Archive for parenting

Kids Food (and other stuff)

My kids don’t eat enough veges.  Of more accurately – they hardly eat any.  This is my most on-going area of parental anxiety (well, equal to my fear that the joys and freedoms of homeschooling will at some point be outweighed by my kids lack of academic achievement).   Even knowing I am riddling them with food issues doesn’t stop me from constantly fretting about it in front of them.  T ate everything until he was 2.5, and then gradually retreated into a bland carbohydrate diet.  J is somewhat better, but his need to “have what T is having” doesn’t help.

My dad used to tell the story of how in his family he had to eat everything on his plate.  One night he sat there, not eating his (disgusting) veges.  When everyone else left the table , he got up and (secretly, he thought) threw his food out into the yard.  His mum scraped it back onto his plate, and he had to eat it, dirt and all.

I remember my childhood meals of meat and three veg.  I literally gagged at the prospect of eating boiled peas and I pushed them around the plate trying to make the pile look smaller.

Given that P and I (now) eat a lot of veges, and they are always available, I just hope that eventually the kids will gravitate to a healthful diet.  T “knows” what a healthful diet is, and will often say he would like veges for dinner (to watch my face glow with happiness) but when they are served, his face crumples in despair.  “If only they tasted nice mum!”   He happily eats avocadoes, carrots, the peas shelled from fresh snow peas, and will nibble on a leaf.  Sigh.

Recent reading on kids’ health threw up the finding that parents are poor judges of how healthy their kids are, as they confuse happiness and healthiness.  So even though we might *know* our kids’ diet is inadequate, or they have too little exercise or too much screen time, we *think* we are getting away with it:  “Look, they’re healthy!” when in actual fact they’re ‘just’ happy.

Another snippet from the same book.  In the UK, school canteens are shifting to ‘healthy’ menus (thank you Jamie).  At one school, an entrepreneurial 13yo opened a rival canteen, selling the stuff that the school canteen used to sell.  He was doing very well, and his customers included the teaching staff, when the school closed him down as he was ‘undermining their healthy eating message’.   He was pissed off – he wasn’t doing anything illegal.

I like this story as I can’t decide what I think.  Obviously I am committed to the “healthy eating message”, but I *really* feel for this kid!  The injustice!  I take it they didn’t close down the local Maccas as it was ‘undermining the healthy eating message’.  The most amazing learning experience he probably ever had on those premises, and just shut down.  What’s he learnt now? – the little guy can’t win.

Sorry to bore those of you who have heard my experience of being arbitrarily “shut down” by school authorities because my activities didn’t suit them, but I can *still* seethe with the injustice of it!  In primary school, when I was in Year 6, the school decided that girls were not allowed on the school oval to play during lunch and recess (yes, the 1980’s – not quite the dark ages).  A friend and I started “Girls Lib”, a movement to allow girls back on to the oval.  Our initiatives included large posters advertising all the games girls used to enjoy on the oval, and a petition.  When you signed the petition, you receive an handmade badge – “Girls Lib!”  Unfortunately, the boys took this as some sort of gender war, and started ripping them off girls’ shirts – meaning my friend and I were in full scale production of the badges, to replace those lost to the neanderthal boys.

The librarian asked us to move the petition out of the library, so we relocated to near the canteen.  Then after a week or so, my classroom teacher advised that the principal had advised him that we had to stop Girls Lib, because it was too disruptive.  No boy was advised that they should stop grabbing at girls tops and ripping off their badge.  We still weren’t allowed on the oval.  CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT????????  Not a single teacher –  or parent – including my own – was prepared to step up and support our cause.  Just shut down for causing a disturbance.   That was the high & low point of my career as an activist.  A  just cause, and no one in authority cared about anything, except the quiet life.   Maybe it was at this point that I decided that school was a series of lessons in compliance and control.  He’s probably dead now, but the principal’s name was Mr Colvin, and unfortunately I have never bumped into him as an adult to give him the serve that ALL THE OTHER ADULTS SHOULD HAVE AT THE TIME.  GGGRRRRRRR.

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Dispatches from Cooktown

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Grassy Hill

For some reason I hadn’t realised until now *why* Cooktown was called Cooktown.  I mean, if I’d contemplated the issue, I probably could have figured it out.  Cook……Town.  How funny.   I’m glad I don’t have an eponymous town.

