The one thing about Christmas I raised my older children with, was putting the kibosh on the whole Santa thing. Santa is not real, but the original story is. The original Santa lived in Europe hundreds of years ago, a baron or a lord who loved to tinker with toy making. I loved the story, I love the fact that his legacy has lived on, albeit changed just like Chinese whispers and urban legends.
Though my older children understood the concept of gift giving, accepting the Santa myth, Little Miss Mischief's attitude is a whole different story. She utterly refuses to believe the truth behind Santa, angry that I have placed presents under the our Christmas Tree.
Scoffing to her older sister the other day "Mum, has put some presents under the tree, well that's just not right!".
My heart sank in the last week of school when the students were asked to write a letter to Santa. Her letter as she read out to me was
Dear Santa,
I would very much like a Horse please.
Could you please leave him in the backyard instead of under the tree, as I wouldn't want him to pee and poop in the house, it would make too much mess.
I have tried to be a very good girl this year I hope you think so too.
Thank you and Merry Christmas.
She wrote it so neatly and adorned it with beautiful drawings, a great deal of effort and time went into this beautifully crafted letter. Right at that moment I wanted to kill her teacher.
Monday, oldest daughter 'Zip' took Little Miss Mischief shopping for some pressies and some sister to sister time. Stuck in a long queue, LMM couldn't understand why Zip was buying presents for the family. Zip went into a long lecture about the beauty and love of gift giving and Santa was not really real, when a lady behind them interrupted the conversation with "I hope you don't grow up like your sister, because that would be a very bad thing. Only Santa brings presents for good children".
Zip sore red, and there was steam streaming out of her ears from sheer anger. I got to know about it when she fumed over a sedentary Chai in the kitchen upon their return, the rest of the world got to know about it beforehand via facebook mobile. I spent the time whilst they were at the shops wrapping LMM's presents, they were now under the tree and LMM was a tad more angrier about the growing stash under our magnificent tree. I guess watching the endearing Christmas DVD's over the last couple of weeks hasn't helped either.
We all spoke in turn with her about the meaning of Christmas, none of us at all successful, until her older brother Ritch might have just said the right words as she 'got it' after listening to him. She came bounding out of Ritch's room with "Dad, we are going shopping tomorrow, as we haven't done that together, and you need to buy some presents. I will help you, OK? it will be so much fun".
Maurie gulped.
Yesterday, after getting dressed in her favourite pretty clothes at 5am she was ready to go 'hit' the shops with daddy. Daddy was snoring away in slumber land.
I held her off till 6.30am when she presented her father with a high protein breakfast of bacon and eggs in bed. "Cant have you irritable for a day shopping!" Role reversal here I think.
8.30 am they were off for a day of Christmas shopping together.
Zip and I were free to do some major errands, Little Miss Mishief free, yay.
When they both got home later in the afternoon, she threw me my swimmers and towel and ordered me out the back door for a swim in our pool. There was some wrapping to do. She pushed me out the back door under strict orders not to return till she said it was OK. The water was very cold.
When she came out a little while later, she had me so close to tears of joy when she said with such a huge beaming proud smile "You are so going to love what I bought for you, so much that you'll want to squish me tight and love me forever, you are so going to love it!".
Over pillow talk with Maurie last night, he said how she went straight to a jewellery store and picked out a ring, before Maurie was even inside. I lost both my wedding and engagement rings 3 months after our wedding which hasn't sat very well with me. I have lamented over the loss terribly, and LMM knows. The ring she picked out had a price tag of over $5,000, which Maurie had to talk her out off, with your mother will kill me aspect. He assured me that they found something very beautiful that she loved even more. I can't wait, not for the gift itself, but for the love that has gone into it.
A very Merry Christmas everyone!!!!!!!!!!
Friday, December 24, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
Women are from Venus and Men aren't, thats why men are always in the Dog House
JC Penney:beware of the Dog House
My epal Frank sent me an email with the above link of JC Penney: Beware of the Dog House. Laughed myself onto the floor while watching this so I just had to share it. Just click on it to watch the 4 minute clip.
I think most couples in particular the men could really relate to this video clip.
I can remember some years ago when my husband Maurie was placed into the Dog House for an almost eternity for the severest infraction a male could ever commit; Not Noticing the glam new Hair Cut!!!!!.
I had limp, waist length, deadpan straight blonde hair with a fringe that was too long. My hair was dowdy and I looked and felt just as dowdy, well overdue for a proper tidy up if not a complete overhaul.
I left Maurie at home in his office working away, while I found a hairdresser that could fit me in. A rarity in itself, we have 13 hairdressing shops to accommodate our tiny little town, they are always booked out for days on end, but that day the universe opened up to my needs, with a cancellation at the last minute, I was in.
2 hours later I emerged, the hairdresser having convinced me out of my decision to shave it all off, with bouncy layers of shoulder length honey coloured hair with soft highlights of copper to accentuate the layers. I looked fabulous, gratefully leaving behind 12 inches of hair on the floor of the hairdressers. A lot of hair really, a lot.
Before I even got in my car to drive home, 5 people had commented on the fantastic new haircut. I felt remarkably uplifted and there was a spring in my step to rival the Easter bunny as I bounded up our garden path into our home.
Going straight to his office, we spoke facing each other. As the conversation wore on with Mr Oblivious, as I silently nicknamed him, my heart sank further and further. He hadn't noticed, nix, nothing. He hadn't noticed that 12 inches of hair was missing, or the simple fact that it was now a completely different colour and a totally different shape.
With subtle hints such as the dramatic flick of my head, toying with it's now short ends, fingering the top layers of the hair to lift the hair for further bounce, as I spoke with him, delivered his lunch, a cup of tea, the phone, some paperwork throughout the rest of the day, he didn't notice. My demeanour got sharply colder as the day wore on.......
When I am angry or upset the house gets cleaned with a thoroughness to rival sainthood. When the kids arrived home from school the house was spotless and my lips were a tight thin line of anger and disappointment.
Zip was first to arrive, as soon as she opened the door and saw me she screeched an excited "Love the new hairdo mum, wow you look amazing!".
I heard a loud "Do'h" excrete from Maurie's mouth which was still in the office along with the rest of his 'I am incredibly stupid' body. Seconds later, Ritch came through the door with the exact same reaction as his sister. Maurie was not game enough to leave the office.
Drue and Ryan weren't that far behind either, both went 'WOW" instantly. Drue scanned the house and realised by the looks of it something was amiss with his mother. It didn't take a genius to work out why.
He walked into Maurie's office finding him there plastered at his desk with his face buried in his hands, "you didn't notice mums hair cut did you? Oh man are you in the dog house big time!".
Not lifting his face away from his hands Maurie's reply was "Women are from Venus and men aren't ok".
Maurie slept on the couch for the next week.
After that near grounds for divorce fiasco, Maurie never missed a hair cut, that is until this year when I found out why he never missed such an important event.
Zip is always the first to know whenever I go get a hair cut, she would text message Maurie and the boys "Warning! Mum has new hair cut!". The boys, just to be on the safe side would forward the text or ring Maurie to make sure he didn't blunder again. Of course I was none the wiser.
So a few months ago, when I had a scheduled appointment for a hair cut, Zip promptly texted all the members of the family. I arrived at the hairdressers only to find that it was the wrong day. Not to worry my hair wasn't that bad, it could wait another week, I took the time to see a friend who was having some trouble with her business, so I was away for a couple of hours. Arriving home each of the family in turn said how great my hair looked.
I was confused because I hadn't done anything different with my hair?.
Tim walked in after dinner, he didn't say anything till he started to look for his phone that he left behind the day before, as he turned it on, the ting of copious messages rang through. After reading a couple, he looked up at me and said "Um, your hair looks really good,"
SPRUNG!!!
My epal Frank sent me an email with the above link of JC Penney: Beware of the Dog House. Laughed myself onto the floor while watching this so I just had to share it. Just click on it to watch the 4 minute clip.
I think most couples in particular the men could really relate to this video clip.
I can remember some years ago when my husband Maurie was placed into the Dog House for an almost eternity for the severest infraction a male could ever commit; Not Noticing the glam new Hair Cut!!!!!.
I had limp, waist length, deadpan straight blonde hair with a fringe that was too long. My hair was dowdy and I looked and felt just as dowdy, well overdue for a proper tidy up if not a complete overhaul.
I left Maurie at home in his office working away, while I found a hairdresser that could fit me in. A rarity in itself, we have 13 hairdressing shops to accommodate our tiny little town, they are always booked out for days on end, but that day the universe opened up to my needs, with a cancellation at the last minute, I was in.
2 hours later I emerged, the hairdresser having convinced me out of my decision to shave it all off, with bouncy layers of shoulder length honey coloured hair with soft highlights of copper to accentuate the layers. I looked fabulous, gratefully leaving behind 12 inches of hair on the floor of the hairdressers. A lot of hair really, a lot.
Before I even got in my car to drive home, 5 people had commented on the fantastic new haircut. I felt remarkably uplifted and there was a spring in my step to rival the Easter bunny as I bounded up our garden path into our home.
Going straight to his office, we spoke facing each other. As the conversation wore on with Mr Oblivious, as I silently nicknamed him, my heart sank further and further. He hadn't noticed, nix, nothing. He hadn't noticed that 12 inches of hair was missing, or the simple fact that it was now a completely different colour and a totally different shape.
With subtle hints such as the dramatic flick of my head, toying with it's now short ends, fingering the top layers of the hair to lift the hair for further bounce, as I spoke with him, delivered his lunch, a cup of tea, the phone, some paperwork throughout the rest of the day, he didn't notice. My demeanour got sharply colder as the day wore on.......
When I am angry or upset the house gets cleaned with a thoroughness to rival sainthood. When the kids arrived home from school the house was spotless and my lips were a tight thin line of anger and disappointment.
Zip was first to arrive, as soon as she opened the door and saw me she screeched an excited "Love the new hairdo mum, wow you look amazing!".
I heard a loud "Do'h" excrete from Maurie's mouth which was still in the office along with the rest of his 'I am incredibly stupid' body. Seconds later, Ritch came through the door with the exact same reaction as his sister. Maurie was not game enough to leave the office.
Drue and Ryan weren't that far behind either, both went 'WOW" instantly. Drue scanned the house and realised by the looks of it something was amiss with his mother. It didn't take a genius to work out why.
He walked into Maurie's office finding him there plastered at his desk with his face buried in his hands, "you didn't notice mums hair cut did you? Oh man are you in the dog house big time!".
Not lifting his face away from his hands Maurie's reply was "Women are from Venus and men aren't ok".
Maurie slept on the couch for the next week.
After that near grounds for divorce fiasco, Maurie never missed a hair cut, that is until this year when I found out why he never missed such an important event.
Zip is always the first to know whenever I go get a hair cut, she would text message Maurie and the boys "Warning! Mum has new hair cut!". The boys, just to be on the safe side would forward the text or ring Maurie to make sure he didn't blunder again. Of course I was none the wiser.
So a few months ago, when I had a scheduled appointment for a hair cut, Zip promptly texted all the members of the family. I arrived at the hairdressers only to find that it was the wrong day. Not to worry my hair wasn't that bad, it could wait another week, I took the time to see a friend who was having some trouble with her business, so I was away for a couple of hours. Arriving home each of the family in turn said how great my hair looked.
I was confused because I hadn't done anything different with my hair?.
Tim walked in after dinner, he didn't say anything till he started to look for his phone that he left behind the day before, as he turned it on, the ting of copious messages rang through. After reading a couple, he looked up at me and said "Um, your hair looks really good,"
SPRUNG!!!
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
The Gift of Giving on a Microscopic Budget
It's the silly season and it's also Christmas.
My son is online asking me what I would like for Christmas. All I want is my family together, good times blended with good food and I'll be happy. It will be good food if my son Drue cooks.
That is easy he says, but I can't wrap it and put it under the tree he comments.
Each year since my oldest was born, the kids pick a label from the charity tree in our local shopping centre and get a gift for that person before they start to buy anything for their family or friends. I like the idea of giving someone in need a smile for Christmas. Someone you will never see their face when they open the gift you gave, I hope each year it puts a smile on their face.
This year I picked a label that said 'Mum, Dad, Boy 5 & Girl 7'. What does one give to a family that lives locally that are really doing it tough? In all practicality food hamper might go down well, clothing perhaps?
I decided on entertainment. I know from experience when the world around you is shattered the ability to step away from it even if its for only a couple of hours can be uplift any one's resolve.
I remember a year of not being able to take my children to the movies, when all their friends raved about the latest movie they saw. It was a choice of being able to eat for the week or go see a movie? which really meant there was no choice. Though the kids never complained, my heart sank at our situation, if a parent couldn't even afford to take their kids to the local cinema on cheap Tuesday night, even once in the year, it must be desperate.
With some great kids movies coming up for the school holidays I bought a family pass and put it in the envelope. It looked pathetic, this thin thing. Zip suggested a movie munch box, because a movie without the munchies is like rain on your holiday. So we bought 4 lots of sweets & chocolates, placed them along with the tickets into a large gift box. I felt better now.
Last year, walking along on one of my evening walks, overheard a young couple in their front yard lamenting about the cost of plants. Their new acquired first home was hitting the budget more than they expected. The garden would just have to wait a long, long time. The young woman seemed to be on the verge of tears. I have at home so many seedlings and cuttings that I usually give away to our local charity garden, I am sure they could miss a few for once. A week before Xmas, Drue and I delivered at just past midnight, just like Santa, except donning dark clothes instead, driving up their street with no headlights on, we put 3 trays of plants on their front lawn. Each of the 30 fledgling plants had label with the name and whether it was for sun or shade.
A year has gone by, all the plants were planted and the garden is looking great. I didn't cost me anything to make someone so happy.
In what was our 'Year of Living Perilously Close to Nothing' we had the best Christmas ever. Zip made me a CD rack. I only had 5 cd's but she made the rack to hold 10. A small plank of wood found in the shed, some nails for the dividers, and paints from my studio to embellish it, I still use it today, now that I have 10 CD's. Drue made a booklet of hand drawn vouchers aptly named "Son on Call", which gave me tickets to trade in for various things such as mowing the lawn, hanging out the washing, tea in bed, making dinner etc. Each voucher had quirky drawings and funny sayings. It was a gift that lasted most of the year.
It seemed to me we were trying to prove to each other that the lack of money cant stop happiness from appearing. There was no bickering, sooking about the gift received, but not really wanted, no fighting at the shops for parking, no time lost on impossible queues, no historical skeletons came out of the closet. We enjoyed what each of us creatively and ingeniously came up with.
We had everything poverty couldn't buy; happiness.
Do kids really need to have that very expensive present?.
Does your love and devotion to them only amount to the value of the price tag? if it does, then the true meaning of Christmas is lost, Christmas should never be conditional.
I know one condition that will be added to Drue's annual "Son on Call" voucher book. The movie date ticket will have the rule "No Chick Flick's". Last year I embarrassed him with handing in the 'Movie Date with my Mum" voucher for him to take me to see the Twilight movie Eclipse. He sank so low in the seat with his hoodie pulled as far over his face as possible, terrified of being recognised. He might have been annoyed at my choice of movie, though he still upheld his promise to take me anyway, but his snoring was annoying!
My son is online asking me what I would like for Christmas. All I want is my family together, good times blended with good food and I'll be happy. It will be good food if my son Drue cooks.
That is easy he says, but I can't wrap it and put it under the tree he comments.
Each year since my oldest was born, the kids pick a label from the charity tree in our local shopping centre and get a gift for that person before they start to buy anything for their family or friends. I like the idea of giving someone in need a smile for Christmas. Someone you will never see their face when they open the gift you gave, I hope each year it puts a smile on their face.
This year I picked a label that said 'Mum, Dad, Boy 5 & Girl 7'. What does one give to a family that lives locally that are really doing it tough? In all practicality food hamper might go down well, clothing perhaps?
I decided on entertainment. I know from experience when the world around you is shattered the ability to step away from it even if its for only a couple of hours can be uplift any one's resolve.
