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Fri, 06 Nov 2009 08:59:27 +1100

Baby On Board? Oh. I’ll Slow Down, Then…

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 08:40:25 +1100

Is it just me or do you also find something slightly aggressive about those “Baby On Board” stickers people paste on the rear windows of their cars? Aren’t they just a tiny bit annoying? I don’t know about you but it just seems strange to me. Really you have a baby? In your car? No! Let me get the facts right here. You’re driving. With a baby. And its IN YOUR CAR???

Well I better pump the brakes. Slow the hell down. There’s a life at stake. A tiny human. The future of our country. Maybe it would be best if I just pulled over to the side of the road for a few minutes and let the baby pass? If I’m not EXTRA careful in the next few minutes I might kill the future Prime Minister of Australia.

I mean I’m usually pretty happy with my reckless style of driving. I’m all over the road. And fast, damn fast. But when there’s a baby involved? I better start observing a few road rules. At least stop at a few red lights. Slow down to 110 kph in the school zones. It’s the least I can do.

But really. There’s something in me that just loathes those Baby on Board stickers. I can’t help it. Is it the smug, superior lecturing tone? Don’t get me started. I hate the smugness of parents. Possibly because I have been a smug parent myself. Many times. In fact I might be doing it now! Writing this blog could easily come under the smug category. In fact, most blogs or columns or opinion pieces in magazines constitute some form of smugness. Just the other day I caught myself watching a childless couple and smiling condescendingly. You’re so alone aren’t you? You poor bastards. You’ll never know the joys… Yes, that’s right, you’re not quite human. Not like me. I’ve done my reproductive duty. I have kids. I’m happy. God I’m good. Smugness just comes with the territory of parenthood I guess.

And, Lord knows, it’s got to be one of THE most thankless jobs around. You may as well get paid in a few extra smugness credits! You don’t sleep anymore. You don’t go clubbing anymore. You don’t go to restaurants anymore. You don’t have a life anymore. So you figure you can at least be smug. And you probably have a point. Parents, poor fools, should be allowed to be smug. It’s all they’ve got.

So what really burns me about those stickers? Apart from the smugness, I mean. I think it’s the fact that because people are such bad drivers, such egocentric, bullying road warriors, other people (usually parents) feel they need to take matters into their own hands. Certainly, the Road Traffic Authority and the government have given up. Speed limits and speeding fines don’t seem to slow anyone down. Texting and driving is pretty much standard practice these days. Most people think they drive better when they’re drunk or on coke or E. Sharper. On their game.

Anyway speeding fines and DUI fines raise a lot of revenue. So governments are in a conflict of interest type situation. So if the RTA with all their “speed limits” and “road safety rules” can’t do anything about it, people feel their only option is special pleading on behalf of their children. “Please, sir, I know you have an inner urge to break the world land-speed record every time you jump in your car but, please, PLEASE don’t hurt my baby? Do anything you want with me but please, I’m begging you, DON’T TAKE MY CHILD!!!!”

Maybe it’s the impotence of the baby on board sticker that hurts most. I mean, come on. Who, ever, in the history of motorised transport, has driven more carefully or with a heightened sense of alertness because they’ve seen a baby on board sign dangling in the car ahead of them? If anything, they’re a distraction. A hazard on the roads. Surely I can’t be the only one who’s been thrown into a state of languor by the hypnotic bouncing yellow of a Baby On Board sign? They’re useless! They’re more like an advertisement or a brand. They’re about as effective and as annoying as car alarms.

Let’s face it. Our roads are dangerous and getting dangerous-er. They’re a national disgrace. Just the other day I was driving along and saw a whole bunch of police standing around a car balanced upside down on its roof ON TOP of another car!! Huh? How did THAT even happen? People are texting and driving. Eating and driving. Kissing and driving. Listening to music and driving. Arguing and driving. Drinking and pilling and driving. They’re speeding and tail gating and whatever else. And these people usually have Baby On Board plastered across their rear window! I kid you not. A few months back I watched a mother in a sports utility vehicle screaming down the road while adjusting the baby seat behind her. She over-took me. And guess what? She had a BOB triangle warning on her window.

Driving on our roads is a nightmare. Simply put, there is something about being locked in a little metal cabin with four wheels and air and cup holders that allows people to be the monsters they really can be. Sitting in a car makes people feel they have permission to be nasty, rude, ungenerous and unkind. It brings out the little fascist in just about everyone. I’d be the first to put my hand up. I’m not shy of a bit of shouting and muttered obscenities when I’m sitting behind my wheel.

If the speed limit is 60 people assume it’s really 80. If it’s 80 then, really, it’s 110. There is a base and vulgar urge to get “ahead” in our society and out on our roads is where you’ll see that urge manifested in all its inhuman glory! The need to get ahead in the non-metaphorical sense! It’s every man and woman for themselves. Individualism rules and a basic contempt for human life reigns. This is where people finally feel they can be “them”. Nobody is gonna push them around anymore.

And you think a Baby on Board sign is going to stand in their way??
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. LOLZ!!!! DD

You really want to protect human life and babies in on board? Speed limit every car to a maximum of 40 kph. Slow everyone the hell down. You could also ban phones for good measure. That would really change things. And do you think it will ever happen?

Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha

So let’s all just go back to being smug with our Baby On Board stickers. It really is all we’ve got.

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Harassed Kid: Hip Dysplasia And A Full Body Cast

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 09:03:48 +1100

When you’re the mum of a three-and-a-half year old and an 18-month old, at the very bottom of your wish list is, in no particular order, is a dislocated hip (of the littlie), a five-day stay at a children’s hospital and a full-body cast for six weeks.