It’s spectacular around here.  We went to the top of Grassy Hill where Lieutenant Cook went to have a look around.  Apparantly he was a bit concerned by the navigational conditions.  It must have been a bit like Apollo 13 – no Houston, but unlimited oxygen and coconuts.    The drive to get home seems to be very strong, as evidenced by these pioneers.  It’s interesting – so much effort to go so far away, but *really* wanting to get home….. even at the risk of shortening your life.

However, we obviously weren’t inspired enough by this derring-do, as we decided *not* to go to Cape York.  Initially I was very hopeful that we would do this, but I think we just didn’t have the energy levels required to get the kids up and down an extra 2000km of dirt.  I’ve pencilled it in for P and the boys in about 10 years time.  One  of those “coming of age” masculine rituals, where the boys can do a lot of driving even though they don’t have licenses. (I have loads of ideas as to how P can replicate male initiation ceremonies for our boys in this bereft culture.  Do you think this is a problem?  I don’t have any daughters to plan a menarche ceremony for, so my enthusiasm manifests inappropriately.)  I’m trying to avoid the binge-drinking, drugs and disrespect of women which seem to be the current ways in which boys try to tell the world that they’re “all grown up”.  

“Good luck”, I hear you say.

PS.  This was also the site of another of my excellent attempts to impart Australian history.  “Captain Cook is remembered for discovering Australia.  But of course, he didn’t discover it.  Aboriginal people had been here for around 60 000 years, and other seafarers had also visited before he got here….. (desperate look to P – who obliges “Captain Cook claimed Australia for England”.. which gets a blank look from T and segues into a conversation between P & I as to the strange mores of the time that allowed him to consider doing this, and the sad truth that maybe not much has changed…..) so T is able to summarise “Captain Cook didn’t discover Australia.”  I’m glad we’ve got that covered.

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Musical Boat

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Ruminations

Halls Creek was a weird kind of apartheid arrangement, where all the white “service” people (police/teachers/public servants) had nice houses at one end of the town, and the local aboriginal people lived in the seeming ghetto -  at the other end of town.  I can understand that if the community doesn’t have enough skilled people to take up local positions then you have to attract them from somewhere else, and that probably includes access to a reasonable house.  But why is the urgency and outcome there for one end of town and not the other?  Why are there ”ends”?   How is it that decent housing has been achieved in only half the town?  I read in the paper that the Fed Govt SIHIP (strategic indigenous housing initiative program – or something like that) for the NT has spent $45 million dollars and haven’t yet built a single house.  Where the money went seems unreported.

Speaking of the lack of investigative journalism – another article in the Oz the other week…..  Lightening Ridge, a community in NSW.  Many of the children have been removed by DoCS.  The mothers claim there has been no abuse; that the DoCs workers view their lifestyle through a white middle class prism and don’t approve, and remove the children citing “neglect”.  Presumably the families have gone through the relevant DoCS/govt processes and got nowhere, so contacted the fourth estate.  The relevant journalists managed to get the official line from DoCS, that the childrens’ removal had been appropriate, and nothing else.  Any 15 year old could do that.  Where is the investigation?  If my children were removed because my lifestyle  didn’t fit with govt official values and I was desperate and contacted a journalist and their “investigation”  comprised a phone call to the relevant govt dept and writing down the official line….. I don’t know what I’d do.   That seems more like what you would expect in China, rather than Australia.  

Anyway, this was an interesting article for me on another issue as well. When they visited Lightening Ridge, the journo interviewed a white middle class woman who had lived there for many years in an abandoned bus with no running water and homeschooled her children (I know this as the journo reported these astonishing facts)    It seems there is no school there.  This mother was waxing lyrical about the fab childhood her kids had had, learning about the bush and cars and cooking etc…. and that this was the childhood that all the kids (black & white) were having…..  anyway her kids had “made good” (more astonishment) one doing postgrad studies in Canada, and the other a public servant with the Vic state govt (you can see where the journo got sidetracked….)  Anyway, obviously I appreciated the h/ed kids “success” stories, but I wondered whether the aboriginal children were seeking/sourcing similar opportunities from this childhood – not so much that these are the only type of outcomes that are “good” in my view, but did the white middle class mum in that environment continue to express/espouse those middle class values of “the world is your oyster”  “you can do anything” ” what will you study at uni?” etc etc… and it was actully her input at this level that made a difference?? 

Anyway, I have no knowledge of the potential ”successful” outcomes achieved by the aboriginal children of the community as the article didn’t go there.

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Dispatches from Darwin

water confidence

water confidence

Well, we booked into a house for a week, but I didn’t proceed down the airplane path.  Great town.  Lots of visits to the local markets and swimming pools.  Lots of thinking by me as to how to manage the forthcoming journeys.