I remember a year of not being able to take my children to the movies, when all their friends raved about the latest movie they saw. It was a choice of being able to eat for the week or go see a movie? which really meant there was no choice. Though the kids never complained, my heart sank at our situation, if a parent couldn't even afford to take their kids to the local cinema on cheap Tuesday night, even once in the year, it must be desperate.
With some great kids movies coming up for the school holidays I bought a family pass and put it in the envelope. It looked pathetic, this thin thing. Zip suggested a movie munch box, because a movie without the munchies is like rain on your holiday. So we bought 4 lots of sweets & chocolates, placed them along with the tickets into a large gift box. I felt better now.
Last year, walking along on one of my evening walks, overheard a young couple in their front yard lamenting about the cost of plants. Their new acquired first home was hitting the budget more than they expected. The garden would just have to wait a long, long time. The young woman seemed to be on the verge of tears. I have at home so many seedlings and cuttings that I usually give away to our local charity garden, I am sure they could miss a few for once. A week before Xmas, Drue and I delivered at just past midnight, just like Santa, except donning dark clothes instead, driving up their street with no headlights on, we put 3 trays of plants on their front lawn. Each of the 30 fledgling plants had label with the name and whether it was for sun or shade.
A year has gone by, all the plants were planted and the garden is looking great. I didn't cost me anything to make someone so happy.
In what was our 'Year of Living Perilously Close to Nothing' we had the best Christmas ever. Zip made me a CD rack. I only had 5 cd's but she made the rack to hold 10. A small plank of wood found in the shed, some nails for the dividers, and paints from my studio to embellish it, I still use it today, now that I have 10 CD's. Drue made a booklet of hand drawn vouchers aptly named "Son on Call", which gave me tickets to trade in for various things such as mowing the lawn, hanging out the washing, tea in bed, making dinner etc. Each voucher had quirky drawings and funny sayings. It was a gift that lasted most of the year.
It seemed to me we were trying to prove to each other that the lack of money cant stop happiness from appearing. There was no bickering, sooking about the gift received, but not really wanted, no fighting at the shops for parking, no time lost on impossible queues, no historical skeletons came out of the closet. We enjoyed what each of us creatively and ingeniously came up with.
We had everything poverty couldn't buy; happiness.
Do kids really need to have that very expensive present?.
Does your love and devotion to them only amount to the value of the price tag? if it does, then the true meaning of Christmas is lost, Christmas should never be conditional.
I know one condition that will be added to Drue's annual "Son on Call" voucher book. The movie date ticket will have the rule "No Chick Flick's". Last year I embarrassed him with handing in the 'Movie Date with my Mum" voucher for him to take me to see the Twilight movie Eclipse. He sank so low in the seat with his hoodie pulled as far over his face as possible, terrified of being recognised. He might have been annoyed at my choice of movie, though he still upheld his promise to take me anyway, but his snoring was annoying!
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Blended Family Reunions
Last night, as a blended family we celebrated my/our oldest daughter's 21st Birthday. OMG! how did that come around so quick!.
My ex husband along with our girl chose a restaurant in Sydney's Leichhardt suburb, called Tuscany. Usually a tad over an hour from home, it took us more than 2 hours in a gridlocked road called a freeway accompanied by torrential rain.
Before we left, Zip was running late with the demands of being dressed to the nine's in a stunning, yet daring outfit and all things a young beautiful girl needs to do to look even more beautiful. Then again it's her night and it's her birthday.
The 'boys', her older brothers, came online before we left to talk while I was braiding a squirming Little Miss Mischief hair. Simultaneously, one hand typing, one hand braiding, feet were trying unaided to slip into a tight pair of slingback shoes under the desk, I had it all under control.
Ritch emerges from his bedroom, having prized himself begrudgingly from his computer to actually get dressed, asks if he looks alright. Scanning his flannette shirt and daggy shorts, I tell him "upmarket darling, scale it up a bit". Scratching his forehead with a 'do I have to' look he comes back a second later, having changed only his shorts.
Men don't like getting dressed do they?
Finally on route, the car pelted by bullets of heavy rain, I'm glad they chose inside seating. It isn't very long at all when Little Miss Mischief asks "Are we there yet?". Sigh, insinc we all say "NO!"
For 2 hours, the family is sardined in Milly, my car. For 2 hours I hear Zip scoffing at Ritch's attire, both of then in turn, snapping at Little Miss Mischief wedged in the middle of the two, bouncing around more than a cat on a hot tin roof, the ting of constant text messages, the ring of phones and a radio not offering any sort of music that any of us enjoy at all.
At one point all of us bar Little Miss Mischief are talking on the phone, she's not happy with that, "Why don't I have a phone too?" she sooks. Ritch and Zip argue with her that she's only 7 and doesn't need one, she promptly returns a list of classmates that have mobiles. It seems every child in her class has one except her.
Milly begins to fog up, there's a little too much heat in the car.
Maurie, behind the wheel answers his phone (its' OK we are not moving at all) from a business partner, I answer a call from a friend, Sarah, who is in Port Douglass on a family sabbatical of road tripping around Australia. I am following Sarah's blog about up rooting her family from their luxury home and lifestyle in exchange to a life on the road with Vera, their camper van. All is not going too well for the newly aspired family of gypsies.
We finally arrive to a town that's come to life, people are everywhere. This is the part of city life that I miss, the hub, the hive of people living and entertaining, of being out there. A miracle happens; we find parking immediately and the 2 hour frustrated commute is just as quickly forgotten.
For a white linen napkin restaurant, unexpectedly Ritch blends in completely with the other patrons, Zips way over dressed, but serves to be delectable eye candy for most of the men in the restaurant. Mum, dad, step dad and step mum are so proud of our girl that I can feel a Stevie Wonder song coming on "Isn't she pretty, isn't she wonderful....."
The restaurant fronts the famous Norton Street, though open to the elements from the front we are protected from the rain by the large canopy. Across the road was once the SoHo gallery were I had an exhibition some years ago, it's now an all night book store. Many buses drive through the famous street, all the drivers are dressed in Santa suits, bellowing out reverie from their window, little Miss Mischief is excited about all the Santa's, racing out onto the sidewalk to greet them back. There are many groups of people from hen's parties, bucks parties and a few obvious birthday parties. The atmosphere is alive and electric.
The food is divine and the company even better. The one grandparent left, Nan Betty is there, not long flown in from England. For Betty, my ex mother in law, seated next to her new daughter inlaw, she is glowing from her new lifestyle of jet setting widowdom. Most of my ex husband's family are now scattered across Australia and the globe, Betty has many places to visit when the whim arises. For Zip & Ritch there are Aunts, Uncles and cousins, plus a step sister on the very long table, there are plenty of people to talk to. Little Miss Mischief dances around all of them, asking if they are her cousins too.
Technically she doesn't belong to my ex husband's family as she is mine & Maurie's daughter but she is warmly welcomed by them all.
I'm glad that both my ex husband and myself 'buried the hatchett' years ago, because if we hadn't, then this fun night of celebrating together would not have been possible.
To my beautiful, darling, gorgeous daughter, Zjarie my 'right hand man' for most of her life
Happy 21st Birthday Sweetpea!
May the road rise up to meet you.
May the sun always shine where ever you are.
May luck walk with you every step of your life.
May life present you an answer whenever you come to a fork in the road.
May providence smile when you smile.
May the Midas Touch always be at your fingertips.
May your beauty last longer than naturally fair.
May love warm your heart and cool your woes.
May your life be an uplifting roller coaster ride
May the sunset and each morning sun be as beautiful as you are in your long life
May love and happiness live in your life as much as I love you.
In future years both my ex husband along with our new spouses and myself will need to get together for occasions our children will put us through, such as wedding's, birth of grandchildren (fingers crossed) birthdays etc. For many people that have divorced parents, events like these are an emotional nightmare, often resorting to double celebrations or even secrecy.
A friend of Zip just recently engaged is going through this type of nightmare. The whole joy of their happiness is being marred by warring parents. After a couple of weeks of heated phone calls, the bride to be on the verge of a total emotional breakdown, the groom to be called all the parents (both sides are divorced) and laid down the law
"We want the people that we love and matter the most in our lives to celebrate this wonderful time. Stop being so incredibly selfish, self centered and cruel. Come to our engagement party as proud loving parents, but your issues are definitely not invited, not wanted, they are the partners you can keep at home".
Well the phone went quiet he said, the official engagement party is next month, lets hope his young, wise words of wisdom work.
My ex husband along with our girl chose a restaurant in Sydney's Leichhardt suburb, called Tuscany. Usually a tad over an hour from home, it took us more than 2 hours in a gridlocked road called a freeway accompanied by torrential rain.
Before we left, Zip was running late with the demands of being dressed to the nine's in a stunning, yet daring outfit and all things a young beautiful girl needs to do to look even more beautiful. Then again it's her night and it's her birthday.
The 'boys', her older brothers, came online before we left to talk while I was braiding a squirming Little Miss Mischief hair. Simultaneously, one hand typing, one hand braiding, feet were trying unaided to slip into a tight pair of slingback shoes under the desk, I had it all under control.
Ritch emerges from his bedroom, having prized himself begrudgingly from his computer to actually get dressed, asks if he looks alright. Scanning his flannette shirt and daggy shorts, I tell him "upmarket darling, scale it up a bit". Scratching his forehead with a 'do I have to' look he comes back a second later, having changed only his shorts.
Men don't like getting dressed do they?
Finally on route, the car pelted by bullets of heavy rain, I'm glad they chose inside seating. It isn't very long at all when Little Miss Mischief asks "Are we there yet?". Sigh, insinc we all say "NO!"
For 2 hours, the family is sardined in Milly, my car. For 2 hours I hear Zip scoffing at Ritch's attire, both of then in turn, snapping at Little Miss Mischief wedged in the middle of the two, bouncing around more than a cat on a hot tin roof, the ting of constant text messages, the ring of phones and a radio not offering any sort of music that any of us enjoy at all.
At one point all of us bar Little Miss Mischief are talking on the phone, she's not happy with that, "Why don't I have a phone too?" she sooks. Ritch and Zip argue with her that she's only 7 and doesn't need one, she promptly returns a list of classmates that have mobiles. It seems every child in her class has one except her.
Milly begins to fog up, there's a little too much heat in the car.
Maurie, behind the wheel answers his phone (its' OK we are not moving at all) from a business partner, I answer a call from a friend, Sarah, who is in Port Douglass on a family sabbatical of road tripping around Australia. I am following Sarah's blog about up rooting her family from their luxury home and lifestyle in exchange to a life on the road with Vera, their camper van. All is not going too well for the newly aspired family of gypsies.
We finally arrive to a town that's come to life, people are everywhere. This is the part of city life that I miss, the hub, the hive of people living and entertaining, of being out there. A miracle happens; we find parking immediately and the 2 hour frustrated commute is just as quickly forgotten.
For a white linen napkin restaurant, unexpectedly Ritch blends in completely with the other patrons, Zips way over dressed, but serves to be delectable eye candy for most of the men in the restaurant. Mum, dad, step dad and step mum are so proud of our girl that I can feel a Stevie Wonder song coming on "Isn't she pretty, isn't she wonderful....."
The restaurant fronts the famous Norton Street, though open to the elements from the front we are protected from the rain by the large canopy. Across the road was once the SoHo gallery were I had an exhibition some years ago, it's now an all night book store. Many buses drive through the famous street, all the drivers are dressed in Santa suits, bellowing out reverie from their window, little Miss Mischief is excited about all the Santa's, racing out onto the sidewalk to greet them back. There are many groups of people from hen's parties, bucks parties and a few obvious birthday parties. The atmosphere is alive and electric.
The food is divine and the company even better. The one grandparent left, Nan Betty is there, not long flown in from England. For Betty, my ex mother in law, seated next to her new daughter inlaw, she is glowing from her new lifestyle of jet setting widowdom. Most of my ex husband's family are now scattered across Australia and the globe, Betty has many places to visit when the whim arises. For Zip & Ritch there are Aunts, Uncles and cousins, plus a step sister on the very long table, there are plenty of people to talk to. Little Miss Mischief dances around all of them, asking if they are her cousins too.
Technically she doesn't belong to my ex husband's family as she is mine & Maurie's daughter but she is warmly welcomed by them all.
I'm glad that both my ex husband and myself 'buried the hatchett' years ago, because if we hadn't, then this fun night of celebrating together would not have been possible.
To my beautiful, darling, gorgeous daughter, Zjarie my 'right hand man' for most of her lifeHappy 21st Birthday Sweetpea!
May the road rise up to meet you.
May the sun always shine where ever you are.
May luck walk with you every step of your life.
May life present you an answer whenever you come to a fork in the road.
May providence smile when you smile.
May the Midas Touch always be at your fingertips.
May your beauty last longer than naturally fair.
May love warm your heart and cool your woes.
May your life be an uplifting roller coaster ride
May the sunset and each morning sun be as beautiful as you are in your long life
May love and happiness live in your life as much as I love you.
In future years both my ex husband along with our new spouses and myself will need to get together for occasions our children will put us through, such as wedding's, birth of grandchildren (fingers crossed) birthdays etc. For many people that have divorced parents, events like these are an emotional nightmare, often resorting to double celebrations or even secrecy.
A friend of Zip just recently engaged is going through this type of nightmare. The whole joy of their happiness is being marred by warring parents. After a couple of weeks of heated phone calls, the bride to be on the verge of a total emotional breakdown, the groom to be called all the parents (both sides are divorced) and laid down the law
"We want the people that we love and matter the most in our lives to celebrate this wonderful time. Stop being so incredibly selfish, self centered and cruel. Come to our engagement party as proud loving parents, but your issues are definitely not invited, not wanted, they are the partners you can keep at home".
Well the phone went quiet he said, the official engagement party is next month, lets hope his young, wise words of wisdom work.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Mummy Maintainence Moment
Most mornings for eons in my mummy life I would hear "Mum, Mum, can’t find this, where’s that" etc, yet it seems to become uncannily far more urgent when I am trying to have a shower! Barging in on my shower as if when mums not available everything becomes a critical emergency that just can't seem to wait. The shower is supposed to be my 'me' time, my daily maintenance body cleaning time, for goodness sakes, I'm naked here! Though the kids don't care what I look like, as long as I am available to divert any crisis that arises in the nanosecond I step with all my vulnerability into the shower.
Of course if the role was reversed, I walked in on them having a shower I would be met with a blatant scowl of "Muuuuuuum, I am having a shower here! helllllllllo!!"
One morning when Ritch barged in with my purse, for me to get the money out for a school event, with my wet hands, I said, "isn't the bus leaving in well over an hour? couldn't you have waited another 2 minutes?"
Ritch made cute sign in woodwork for me after a frantic morning of lost socks, uniforms & recorders. It said
“Attention
The Mum depart is closed for daily body maintenance.
Please hold all questions, queries & crisis until depart is open again.
Approx wait 10 minutes.”
I chuckled as he hung the sign on the bathroom door. The next morning no one barged in, no frantic knocking at the door, no nothing, that is until I opened the door. There they stood in a curved row, an onslaught ensued, maybe they had the notion, that the first in was going to be answered most civilly.
The next day I took my time getting dressed. I opened the door carefully to find no one, looking left, looking right, there was no one, it was was strangely quiet. Blinking away a confused thought, that maybe I had opened the door to an alternate reality it was that odd, unusual. I start to tip toe towards my bedroom when Ritch calls out “mum I couldn’t find my socks” but before my shoulders could fully slump he adds that its ok he found them in the sock drawer.
The next morning, I did the same, I took my time getting dressed. I even thought about blow drying my hair. Again no one there as I opened the door, with a cheesy Cheshire smile and an even cheekier thought, thinking that I might make this a habit, nice smooth hassle, crisis free mornings. With me not being on call, they continued to solve their own problems.