Hmm – which would be worse? A toddler’s inability to move for a month and a half, or the breaking of her pelvis to put her femur back in its rightful place? Knowing the details of the operation might make you wince (as they did me), but shortly after I found out she was suffering from ‘hip dysplasia’, I was obsessed with knowing all of the nitty gritty stuff.

First off, her hip dysplasia is something that happened while she was in the womb. It is, apparently, the most common congenital disorder in babies and could have happened because she was breech for a fair while. Right…

Following that was the realisation that the hospital and early childhood check ups hadn’t picked up her clicky hip and that an x-ray found that Amelia had the most severe type of hip dysplasia – her leg was actually growing OUTSIDE the socket. Ouch. Although, apparently, she wasn’t in any discomfort – amazing but true.

Then there was the shellshock moment of learning about the spica cast that she’d have to wear. We were told it would cover both of her legs and reach up to her armpits (my mind entered outer space at this point). And doctors initially said it would stay on for THREE months – pass the red wine…

“But how can a toddler who’s always running around sit still for three months,” I naively asked the surgeon.

There was a pause, before he said, “It’s not going to be easy.” Hmm, when a doctor says that, he tends to mean it…

In the next few weeks, I crazily searched for blogs to read how other parents managed and showed my partner pictures of this ginormous spica cast (type ‘hip dysplasia’ and ‘spica cast’ into Google Images to see how large this thing is – next to the Great Wall of China, surely the largest manmade object seen from space?).

The next best strategy was denial – for the two months before the op, we tended not to think about it. Until, of course, it was upon us and the four days spent at the hospital passed by in a blur of fasting (I felt hollow, denying my little one ‘mulk’ when she cried for it in the car on the way to Westmead hospital), recovery rooms full of wailing children after the op, drips and epidurals (I had no idea that a bub could have an epidural for pain relief).

Thankfully, all went pretty smoothly in the four nights we spent there and it was a relief to have our baby back at home – in a fluorescent pink body cast! There was also some good news. Amelia’s surgeon had only operated on her hip bone, rather than also slicing through her femur (yay) and her cast was only half way down one leg, meaning she could crawl when the wound had healed.

She also fitted into her usual pram and her car seat – thank the Lord for Phil ‘n’ Teds and Safe ‘n’ Sound! But what they hadn’t told us at the hospital is how goddamn heavy the spica cast is. I have to steel myself akin to a weightlifter before lifting my 18-month-old into the car – while trying not to grunt like Serena Williams.

Life with a body cast also has other weird knock on effects. Friends and family overseas have asked how Amelia goes to the toilet – well, there’s a letterbox-sized slot for a newborn sized nappy to fit into, while a bigger nappy fits over the top and fastens outside the cast. Of course, because she can see the outer name, it’s also become a fun game to peel it off…

We’ve been avoiding dried apricots and other – ahem – bowel moving foods to stop the cast from getting sprayed with number two and keep it smelling fresh. Unfortunately, as she sleeps on her tummy on raised pillows, we’ve just discovered that wee has been squirting up inside during the night. All fun and games in spica cast land…

What we are lucky to be blessed with, though, is a happy, good-natured baby. Amelia sits perched on pillows on a dining room chair, playing with her toys and grinning her cheeky smile. And we’ve found a trike where she can fit on to the seat and we can push her around. She’s been so adaptable, she event spent a couple of hours at kindergarten just two weeks after her operation.

Of course, we’re counting down the days until her pink cast comes off (and there’s a chance – gulp – it may have to stay on for longer than six weeks). But when it does come off we’re heading out to buy a sparkly pair of shoes in celebration of Amelia getting her feet (and us getting our baby) back in full working order.

All Work, No Play Makes For Unhappy Families

Tue, 03 Nov 2009 08:31:36 +1100

My husband and I (don’t I sound like the Queen?!?) both work full-time and we’re both absolutely exhausted by the time the weekend comes around – the only chance we get to be with each other and our two daughters (three and nearly one). We both work hard all week while the girls are at family day care – and during the week we are all so tired and cranky, it passes in a blur of mini meltdowns and interrupted sleep. At the weekend, when we need most to be at our best for quality family time, we’re barely recovering from the week! What can we do to make the most of those two little days together – and also make the days during the week less fraught and frustrating?

Yours, Mr Frantic and Mrs Fed Up

Dear Mr Frantic and Mrs Fed Up,

Thanks for sending in this important question; important because it is, these days, so very common. I’d be surprised if the issues you raise are not relevant to all, or at least most of our readers.

We are all so busy these days and in many families both parents work. Although there are many advantages to this there are, quite clearly, a few potential problems that can be experienced by those (like you) for whom things have got a bit out of hand.

As is almost always the case, there may not be a simple answer and the best answer will probably vary from person to person and family to family. But let me offer you a few suggestions for your consideration and I hope at least one of them is relevant and applicable.

1. Consider whether it’s possible for one, or both of you to reduce your hours at work; even just a little bit might help. I know this will have financial implications but there might be ways you can manage by reducing your expenses.

For example, many busy parents I know work so hard and long that they end up buying lots of take-away dinners. Although there’s nothing wrong with this it is relatively costly. So reducing work hours might mean a few less dollars at the end of the week but you may well be able to cope with this by cooking more.

2. In addition (or if this is not viable), review your evening routine. If you’re both coming home from work, tired and irritable, and trying to do all you can to get dinner ready and play with your daughters etc, maybe you could consider playing tag.