At this stage I’ve decided to forgo my dream of sitting in the front seat, ideally reading a book.  I’m going to sit in the back until lunch, leading a variety of fun,  interactive activities…  for which I am purchasing some more resources.   After lunch I will retire to the front and screen a movie for the backseat.  If J is still restless, I will drive, and P can sit in the back leading fun, interactive activities.

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Dispatches from Port Hedland

Arrived here today.  Luckily for us a friend lives here on a part time basis, and is currently here, and we are bludging off him….. thank you M!  So far we have found a potential trailer repair outfit in Karratha in eight days time…  250km *back* down the track….. the irony being of course that we were planning on not going to *either* Port Hedland *or* Karratha.  Now we’re spending longish periods of time in both!  Tomorrow I’m going to investigate possible options in Broome….  surely there must be someone in that caravan mecca earning squillions from the grey nomads??  Please let us go forwards!

On another topic completely, I found a copy of “Buddhism for Mothers with Lingering Questions” at the Exmouth secondhand bookshop and have been reading this recently.  Quite topical for me.  She quotes a mother:

“I’ve found a husband.  We have a mortgage and three children.  I have a part time job which fits into my life well, yet now I find myself asking, what next?  Is the adventure finished?  In other words, I have come face to face with my habit of always grasping for something new and stimulating.”

This is me.  “Is the adventure finished?”  This is my greatest fear.  Even though I *know* the answer lies in the spiritual side of life, I mustn’t really believe this, as I am constantly planning more earthly experiences.  I already have a “plan” to live in Spain for a year in 2013….  nominally so that the boys can be immersed in another culture and language…. but *really* because it helps me to postpone finding myself with no other plans but to live in the burbs and die.  And I don’t think I’m actually doing my kids any favours with these “grand plans”.  Maybe they’d actually be better off if I sent them to the local primary school and they had a routine life, from which they might develop some grand plans of their own.  Rather than being wedged into mine.  I have to say that despite some sublime moments, a road trip would almost certainly not be their choice.  To see poor J’s face crumple with despair because he doesn’t want to get back into his seat is to feel like a bad mother. 

Perhaps the trailer is wiser than me.

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Dispatches from Karijini

karijini 13,7,09 011After overnight at Beasley River (trailer goes up OK with assistance of rope) we arrive at Karijini.  Mum has advised that Aunty G and Uncle R will be there on 13 & 14 July, so we have timed our arrival to coincide with them… a 400km trip on the off chance we find them in a 600 000 hectare national park.  And lo, there they are…. our campsite neighbours.  Serendipity.  And Aunty G spoils us with dinner two nights in a row! 
 
On the downside the trailer is really broken now.  P has diagnosed a problem with the telescopic posts at the front end, and he initially solves this with an internal prop using the car jack and annex posts.  He then upgrades to an external prop using the roof rack and the annex posts. 
I think I may have put a hex on the trailer.  Until about a day before our troubles started I was bemoaning this choice of camper.  In my mind, it was the worst of all possible worlds – with many of the same limitations of a caravan, but none of the benefits!  Ie, all the hassle of set up/pull down.  Plus, I was disappointed that we were spending more time in it, then outside, and was really wanting an outdoor kitchen….. without carrying around essentially two kitchens (one indoor, and one outdoor)  I looked on enviously at people with just a car and swags, or one of those “real” camper trailers…. I wanted one of them!  In fact, I had decided that when we got to Darwin we’d flog this thing to get something else.  It was only after dithering about what “something else” to get, that I made peace with this trailer and decided maybe it was a reasonable middle ground alternative.  I was able to enjoy this for about 24 hours.
 
Day One at Karijini we hike into Dales Gorge and swim at Fern Pool, which is very beautiful.  On the evening of Day Two I come down with some kind of gastroenteritis (perhaps what T had?) and am out for the count on Day Three, and recover on Day Four.  J remains in robust health, a breastfeeding miracle, or a general miracle…..either way, I give thanks.  I breastfed T until he was 5, and he was never ill, bar some minor sniffles until he weaned.  A true Godsend, and I think if more mothers knew this single fact alone, more would breastfeed longer.
karijini repairs

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Saying Goodbye

Well, not quite.  Still here at home actually.  Our departure has been delayed by 24 hours, in the realisation that we aren’t actually ready to leave.  I didn’t realise how much work it would be at the last minute, packing everything into the car and trailer, while concurrently ensuring that pretty much *all* our belongings are packed into the backyard shed, and the house is sparkling clean for the incoming tenant. 