My sister in law Janey who is a Faculty head at our local Tafe had the same problem but with her staff. Every morning as she raced up the stairs, she was greeted with some sort of catastrophic crisis, mostly multiple ones from her teachers. Every morning was spent dealing with them, which left precious little time to do what she really needed to do. Work came home; projects left abandoned until one day her car broke down on the way to work.
More than an hour late she arrived. No one was waiting at the top of the stairs; no one was waiting in the office. This morning she actually got started on some of the necessary projects that would need to be submitted very soon. Lunchtime came and the conversation was centered on how much trouble there had been and how it was fixed. Janey thought there is some thing to this, and the next day she arrived deliberately late; late enough for all the teachers to be already in class. Janey had accomplished quite a great deal that day. From then on she starts her day after classes start, the incidences of problems also vanished in a short time. Though Janey leaves later and puts in the same hours, she now accomplishes more, much, much more. Having gone to various time management seminars previously and being quite a discipline stalwart, she still couldn’t draw enough hours out of the day. All along it wasn’t time management that was needed, but system management.
Of course if the role was reversed, I walked in on them having a shower I would be met with a blatant scowl of "Muuuuuuum, I am having a shower here! helllllllllo!!"
One morning when Ritch barged in with my purse, for me to get the money out for a school event, with my wet hands, I said, "isn't the bus leaving in well over an hour? couldn't you have waited another 2 minutes?"
Ritch made cute sign in woodwork for me after a frantic morning of lost socks, uniforms & recorders. It said
“Attention
The Mum depart is closed for daily body maintenance.
Please hold all questions, queries & crisis until depart is open again.
Approx wait 10 minutes.”
I chuckled as he hung the sign on the bathroom door. The next morning no one barged in, no frantic knocking at the door, no nothing, that is until I opened the door. There they stood in a curved row, an onslaught ensued, maybe they had the notion, that the first in was going to be answered most civilly.
The next day I took my time getting dressed. I opened the door carefully to find no one, looking left, looking right, there was no one, it was was strangely quiet. Blinking away a confused thought, that maybe I had opened the door to an alternate reality it was that odd, unusual. I start to tip toe towards my bedroom when Ritch calls out “mum I couldn’t find my socks” but before my shoulders could fully slump he adds that its ok he found them in the sock drawer.
The next morning, I did the same, I took my time getting dressed. I even thought about blow drying my hair. Again no one there as I opened the door, with a cheesy Cheshire smile and an even cheekier thought, thinking that I might make this a habit, nice smooth hassle, crisis free mornings. With me not being on call, they continued to solve their own problems.
My sister in law Janey who is a Faculty head at our local Tafe had the same problem but with her staff. Every morning as she raced up the stairs, she was greeted with some sort of catastrophic crisis, mostly multiple ones from her teachers. Every morning was spent dealing with them, which left precious little time to do what she really needed to do. Work came home; projects left abandoned until one day her car broke down on the way to work.
More than an hour late she arrived. No one was waiting at the top of the stairs; no one was waiting in the office. This morning she actually got started on some of the necessary projects that would need to be submitted very soon. Lunchtime came and the conversation was centered on how much trouble there had been and how it was fixed. Janey thought there is some thing to this, and the next day she arrived deliberately late; late enough for all the teachers to be already in class. Janey had accomplished quite a great deal that day. From then on she starts her day after classes start, the incidences of problems also vanished in a short time. Though Janey leaves later and puts in the same hours, she now accomplishes more, much, much more. Having gone to various time management seminars previously and being quite a discipline stalwart, she still couldn’t draw enough hours out of the day. All along it wasn’t time management that was needed, but system management.
Monday, November 22, 2010
David versus Goliath: getting the big companies to pay the small ones
With a sigh of relief, the worst kept secret in the Nursery Industry is out. Babies Galore did the dirty.
Way back in March this year, we received a flood of purchase orders for each of the Babies Galores stores, totalling over $8,000. My heart sank as each one of them dropped into the inbox like a troop of unwanted gate crashers storming into a party. Different scenario, different scene but the side effects the same, we had to deal with them. All I could think was "How much of this are we NOT going to get paid!"
I felt the bile of anxiousness rise up to choke my throat.
Zjarie, our sales manger took one look at them and said "Oh, no, no, no, they are not getting any of those!, not until they pay up the over-dues". Before the new purchases orders arrived, we were still owed more than $12,000, with some invoices older than 9 months. For most part of the previous year of 2009, we struggled to get payment for most of their orders.
Up until 2 years prior, we never had a problem with payment, but then again Babies Galore was then owned by the original owners, the Etkinds, a family business. The new owners, a corporate finance company hadn't continued with the well oiled, successful business model that once was Babies Galore, the Master & Commander of the retail baby goods industry. Business with the then Babies Galore was a dream come true for a small product specific business like ours and many, many others.
Many are now hurting, most are now beyond repair and are looking at closing their doors due to the financial annihilation of the Goliath. For many of the small businesses now reeling, the last year was spent financially supporting a monster in the dark. A monster with some very sinister tricks up their sleeve.
Fortunately for us, we pulled the pin in March, summoned the Hercules courage needed to fight them for our rights. Not only the right to be paid, also the right not to have our product stolen from us, as was the original intention from this insidious company.
Their intention was to cripple the small businesses out of their products, the best selling innovative products were chosen to be manufactured under the Babies Galore brand. As products went secretly to China to be replicated, the businesses that owned the products were investigated for legal loopholes in the intellectual property area. Deliberately not paying, to financially cripple a business from starting litigation against Babies Galore. A mole, an employee with a conscious, from the company alerted the owners of each of the products to be prepared. When he spoke to me, I felt the world had caved in. Our product was being stolen right from under our noses, what could we do?
In between phones calls from other frantic suppliers, we spoke to my IP lawyer. He slammed my laziness for not obtaining the Madrid Protocol, as he had suggested years ago. "It's only 15 thousand dollars, you idiot!" he rammed down my throat through the phone. I sat down, burying my head in my hands, and howled a river of tears. It seemed at that point we were going to lose our product, our income, our way of life, everything we and my family have sacrificed everything for, losing it all to a few sheets of A4 paper.
I stopped sleeping, eating, took up smoking and in the first time in 20 years drank coffee. Life for 3 months was me fueled on nervous energy alone.
Our lawyer came up with a loophole within their loophole, and I was asked to rally all the affected suppliers, some still stupidly continued to supply the doomed trader. In the meantime we were asked by the lawyer to act as supplier mushrooms; left in the dark and fed bullshit. We had to pretend we knew nothing.
There was still the matter of getting paid.
Just before the March orders came through, I and Dom, our accounts gopher, had been on the phone numerous times in the vain effort to extract payment. The lies started to surface.
The reasons and our answers are as follows
1) Invoices over 6 months old were no longer going to be paid. It is up to the supplier to send statements. (um, we sent you statements and overdue notices every single month)
2) That purchase order was cancelled, so payment can't be made, even if the PO was cancelled long after the goods arrived. (goods weren't sent back, so BG is still liable for payment)
3) Goods never arrived. (we use Eparcel - sign on delivery, I will fax you a copy of the acceptance signature)
4)The store didn't fax through the invoice, so we can't pay you for stock we can assume didn't arrive (we shall fax you a copy of each invoice on despatch)
5) Invoices that are older than 9 months are on our old system, no longer operational, we can't pay as we don't have a recall system to check if payment has been made ( I'll fax you through the last 12 months of remittances advises your company sent to help you with that)
6) the one and only accounts payable clerk left in the company isn't in today. (I'll call tomorrow, the next day and the day after that)
7) You still need to supply the goods as a part of the supplier agreement (Sorry, according to our agreement called Terms & Conditions, any company with outstanding debts over 120 days has their account suspended or cancelled)
8) You will need to supply all stores with fixturing and models at a cost of $2,000 per store from your own pocket which will become a part of the BG assets. (Oh Hell No! we only lease the fixtures, therefore retain title of ownership, to companies that have their account in good order, unfortunately you don't)
The list goes on, but after the March purchase orders came through which we never sent, I stood my ground, kept patience in calling a hundred times a day, everyday until we finally got the last cent in June. I had to put my heart in a locked box safely out of reach, because it was interfering with my head. I had to make the decision purely as a business one, not a heartfelt one. My heart was grappling with the early years of start up and the then Babies Galore helping us in so many ways. My heart felt like a cheat if we stopped stocking the company. My head said to my heart "Get real, it's not them any more! and really reputation wise, no bugger in SA, WA, NT, Tas, Vic knows who they are anyway!". Those were the same words I said to all the other suppliers who rang us and asked what to do, whilst holding a truckload of purchase orders in their hand. No don't supply, unless you can safely afford to lose the money, go belly up, broke or bankrupt.
After the account cleared, we sent them a formal notice of infringement of trading terms, account had been cancelled, that we would no longer supply BG unless orders were prepaid. They didn't like that, as it also coincided with the warning from our team of lawyers shot in their direction.
Fortunately for all of us, the owners of Babies Galore, the Allegro group ran out of funding to have the clone products made, and with the knowledge that a class action would be made against them by a small army of suppliers and a savvy team of intrepid lawyers, they had ultimately fallen on their own sword.
Rule of thumbs
1) never allow a company to have more than 20% of your business sales, for each big company store have at least 3 independent stores as stockists.
2) never allow a debt to go over 30 days. Phone calls to later payers frequently will stop a precedent in habitual late payment. Those who will flaunt the rules will do so.
3) work with financially stressed stockists. A payment plan, albeit very small, will see the debt cleared and relations kept.
4) visit business forums and websites such as Flying Solo for networking and skill sharing.
5) Always have title ofownership of goods on all invoices as well as Terms & Conditions when supplying a company on credit terms.
6) Never be ashamed to ask for monies owing once a company has become overdue on their account, no matter who they are, afterall you are financing their operation.
Way back in March this year, we received a flood of purchase orders for each of the Babies Galores stores, totalling over $8,000. My heart sank as each one of them dropped into the inbox like a troop of unwanted gate crashers storming into a party. Different scenario, different scene but the side effects the same, we had to deal with them. All I could think was "How much of this are we NOT going to get paid!"
I felt the bile of anxiousness rise up to choke my throat.
Zjarie, our sales manger took one look at them and said "Oh, no, no, no, they are not getting any of those!, not until they pay up the over-dues". Before the new purchases orders arrived, we were still owed more than $12,000, with some invoices older than 9 months. For most part of the previous year of 2009, we struggled to get payment for most of their orders.
Up until 2 years prior, we never had a problem with payment, but then again Babies Galore was then owned by the original owners, the Etkinds, a family business. The new owners, a corporate finance company hadn't continued with the well oiled, successful business model that once was Babies Galore, the Master & Commander of the retail baby goods industry. Business with the then Babies Galore was a dream come true for a small product specific business like ours and many, many others.
Many are now hurting, most are now beyond repair and are looking at closing their doors due to the financial annihilation of the Goliath. For many of the small businesses now reeling, the last year was spent financially supporting a monster in the dark. A monster with some very sinister tricks up their sleeve.
Fortunately for us, we pulled the pin in March, summoned the Hercules courage needed to fight them for our rights. Not only the right to be paid, also the right not to have our product stolen from us, as was the original intention from this insidious company.
Their intention was to cripple the small businesses out of their products, the best selling innovative products were chosen to be manufactured under the Babies Galore brand. As products went secretly to China to be replicated, the businesses that owned the products were investigated for legal loopholes in the intellectual property area. Deliberately not paying, to financially cripple a business from starting litigation against Babies Galore. A mole, an employee with a conscious, from the company alerted the owners of each of the products to be prepared. When he spoke to me, I felt the world had caved in. Our product was being stolen right from under our noses, what could we do?
In between phones calls from other frantic suppliers, we spoke to my IP lawyer. He slammed my laziness for not obtaining the Madrid Protocol, as he had suggested years ago. "It's only 15 thousand dollars, you idiot!" he rammed down my throat through the phone. I sat down, burying my head in my hands, and howled a river of tears. It seemed at that point we were going to lose our product, our income, our way of life, everything we and my family have sacrificed everything for, losing it all to a few sheets of A4 paper.
I stopped sleeping, eating, took up smoking and in the first time in 20 years drank coffee. Life for 3 months was me fueled on nervous energy alone.
Our lawyer came up with a loophole within their loophole, and I was asked to rally all the affected suppliers, some still stupidly continued to supply the doomed trader. In the meantime we were asked by the lawyer to act as supplier mushrooms; left in the dark and fed bullshit. We had to pretend we knew nothing.
There was still the matter of getting paid.
Just before the March orders came through, I and Dom, our accounts gopher, had been on the phone numerous times in the vain effort to extract payment. The lies started to surface.
The reasons and our answers are as follows
1) Invoices over 6 months old were no longer going to be paid. It is up to the supplier to send statements. (um, we sent you statements and overdue notices every single month)
2) That purchase order was cancelled, so payment can't be made, even if the PO was cancelled long after the goods arrived. (goods weren't sent back, so BG is still liable for payment)
3) Goods never arrived. (we use Eparcel - sign on delivery, I will fax you a copy of the acceptance signature)
4)The store didn't fax through the invoice, so we can't pay you for stock we can assume didn't arrive (we shall fax you a copy of each invoice on despatch)
5) Invoices that are older than 9 months are on our old system, no longer operational, we can't pay as we don't have a recall system to check if payment has been made ( I'll fax you through the last 12 months of remittances advises your company sent to help you with that)
6) the one and only accounts payable clerk left in the company isn't in today. (I'll call tomorrow, the next day and the day after that)
7) You still need to supply the goods as a part of the supplier agreement (Sorry, according to our agreement called Terms & Conditions, any company with outstanding debts over 120 days has their account suspended or cancelled)
8) You will need to supply all stores with fixturing and models at a cost of $2,000 per store from your own pocket which will become a part of the BG assets. (Oh Hell No! we only lease the fixtures, therefore retain title of ownership, to companies that have their account in good order, unfortunately you don't)
The list goes on, but after the March purchase orders came through which we never sent, I stood my ground, kept patience in calling a hundred times a day, everyday until we finally got the last cent in June. I had to put my heart in a locked box safely out of reach, because it was interfering with my head. I had to make the decision purely as a business one, not a heartfelt one. My heart was grappling with the early years of start up and the then Babies Galore helping us in so many ways. My heart felt like a cheat if we stopped stocking the company. My head said to my heart "Get real, it's not them any more! and really reputation wise, no bugger in SA, WA, NT, Tas, Vic knows who they are anyway!". Those were the same words I said to all the other suppliers who rang us and asked what to do, whilst holding a truckload of purchase orders in their hand. No don't supply, unless you can safely afford to lose the money, go belly up, broke or bankrupt.
After the account cleared, we sent them a formal notice of infringement of trading terms, account had been cancelled, that we would no longer supply BG unless orders were prepaid. They didn't like that, as it also coincided with the warning from our team of lawyers shot in their direction.
Fortunately for all of us, the owners of Babies Galore, the Allegro group ran out of funding to have the clone products made, and with the knowledge that a class action would be made against them by a small army of suppliers and a savvy team of intrepid lawyers, they had ultimately fallen on their own sword.
Rule of thumbs
1) never allow a company to have more than 20% of your business sales, for each big company store have at least 3 independent stores as stockists.
2) never allow a debt to go over 30 days. Phone calls to later payers frequently will stop a precedent in habitual late payment. Those who will flaunt the rules will do so.
3) work with financially stressed stockists. A payment plan, albeit very small, will see the debt cleared and relations kept.
4) visit business forums and websites such as Flying Solo for networking and skill sharing.
5) Always have title ofownership of goods on all invoices as well as Terms & Conditions when supplying a company on credit terms.
6) Never be ashamed to ask for monies owing once a company has become overdue on their account, no matter who they are, afterall you are financing their operation.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
The sexuality clause
I'm neither here or there when it comes to homosexuals. I just hate the word; it's downright awful.
The one thing I hate more is having to declare it. To be defined only by your sexuality is an insult.