That is, maybe you could take turns, with one of you taking the bulk of responsibilities some nights and the other doing most of the work on alternate nights which might mean that for at least half the evenings at least one of you is getting some rest and relaxation time.

3. And point three is very important. In my book, 100 Ways to Happy Children: a guide for busy parents (Penguin, $24.95), I make it very clear that I believe one of the most important things we can do as parents, if we want to raise happy children, is to do the best we can to be happy ourselves. We can’t be happy if we’re literally sick and tired all the time and we can’t raise happy children if we’re tired and miserable. So somehow or other, you need to find a way to take care of yourselves so you can then take care of your children.

4. I could go on, but for now I’ll offer just one more suggestion. Do whatever you can to bring some positivity into the evenings and weekends – that crucially important time you spend with your daughters. You probably know this already but you’ll never have these years again so maybe you can relax some of the “rules”, choose your battles, do what you can to get things done but maybe, just maybe, cleaning and washing and getting things done might not be as important as reading and playing and dancing and singing with your little girls!

Mr Frantic and Mrs Fed Up…I hope this helps.

Dr Happy (Dr Timothy Sharp) is a clinical and consulting psychologist, and the founder and CHO (Chief Happiness Officer) of The Happiness Institute. He’s the bestselling author of “100 Ways to Happy Children: a guide for busy parents” and “100 Ways to Happiness: a guide for busy people”. For more information about The Happiness Institute you can visit the website at www.thehappinessinstitute.com

How To Do Everything Wrong

Mon, 02 Nov 2009 08:28:35 +1100

Conception: After psychologically disturbing visit to childhood home, solo, for Christmas, have crazy, drunken break-up sex with ex-boyfriend. Don’t use birth control.

Pregnancy: Be freelance and have the kind of “catastrophic” insurance that covers something if you are hospitalised, but not sonograms, medicine or doctor visits. Have no end of small problems for which you have to see the doctor, including thinking you are leaking amniotic fluid in seventh month. (Turns out it’s urine, which is at first a relief and then disturbing in its own way). Spend a week believing you have gestational diabetes, but later it’s discovered that it was the glass of Sprite you drank just before the blood test.Bonding: Ask timidly if you are “allowed to breastfeed.”

Birth class: Attend with ex, who openly resents any homework and bolts before class is over each week to get a drink at neighborhood bar. Wonder if it would be more or less embarrassing to go alone.

Labour: Wake up feeling crampy and dig out yellow Wonderbra you’ve never worn before; don it. Go to hospital five hours later and immediately beg for an epidural. Get an epidural that pools so that your left hip is numb but everything else is in full bloom of pain. Make mental note that you don’t have pain relief, nor will you get credit for having a natural birth. Say to anyone near you, at first abashedly but with increasing volume and abandon, that you “really feel like” you have to “poo”. Although all other clothing has been removed, keep yellow Wonderbra on for entire labour and delivery.

Birth partner: Ex is there but leaves during transition to make phone calls. When he comes back, he takes one look at your vagina and blanches. Ex attempts to comfort you through contractions by trying to pash you; stands on IV.

Delivery: Scream bloodcurdling scream until son finally comes out. Baby is immediately whisked to neonatal intensive care unit. Head to hospital room and become the only person on the floor without a baby. Feel foolish.

Bonding, phase 1: Visit child in NICU but feel like interloper. Ask timidly if you are “allowed to breastfeed.” When son finally comes home (day four), experience feeding child as akin to placing a snapping turtle on your swollen, chapped nipples. Notice son has little pimples and have flashback to terrible high school years when you had ackers.

Bonding, phase 2: Son is now covered in white and red pustules and looks not unlike the Singing Detective. When people come to see him, blurt out, “Can you believe how bad he’s got baby acne?!” so that they know you know it’s there. Feel bad that this is the first thing you say about your child. Try to pump bottles so Baby Daddy can do four a.m. feedings, but “allow” the occasional bottle of formula (okay, use formula every night).

Co-parenting: Swing between smugness that you and baby’s father literally share the work and expense of childrearing, unlike most “real” couples you know, and blind rage that you have to parent with irrational man you broke up with two years ago. Wag finger in ex’s face and whisper sotto voce threats that you won’t follow through with.

Bedtime: As child grows older, have him on late schedule so he’ll sleep in the morning. By the time he is twelve months, his bedtime is ten p.m.; by eighteen months, it’s midnight. Keep this a secret from friends, relatives, and your own parents.

School: Take son to pre-school the day after he turns two. Sneak out of school, sniffling, when he isn’t looking because that’s your strategy when you leave him with babysitters. Walk home talking on mobile to sister about how son is in school and next thing you know you’ll be leaving him at Uni when other line beeps in. Learn that son is hysterically crying, “desperate,” as the teacher terms it, and that you are to pick him up immediately. At the pick-up, start to cry when teacher asks if you even said goodbye to son before leaving.

Psyche: Notice son winds his tresses in his fingers as he is falling asleep, plucking out many strands during each nap, creating small bald spot.

Food: Son appears to consume about a gallon of milk every day, eggs, and very little else. He asks for Tic Tacs and cough drops as a treat, demanding in a loud, rude voice, “Need Tic Tac! Need Tic Tac!” Try to resist giving child Tic Tacs or cough drops, as it seems weird and he’s crunching them and probably going to break one of his tiny teeth. Despite anorexic’s diet, son is extremely tall. Sometimes he will emerge from his bedroom chewing on something and when you inquire what, he’ll say, “hair.”