I’m kind of losing it actually.  J is really temperamental with all the changes that are happening, and needs a fair amount of input.   I spend a *lot* of time breastfeeding when I really want to be doing something else.  The kids want everything that has already been packed into the trailer and the last semblance of a healthy lifestyle has gone to shit.  I even drank a can of coke today.

I also have a bad fear that we’ll be gone about 10 days and the kids will be well and truly ready to come home.  Suddenly the realisation of “12 months” will sink in, and the recriminations will begin.

I have been saying goodbyes.  As a friend pointed out, I am actually on the “good” end of the goodbye.  It’s kind of easier for the person embarking on the ”new” life  than for those staying home, as their normal life continues, with the absence of people who were previously a part of it. 

Of course I plan to be in contact with people while we’re away.  But there are two people who really only understand face-to-face contact.   Firstly, my precious little nephew who has just turned one, and started at family daycare.  (How dare they appropriate the sacred word “family” and apply it to their business?)  If I wasn’t going away he could have come and played with his *real* family.  Secondly, my dad, who (despite my telling him) has no idea what’s happening, and I can only hope will still recognise me after such a long absence.  I wanted to cry after visiting him on Sunday, but it felt too self indulgent….  it might have made me feel better. 

If I lived in a different type of society, the idea of going away for 12 months would be unthinkable.  I would remain here – fulfilling my family and community role and duties – and this would be in the best interests of the dependent members of my extended family.   It’s a conundrum.  I can only be grateful for the freedom and affluence that makes other choices possible.  But now that I *have* a choice, I have to recognise the essentially selfish nature of my choice to choof off when I could be at home doing something that would make a difference to others. 

Sigh.  Has this got really maudlin?  I’m knackered.

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Anzac Day

A belated record of our attempt to participate in Anzac Day.

I discussed the history and symbols of Anzac Day with T, and asked whether he would like to attend the dawn service.  Response:  “Will it be boring?”  In all honesty I couldn’t respond that it wouldn’t be.  Neither T nor J wanted to come, and there was a general consensus that they would prefer that I didn’t go either.  However, I decided that I would like to, so I set my internal clock to get up for the local service at 5.45am.  The problem with the internal clock is that it doesn’t have snooze……  so though I woke up at my alloted time, I then decided to snuggle for ‘another 5 minutes’, a fatal mistake.  So I woke again, too late for that service, but in time to attend another at 7.00am.  While getting into the car, P emerged naked to tell me that J was awake and wanted boobie.  Oh well, there’s always next year.

While safely back in bed breastfeeding, I sent a prayer to my Uncle H, who died at El Alamein in WWII.  Of course I never knew him, but I think he would be OK that I was tending to my child rather than at the service.  As the only member of the family to visit his grave, I feel somewhat connected to him. 

My first trip to Egypt I didn’t make it there.  I was on a limited time frame travelling with someone else, and El Alamein is far from any antiquities or backpacker havens selling banana pancakes and hairbraids, playing Pink Floyd and Bob Marley.  I thought I had missed out, but by chance I returned to Egypt three years later (who would have thought?)  This time P booked cheap flights on our behalf, and returned with the startling news that we were flying Air Tarom (Romania’s national airline) and would be in Egypt for six weeks.  Gasp.  I knew this was a grave mistake the moment I heard it.  On the upside, I knew that we would have *plenty* of time to get to El Alamein.

After negotiating the mass of white mini vans and bemused stares from locals in Alexandria, we made it to the El Alamien war cemetaries.  A sea of white crosses.  Left alone, we were at the mercy of the mini van driver to remember to come and get us.   Unlike the scene depicted by Lonely Planet, there was no guide and no book to help you locate a grave.  The only option was to walk up and down the aisles of white crosses in the Australian cemetary.  I started by walking and looking at one row of crosses, then realised I could look at two rows as I walked, and as time marched on, I looked at three rows.  Up and down, back and forth.   So many people dead.  P eventually retreated from the searing heat, but our other travelling companion bravely searched another section for me.

I finally stumbled on my Uncle’s grave – pure chance.  Unexpectedly, I was overcome with emotion.  He was only nineteen (think Redgum).  It seemed so incredibly frightening and lonely to go there and die.   Finally, a niece turns up, about 50 years later.