A few months ago at a business seminar I was introduced to wonderful young man. He said straight away "Hi, I'm Nick, I'm homosexual", ho hum with a sigh, I said "Hi, pleased to meet you Nick, I'm Sjorcha and I wear purple underpants". He could only let out a strained chuckle, obviously not impressed or just didn't get it.
When it comes to people, I'm interested in them as a person, not their sexual preferences. I have many friends fall into both categories, a lot of my family on dad's side are homosexuals, people around me. I don't care. I love and cherish them for who they are as a person.
My dad though absolutely hated homosexuals, he was vehement. It was the only time my normally calm, loving, generous dad hit the roof. The one character trait about him that to this day I can't understand; did he not grow up in a house full of homosexuals, bisexuals and heterosexuals. An avante garde, bohemian upbringing that turned him into a prim and proper conservative family man?
When my youngest nephew was 3, we had a family party for one of the kids birthdays. My dad took one look at his grandson who came dressed in the most prettiest pink frilly dress, lacy socks and shiny black patent shoes, he jumped in his car, drove off and didn't return till late into the night when he was sure my brother was gone along with the offending grandson. I personally thought my nephew was playing dress ups, we all had an inkling about my nephew, but no one said a thing, after all he was only 3.
When dad returned, he just stammered out "That kid is gay! a poofter!" Harsh as it was to say at the time, but yes my dad was right, 16 years later my nephew blurts out in an argument with his dad about an unrelated issue "Dad, I'm gay!". We all replied uncannily in unison "yeah we know, we have always known".
For my own dad, he despaired about his grandson and sadly refused to bond with him. Yet my dad's own mother was an open and very controversial bisexual. Of all her own 8 children and the other 6 children that my grandfather sired to various other women, who all lived together in one open community, dad was the only one who came to despise the living arrangements.
My grandmother was the matriarch of the community, the head 'wife', though none were legally married to my highly famous artist grandfather. My grandmother also had sexual relationships with a few of the women within their unique family throughout the years, with one 'aunt', it was a lifelong loving relationship.
To me, my grandmother was wickedly awesome!
Travelling to Europe in my youth for the opening of my grandfathers art academy. After the bronze statue of my grandmother was unveiled in the front gallery, I climbed the statue, to kiss it's cheeks whispering into the ear that could not hear "I will love you always". Stepping down, I repeated the words to the real woman whom I adored, with a kiss and a hug. Arms wrapped over each others shoulders, and with 'aunt' joining us later we toured the grounds before she was whisked away for interviews.
It's was only fitting that she stood there, albeit in statue form, in front of the art institution named after the man she stood behind and spearheaded his career. She was the woman behind the man. My grandfather, who as an artist was brilliant, but as a businessman and self promoter, was as useless as windows in a basement. Without her, there was never going to be the artist as the world knew him.
Years after her death, interviewed by a reporter compiling stories on grandchildren of famous people, he asked what was the impact of my grandmothers notorious bisexuality had on me, to which I replied "None, it is as normal to me as someone making Tea and Toast for breakfast". He actually quoted that in the article.
As a charismatic woman of remarkable inner strength, tenacity, gusty determination, an innovative entrepreneur, she was an enigma. It's those qualities that she possessed that made the most impact on me as a child growing up, as a young woman, as a mother and now.
For my grandmother "I will love you always".
The one thing I hate more is having to declare it. To be defined only by your sexuality is an insult.
A few months ago at a business seminar I was introduced to wonderful young man. He said straight away "Hi, I'm Nick, I'm homosexual", ho hum with a sigh, I said "Hi, pleased to meet you Nick, I'm Sjorcha and I wear purple underpants". He could only let out a strained chuckle, obviously not impressed or just didn't get it.
When it comes to people, I'm interested in them as a person, not their sexual preferences. I have many friends fall into both categories, a lot of my family on dad's side are homosexuals, people around me. I don't care. I love and cherish them for who they are as a person.
My dad though absolutely hated homosexuals, he was vehement. It was the only time my normally calm, loving, generous dad hit the roof. The one character trait about him that to this day I can't understand; did he not grow up in a house full of homosexuals, bisexuals and heterosexuals. An avante garde, bohemian upbringing that turned him into a prim and proper conservative family man?
When my youngest nephew was 3, we had a family party for one of the kids birthdays. My dad took one look at his grandson who came dressed in the most prettiest pink frilly dress, lacy socks and shiny black patent shoes, he jumped in his car, drove off and didn't return till late into the night when he was sure my brother was gone along with the offending grandson. I personally thought my nephew was playing dress ups, we all had an inkling about my nephew, but no one said a thing, after all he was only 3.
When dad returned, he just stammered out "That kid is gay! a poofter!" Harsh as it was to say at the time, but yes my dad was right, 16 years later my nephew blurts out in an argument with his dad about an unrelated issue "Dad, I'm gay!". We all replied uncannily in unison "yeah we know, we have always known".
For my own dad, he despaired about his grandson and sadly refused to bond with him. Yet my dad's own mother was an open and very controversial bisexual. Of all her own 8 children and the other 6 children that my grandfather sired to various other women, who all lived together in one open community, dad was the only one who came to despise the living arrangements.
My grandmother was the matriarch of the community, the head 'wife', though none were legally married to my highly famous artist grandfather. My grandmother also had sexual relationships with a few of the women within their unique family throughout the years, with one 'aunt', it was a lifelong loving relationship.
To me, my grandmother was wickedly awesome!
Travelling to Europe in my youth for the opening of my grandfathers art academy. After the bronze statue of my grandmother was unveiled in the front gallery, I climbed the statue, to kiss it's cheeks whispering into the ear that could not hear "I will love you always". Stepping down, I repeated the words to the real woman whom I adored, with a kiss and a hug. Arms wrapped over each others shoulders, and with 'aunt' joining us later we toured the grounds before she was whisked away for interviews.
It's was only fitting that she stood there, albeit in statue form, in front of the art institution named after the man she stood behind and spearheaded his career. She was the woman behind the man. My grandfather, who as an artist was brilliant, but as a businessman and self promoter, was as useless as windows in a basement. Without her, there was never going to be the artist as the world knew him.
Years after her death, interviewed by a reporter compiling stories on grandchildren of famous people, he asked what was the impact of my grandmothers notorious bisexuality had on me, to which I replied "None, it is as normal to me as someone making Tea and Toast for breakfast". He actually quoted that in the article.
As a charismatic woman of remarkable inner strength, tenacity, gusty determination, an innovative entrepreneur, she was an enigma. It's those qualities that she possessed that made the most impact on me as a child growing up, as a young woman, as a mother and now.
For my grandmother "I will love you always".
Marks on the wall that children leave
We have extended the house twice since we bought it. Turning a dilapidated 2 bedroom fibro cottage with its black ceilings, poo brown walls and frugly green carpet into a 6 bedroom masterpiece.
Just as the second extension was nearly finished, which we built ourselves over the course of 3 years, young Ritch who was 3 at the time burned most of it down. Only the very old part of the house remained. 20 minutes was all that it took to destroy years of hard work and the love that went into it.
My dad was baby sitting Ritch for half an hour. Fire alarms had been installed but Dad who suffered industrial deafness didn't hear a sound while he was sawing the last kitchen cabinet door in the open garage, when Ritch walked in and told him there was a funny noise and smell. The smoke billowed in behind him. Dad threw Ritch out onto the front lawn and raced inside to try and put the fire out that had started in Drue's bedroom. Within minutes most of that part of the house was alight, neighbours came to help followed soon after by the entire Hawkesbury fire brigade.
I was at the hardware, slowly picking out handles for my new kitchen, sipping on a hot chocolate in the isle, enjoying a few minutes away from Ritch who could talk the ears of a statue.
As I turned the corner back into our quiet street, I was greeted by 6 fire trucks, a local reporter, a plethora of onlookers and my dad, son and neighbour on the road completely covered in black soot.
Furniture strewn over the front lawn in a shambles made an odd site as the front facade of the house was perfectly intact. The pretty quaintness of the front was a stark contrast to when I opened the front door to whole different picture of destruction and blackness. The only parts of the house left standing was the front 2 rooms and a laundry.
I, a few days later was very thankful for my usual laziness. Our insurance premiums had increased sharply, I was going to look into much cheaper insurance companies, for a better deal. It was one of those tasks that get held off for another day. This time I was grateful I hadn't gotten around to it. A representative of our insurance company was at the scene within 2 hours much quicker than my ex husband, who finally arrived 8 hours after my distressed phone call.
Funny how you hear of insurance horror stories in situations like these, finding out about the callousness of a few budget insurance companies, the ones I was thinking of transferring to, just to save a couple of dollars. So glad I didn't. The one time I needed my expensive insurance company, they delivered top care immediately, helping us through situations before they arose. Thank you to Westpac Insurance Services for organising accommodation, clothing, food, counselling and rebuilding our entire house within a flash. We didn't have to do a thing.
Though we were left with only the clothes we wore that day, most of the material things were replaced quickly, but it's the things that couldn't be replaced as we started to realise in the the aftermath that stung our hearts. In a collected sane moment we could go through our minds and inventorize what we would take first. Sometimes there are things that cant be picked up in the hurry to safety. For us it wasn't till much later, on an unmovable item, we were thankful that it wasn't lost in the fire. A wall.
Not just any wall, but a wall of importance to us as a family. This wall in our laundry marked the growth of our children and foster kids over the years, from the time they could stand.
Had I planned the wall correctly, like knowing how many children would live in our home over the years, there would be 9 neat columns. It looks more like a rampant vine clawing it's way to the ceiling, the names, dates and ages acting as leaves growing over the vine. Chris, a foster son, is the highest leaf, at a staggering 6ft 3in, I had to stand on a bar stool to reach high enough to mark his height.
When the rebuilding had been done, the painters came in to paint the house, they intuitively hadn't painted over that wall, leaving us a sweet note and the left over paint cans on the floor. "Didn't have the heart to paint over this wall, left paint if you want to".
So we have one wall in the house, not only is it a different colour to rest of the house, a smudgy shade of darkened soft pink, it will never be painted over, ever!
Just as the second extension was nearly finished, which we built ourselves over the course of 3 years, young Ritch who was 3 at the time burned most of it down. Only the very old part of the house remained. 20 minutes was all that it took to destroy years of hard work and the love that went into it.
My dad was baby sitting Ritch for half an hour. Fire alarms had been installed but Dad who suffered industrial deafness didn't hear a sound while he was sawing the last kitchen cabinet door in the open garage, when Ritch walked in and told him there was a funny noise and smell. The smoke billowed in behind him. Dad threw Ritch out onto the front lawn and raced inside to try and put the fire out that had started in Drue's bedroom. Within minutes most of that part of the house was alight, neighbours came to help followed soon after by the entire Hawkesbury fire brigade.
I was at the hardware, slowly picking out handles for my new kitchen, sipping on a hot chocolate in the isle, enjoying a few minutes away from Ritch who could talk the ears of a statue.
As I turned the corner back into our quiet street, I was greeted by 6 fire trucks, a local reporter, a plethora of onlookers and my dad, son and neighbour on the road completely covered in black soot.
Furniture strewn over the front lawn in a shambles made an odd site as the front facade of the house was perfectly intact. The pretty quaintness of the front was a stark contrast to when I opened the front door to whole different picture of destruction and blackness. The only parts of the house left standing was the front 2 rooms and a laundry.
I, a few days later was very thankful for my usual laziness. Our insurance premiums had increased sharply, I was going to look into much cheaper insurance companies, for a better deal. It was one of those tasks that get held off for another day. This time I was grateful I hadn't gotten around to it. A representative of our insurance company was at the scene within 2 hours much quicker than my ex husband, who finally arrived 8 hours after my distressed phone call.
Funny how you hear of insurance horror stories in situations like these, finding out about the callousness of a few budget insurance companies, the ones I was thinking of transferring to, just to save a couple of dollars. So glad I didn't. The one time I needed my expensive insurance company, they delivered top care immediately, helping us through situations before they arose. Thank you to Westpac Insurance Services for organising accommodation, clothing, food, counselling and rebuilding our entire house within a flash. We didn't have to do a thing.
Though we were left with only the clothes we wore that day, most of the material things were replaced quickly, but it's the things that couldn't be replaced as we started to realise in the the aftermath that stung our hearts. In a collected sane moment we could go through our minds and inventorize what we would take first. Sometimes there are things that cant be picked up in the hurry to safety. For us it wasn't till much later, on an unmovable item, we were thankful that it wasn't lost in the fire. A wall.
Not just any wall, but a wall of importance to us as a family. This wall in our laundry marked the growth of our children and foster kids over the years, from the time they could stand.
Had I planned the wall correctly, like knowing how many children would live in our home over the years, there would be 9 neat columns. It looks more like a rampant vine clawing it's way to the ceiling, the names, dates and ages acting as leaves growing over the vine. Chris, a foster son, is the highest leaf, at a staggering 6ft 3in, I had to stand on a bar stool to reach high enough to mark his height.
When the rebuilding had been done, the painters came in to paint the house, they intuitively hadn't painted over that wall, leaving us a sweet note and the left over paint cans on the floor. "Didn't have the heart to paint over this wall, left paint if you want to".
So we have one wall in the house, not only is it a different colour to rest of the house, a smudgy shade of darkened soft pink, it will never be painted over, ever!
Friday, November 19, 2010
Synergy of Siblings
My number 2 son Drue isn't normal, and everyone around him knows that. He has the gift of foresight and an incredibly strong one at that. From the time he was 18 months old he started to say things that seemed utterly impossible but they all came true, very true. At 2 and a half years of age his remarkably foresight saved my life.
He also became renowned in the market circuit as the "Baby Conjurer". He would know when a woman was going to have a baby, even before they knew it. There were times that there were women lined up at our market stall just to see him, word had spread about the boy.
Mostly these were women who had experienced trouble in conceiving or had multiple miscarriages. One of our fellow marketeers, Jacqui, had 4 miscarriages and on the verge of giving up when she came to see Drue. He told her that she would conceive a baby girl naturally in 20 months time and another baby girl would be born 18 months later. Be happy with both girls as there will be no more he said to her. She skipped and clapped all the way back to her stall. 20 months later, Elli was conceived, when Elli was 18 months old she had Abigail.
I wasn't planning on having anymore children. Drue, then 16, was drinking a cup of coffee in the kitchen when I walked past, he asked "So when is my sister coming?". Thinking he was referring to my oldest daughter, I told him she would be home after school naturally, "Not that sister, the other one" Taken back a moment, he said "She's here already, I can feel her". I wasn't aware that I was pregnant, but he did.
Late into the pregnancy, we were going off to see a play with a large group of friends. Drue came after me with my 'bag' and placed it into the boot, with a 'you'll be needing this' remark. After we left, and playing baby sitter to young Ritch, he told the others not to go to their friends house's that night as the baby would be born. Half way through the play, I went into labour. A few hours later Little Miss Mischief was born, 6 weeks earlier than intended.
A couple of years ago when Drue was backpacking around Europe, he rang me just before Xmas to say he wasn't going to make it home in time. Sadly I told the other kids, I went outside to drag the washing off the line with Little Miss Mischief. Half a load off, she jumped down from her chair she used to reach the line and raced towards the house, calling out behind her that was going to wait at the front gate for Drue.
Sigh.
10 minutes of standing at the front gate with her, trying my earnest to explain time frames and coaxing her inside, she cemented herself to the gate and refused to budge. She wasn't going anywhere until Drue came come, she was adamant it would be very, very soon. I threw my hands up in the air in defeat, leaving her there, there was still the rest of the washing to get off the line, diner to cook and everything else mums needed to do. She would get bored with waiting soon soon enough.
A few minutes later, I heard high pitched squeals of excitement coming from Little Miss Mischief, who was still waiting at the gate for her brother. Drue had indeed arrived home. Calling me from our local station, his way of surprising me. I told you, I told you he was coming home she declared jumping around him.
Yesterday Drue, now working in another state, rang me to say he would would be home just after Xmas for a few days. The Xmas days spent working would be more than valuable to him, I was expecting that. Little Miss Mischief told everyone in our office that Drue would be home tomorrow. I had to correct her, 'Nope, tomorrow night' she said.