Psyche, part 2: Notice son gets up from a nap covered in strands of hair. Call pediatrician for advice. Pediatrician says to ignore that son is pulling out hair ritualistically, that son is soothing himself, like thumb-sucking. Ignore hair-pulling for one day and then take to whispering intensely to son not to pull his hair; you’ll give him cough drops if he’ll stop pulling hair. Please stop pulling hair.

Love: At son’s school, three weeks into the term, as you are fluffing his hair to obscure thinning areas, receive wet, mentholated kiss from balding two-year-old. Wince as heart nearly breaks from how lucky you are.

Photo courtesy Nathan Kendall

Hey! Parents! Leave Them Kids Alone!

Thu, 29 Oct 2009 08:16:55 +1100

I’m sick and tired of mothers and fathers who continue to micro-manage their children’s lives. There seems to be an increasing fear and anxiety about children these days. The idea of protecting your kid – against bullying, colds, lice, falling down, sleeping too little, sleeping too much, paedophiles, cars, dogs, violent television, sexy television, loud noise, fatty foods, African Yellow Fever – has gone fully off the chain.

Generally I think this may be to do with more than simply children. In these days of the great Global Credit Crisis everyone seems to be worried about pretty much everything. Your job, your car, your house, your sex life, your drug and alcohol problem, your phone contract, your weight, your age, my internet porn addiction. Oh sorry. Did I just say “my internet porn addiction”? I meant to say YOUR internet porn addiction. God, that was careless of me. A silly slip. I really should be more careful.

Anyway, the general principle seems to be: if you CAN worry about it then DO IT, man! Go nuts. Sky’s the limit. A kind of collective paranoia tends to dominate. And I think children, particularly the idea we all have of the innocent, vulnerable Golden Children have become the symbol of that. Our kids have become the little objects or ciphers into which we project ALL our insecurities and fears about the big bad world. Maybe our kids are our perfect image of ourselves. The little cutie we imagine ourselves to have been? Or think we still are? Our little inner child we nourish and cherish? The little baby we all still are? Have never stopped being? Or maybe it’s the one that comes out when we’re alone with our lover – little shookums needs a little cuddly wuddly… I don’t know. But one thing is for sure. You’re sick. And you need bed rest. Probably round the clock medical care and heavy sedation.

At least that’s the way it’s going.

I’m not moralising and judging other people here. I’m just as capable of parental fears and anxieties as anybody else. I get scared like everyone else. Just this morning I read in the Shanghai Daily a case about a kindergarten in South Western China in which one of the carers, a Mr Sun Qui, was using a hypodermic syringe as a disciplinary tool. If the youngsters didn’t sleep on time or cried too much they got a jab with the ol’ needle. Some poor three-year-old boy was discovered with eight puncture wounds in his hands and waist. Another copped five in the butt. Wow. How do you say “naughty step” in Chinese? I’m no child care expert, but perhaps Mr Sun Qui could have tried a bit of time out before he started the frenzied stabbing.

Now I know it’s way over in China and all. But then I read about a nursery in England where the toddlers were being systematically abused and my fears start to get the better of me. I remember the mind boggling guilt when we first left our little boy in the hands of a day care centre. I still feel remorse about it. I only thank God I wasn’t one of the parents who had to leave their toddler in an ABC Learning Centre. Given the dodgy corporate ethics of ABC’s CEO, Eddy Groves, and the fundamental insistence on the bottom line, things can’t always have been perfect for a child – or “unit of income” or object to be processed or however ABC Learning used to think of them.

But that’s not my point. Just because I’m worried and scared and a tiny bit paranoid like everyone else doesn’t mean I’m right. People talk a lot these days about “compelling arguments”. But simply because you’re being compelled by an emotional argument doesn’t mean it’s true, does it? Just means you’ve been convinced.

So here’s the thing. I suggest parents need to chill. For me, one of the best lessons in child care and healthy attitudes toward kids comes from a rather unexpected source. The famous Anthropologist, Margaret Mead once wrote a couple of brilliant books about children and growing up in Papua New Guinea and Samoa.

For many months she sat and watched the way Manus parents in PNG interacted with their children. Parents are watchful but they do not interfere unless absolutely necessary. Children learn very early how to negotiate the difficult terrain of canoes and water. From a much earlier age than our children, they show great confidence and agility. And trust. There are no straps and baby harnesses – despite the fact that at any stage children can slip through the wooden floor into seawater. And they often do. But they’re collected and warmed and dried off by the fire.

It’s a question of balance – a balance between solicitude and calm peacefulness. Manus children are watched but also allowed to fall and slip and tumble. They’re allowed greater and greater freedom as they get older, too.

Take the toddler’s first steps. The parents are careful but they also expect that the child should walk and swim very quickly. They encourage success but ignore failure. Whole groups of men and women celebrate the toddler’s first few steps. But no one seems to care if they fall and bruise themselves a little. The child gets no audience for her mistakes. She is simply put on her feet and told to try again. So the tendency you see among a lot of children in our culture – the tendency to self-pity – is stifled. In fact they’re often gently told off if they fall.

We might be horrified to see a baby riding in the front of a canoe in rough seas but the Manus people would be equally horrified to see a father constantly telling his children to be careful and to watch out. The parents are there. They provide an expert net of solicitude BUT they hardly ever need to nag or say “don’t!”.

I think, as modern parents, we could all take a valuable lesson from the Manus people. Let the children go. Stop worrying so much. Or your kids might end up as paranoid and anxious as you!

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The Naked Truth

Wed, 28 Oct 2009 08:30:22 +1100

Maybe it was my experience on a clothes-free Italian beach, where a mahogany-tanned man shook his chamois leather at me – but I’ve never been a fan of public nudism. Until now.