Now I also grieve for my Bestamor (Norwegian for Grandma).  In the parenting game of russian roulette, your whole emotional life is staked on the hope that *your* child doesn’t cop the bullet.  Or car crash.  Or sexual assault.  Or drug overdose.  Or, or, or.   The shattering reality when they do.

T’s second name comes from Uncle H.  A small remembrance.

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Having a Party

OR: How to fast-track your divorce

What are the dynamics of preparing for a home-based entertainment that trigger intense feelings of antipathy to one’s spouse?  After about 17 years of this partnership, I thought I had this licked.  But no.  How depressing.  So for those that suffer from the same phenomenon, I offer the following tips:

For men:

1)  Work tirelessly to manifest the vision of the lady of the house.  TIP:  Ask a lot of clarifying questions so that all details of the vision are understood by you.  Do *not* improvise.

2)  Take the kids out.

For women:

1)  Start preparing at least two weeks in advance with long meditation sessions.  A lifetime would be best.

2)  Find your sense of humour.  Hold onto it.

These insights are belatedly triggered by hosting a birthday party for T’s sixth birthday, consisting of ourselves and three other families.  As P noted afterwards, I could not have been more stressed if I had been hosting the G20 summit.   The source of my stress was J, who woke up early, was then tired but unable to fall asleep, and wanted to spend the day having boobie.  This was not conducive to cleaning, food preparation, birthday cake baking, or pinata completion.  My carefully compiled “to-do” list sat balefully on the kitchen bench.  And was later inadvertently thrown into the bin…. leading to an apocalyptic explosion from me, before it was re-discovered.

Expectations breed frustrations.  I’m so far from being the zen mama I aspire to be.  Worse, I am revealed as someone with a value system that prioritises “house proud”.   I really want to move on from this.

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Easter at our house

I just thought I’d share the tangled web we weave in trying to help our children know about the traditions of mainstream culture, while concurrently trying to hide from it all.

As you know we are not practising Christians, but one of the things that annoys me, so must annoy them even more, is how the symbols of the celebrations are retailed months prior to the relevant day.  Obviously it is in the shops’ best interests if we eat hot cross buns and chocolate eggs for weeks, not to say months, rather than on one day.  But I refuse to be a patsy to them.

In rebellion I made my own hot cross buns on the day.   While putting on the crosses, I re-told the meaning of the symbol to T, who looked suitably appalled.   I think I may be missing some nuances, because the way I tell it, it’s a story of persecution rather than sacrifice.   P looked horrified that I was spreading this propaganda.  This then segued neatly into the story of the resurrection, where P started to really look concerned.  I explained to T that there was good historical evidence for the crucifixion (which only became apparant to me when I visited Jerusalem many years ago) but not so much for the resurrection – which not everyone agreed had happened (look of relief from P.)   On partaking of my home made buns, T informed me that they weren’t as yummy as the one’s that Grandma had brought last week from the shops.  Great.

On Saturday, a friend advised that he thought that there might be good historical evidence for the resurrection – in the form of hundreds of eye witnesses.   For some reason I thought it was only Mary Magdelene and a few disciples, so maybe I need to do more research into the most common version of events.  But as it happens, my respect for Jesus’s life and teaching does not require him to rise from the dead.  And in fact, this is one of my overall beefs with Christianity – this whole focus on an afterlife is embedded in a negative view of human nature – that we could only be inspired to be “good” by external rewards and punishments – whereas in my worldview the rewards of doing the right thing are always intrinsic.   And in fact, need to be.  Sometimes there is no external reward for doing the right thing.  There might even be an external punishment.   (Jesus’s death here could be a good example…..   but then mangled by becoming alive again!)  Some people do die doing the right thing.  That is the unfortunate truth. 

On Sunday morning I had hard boiled eggs with smiley faces drawn on them.  Then later in the day I felt like a meanie and bought them three tiny choc eggs each for an egg hunt at home.  (Aside:  often I feel that my kids get so many “treats” provided by others, that I can’t give them any myself, as I am adding to a toxic overload.  However I’ve obviously frightened people away, so on this occasion I could choose to provide a small amount of chocolate myself.)  So I hid the eggs amongst much excitement.  Interestingly the first finds were gobbled, the second finds were given to me, and there was not much interest in finding the third.  When I ate one that had been given to me, it really wasn’t particularly yummy.

From all these discussions, T has had two questions.

1.  “Mum, what colour clothes did Jesus wear?”   Umm……. mainly brown?

2.  “Mum, did Jesus have a beard?”  Umm…… not sure.  Some discussion on whether they would have had razors.

So there you have it.  Jesus as object of sartorial interest.

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