Drue rang me just a few moments ago, boarding a work plane that was bound for Sydney and with a few days off decided to catch a free ride home. A spur of a moment decision made just a couple of hours ago. Little Miss Mischief is right again. "Well your sister knew you were coming home before you did" I said, he chuckled at that.
Best get the spare room ready.
There are times she would wait at the phone, or even have the phone in her hand already, when he rang. The odd thing is that he never rings at a regular time like my oldest son, who rings every Monday night at precisely 7.30pm, yet she knows when it's Drue, even saying "hello Drue" before really knowing who is at the other end of the line. One time she got it wrong, and told the person to hang up because her brother was about to call. She'd had already hung by the time I got there, I had to hurdle a couch to do so. As she hung up, the phone rang again, this time it was Drue.
I guess there will always be an empathic bond between the two even with the 16 year age difference.
I have heard from many other parents that they experience similiar things with their children or with their own parents or siblings
He also became renowned in the market circuit as the "Baby Conjurer". He would know when a woman was going to have a baby, even before they knew it. There were times that there were women lined up at our market stall just to see him, word had spread about the boy.
Mostly these were women who had experienced trouble in conceiving or had multiple miscarriages. One of our fellow marketeers, Jacqui, had 4 miscarriages and on the verge of giving up when she came to see Drue. He told her that she would conceive a baby girl naturally in 20 months time and another baby girl would be born 18 months later. Be happy with both girls as there will be no more he said to her. She skipped and clapped all the way back to her stall. 20 months later, Elli was conceived, when Elli was 18 months old she had Abigail.
I wasn't planning on having anymore children. Drue, then 16, was drinking a cup of coffee in the kitchen when I walked past, he asked "So when is my sister coming?". Thinking he was referring to my oldest daughter, I told him she would be home after school naturally, "Not that sister, the other one" Taken back a moment, he said "She's here already, I can feel her". I wasn't aware that I was pregnant, but he did.
Late into the pregnancy, we were going off to see a play with a large group of friends. Drue came after me with my 'bag' and placed it into the boot, with a 'you'll be needing this' remark. After we left, and playing baby sitter to young Ritch, he told the others not to go to their friends house's that night as the baby would be born. Half way through the play, I went into labour. A few hours later Little Miss Mischief was born, 6 weeks earlier than intended.
A couple of years ago when Drue was backpacking around Europe, he rang me just before Xmas to say he wasn't going to make it home in time. Sadly I told the other kids, I went outside to drag the washing off the line with Little Miss Mischief. Half a load off, she jumped down from her chair she used to reach the line and raced towards the house, calling out behind her that was going to wait at the front gate for Drue.
Sigh.
10 minutes of standing at the front gate with her, trying my earnest to explain time frames and coaxing her inside, she cemented herself to the gate and refused to budge. She wasn't going anywhere until Drue came come, she was adamant it would be very, very soon. I threw my hands up in the air in defeat, leaving her there, there was still the rest of the washing to get off the line, diner to cook and everything else mums needed to do. She would get bored with waiting soon soon enough.
A few minutes later, I heard high pitched squeals of excitement coming from Little Miss Mischief, who was still waiting at the gate for her brother. Drue had indeed arrived home. Calling me from our local station, his way of surprising me. I told you, I told you he was coming home she declared jumping around him.
Yesterday Drue, now working in another state, rang me to say he would would be home just after Xmas for a few days. The Xmas days spent working would be more than valuable to him, I was expecting that. Little Miss Mischief told everyone in our office that Drue would be home tomorrow. I had to correct her, 'Nope, tomorrow night' she said.
Drue rang me just a few moments ago, boarding a work plane that was bound for Sydney and with a few days off decided to catch a free ride home. A spur of a moment decision made just a couple of hours ago. Little Miss Mischief is right again. "Well your sister knew you were coming home before you did" I said, he chuckled at that.
Best get the spare room ready.
There are times she would wait at the phone, or even have the phone in her hand already, when he rang. The odd thing is that he never rings at a regular time like my oldest son, who rings every Monday night at precisely 7.30pm, yet she knows when it's Drue, even saying "hello Drue" before really knowing who is at the other end of the line. One time she got it wrong, and told the person to hang up because her brother was about to call. She'd had already hung by the time I got there, I had to hurdle a couch to do so. As she hung up, the phone rang again, this time it was Drue.
I guess there will always be an empathic bond between the two even with the 16 year age difference.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Bakers Standards 1981
What do we do with the things that our parents had when they die?
Do we keep them all? ranging from clothing to furniture to those little nicky nacky things that they accumulated through their own lifetime. Somethings are meant to be kept, such as heirlooms that are financially or emotionally valuable, as well as family traditions no matter how odd or quirky they are.
The Dutch tradition of giving the wife a piece of heirloom jewellery for every baby born is an easy one. I was given my grandmothers ring that marked the birth of my mother when I married. The beautiful sapphire and diamond ring was given to my mother when she married and I will pass it to one of my daughters when they marry, hopefully sometime this century.
Endearing pieces might be fought over by the children, but it's the other little things that are retained that are hard to deal with.
My dad was an engineer, I have my house to thank him for as he built the 2 extensions to it over the last 20 years. The tools of his trade were mostly left to my brothers and my sons, and I have been holding on to his technical books since his death almost 10 years ago.
My dad would do anything for anybody. If they needed something built, he would answer their call. He'd rally the troops, roll up his sleeves and stay till the job was done, even if it was his last dying breath. Reward him with a BBQ, a great cup of coffee or a batch of home cooked Anzac biscuits and he'd be yours forever.
He would give people, familiar or strangers, anything of his own if they needed it more than him, he was that generous type of person.
Our garage was incredibly full with stuff stored over the years that last month I couldn't get to the large deep freezer without near disaster. With a twisted knee, a large gouge out of my calf after trying to navigate my way perilously through the warren of precariously stacked items, I thought enough is enough! Garage sale time!!!!!
As I sifted through the junk, found things long since forgotten and a few yucky items that should've been tipped long ago, I came across my dad's book of Bakers Standards, 1981 edition. Nothing to do with cooking, but a builders bible of all things to do with structural elements of building. He had used it religiously and faithfully for any of his building projects over the years. I was hit with a dilemma, after the waves of grief subsided, what do I do with it?
Knowing dad he would have wanted it to go to someone who would use it as lovingly as he did. None of my brothers would need it now and my older boys have gone into far different trades. I asked Ritch, but being 14, he just gave me a perplexed look of uncertainty.
I decided to put it with the 200 other books at the garage sale and carefully scrutinise any who might want to buy it. It needed to go to someone special.
Saturday the big garage sale day, saw most of the books gone, by Sunday morning it was left with the few stragglers, and I was still coming to grips if I was doing the right thing.
My oldest daughter on Sunday morning borrowed my car as her little red vroom vroom car was being serviced. She was only going to be 2 hours. Towards the end of the day, with very little left including my dads book, Zip was overdue by 4 hours. She wasn't answering her mobile either, a slight tinge of panic was sitting on my stomach. When a police car turned up at the front, my heart sank, had my daughter been involved in an accident? I waited to see if both the officers took of their caps, then I would know. They didn't! finishing their shift they saw the sale and came to have a look. Phew!
One officer, called Brian saw the book and went into a hysterical song and dance act of joy right on the spot. An odd sight for a big burly man of over 6 foot in height. He had had the same book, same year, but borrowed it out to a friend who ended up loosing it. He had been on a quest to find the rare book ever since. His original one was his father's and it caused him a lot of grief not having it. Being a budding builder he felt incomplete without it.
We spent the next half hour talking about dad's in general; the good, the wonderful, the funny.
My dad's book went to exactly where it was supposed to go, to someone who would love, appreciate, honour and get great value from the book, the same way he did. It would live on I know, but after they left, I had to race inside for a handful of tissues.
Do we keep them all? ranging from clothing to furniture to those little nicky nacky things that they accumulated through their own lifetime. Somethings are meant to be kept, such as heirlooms that are financially or emotionally valuable, as well as family traditions no matter how odd or quirky they are.
The Dutch tradition of giving the wife a piece of heirloom jewellery for every baby born is an easy one. I was given my grandmothers ring that marked the birth of my mother when I married. The beautiful sapphire and diamond ring was given to my mother when she married and I will pass it to one of my daughters when they marry, hopefully sometime this century.
Endearing pieces might be fought over by the children, but it's the other little things that are retained that are hard to deal with.
My dad was an engineer, I have my house to thank him for as he built the 2 extensions to it over the last 20 years. The tools of his trade were mostly left to my brothers and my sons, and I have been holding on to his technical books since his death almost 10 years ago.
My dad would do anything for anybody. If they needed something built, he would answer their call. He'd rally the troops, roll up his sleeves and stay till the job was done, even if it was his last dying breath. Reward him with a BBQ, a great cup of coffee or a batch of home cooked Anzac biscuits and he'd be yours forever.
He would give people, familiar or strangers, anything of his own if they needed it more than him, he was that generous type of person.
Our garage was incredibly full with stuff stored over the years that last month I couldn't get to the large deep freezer without near disaster. With a twisted knee, a large gouge out of my calf after trying to navigate my way perilously through the warren of precariously stacked items, I thought enough is enough! Garage sale time!!!!!
As I sifted through the junk, found things long since forgotten and a few yucky items that should've been tipped long ago, I came across my dad's book of Bakers Standards, 1981 edition. Nothing to do with cooking, but a builders bible of all things to do with structural elements of building. He had used it religiously and faithfully for any of his building projects over the years. I was hit with a dilemma, after the waves of grief subsided, what do I do with it?
Knowing dad he would have wanted it to go to someone who would use it as lovingly as he did. None of my brothers would need it now and my older boys have gone into far different trades. I asked Ritch, but being 14, he just gave me a perplexed look of uncertainty.
I decided to put it with the 200 other books at the garage sale and carefully scrutinise any who might want to buy it. It needed to go to someone special.
Saturday the big garage sale day, saw most of the books gone, by Sunday morning it was left with the few stragglers, and I was still coming to grips if I was doing the right thing.
My oldest daughter on Sunday morning borrowed my car as her little red vroom vroom car was being serviced. She was only going to be 2 hours. Towards the end of the day, with very little left including my dads book, Zip was overdue by 4 hours. She wasn't answering her mobile either, a slight tinge of panic was sitting on my stomach. When a police car turned up at the front, my heart sank, had my daughter been involved in an accident? I waited to see if both the officers took of their caps, then I would know. They didn't! finishing their shift they saw the sale and came to have a look. Phew!
One officer, called Brian saw the book and went into a hysterical song and dance act of joy right on the spot. An odd sight for a big burly man of over 6 foot in height. He had had the same book, same year, but borrowed it out to a friend who ended up loosing it. He had been on a quest to find the rare book ever since. His original one was his father's and it caused him a lot of grief not having it. Being a budding builder he felt incomplete without it.
We spent the next half hour talking about dad's in general; the good, the wonderful, the funny.
My dad's book went to exactly where it was supposed to go, to someone who would love, appreciate, honour and get great value from the book, the same way he did. It would live on I know, but after they left, I had to race inside for a handful of tissues.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
The self made millionaire said "Money isn't everything"
Many years ago when we used to do the Narrabeen Markets on Sydney's northern beaches I came across a young man that hand made furniture. The solid wood pieces were refreshingly different from what was on offer in the all furniture stores. I fell in love with the furniture immediately, the coastal colouring was fresh and appealing from the stained wood or laminate furniture that's was on offer then and still today. Each month I would buy a piece, struggling to get them in the van along with all the other market paraphernalia. My wonderful 'old girl' van was so fantastic in accommodating my whims.
When I became pregnant with Ritch, we had sold all the baby goods at a garage sale years earlier, so I was on the 'Great Baby Expedition' once again. I needed a change table and some shelving for the new nursery, so the young man made both for me. The next month the sandy yellow change table and ocean blue shelving with cut outs of boats and star fish's came home with me. I was stunned by the beauty of both pieces.
I asked him why he wasn't selling these to stores as there was a real lack of variety available. The whole day he had the pieces on his stall, he could've sold them 10 times over. He didn't take orders for them, just wanted to make some select one off pieces that's all and he told me it was just a hobby and he was far too shy to approach stores. It was a diplomatic way of saying he wasn't interested, but being 'blonde' as I was then I didn't get the clue.
Before the next month's market came around I had visited copious baby stores to introduce his products, with many of them very enthusiastic about stocking the wonderful nursery furniture. I was sure that artistic demeanour was all that was stopping him from achieving a very successful business. Most craft artists are their own worst critic! I was sure I was doing him a favour, my 'pay it forward' for a fledgling business, and a miracle that the rest of the community should have access too as well.
The morning of the next market I raced down and handed him the very long list of contacts, leaving him with his "um, ah, wow" reply and a perplexed look on his face. An hour or so later when the onslaught of the early morning die hard customers had finished, he turned up with a cup of coffee for me and asked me to walk with him.
It took him a little while to get started but his opening words were "Money isn't everything. I am a multi millionaire, now in retirement living everyday with my beautiful family. My dad was a cabinet maker and I grew up making furniture with him. I loved it, its now my hobby. I am also a bit of a electronic software whiz. You probably use the product I designed every single day without even knowing it.
When I was 26, I was married with a beautiful baby daughter and never at home as I was flying around the world securing contracts. One day I returned home to find my personal life had collapsed, my beautiful wife and child were gone. My business had destroyed everything that was dear to me"
"I sold the company for millions coaxing my family to return. We now have 2 more children, and the furniture I make, I make with my children, my oldest daughter helped paint your furniture. I realised a very valuable lesson, it's OK NOT to be successful, and no one ever says on their deathbed 'I should've spent more time at the office'. I just make the furniture for special people who will love and appreciate workmanship and craftsmanship, I don't want another business ever again, just ice cream money"
When I swipe my ATM card at any store I look at the brand of devise, when I see the brand that was his, I have to smile and think of him again. I still have both pieces, now in storage for my future grandchildren.
When I became pregnant with Ritch, we had sold all the baby goods at a garage sale years earlier, so I was on the 'Great Baby Expedition' once again. I needed a change table and some shelving for the new nursery, so the young man made both for me. The next month the sandy yellow change table and ocean blue shelving with cut outs of boats and star fish's came home with me. I was stunned by the beauty of both pieces.
I asked him why he wasn't selling these to stores as there was a real lack of variety available. The whole day he had the pieces on his stall, he could've sold them 10 times over. He didn't take orders for them, just wanted to make some select one off pieces that's all and he told me it was just a hobby and he was far too shy to approach stores. It was a diplomatic way of saying he wasn't interested, but being 'blonde' as I was then I didn't get the clue.
Before the next month's market came around I had visited copious baby stores to introduce his products, with many of them very enthusiastic about stocking the wonderful nursery furniture. I was sure that artistic demeanour was all that was stopping him from achieving a very successful business. Most craft artists are their own worst critic! I was sure I was doing him a favour, my 'pay it forward' for a fledgling business, and a miracle that the rest of the community should have access too as well.
The morning of the next market I raced down and handed him the very long list of contacts, leaving him with his "um, ah, wow" reply and a perplexed look on his face. An hour or so later when the onslaught of the early morning die hard customers had finished, he turned up with a cup of coffee for me and asked me to walk with him.
It took him a little while to get started but his opening words were "Money isn't everything. I am a multi millionaire, now in retirement living everyday with my beautiful family. My dad was a cabinet maker and I grew up making furniture with him. I loved it, its now my hobby. I am also a bit of a electronic software whiz. You probably use the product I designed every single day without even knowing it.