I’ve not recently uncovered the secret exhibitionist in me (a night at the student union did that long ago). But were I to pay and display at Le Camping au Naturel, I imagine I’d be reading a broad-sheet in all the right places and sidling awkwardly throughout the day from one waist-high surface to another, with the help of some strategically positioned foodstuffs for the top-shelf. Now, who’s for a slice of this watermelon?

But to be around people who are at ease with themselves – and all of us – in the buff would be a breath of fresh air, wouldn’t it? (If standards of personal hygiene are maintained, obviously). Right now, a naturist camp would be right up my, er, alley.

So why am I letting this all hang out? Well, visitors to our house don’t seem to be able to cope with the levels of nudity. They make lighthearted heavily-weighted remarks like ‘oh, you don’t seem to have any clothes on!’ and ‘ you’ll catch your death’, and kind of cough, nervously. Oh, before you bolt for another blog, it’s not my husband and I that are meeting and greeting in the buff – it’s the kids.

Indeed, Matilda and Ben get their kit off at any opportunity; and being delightfully unaware of the connotations and stigmatisms of having such social bottoms, they do assume playful positions that could be cute, were they wearing pants. Even I have to admit without undies it’s an eyeful. I let it slide, laugh it off, until they start climbing the guests like red-bummed baboons and then I hastily dress them. But the damage is done. We’re the weird family with feral offspring.

Yesterday Matilda had a playdate – a very sweet girl with blonde ringlets and wide blue eyes, which I thought couldn’t possibly get any wider without flipping her face inside out. But then I saw they could. Walking over to the kitchen table to coax more dinner into her, I noticed that her eyes were practically popping, her jaw slack, and so followed her gaze. It travelled across the table and rested on Ben’s willy. Unaware my just-four boy had removed his lower items of clothing, I now saw him, albeit unwittingly, stirring his pasta. He likes to stand on his chair.

I popped him back in pants and turned to the pretty Pollyanna.

‘Haven’t you seen a nude boy before?’

She shook her head – it was now transfixed on a totally naked Matilda.

‘But you have a brother and sister, don’t you?’

She nodded.

‘Do you always wear clothes in your house?’

She nodded. Then to my relief, she giggled. I wonder if she’ll be allowed back to play.

I have no idea if this is a suburban thing, a Christian thing or if my two brats are just really revolting sans culottes. But coming from Europe – permissive from its Scandinvian titty top to its Mediterranean bare bottom – I’ve been taken aback by the vehemently pro-vest attitude we’ve come across. Kids at the beach are never nude – eeee, I can kind of understand that with the cancer scare; but in a year of playdates and mingling with families, I don’t think I’ve seen one cheeky bottom joining the downright rude ones of my children.

I do not make you take your clothes off, you should not make me put them on.

That’s the equal rights spiel of The Australian Naturist Federation, which I found after a quick ogle – er, I mean, Google. I’m inclined to agree, although I’d make post-script amendments like ‘unless I’m playing ten-pin bowls’ or ‘unless I’m cleaning your windows’.

I wasn’t seriously considering a holiday in the nude just so my kids can flash without causing offence, but I wanted to see whether or not Europe was the only State of Undress; I wanted to find out if Aussies were equally eager to get back to nature. There weren’t so many outlets for those who expose, but to my relief I did find some details of nationwide nudist events, music festivals and get-togethers – and pictures of men, fishing in the all-togethers on South Australia’s Maslins Beach. Now that’s what I call getting your tackle out!

But are Southern Hem nudists a frowned-upon minority group? Or is it just that so far I’ve met mums who prefer to keep their families’ privates under wraps?

I don’t know. I do know that I don’t want anyone to bare a grudge against me for rubbing my laissez-fair parenting in their face. So I’ll have words with the kids, persuade them to hold back from stripteasing on playdates away. But desperate as I am to fit in here, I’m not going to insist on a fully-dressed appearance when people come to us. I see tearing around with bare bottoms and gay abandon a right of childhood; and until they start sprouting or displaying an interest in shape-sorting I’m not going to dress nudity up as anything to be ashamed of.

If a mother complains, then I guess I’ll have to apologise for my English upbringing. Being English accounts for so much, like gratuitous apologising, scatological humour and Carry On films. But I’m willing to wear it.

So carry on, kids…

The Cat’s In The Cradle Syndrome

Mon, 26 Oct 2009 07:08:15 +1100

I’m SO sick and tired of women bleating on and on and on.

And on.

About what? About how THEY are the biggest losers in this parenting biz. About how being a mother is SO difficult and how fathers have it SO easy.

“Oooh the glass ceiling”; “ooh sexism in the work place”; “I wish I could have a career”; “raising kids is a job too, you know, we just don’t get paid for it”.

etceterA, etceterA, bloody etceterA.

But what about us men? Eh? We’re stuck in high stress jobs for often quite poor pay with ever-extending hours. It’s often mind numbing and the source of not a few heart attacks. We’re losing our hair. Losing our erections. Losing our minds. Yes. What about us?

It isn’t fair.

I don’t want to do a Jerry Maguire on your lame dad-hating asses but I think maybe it’s mission-statement time. I’m going to stand up and speak for the Dads of this world who are not only fighting all day at work but driving for an hour or so in horrific city traffic so they can enjoy the relaxing and inspirational wonders of fighting at home! Guilt. Then sleep. Then more work.

All this talk about sexism is a damnable one-way street. As far as women are concerned, they’ve cornered the market when it comes to family and hardship and difficulty.

