. Eg “Shhh… it’s ok. It’s time for sleep now and Mummy[or Daddy!]is  going to help. I’ll be right here baby.” My very firm suggestion at this stage is DO NOT apologise to them in words, tone or actions. Eg “Mummy’s sorry I have to do this” You are doing your job as their parent to help them sleep. Don’t apologise for that. Once you are comfortable that they are in place, we can move on to the next step.

Step 5

Pat a cake, pat a cake...

The next key success factor in this technique is to PAT THE BED. I was taught that once the baby has been laid down, not to touch them to help them sleep. This then becomes another thing they ‘need’. So, maybe pull up a chair and rhythmically pat the bed near their head. You can do this quite firmly as the intention is for them to feel it, almost like a heart-beat. I usually continue with my ‘time for sleep’ mantra punctuated with a few, calming ‘shhh’s’ and ‘Mummy’s here’.  Your baby will probably be crying throughout this whole process. Try to interpret that cry. Is it distress or is it just a protest? “What are you doing mum???? Why aren’t you holding me? Why aren’t you feeding me?” PRESS ON. You may quietly sing to them or talk to them reassuringly [you’re ok baby, mummy’s here] but try not to make eye contact with them. The intention is that they know you’re there but it’s time for sleep and you mean business.

Step 6

REPEAT

If this is overnight and your baby wakes up and YOU KNOW THERE’S NOTHING WRONG ie, they haven’t wet through the bed, or have a fever, or are too cold, or too hot bla bla, then simply pick them up for quick cuddle, rewrap them and start patting that bed! Your intention should be to help your baby make it through to the morning without a feed. For me, that meant bed time at 7.30pm and NO FEEDING before 5am. If he woke any time after 5am, he got a feed… and we were UP FOR THE DAY. [insert coffee here]

These are some things that I have experienced:

• On the first night of sleep training my son went to sleep using this method within 10 minutes. He SCREAMED but I could tell he was outraged not distressed.
• After never sleeping longer than 2 hours in a row, he slept 5 hours on that first night.
• My boobs were going to EXPLODE by the time I fed him in the morning because it was the first time in 11 months that I hadn’t fed him overnight.
• Once your baby has learned to go to sleep this way, anyone can do it. So this means your partner, your parent, your baby-sitter. It’s extremely liberating!
• Everything changes when this starts to work. You feel better. Your baby behaves better. It’s a happier life to live when everyone can get some real sleep.
• My son responded so well that he would bring me his wrap if he was tired to tell me it was time to go to sleep.

FINALLY

This is not for everyone, I understand that. I just wanted to share it because I know it works and I believe in it. Essentially, we all have different thresholds of what we can and can’t handle. In parenting, in sleeping, in disciplining, in eating, in loving, in working, in life. Some parents do not mind one bit being woken multiple times in the night by their baby. Some parents believe in co-sleeping and giving their baby full access to mum’s breasts all night. Some parents want their baby sleeping through the night from as early as weeks old and will let them cry it out. Whatever works for you, is whatever works for you. BUT, if it’s not working for you then here’s something that worked for us.

If you do try it, I’d love to know how it went for you.

Now… get some sleep :)

It gets better... I promise xx