When I was 26, I was married with a beautiful baby daughter and never at home as I was flying around the world securing contracts. One day I returned home to find my personal life had collapsed, my beautiful wife and child were gone. My business had destroyed everything that was dear to me"
"I sold the company for millions coaxing my family to return. We now have 2 more children, and the furniture I make, I make with my children, my oldest daughter helped paint your furniture. I realised a very valuable lesson, it's OK NOT to be successful, and no one ever says on their deathbed 'I should've spent more time at the office'. I just make the furniture for special people who will love and appreciate workmanship and craftsmanship, I don't want another business ever again, just ice cream money"
When I swipe my ATM card at any store I look at the brand of devise, when I see the brand that was his, I have to smile and think of him again. I still have both pieces, now in storage for my future grandchildren.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Mum's a juggler
The kids wonder why I loose the plot on a daily basis, that’s how the word mumnesia was born. It’s been my saving grace since I stopped breast-feeding the very last child, for 22 years I had “lactating brain” to hide behind. All is forgiven when you have lactating brain. Then 3 years ago, when little miss mischief turned 4, I called it quits, finito, the milk bar has shut up shop. I put my well-used breasts into permanent retirement, expecting the immediate re-emergence of the long dormant quick thinking, intellectual, dynamic brain cells that I once owned. I’m still waiting.
Apparently my intelligent brain cells fled in fear at the sight of my mighty breasts and the life that revolved around them. What I lost in height I made up with cup size. I personally believe that my savvy brain cells having witnessed the effects on the chin, cheeks & belly, flew the coup long before they too were dragged down with the breasts heading perilously southbound towards the map of tassie.
I wish my ex-brain cells the best of luck where ever they are.
There are days when I wish they would return even if its just to pay a short visit, in time of my need. As a mother, business owner, employer, design consultant, public speaker, small business advisor, parent mentor, what’s left of the brain cells allows me to do what all other mothers have to do; juggle. Mothers are the people that can juggle the best.
Most mornings it’s a 5am start at the factory, before 8am I leave to take over the child maintenance shift from Husband who is about to depart for work. Most times it’s easy, some times not.
All’s not well at home when I arrive this morning, darling husband walks out with a scowl and a huff, Little Miss Mischief is in full gemini mode. I seriously consider stowing away in my husband’s car instead of facing a rueful gemini tweeny. She’s cemented on her bed, just in knickers, electric shag hair and a look that could launch a nuclear missile.
At this moment I’d have more chances of surviving a global holocaust than getting her ready for school in the next 10 minutes. Drawing on the two best friends any good parent has; distract & diffuse, the double D method, yet when the situation is dire, the back up plan of ignore & bribe proves itself as a sanity saver. Looks like the IB method will the one this morning. Take a really deep breath.
I ignore the razor sharp dagger eyes burning multiple targets on my being as I toss her, her uniform and march out the door to the kitchen to prepare the special ‘mum style noodles’ for breakfast. A complete bribe that works every time.
I have a truckload of deadlines today to contend with and Little Miss Mischief still isn’t dressed
Scooping up her clothes and tossing them into my Mary Poppin’s bag, I throw her over my shoulder and charge towards the car. We have 3 minutes to get to school before the curfew.
I’m proud she dresses herself en route. We get there on time but the parking lot is full. Why cant there be a kiss and drop off section?
Down two blocks I squeeze my car in. We are now in curfew time that means the office, paperwork and a huff from her teacher, Mrs Personality Bypass. The trilli-second that I’m late will now add another 20 minutes. I have to stand in line with all the other mums reporting to the office for late notes. All in the same irritable mood. One mum asks the admin assistant why do we have to do this? I’m late as it is. Murmurs of agreement can be heard along the queue. The casual “It’s to report child abuse” reply from the office assistant has one mum riled, “What about Mum abuse!! Do you honestly believe I going to write we’re late because I beat my child on that note!!!” Irate mum is waving the late register around furiously with her hands. Lets add another 5 minutes to the 20.
Little Miss Mischief is clutching my leg and I feel her hot tears seeping into my jeans. Protection mode sets in, all I want to do right now is to scoop her up and escape. Drive right on back to 6 years ago when I had everything money couldn’t buy; poverty, love, bonding and the deep satisfaction of knowing that the kids & I could survive it. All we had was each other. Believe it or not there’s quite a lot of freedom in poverty.
Tough love takes over. Withdrawing from the heated scene, I march towards the classroom with my daughter still firmly anchored to my leg and scribbling a late note on the way. The handwriting is a little jerky. Mrs Personality Bypass hands me back the note and demands a proper one from the office. I sigh, but what I really want to say is “Oh you mean the register that costs the school around $50 from the department of education? Let’s just say I saved the school some money this morning. It has my reason, a date and most importantly my signature!” Prizing daughter from the leg, with a strong hug and a kiss I guide the unwilling child inside the classroom before another scene manifests itself.
Not the most intelligent morning, but it was a juggling exercise of some success. I know that by days end, I will have juggled all 350 emails, answered all phone calls important and non important, the large warehouse order will be shipped out today, the new shelving will arrive, the old shelving moved out, the air conditioner will be repaired, accounts will be in order, the missing delivery will turn up and all pigs are on the launch pad and are ready to fly.
When mothers label themselves as a WAHM, SAHM or a GTWM, I say I’m a juggler.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
That Hairy, Scary Parenting Moment
Anyone that is parent will have a moment to tell, when they had a hairy-scary parenting moment. The type of moment that sends a chill up memory lane, a moment in time when you had to do something as a parent that really wasn't what you wanted to do but you had to do it. I have a had a few of these over the years, but it was the first one that still stays with me.
My darling oldest boy was then 5 and had just started kindergarten. He loved school and had loads of friends, it was getting him ready for school that was the problem. A problem that had me tearing out my hair every school morning. He just didn't want to get dressed!!!!
Each morning was a battle of biblical proportions, that usually saw me dressing him in his school clothes at the school gate, driving off to the parents to drop the younger ones off, then zooming to work. I was left with a mere 2 seconds to collect my sanity, shake of the inner turmoil before starting work.
Each evening, the clothes laid out, I would plead with him to get dressed in the morning before putting the TV on. Logical as it may sound, in reality it didn't work. Pulling the plug on the TV, packing away the TV, or threatening with hell far worse than being shipped off to his other grandparents didn't work either.
One morning, frantically late, I had to pick up the kicking, screaming, pyjama clad cutie under one arm, his baby sister held on the arm, whilst this toddler brother Drue, became a pack mule carrying the school bag, handbag, baby bag and car keys. At the school, the bell had already rung, I tore his pj's off and dressed him while mopping away stressful sweat from my brow, I warned him "Refuse to get stressed tomorrow and you will go to school in your pj's. I am just dropping you off and that's it!!". He turned into the school with quavering lips and a look that smacked off "You are the meanest mother in the world!". I drove off wanting to heave up what I didn't have for breakfast.
That night I reminded him, he screwed up his face and stormed off to his bedroom. Stomp, stomp, stomp and slam!
The next morning, still refusing to get dressed, a repeat of the day before, but this time I drove to the school and told him to go in the gate by himself. Well the temper tantrum started as he clung to me, I dragged my leg that held the green frog, printed pyjama clad boy glued solidly in place into the gate to a teacher. Prized him off and ran like the bejeesus to the car, legs wobbling, chest panting, head pounding and heart aching all the way. What have I done?
When my dad picked him up from school, he had stomped to the car with school hat, blue socks, black school shoes, green pyjamas, a face in a tight scrawl and arms folded even tighter. He wasn't happy.
That evening he gave me the icy cold shoulder and the silent treatment.
The next morning, he wasn't getting dressed until I reminded him I could do what I did the day before. He snatched his clothes of the chair storming off to his room. Stomp, stomp, stomp and slam!!.
He came out a little while later fully dressed and it was only 7.30am. Ryan and his little brother Drue, escaped outside for some playtime on the bikes, which hadn't happened before, because we spent hours arguing over a 5 minute job of getting dressed. At the school gate later, we all walked him in, gave him a big kiss and a hug. I went to work for the first time without knots in my stomach.
The next morning, he was up, dressed and playing outside with his brother before I even finished my shower. Never again did Ryan need to be pushed into getting dressed.
The secret really wasn't the just act of following through on a threat, but the consequences themselves. Previously I had warned him with disciplinary actions such as no swimming or treats after school, which he accepted. Threats like that are really choices given to a child, he really didn't care if he didn't swim or get a treat that afternoon, but going to school in his pj's wasn't a choice but a direct result of his own actions. The humiliation and the taunting by his peers was suffered by him and him alone, due to his own fault, (I never admitted to him the excruciating emotional pain I suffered the entire day).
My darling oldest boy was then 5 and had just started kindergarten. He loved school and had loads of friends, it was getting him ready for school that was the problem. A problem that had me tearing out my hair every school morning. He just didn't want to get dressed!!!!
Each morning was a battle of biblical proportions, that usually saw me dressing him in his school clothes at the school gate, driving off to the parents to drop the younger ones off, then zooming to work. I was left with a mere 2 seconds to collect my sanity, shake of the inner turmoil before starting work.
Each evening, the clothes laid out, I would plead with him to get dressed in the morning before putting the TV on. Logical as it may sound, in reality it didn't work. Pulling the plug on the TV, packing away the TV, or threatening with hell far worse than being shipped off to his other grandparents didn't work either.
One morning, frantically late, I had to pick up the kicking, screaming, pyjama clad cutie under one arm, his baby sister held on the arm, whilst this toddler brother Drue, became a pack mule carrying the school bag, handbag, baby bag and car keys. At the school, the bell had already rung, I tore his pj's off and dressed him while mopping away stressful sweat from my brow, I warned him "Refuse to get stressed tomorrow and you will go to school in your pj's. I am just dropping you off and that's it!!". He turned into the school with quavering lips and a look that smacked off "You are the meanest mother in the world!". I drove off wanting to heave up what I didn't have for breakfast.
That night I reminded him, he screwed up his face and stormed off to his bedroom. Stomp, stomp, stomp and slam!
The next morning, still refusing to get dressed, a repeat of the day before, but this time I drove to the school and told him to go in the gate by himself. Well the temper tantrum started as he clung to me, I dragged my leg that held the green frog, printed pyjama clad boy glued solidly in place into the gate to a teacher. Prized him off and ran like the bejeesus to the car, legs wobbling, chest panting, head pounding and heart aching all the way. What have I done?
When my dad picked him up from school, he had stomped to the car with school hat, blue socks, black school shoes, green pyjamas, a face in a tight scrawl and arms folded even tighter. He wasn't happy.
That evening he gave me the icy cold shoulder and the silent treatment.
The next morning, he wasn't getting dressed until I reminded him I could do what I did the day before. He snatched his clothes of the chair storming off to his room. Stomp, stomp, stomp and slam!!.
He came out a little while later fully dressed and it was only 7.30am. Ryan and his little brother Drue, escaped outside for some playtime on the bikes, which hadn't happened before, because we spent hours arguing over a 5 minute job of getting dressed. At the school gate later, we all walked him in, gave him a big kiss and a hug. I went to work for the first time without knots in my stomach.
The next morning, he was up, dressed and playing outside with his brother before I even finished my shower. Never again did Ryan need to be pushed into getting dressed.
The secret really wasn't the just act of following through on a threat, but the consequences themselves. Previously I had warned him with disciplinary actions such as no swimming or treats after school, which he accepted. Threats like that are really choices given to a child, he really didn't care if he didn't swim or get a treat that afternoon, but going to school in his pj's wasn't a choice but a direct result of his own actions. The humiliation and the taunting by his peers was suffered by him and him alone, due to his own fault, (I never admitted to him the excruciating emotional pain I suffered the entire day).
Thursday, November 4, 2010
The Bad Mothers Club
Honestly it's true! there really is a website called The Bad Mother's Club, or
www.realmums.com.au Headed by Amanda Cox, unashamedly a bad mother of 3 boys, or in the real world, just a normal everyday reality checked mum with kids she loves but keeping it real.
We have all done things as parents that might make others on the surface say "Tsk, Tsk, what a bad mother" but deep inside they are really saying "Thank god, I'm not the only one".
So the next time you do any from the list below
In real reality, really bad mothers wouldn't spend their time going to such websites, voicing off or actually committing voyeurism (seeing if other mums are doing the same things as you), these real, really bad mums wouldn't give a flying f@#k. They are parents because they could, because nature allowed them to be fertile. I have had enough of their offspring grace my home over the years to know when a child was just an unfortunate byproduct of a relationship.
There are 2 mums over the years that I came across in my world that would probably get the worst mother in the world trophy. One mum had 2 daughter's, at the time the 11 year old had severe mental problems and her younger sister a 9 year old, was a good friend of my oldest daughter, then also 9. It was 11pm, I was just going to bed, when there was pounding on the door. Opening the door to little Hayley, tears streaming down her cheeks, she was covered in blood and it was pooling on the veranda. Her older sister had stabbed her in the arm during an argument with a carving knife.
We whisked her off to the hospital, and we let the staff know about the sister. Where was their mum?Apparently their mum wanted some real time to herself, knowing that she wouldn't be able to get a babysitter for the older girl, decided that the younger girl was quite capable to act as guardian, while she went for a 6 day holiday to the Whitsundays. Nice.
Nice that she didn't leave behind any contact details in case of an emergency. She didn't let neighbours know of her plans or family members, but she did tell fellow workers of her holiday, though they were under the impression that the girls were going with her. It also, as we soon discovered, wasn't the first time she had left the girls behind so she could go on a holiday with a bloke.
The second Mum, had 6 children ages ranged from 3 to 16 years. Everything was fine until the marriage broke down, the mother fell into a pattern of spiralling depression and despair fuelled by copious alcohol consumption and plenty of drunken one night stands. One bloke staid on, as the mum was now on a pension, with a tidy fortnightly sum of money to pay for his and her alcohol habit.
The two older kids had part time jobs after school, it was their money that was supporting the family. When things started disappearing from the house, there was a brawl between the eldest son and the man. All 6 kids turned up at our house afterwards. Chris's face was a mess, but he was proud of the damage he had down to his 'stepfather', also proud that he had stood up to him, ordering him to leave the home before the kids got back. I wasn't so sure, but they all stayed the night, and phone calls to their mother were left unanswered. The man left thankfully, the kids returned home with the aim to seek help for their mother. She did clean up her act for a while, but it was only a short while, it wasn't long before her pub crawling days returned. She could be seen staggering in the middle of the road hurling abuse at oncoming traffic, sometimes little Bianca was with her.
A year had passed when the old boyfriend returned. Another brawl had occurred, this time the mother left with the boyfriend. When she left so did her income, the only money that came in was from the older children's part time jobs. For 6 months, they paid the rent, bought groceries and paid the bills, secretly trying to keep the family together. They even had us fooled. They did remarkably well until Lucia got appendicitis. Chris not quite 18, couldn't sign the paperwork at the hospital. It didn't take the hospital staff very long to figure out the kids were lying about their mother's whereabouts. Chris had said she was away on a business trip in Melbourne, and Patricia said she was visiting a sick relative in Darwin. Doc's was called in taking the children onto foster care, separating the family for the next 3 years.
It was quite a few months after the kids were taken into care when their mother came home. She turned up on our doorstep and stammered, rather not politely "Where the f..k are me kids!" Chris & Michael were placed with us and luckily the others were fairly close by with other families.
Chris, now 25, owns his own air conditioning installation company, has permanent custody of Stephen, Lucia, & Bianca who all attend the local high school. Michael is in the RAAF and Patricia is studying Law at Sydney University.
I don't know what happened to Hayley and her sister, except that their father was located and they went to live with him in rural Victoria.
www.realmums.com.au Headed by Amanda Cox, unashamedly a bad mother of 3 boys, or in the real world, just a normal everyday reality checked mum with kids she loves but keeping it real.
We have all done things as parents that might make others on the surface say "Tsk, Tsk, what a bad mother" but deep inside they are really saying "Thank god, I'm not the only one".
So the next time you do any from the list below
Give your kids cereal for dinner, on the couch, in front of the TV.
Yell at your kids for misbehaving instead of saying in a demure soft tone "please don't do that darling"
Still be in your pj's when you drop the kids off at school
Still be in your pj's when you pick the kids up from school
Let them sleep on the couch, because they were too heavy to move to their own beds.