You want hardship? Pain? Suffering? Well listen to THIS:

The Harry Chapin song called “Cat’s in the Cradle” is the best expression I know of the suffering of men when it comes to their children. The pain. The guilt. The regret. ALL the Dads I know feel the anguish of that song! Every single one of them. It’s a universal truth about the worry of fatherhood – and, as work hours increase, I think it’s getting worse!

“Cat’s in the Cradle” is heartbreaking and yes, it scares me and all my dad friends to death.

“He learned to walk while I was away.” Jesus. Are you kidding me???

I know the pain of this very well. I have to work away from home a lot. And, relatively speaking, I have missed major chunks of both my children’s lives. This is something I can’t get back. It’s gone forever.

For a long time now, male and female roles have been set in stone. The women did the domestic work and the men went out into the world and brought the cash home. The philosopher Friedrich Hegel described it as men doing the external work of struggle and labour and women doing the internal, ethical, work of home, feeling and labour of a different kind – child birth. Each role was a self-less part of a greater unity – the family. Interestingly, he thought of the female as much more connected to real substance of life, feeling and family than men. This disconnect from home and hearth is certainly something men can suffer from. Hegel saw this conflict between family and work as the source of a fundamental human tragedy! The Greek tragic heroine, Antigone, who defended her family and stood for ethics against the evils of public law and authority was exemplary in his eyes.

Things are changing today. Yes, slowly, but they’re changing. At least in Western countries. Increasingly, women are demanding that they also be able to “labour and struggle” outside the family; that they also get a shot at “being themselves” in ways that aren’t simply family-centered.

And, conversely, men want a bigger piece of the home life pie. They’re saying they don’t want to bear the Cat’s in the Cradle syndrome anymore – they don’t want to be just like their dads. So they’re getting in touch with their feelings. And they’re reducing their work hours or maybe going part-time – basically getting their Daddy groove on. See this recent article in the Guardian.

Nevertheless – and this is a pretty big nevertheless – despite over a hundred years of feminism gender roles are still pretty firmly split. Women continue to do most of the domestic labour and the child-care. Think about it. Who does the bulk of the cooking at your house? Or the clothes washing? Who drives the car on a family trip? Gender roles are proving very tough to change. Even though there are dudes like this guy in Sweden who’re attempting to breastfeed. Check this out – it’s a pretty confronting picture!

A few years back, the Australian economist Nick Gruen wrote about the intransigence of gender roles and suggested that there may even be a neuro-biological reason for it. Men and women may be ‘hard-wired’, he thinks, to perform different functions. At least they start out that way. As little boys and girls they begin with different preferences and then cultural stereotypes finish the job.

And here’s an interesting thing: Even if men and women BOTH work part time, and even if women earn more money, women will still do the bulk of the housework. Now what’s THAT about?

Most importantly, Gruen pointed out that even though women might complain about men doing less housework, only one in seven actually say they’re dissatisfied. So it’s possible that a lot of men and women actually enjoy their different roles in the family. Maybe men prefer to mow the lawn and women prefer to cook and breastfeed. Biologically speaking.

But I don’t buy this biological hocus pocus. Not really. In the end, it’s just another way of locking people, BOTH men AND women in their little gender role prisons. It’s Gruen’s way of maintaining the essential nuclear family basis of his preferred economic system. Sticking to the status quo. People just LOVE the term ‘hard-wired’. I don’t even know what it means…

It’s time to think outside that box we’ve all got ourselves into!

We DO need to change. Women want more. Men want more. No matter how you cut it, the “life/work” balance is a problem. Either too much “life” for women or too much “work” for men.

But maybe the idea of balancing life and work IS ITSELF the problem. I never liked this work/life balance cliche. Ideally the two should come together as a single entity. It shouldn’t BE about balancing the two!

What needs to change is the way in which we approach our lives and our work. Perhaps we should stop thinking of ourselves as separate, isolated individuals maximising our own happiness quotient. I mean, that’s the problem right there. And I think that parenthood, being a mother or a father, shows the way. Being a part of a family is essentially self-less. People give without expecting returns. They contribute to the whole in an often quite self-less way. They put other people’s happiness above their own. They’re no longer individuals – they’re family members.

So I have a solution. An easy fix. How about a bit of solidarity for a change? Isn’t it time to admit we’re BOTH, us mums and dads, in this thing TOGETHER? No more blame game. No more ‘you didn’t’ and ‘you never’. Under the current conditions – we are BOTH suffering and struggling to make ends meet. Trying to work it out.

Having kids is a difficult thing. But so what? It’s also profound in a way that not many things in our lives these days are. Truly, madly, deeply profound. We need to take responsibility for it. Having children is IMMENSE. It’s the definition of immense-ness. And awesomeness. It’s life changing, life defining and life affirming. Let’s remember why we did it.

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Mia Freedman Chats To Babble!

Fri, 23 Oct 2009 08:30:34 +1100

In the second installment of our brilliant new series, Family Ties, we chat to Mia Freedman – ex-magazine editor, mum-of-three, keen blogger (mamamia.com.au) and author of Mama Mia – A Memoir of Mistakes, Magazines and Motherhood.*

So, where and when were you born?
Australia 1971

Where did you grow up? Any abiding memories of your childhood there, good or bad?
Sydney. I had an interest in clothes from an early age. When I was three, my mum had to institute a policy of kindy bag inspections before we left the house because I’d smuggle different outfits in my bag and get changed throughout the day.

What were your mum and dad like? Any siblings?
My parents were and continue to be incredibly supportive and patient with me. I went through phases of being pretty naughty but they always had faith I’d turn out OK and it seems I did. I have one older brother.

Did you have any family traditions?
We used to have a fancy dress party every year on Christmas Eve. Some very interesting historical photos there.

How old were you when you left home?
I went overseas for a year when I was about 19 then came back and didn’t move out again until I was about 21.

Did you have a great life plan, a schedule for what you wanted to achieve by when?
From the moment I walked in the door for an interview to do work experience, I was fixated on being the editor of Cleo before I turned 25. It didn’t work out. Cosmo did though.

What was your early adulthood like – where did you live, who did you live with etc?
I lived by myself in an apartment. I was pretty nanna-like from early on. I was so caught up in my job and climbing the career ladder that I was never a big partier. I got that out of the way in my teens mostly.

Did you get married? Divorced? Stay single for as long as possible?
I met my husband when I was about 23 and it was a done deal.

When did the idea of having a baby first occur to you in any real sense?
I was never very interested in other people’s babies but soon after meeting my husband I knew I wanted him to be the father of my children. I think meeting the right man makes your hormones go a little beserk.

Was getting pregnant easy for you?
The first time yes. The second time noooooo. The third time, surprisingly, yes.

How did you feel/how did you react when you first found out you were pregnant?
It felt right even though on paper, the timing wasn’t ideal. I’d been appointed editor of Cosmo three months earlier.

What were your pregnancies like – horrendous, a breeze – or something in between?
I loved it. Loved loved loved it. I loved all my pregnancies. Physically, they weren’t quite a breeze but I enjoyed the process and the phsyciality of it – except at the end obviously. I lose my sense of humour entirely by about month 7 or 8. I was very anxious though. I won’t say I found pregnancy relaxing because I was always paranoid about something going wrong.

What were your labours like?
I guess it was like everything and nothing I expected. The lack of control was obviously a huge surprise because nobody and no book can ever prepare you for what it’s like. Even having had one labour doesn’t prepare you for the next necessarily. I had so much fun writing about each of my births for my book.

What’s it like now having your own family?
The best and most exhausting thing in the entire world. It’s relentless and there’s no off switch but they are the best thing that has ever happened to me.

Have you started any new family traditions?
We’re working on a few but it’s hard because you don’t want them to be contrived. They just have to kind of happen. Whenever we sit down to eat a meal as a family (which is shamefully rare), we go around the table and talk about our best and worst moments of the day. I love doing that.

Are there things you swore you’d never do or say (before you had the baby) which went out the window at the first sign of crisis?
Oh, just EVERYTHING. “I won’t bribe my kids with food”, “I won’t let them watch too much TV”, “I’ll be really strict about sleeping habits” blah blah blah. You always have such good intentions – or naïve intentions is probably a better description of it. I have a part in my book called The Smug List and The Crap List where I talk about all the things I feel I’ve done right and all the things I’m sure I’ve done so wrong. Guess which list is longer?

What’s the best thing about parenthood? And the worst?
I once read someone describe becoming a parent as like taking your heart out of your body and carrying it around in the palm of your hand. To me, that’s the best and worst part. You’re so open to every emotion.

What are your kids like?
Completely different to each other. When I just had one boy and a girl I used to think it was gender stuff but now with two boys, I can see it’s just they way they’re born. They come out with their personalities pretty much formed. My three go the spectrum from calm to intense, extroverted to a deep-thinker. Watching your kids grow up is like unwrapping a present – their personalities are such a surprise.

Do you think you’ll have any more kids? What’s your motivation for that?
I’m waiting to feel ‘finished’ as so many women have described it to me. But then I have a girlfriend who has four and she says how it’s easy to be addicted to the baby stage but then they grow up and need to be taken to ballet lessons and doctor’s appointments and it gets harder and harder. We’ll see.

If you could change anything about the whole experience, what would you change and why?
Oh nothing. Wait, maybe I would have liked to have ditched some of the guilt I’ve felt and continue to feel along the way. It’s a pretty self-destructive and pointless emotion. We’re all just doing the best we can and should be kinder to ourselves as parents.

Is life better with kids? How?
Even though I had my first child relatively young, at 25, it was a relief to not be the centre of the universe anymore. I like that kids keep you grounded in reality. As a writer I have a tendency to live too much in my own head and my kids constantly wrench me out of that which is a good thing. And I just love hearing their views on the world and watching them learning and experiencing things. Everything is fresh through the eyes of a child. Although it’s been a long time since I felt fresh with NO SLEEP IN 11 YEARS. At least it feels like that sometimes…..

What does ‘family’ now mean to you now (as opposed to what it meant to you when you were a kid)?
Oh, it’s just my everything. My home, my truth, my salvation, my life’s work. That all sounds a bit wanky but I honestly don’t know where I finish and my family starts. We’re so entwined in each other’s lives and hearts and I’m grateful for that every single day.

*We’ve got three copies of Mia’s new book Mama Mia – A Memoir of Mistakes, Magazines and Motherhood to give away. To score yours, tell us in 25 words or less about the biggest mistake you’ve ever made as a mum. Just get tapping on your keyboard and fill out the comments box below. And good luck!

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Guys Just Don’t Get It, Do They?

Wed, 21 Oct 2009 08:21:19 +1100

Now, before I say anything, I want to make it quite clear that I’m not a man-hater – far from it. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that some of my favourite people in the whole wide world are men – my husband, my brother, my father, Paul Weller to name a few. I love them and feel an affinity with them all, too – an equality, if you will. But when it comes to pregnancy, birth and parenting, I’m sorry, but I reckon there is anything but equality going down.