Stayed in the toilet with the door locked for longer than necessary, because counting to 10 in deep breaths still hadn't taken the edge of it.
Reminisced about life from prechildren days
Imagined life post children days
Said "Not today darling maybe tomorrow" most days.
Gave your child a Chocolate bar to eat 20 mins before school started, because you really didn't like their teacher, and it was the only creative form of revenge you could think of at the time.
Play musical beds; the bed you started in might not be the bed you finally woke up in the morning in a vain attempt to get some fractured sleep.
Think your child is totally a beautiful angel that is so scrumptious that you could eat them, and you only think this, falling in love with them again when they are asleep, but you could have murdered them a few hours earlier.
Your heart skips when they hurt themselves, sleep over at a friends house the first time, are late home from a friend's house or the phone rings when they are not at home.
Forgot about the important "Teddy Bears picnic" day at preschool.
Made a less than extremely awesome perfect Easter hat for the Easter Hat Parade, because someone else's mum can do it so much better, even though it took you countless hours and the will power greater than Hercules not to eat all those yummy chocolate Easter eggs.
Cant help but smile when you pick them up from daycare, childcare, preschool, school, high school, tafe, university or the airport.
Feel guilty about your parenting skills
Think they are the best thing that has happened to you, but secretly wish for a reprieve from them every so often.
If you have done anything from the list above or remotely similar, pat yourself on the back, you are a "TOTALLY AWESOME WELL LOVED PARENT!"
In real reality, really bad mothers wouldn't spend their time going to such websites, voicing off or actually committing voyeurism (seeing if other mums are doing the same things as you), these real, really bad mums wouldn't give a flying f@#k. They are parents because they could, because nature allowed them to be fertile. I have had enough of their offspring grace my home over the years to know when a child was just an unfortunate byproduct of a relationship.
There are 2 mums over the years that I came across in my world that would probably get the worst mother in the world trophy. One mum had 2 daughter's, at the time the 11 year old had severe mental problems and her younger sister a 9 year old, was a good friend of my oldest daughter, then also 9. It was 11pm, I was just going to bed, when there was pounding on the door. Opening the door to little Hayley, tears streaming down her cheeks, she was covered in blood and it was pooling on the veranda. Her older sister had stabbed her in the arm during an argument with a carving knife.
We whisked her off to the hospital, and we let the staff know about the sister. Where was their mum?Apparently their mum wanted some real time to herself, knowing that she wouldn't be able to get a babysitter for the older girl, decided that the younger girl was quite capable to act as guardian, while she went for a 6 day holiday to the Whitsundays. Nice.
Nice that she didn't leave behind any contact details in case of an emergency. She didn't let neighbours know of her plans or family members, but she did tell fellow workers of her holiday, though they were under the impression that the girls were going with her. It also, as we soon discovered, wasn't the first time she had left the girls behind so she could go on a holiday with a bloke.
The second Mum, had 6 children ages ranged from 3 to 16 years. Everything was fine until the marriage broke down, the mother fell into a pattern of spiralling depression and despair fuelled by copious alcohol consumption and plenty of drunken one night stands. One bloke staid on, as the mum was now on a pension, with a tidy fortnightly sum of money to pay for his and her alcohol habit.
The two older kids had part time jobs after school, it was their money that was supporting the family. When things started disappearing from the house, there was a brawl between the eldest son and the man. All 6 kids turned up at our house afterwards. Chris's face was a mess, but he was proud of the damage he had down to his 'stepfather', also proud that he had stood up to him, ordering him to leave the home before the kids got back. I wasn't so sure, but they all stayed the night, and phone calls to their mother were left unanswered. The man left thankfully, the kids returned home with the aim to seek help for their mother. She did clean up her act for a while, but it was only a short while, it wasn't long before her pub crawling days returned. She could be seen staggering in the middle of the road hurling abuse at oncoming traffic, sometimes little Bianca was with her.
A year had passed when the old boyfriend returned. Another brawl had occurred, this time the mother left with the boyfriend. When she left so did her income, the only money that came in was from the older children's part time jobs. For 6 months, they paid the rent, bought groceries and paid the bills, secretly trying to keep the family together. They even had us fooled. They did remarkably well until Lucia got appendicitis. Chris not quite 18, couldn't sign the paperwork at the hospital. It didn't take the hospital staff very long to figure out the kids were lying about their mother's whereabouts. Chris had said she was away on a business trip in Melbourne, and Patricia said she was visiting a sick relative in Darwin. Doc's was called in taking the children onto foster care, separating the family for the next 3 years.
It was quite a few months after the kids were taken into care when their mother came home. She turned up on our doorstep and stammered, rather not politely "Where the f..k are me kids!" Chris & Michael were placed with us and luckily the others were fairly close by with other families.
Chris, now 25, owns his own air conditioning installation company, has permanent custody of Stephen, Lucia, & Bianca who all attend the local high school. Michael is in the RAAF and Patricia is studying Law at Sydney University.
I don't know what happened to Hayley and her sister, except that their father was located and they went to live with him in rural Victoria.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Summertime and the toilet training is easy, fish are jumping and the cotton is high.........
My mother's answer to any childhood rearing strategy or problem was 'summertime'. More often than not for some uncanny reason she was right.
When it comes to toilet training, she was spot on. Summertime is the best time to toilet train your child. The best summertime is the one where your child will be 2 to 2.5 years of age. Any earlier, you'll be wasting your time and diminishing your sanity, in winter, you'll be fighting a battle you just cant win. A cold toilet seat doesn't quite emit a welcoming hello to a new and permanent stage of life.
I believed that mum used to use the excuse of summertime so that she could sing her favourite song,"Summertime". Scarlett Johansson does a fabulous sultry version, her cover can be found for a pittance on ITunes.
From the very first time I could remember mum sing that song I instantly learnt the art of selective deafness. Though my mother's eyes would light up and she looked positively beautiful when she sang it, as long as I wore my invisible earmuffs, just watching her sing was delight enough, I was never going to rain on her parade. Unfortunately years later the grandchildren weren't quite so diplomatic.
Now that you know that summertime is the best time to toilet train and pack away the nappies for the next baby, there are a few other tips that come in handy.
1) boys are way easier than girls! that's because they have the fun appendage to point and squirt with.
2) start with a potty on the ground, not straight on the toilet. This is as terrifying as the Santa Claus in the shopping centre.
3) best to do it in 2 stages, No 1's (pee's) then the No 2's (poo's)
4) To 'warm' little one's to the whole idea of toilet training, start with taking them to the toilet with you for a while and show them the "grown up" way of doing things. A few weeks of showing them No 1's before the No 2's. For most parents it's an invasion of privacy, but lets face a fact, once you became a parent, privacy went permanently AWOL. Leading by example, and 'showing the ropes' so to speak are very effective learning techniques and leads to quicker success in the whole toilet training process.
5) a good indication that your child is ready for toilet training is when they start to hide when filling their nappies. A lot of toddlers will seek privacy away from others.
6) Day time toilet usage should be successful for around six weeks before the night time part.
A lot of toddlers will become naturally 'dry' anyway.
7) Clothing - make it easy! no button up shorts or overalls. Elasticised shorts with pull up nappies should be living in the wardrobe for this time.
8) Toilet training should initially be staged at home, once they are comfortable then trial the 'out & about' part. Take a couple of extra pants along.
9) never 'toilet train at gunpoint', expect it to be a hit and miss affair. The right kind attitude will make it more a hit affair than a miss. Encourage with 'high 5's' or being told how grown up they are. The first time they actually tell you they need to go to the toilet, should be given the same fanfare as the Nobel Prize for Peace. Your child will be so proud of themselves and to see how much joy it brings you, they will want to keep doing it.
10) If your child has been toilet trained for a little time and a new baby arrives. Don't be surprised that they might 'need' nappies again for a little while. Regression of this type is normal if they are the oldest child. Don't get cranky, but overcome this hurdle by encouraging them to be 'grown up' again by helping with the baby. If they feel that 'mummy needs me', their sense of self value will return as they now have a very special role in the home, the 'big brother or sister'.
Patience, praise and perspective, let's face it, you won't find any 21 year old still in nappies!
When it comes to toilet training, she was spot on. Summertime is the best time to toilet train your child. The best summertime is the one where your child will be 2 to 2.5 years of age. Any earlier, you'll be wasting your time and diminishing your sanity, in winter, you'll be fighting a battle you just cant win. A cold toilet seat doesn't quite emit a welcoming hello to a new and permanent stage of life.
I believed that mum used to use the excuse of summertime so that she could sing her favourite song,"Summertime". Scarlett Johansson does a fabulous sultry version, her cover can be found for a pittance on ITunes.
From the very first time I could remember mum sing that song I instantly learnt the art of selective deafness. Though my mother's eyes would light up and she looked positively beautiful when she sang it, as long as I wore my invisible earmuffs, just watching her sing was delight enough, I was never going to rain on her parade. Unfortunately years later the grandchildren weren't quite so diplomatic.
Now that you know that summertime is the best time to toilet train and pack away the nappies for the next baby, there are a few other tips that come in handy.
1) boys are way easier than girls! that's because they have the fun appendage to point and squirt with.
2) start with a potty on the ground, not straight on the toilet. This is as terrifying as the Santa Claus in the shopping centre.
3) best to do it in 2 stages, No 1's (pee's) then the No 2's (poo's)
4) To 'warm' little one's to the whole idea of toilet training, start with taking them to the toilet with you for a while and show them the "grown up" way of doing things. A few weeks of showing them No 1's before the No 2's. For most parents it's an invasion of privacy, but lets face a fact, once you became a parent, privacy went permanently AWOL. Leading by example, and 'showing the ropes' so to speak are very effective learning techniques and leads to quicker success in the whole toilet training process.
5) a good indication that your child is ready for toilet training is when they start to hide when filling their nappies. A lot of toddlers will seek privacy away from others.
6) Day time toilet usage should be successful for around six weeks before the night time part.
A lot of toddlers will become naturally 'dry' anyway.
7) Clothing - make it easy! no button up shorts or overalls. Elasticised shorts with pull up nappies should be living in the wardrobe for this time.
8) Toilet training should initially be staged at home, once they are comfortable then trial the 'out & about' part. Take a couple of extra pants along.
9) never 'toilet train at gunpoint', expect it to be a hit and miss affair. The right kind attitude will make it more a hit affair than a miss. Encourage with 'high 5's' or being told how grown up they are. The first time they actually tell you they need to go to the toilet, should be given the same fanfare as the Nobel Prize for Peace. Your child will be so proud of themselves and to see how much joy it brings you, they will want to keep doing it.
10) If your child has been toilet trained for a little time and a new baby arrives. Don't be surprised that they might 'need' nappies again for a little while. Regression of this type is normal if they are the oldest child. Don't get cranky, but overcome this hurdle by encouraging them to be 'grown up' again by helping with the baby. If they feel that 'mummy needs me', their sense of self value will return as they now have a very special role in the home, the 'big brother or sister'.
Patience, praise and perspective, let's face it, you won't find any 21 year old still in nappies!
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Don't judge a book by it's cover
My heart holds graves fears for a little 6 year old girl that has disappeared off the face of the earth some months ago. I feel for the parents. My son once vanished for more than 3 hours from a shopping centre.
I had taken my eye's of him for no more than 10 seconds. As night time fell, and the centre voided of its occupants except for centre management, the search police, 2 detectives and 2 DOC investigators drilling me about my parenting skills, we all held graves fears as to the were abouts of my beautiful 2 yr old son. He was eventually found in a tight sleeping ball, totally unaware of the chaos, heartache and panic he had caused. 23 years later I still get goose bumps thinking about it.
Splashed across the papers, the parents hardly sent their daughter to her first year of school, giving the general public an impression that neglect ruled their household, therefore unworthy to be parents at all. We don't know the circumstances as to why the little girl barely attended school. Let's not judge a book by it's cover and with newspapers, we all know that headlines that bleed, lead.
When young Ritch started kindergarten, he only went to school 2 days a week out of the mandatory 5. I was in the last year of my degree, living in a small country community that was barren of the essentials suburbia has to offer, like child care. I had to leave for Uni much earlier than his school bus arrived, and I would be home much later than he would be in the afternoon. Leaving a 5 year old alone in the most haunted house in the district or possible the state wasn't a friendly option.
Originally I organised a neighbour to take him along with her daughters that attended the same small school, also look after him after school. After 2 weeks, one afternoon I found him waiting at the front gate for me. The neighbour wanted to go shopping so she sent him home. He had to walk along a lonely country road for more than a kilometre, too terrified to be in the house alone, he waited at the gate. I wasn't very happy.
Forcibly moved to this location due to a marriage breakdown, I had 2 choices to make, quit Uni and let Ritch go to school everyday or take Ritch with me. Most people would have chosen the first option, I decided on the later. Speaking with his school, I took work sheets with us so he could still continue his school work. He attended all aspects of University life with me. No one protested as he seemed to fit right in.
The first day he wanted to carry my art folder, but it was bigger than him, so he tried to carry my 2 very heavy tool boxes that contained all the art supplies. "Mum, he says there has to be an easier way!". The next morning he darted to our shed and pulled out the market trolley and a hockey strap, throwing them both in the car. This is what he used to pull the around the boxes around between classes. Why didn't I think of that?
During most classes he did all his school assigned work, but in art history, he listened intently to the lecturers. By the end of the year he was a walking encyclopedia, for most of the year he was a great study mate.
As his teacher from school said to me unburdening my heart "Not all education is begotten had school. The best education is from home, the heart and the child's social environment"
I had taken my eye's of him for no more than 10 seconds. As night time fell, and the centre voided of its occupants except for centre management, the search police, 2 detectives and 2 DOC investigators drilling me about my parenting skills, we all held graves fears as to the were abouts of my beautiful 2 yr old son. He was eventually found in a tight sleeping ball, totally unaware of the chaos, heartache and panic he had caused. 23 years later I still get goose bumps thinking about it.
Splashed across the papers, the parents hardly sent their daughter to her first year of school, giving the general public an impression that neglect ruled their household, therefore unworthy to be parents at all. We don't know the circumstances as to why the little girl barely attended school. Let's not judge a book by it's cover and with newspapers, we all know that headlines that bleed, lead.
When young Ritch started kindergarten, he only went to school 2 days a week out of the mandatory 5. I was in the last year of my degree, living in a small country community that was barren of the essentials suburbia has to offer, like child care. I had to leave for Uni much earlier than his school bus arrived, and I would be home much later than he would be in the afternoon. Leaving a 5 year old alone in the most haunted house in the district or possible the state wasn't a friendly option.
Originally I organised a neighbour to take him along with her daughters that attended the same small school, also look after him after school. After 2 weeks, one afternoon I found him waiting at the front gate for me. The neighbour wanted to go shopping so she sent him home. He had to walk along a lonely country road for more than a kilometre, too terrified to be in the house alone, he waited at the gate. I wasn't very happy.
Forcibly moved to this location due to a marriage breakdown, I had 2 choices to make, quit Uni and let Ritch go to school everyday or take Ritch with me. Most people would have chosen the first option, I decided on the later. Speaking with his school, I took work sheets with us so he could still continue his school work. He attended all aspects of University life with me. No one protested as he seemed to fit right in.
The first day he wanted to carry my art folder, but it was bigger than him, so he tried to carry my 2 very heavy tool boxes that contained all the art supplies. "Mum, he says there has to be an easier way!". The next morning he darted to our shed and pulled out the market trolley and a hockey strap, throwing them both in the car. This is what he used to pull the around the boxes around between classes. Why didn't I think of that?
During most classes he did all his school assigned work, but in art history, he listened intently to the lecturers. By the end of the year he was a walking encyclopedia, for most of the year he was a great study mate.
As his teacher from school said to me unburdening my heart "Not all education is begotten had school. The best education is from home, the heart and the child's social environment"
Friday, October 29, 2010
Included in the Workday Recovery Kit is cooking dinner when you don't really want to.