It seems to me that a woman’s life changes irreparably, forever, the minute she finds out she’s pregnant. For the bloke involved, life goes on in exactly the same way it always has. The woman stops drinking/smoking/shooting up smack immediately and starts taking vitamin supplements, going for long walks, gazing wistfully at sunsets and avoiding scoffing herself silly on camembert – while the man still carries on going to the pub after work, getting even more obsessed with football/cricket/stamp collecting (whatever his thing is) and daily forgetting to ask how the pregnant lady in his life is feeling and whether she’d like a foot rub to go with her decaf tea and pack of Tim Tams.

Does that sound fair to you?

I know, I know. I know life’s not about fairness and has bugger-all to do with justice – but you’d think that as the human race has evolved so much and come so far, men might be a little more understanding of the woman’s plight in this whole baby-making business than they are. A bit more sympathetic or something. Because a little compassion can go an awfully long way.

Take my experience of yesterday, for example.

I’m 10 weeks pregnant, feeling like sh*t, and after a hard day’s work at the office, glad to be on the bus – despite its violent bumping and jiggling – because in just 30 minutes I’ll be greeting my gorgeous girl at pre-school and taking her home for a lovely evening spent with said daughter and great husband. I’m fantasising like mad on the bus (well, it’s free and doesn’t hurt anybody…the fantasising, that is, not the bus!) about how we’ll look like the perfect family all cosied up oin the couch together watching Mary Poppins or, no, reading kids’ bedtime stories together. Yes! The picture in my mind’s eye is so sweet, so unbearably cute, that when reality bites at the gate to my girl’s pre-school, I almost have to pinch my arm to bring myself back to real life.

‘Mrs X, can I have a quick word before you pick Mini X up?’ says one of the 12-year-old girls who helps look after mine.

‘Ye- why? What’s wrong? Is she all right? My God! What’s happened?!’ I reply, switching from fluffy cotton wool fantasy to full-on panic mode – if you’re a mum yourself, you’ll be expert at this mind-set swap, mainly because it’s happened, ooh, at least five times every day from the minute your baby was born.

‘She’s fine, everything’s fine – um, I just wanted to let you know that Mini X and her friend made another little girl cry today.’

She pauses to let the horror of the situation sink in.

‘They were all standing in line for the toilet when they told another little girl that they didn’t want to play with her and she had to go away. Then they laughed hysterically like it was some sort of fantastic joke to see the poor little thing burst into tears.’

Now instead of fearing the worst, my eyes well up with tears. My daughter? A bully? A mean girl? Surely not.

‘Are you sure it was my daughter who was involved?’ I ask cautiously.

The carer sighs – it’s been a long day for everyone, it seems.

‘Yes, Mrs X, it was definitely her. Now, she has apologised to the other little girl and seemed suitably sorry – but we were wondering whether there was anything else going on – at home, I mean – to be making Mini X act in this way.’ She eyes me suspiciously.

‘What? Do you think I bully her?’ I jump on the defensive.

‘No, no – not at all! No – I just thought – well, it is a bit out of character for Mini X to be like this, she’s usually so nice and friendly -’

‘Maybe the other girl’s the ringleader – yes! That’s it!’

‘Unfortunately not, Mrs X – Mini X appeared to be leading the other girl, I’m afraid.’

And so it is with a heavy heart that I chastise my girl sternly for the 20-minute walk home. I tell her that she’ll have no friends left if she treats them like that – and how would she like it if somebody said that to her and made her cry etc etc. And for the first time ever, she seems to listen to me, actually take it all in.

‘I won’t be nasty. I’m a good girl,’ she says, looking up at me pleadingly – as though it would break her heart if I didn’t believe her.

Just like it nearly broke mine, to think that she was being horrible to other kids.

But here’s the thing that really gets up my goat (as Kath and Kim would say) – the fact that Him Indoors hasn’t got a clue about what all this means – how all this is so totally emotionally draining for both me and Mini X – and how we both deserve a big hug from him. I deserve a night off putting Mini X to bed, brushing her teeth, reading her umpteen bedtime stories – and the little one deserves some quality time with her daddy.

‘What’s the big deal?’ he says through a mouthful of Crown lager when I tell him of our adventure into meanland. ‘Don’t make too big a thing about it – you’ll just be the mean one, then. Come to think of it, maybe that’s where she’s getting it from…’

And it’s then, right there that I burst into tears.

Men simply have no idea how incendiary such a remark is to a mum – a pregnant one at that. Now I know, deep down inside, that he’s trying to keep things light-hearted, but up here on the surface of things, as far as I’m concerned, he’s just called me a bad mum, a crap person and failure as a mum-to-be to boot.

I’m inconsolable. I try to explain how I feel, but for my husband – and many men out there – actions speak louder than words, so he runs away – with Mini X – to the safety and sanctity of her bedroom.

So my husband doesn’t understand me. Maybe he never will. Is that the worst thing in life?

Nope, I’ve decided.

Because, as a result of my scary tears, I do get a hug (eventually) and my night off putting Mini X to bed. I even get to watch a whole episode of The United States of Tara with my feet up, without having to get up several times to soothe an unsettled Mini X.

So maybe this lack of understanding between the sexes is no bad thing in the end. Maybe it’s just as well we don’t get the opposite sex. I mean, if they understood how we felt and truly empathised with us, that would do away with our gang of great, supportive girlfriends and gay best friends. And then there’d be nothing to moan about, it’d all be perfect, if a tad lonely. And what would be the point of that?