I am at my desk concentrating hard on a diabolical task. This particular card game has got me gasumped, the computer is cheating surely, it has to be.
"Whats for dinner mum?" calls out a voice from the other extreme of the house.
Not answering and still concentrating, when the question is called out again but much, much louder. Darn! the kids don't fall for the selective deafness trick anymore!
Sigh.
"Food! and if your lucky, it'll be edible" Not taking my eyes of the screen.
It's 6pm, and the daily family maintenance of providing a suitable meal for hungry mouths seems unavoidable. The trouble is I am not hungry, well not anymore. Half an hour a go, I stumbled through the door after a horrendously busy day of running the business, whilst trying in earnest not to have to speak to a particular person, made a quick 2 slices of toast with Tahini, which was my breakfast, lunch and dinner in one mouthful.
"Cheesy Awesomeness Mum!" calls out young master Ritch and the rest of the troupe agree.
"Nooooooooooooooooooooo, No, No and No some more OK!!". The kids all call out yes, yes and some more yes!!.
The no and yes thing swings back and forth a few more times and I still haven't won a single game in the meantime.
The next office chair I get will definitely not have wheels. I protest loudly, as Ritch grabs the back of my chair and starts driving me into the kitchen backwards.
"No, I don't want to! you can't make me do it, I don't want to........" my crying plea's fall on deaf ears, as Ritch starts piling up the ingredients onto my lap. He turns the oven on, still dragging his protesting mum around in her wheely chair. He opens the fridge throwing more items on the growing mountain on my lap.
"Due to the lack of interest on my behalf, I have cancelled dinner this evening!". They don't fall for that one either
I just have to do it don't I?,
Cooking the 'Cheesy Awesomeness' gets underway with the close monitoring of the 2 youngest members of the family, just in case I decide to escape.
They're lucky this time, it was brilliantly edible.
There are times that I wish that things I don't want to do turn out that way, like some work days. Like today's workday, which had me spinning around faster than a child's spinning top, except without the colours. I have come to rely on Dom, our 'gopher', wonderfully adept at handling everything, including filtering of incoming phone calls. Though I still sack him nearly every week, he just laughs.
There's a company that headhunted me for a design project over a year ago which got off to a fantastic start. With a team of 4 people from this company, another was added for some reason, having been transferred from another department. The original 4 left the company within 2 weeks, when this new member was added. Unfortunately I inherited her as the project was almost completed. After a few phone conversations with this person, I too throw the towel in and resigned from the project.
She rang again today, as she has done regularly for the last 10 months, and it's never a pleasant outcome.
As Dom whispered who it was, I dove under my desk, shaking my head furiously, grabbing my fortunately large handbag to cover my screams of denial, frustration, anguish, and turmoil. With the most politest of professional voices he calmly tells the person "She won't be taking your phone call today or any other day! promptly hanging up. Phew........
My bag starts to ring..........................
Throwing the bag in his direction, he then throws it to Zjarie, our sales manager, like a hot potato, who can't find anyone else close enough, hurls the bag into the nearby fabric bin. They both back away from the bin, I stay cowering under my desk till it finally stops.
Dom quickly runs down to the production area before I reach him, because he was the one that gave her my private mobile number. Hoping to punch him in the arm, I call out he's sacked instead as he escapes out of my reach. A couple of minutes later our production manger punches him in the arm, because he had been holding onto an order he forgot to let the team know about. I catch up to him and punch the other arm to even it up and yet again remind him he is sacked.
"Yeah, yeah I know", he goes back to his desk and picks up where he left off, playfully nursing fictitious injuries on both his arms.
2 hours later, after several phone calls from this person that I didn't take, I have just have to do it don't I? I take a very, very deep breath and accept the call from this person, remind her yet again that I have resigned, no amount of increase of financial incentive will sway me either. (It has quadrupled in value)
.
It always goes the same way, she will pipe up and ask "Why did you ring me" I'll answer that she had called me, then she will blurt out quite contritely "Why on earth would I ring you and how did you get this number, whats your name again, why have you got that name, it doesn't make sense, I mean what is it?" she demands
Replying to that with a sigh "You rang me about about the project that I resigned from remember? Please refrain from calling again"
She will start going on about how important she is, she needs me to finish the project as the original team members have now apparently all moved to Siberia and are unlocatable. While making demands of me on the phone in which I have no opportunity to interupt, she constantly orders her staff around in the most bizarre of fashions, like not to move from their desk, or to only cross the left leg over the right leg, never the other way around.
Last week I heard her admonish a staff member with "Why is that book on the left hand side of your desk, I want it on the right hand side of your desk and why are you fiddling with your hair. I don't like you fiddling with your hair while I am talking to you, please move the book now. More to the right, down a bit, a little bit more, that will do, why are you playing with that book?",
Or she will demand a staff member to move a phone cord so it sits in a particular fashion.
I take a deeper breath and remind her yet again that I have indeed resigned and that there is no point in contacting me again. She will inform me not to get off track and how is it relevant to the project.
I quit, that's more than relevant.
Yes she says, "I have heard it all before, now it's very important that I get this email before 9 am". Then she will say that I have taken up enough of her time and that I should in future call her at a more suitable time.
Dom hands me a bottle of water with 3 panadol and a coffee chaser. With a wink he says "I can assume that I will be booking you a flight to Siberia sometime very soon?".
I have to wonder whose cat did I run over in a previous life.
"Whats for dinner mum?" calls out a voice from the other extreme of the house.
Not answering and still concentrating, when the question is called out again but much, much louder. Darn! the kids don't fall for the selective deafness trick anymore!
Sigh.
"Food! and if your lucky, it'll be edible" Not taking my eyes of the screen.
It's 6pm, and the daily family maintenance of providing a suitable meal for hungry mouths seems unavoidable. The trouble is I am not hungry, well not anymore. Half an hour a go, I stumbled through the door after a horrendously busy day of running the business, whilst trying in earnest not to have to speak to a particular person, made a quick 2 slices of toast with Tahini, which was my breakfast, lunch and dinner in one mouthful.
"Cheesy Awesomeness Mum!" calls out young master Ritch and the rest of the troupe agree.
"Nooooooooooooooooooooo, No, No and No some more OK!!". The kids all call out yes, yes and some more yes!!.
The no and yes thing swings back and forth a few more times and I still haven't won a single game in the meantime.
The next office chair I get will definitely not have wheels. I protest loudly, as Ritch grabs the back of my chair and starts driving me into the kitchen backwards.
"No, I don't want to! you can't make me do it, I don't want to........" my crying plea's fall on deaf ears, as Ritch starts piling up the ingredients onto my lap. He turns the oven on, still dragging his protesting mum around in her wheely chair. He opens the fridge throwing more items on the growing mountain on my lap.
"Due to the lack of interest on my behalf, I have cancelled dinner this evening!". They don't fall for that one either
I just have to do it don't I?,
Cooking the 'Cheesy Awesomeness' gets underway with the close monitoring of the 2 youngest members of the family, just in case I decide to escape.
They're lucky this time, it was brilliantly edible.
There are times that I wish that things I don't want to do turn out that way, like some work days. Like today's workday, which had me spinning around faster than a child's spinning top, except without the colours. I have come to rely on Dom, our 'gopher', wonderfully adept at handling everything, including filtering of incoming phone calls. Though I still sack him nearly every week, he just laughs.
There's a company that headhunted me for a design project over a year ago which got off to a fantastic start. With a team of 4 people from this company, another was added for some reason, having been transferred from another department. The original 4 left the company within 2 weeks, when this new member was added. Unfortunately I inherited her as the project was almost completed. After a few phone conversations with this person, I too throw the towel in and resigned from the project.
She rang again today, as she has done regularly for the last 10 months, and it's never a pleasant outcome.
As Dom whispered who it was, I dove under my desk, shaking my head furiously, grabbing my fortunately large handbag to cover my screams of denial, frustration, anguish, and turmoil. With the most politest of professional voices he calmly tells the person "She won't be taking your phone call today or any other day! promptly hanging up. Phew........
My bag starts to ring..........................
Throwing the bag in his direction, he then throws it to Zjarie, our sales manager, like a hot potato, who can't find anyone else close enough, hurls the bag into the nearby fabric bin. They both back away from the bin, I stay cowering under my desk till it finally stops.
Dom quickly runs down to the production area before I reach him, because he was the one that gave her my private mobile number. Hoping to punch him in the arm, I call out he's sacked instead as he escapes out of my reach. A couple of minutes later our production manger punches him in the arm, because he had been holding onto an order he forgot to let the team know about. I catch up to him and punch the other arm to even it up and yet again remind him he is sacked.
"Yeah, yeah I know", he goes back to his desk and picks up where he left off, playfully nursing fictitious injuries on both his arms.
2 hours later, after several phone calls from this person that I didn't take, I have just have to do it don't I? I take a very, very deep breath and accept the call from this person, remind her yet again that I have resigned, no amount of increase of financial incentive will sway me either. (It has quadrupled in value)
.
It always goes the same way, she will pipe up and ask "Why did you ring me" I'll answer that she had called me, then she will blurt out quite contritely "Why on earth would I ring you and how did you get this number, whats your name again, why have you got that name, it doesn't make sense, I mean what is it?" she demands
Replying to that with a sigh "You rang me about about the project that I resigned from remember? Please refrain from calling again"
She will start going on about how important she is, she needs me to finish the project as the original team members have now apparently all moved to Siberia and are unlocatable. While making demands of me on the phone in which I have no opportunity to interupt, she constantly orders her staff around in the most bizarre of fashions, like not to move from their desk, or to only cross the left leg over the right leg, never the other way around.
Last week I heard her admonish a staff member with "Why is that book on the left hand side of your desk, I want it on the right hand side of your desk and why are you fiddling with your hair. I don't like you fiddling with your hair while I am talking to you, please move the book now. More to the right, down a bit, a little bit more, that will do, why are you playing with that book?",Or she will demand a staff member to move a phone cord so it sits in a particular fashion.
I take a deeper breath and remind her yet again that I have indeed resigned and that there is no point in contacting me again. She will inform me not to get off track and how is it relevant to the project.
I quit, that's more than relevant.
Yes she says, "I have heard it all before, now it's very important that I get this email before 9 am". Then she will say that I have taken up enough of her time and that I should in future call her at a more suitable time.
Dom hands me a bottle of water with 3 panadol and a coffee chaser. With a wink he says "I can assume that I will be booking you a flight to Siberia sometime very soon?".
I have to wonder whose cat did I run over in a previous life.
Friday, October 22, 2010
breastfeeding and going back to work?.
When I had my third child, I initially had plans of staying home as long as possible. Late in the pregnancy, my husband and I split so that plan had to went down the gurgler. When 'Zip' as she is affectionately called was 4 months old, I had to return to work to cover the mortgage and everything else as adults with family have to be responsible for.
Zip was born very prematurely, so I knew that breastfeeding was of the utmost importance for her health, well being and development. I also had a plan to breastfeed till self weaning stepped in. I am a very big fan of breastfeeding, but not to the point of being a Nazi about it.
I spent my lunch times in the ladies toilet cubicle hand expressing with a sandwich and photograph of my baby girl perched on my lap. It was the only discreet place at work. There were only 2 cubicles, and I wanted to put a sign on the other cubicle door saying "Milk extraction in process, please refrain from No 2's for the time being".
Once finished I would place the bottle of life sustaining liquid gold in the staff fridge, always anxious I would forget and go home without it. I never thought it would be emptied by an unsuspecting very young, very tall male employee. I caught him just has he had emptied the contents down the sink. I wanted to kick him in the shins, the only place I could reach, but I called him an ignoramus of mega proportions instead.
With no back up supplies in storage, the debate raged on as to give up breastfeeding all together, now that she was six months old. In most people mind set, it's either one or the other and never the both to meet. My mother, dearly as I loved her, must have forgotten to stand in the diplomacy line, or they had ran out, when the traits were being handed out, was far more cutting, "Give up that stupid idea of breastfeeding, it's not like you're trying to win a medal" Ouch.
It was my father who came up with the ingenious idea of formula feeding through the day and breastfeeding morning and night. That way he said, you would have a proper lunch time and not look so frayed every afternoon. He had a point, I was looking a bit rough around the edges lately.
It was drilled into us at the hospital and at the baby health clinics by the lactation consultants, aka the "Breastfeeding Police" that as soon as you substitute formula for breastfeeding, it normally sparks the demise of breastfeeding in general, along with the breakdown of the baby's health, mental development, success in life, will also lead to the social degeneration of mankind and possibly the destruction of the Earth.
For each new mum, leaving the hospital, was handed the fate of the world right there with her swollen breasts and newborn babe in arms. Hence secret societies, hidden in closets all around the world, of formula feeders. Whispers can be heard of mum's wanting to offload the terrible guilt of "I gave my baby formula the other day".
Yet at the same time they would tell you that the breasts produce milk to fit in with the demand. During growth spurts when the baby suckles more often than normal, it's the cue for the breasts to produce more. So why not the other way.
For the next 18 months that's exactly what I did, breastfed her morning and night, which I enjoyed so much and my parents who lovingly looked after my trio of delight, gave Zip formula during the day. Just after her second birthday, right on Christmas morning, she didn't want 'mummy milk' any more, but a hug, a kiss and presents instead.
It can be done, to combine work and breastfeeding so it doesn't take its toll on the most precious of family commodities; Mum.
Zip was born very prematurely, so I knew that breastfeeding was of the utmost importance for her health, well being and development. I also had a plan to breastfeed till self weaning stepped in. I am a very big fan of breastfeeding, but not to the point of being a Nazi about it.
I spent my lunch times in the ladies toilet cubicle hand expressing with a sandwich and photograph of my baby girl perched on my lap. It was the only discreet place at work. There were only 2 cubicles, and I wanted to put a sign on the other cubicle door saying "Milk extraction in process, please refrain from No 2's for the time being".
Once finished I would place the bottle of life sustaining liquid gold in the staff fridge, always anxious I would forget and go home without it. I never thought it would be emptied by an unsuspecting very young, very tall male employee. I caught him just has he had emptied the contents down the sink. I wanted to kick him in the shins, the only place I could reach, but I called him an ignoramus of mega proportions instead.
With no back up supplies in storage, the debate raged on as to give up breastfeeding all together, now that she was six months old. In most people mind set, it's either one or the other and never the both to meet. My mother, dearly as I loved her, must have forgotten to stand in the diplomacy line, or they had ran out, when the traits were being handed out, was far more cutting, "Give up that stupid idea of breastfeeding, it's not like you're trying to win a medal" Ouch.
It was my father who came up with the ingenious idea of formula feeding through the day and breastfeeding morning and night. That way he said, you would have a proper lunch time and not look so frayed every afternoon. He had a point, I was looking a bit rough around the edges lately.
It was drilled into us at the hospital and at the baby health clinics by the lactation consultants, aka the "Breastfeeding Police" that as soon as you substitute formula for breastfeeding, it normally sparks the demise of breastfeeding in general, along with the breakdown of the baby's health, mental development, success in life, will also lead to the social degeneration of mankind and possibly the destruction of the Earth.
For each new mum, leaving the hospital, was handed the fate of the world right there with her swollen breasts and newborn babe in arms. Hence secret societies, hidden in closets all around the world, of formula feeders. Whispers can be heard of mum's wanting to offload the terrible guilt of "I gave my baby formula the other day".
Yet at the same time they would tell you that the breasts produce milk to fit in with the demand. During growth spurts when the baby suckles more often than normal, it's the cue for the breasts to produce more. So why not the other way.
For the next 18 months that's exactly what I did, breastfed her morning and night, which I enjoyed so much and my parents who lovingly looked after my trio of delight, gave Zip formula during the day. Just after her second birthday, right on Christmas morning, she didn't want 'mummy milk' any more, but a hug, a kiss and presents instead.
It can be done, to combine work and breastfeeding so it doesn't take its toll on the most precious of family commodities; Mum.
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