Accessibility

Just as I was fleeing to make a writing escape, Daniel pinned me down to tell me some “facts” he’d learned from a library book. Classic dilemma: do I evade his request, and continue on my self-fulfilling journey down the hallway, or do I grace him with more of my time. In a moment of weakness I say, “You can just tell me TWO facts. I’m going to do some writing now, and this is my time. You need to appreciate that I’ve spent the whole day with you, so now you can spend some time with Dad, or do something quietly on your own.” Broken record. The first fact was that goldfish only have a 3 second memory retention. That was actually helpful as it explained something I’ve often wondered about - do goldfish get bored, and is it ethical to keep them as pets? Given they forget where they’re been every 3 seconds, I imagine it would be quite impossible to get bored - they probably have a delightful existence, constantly seeing things as if for the first time. They would have no ‘baggage,’ bear no grudges, and made new friends everyday. Sounds like a nice life. Now that I know it’s OK to keep them as pets, instead of looking upon them with pity, I’ll look to them for inspiration when I need a reminder to “let things go.” The second fact Daniel shared with me (after a lengthy assessment of what was the most vital to share with me from a choice of 200 facts) was that snails can sleep for 3 days in one go. I wish I could do that. 

Turned out that was a nice lead-in to introduce my thoughts for this week. I’ve been pondering on my ‘accessibility’ as a Mother, and struggling with when it’s appropriate to set boundaries. I welcome the school holidays for several reasons; one high on the list being the freedom to lie in bed and not have to get up in order to get everyone else up, fed, dressed, sorted, and packed off to school for the day. The first day of the holidays, Elliot runs crying into my bedroom at 6:45am telling me Daniel stole the T.V. remote. Hello? Does it not register to him that I’m asleep? Apparently not. I’m accessible. Furthermore, what does he expect me to do about it? Don’t witness the crime, don’t get involved is my motto. I've been drawn into the saga of being judge and jury far too many times before without solid evidence as to why each party is aggrieved to know that it never ends well. Besides, I’m asleep. I just mutter my standard response to T.V. related “issues” and say if they can’t sort it out between themselves, no-one gets to watch T.V. After all, it's a privilege. All is well as I slip back into my blissful dream, until quarter of an hour later when Daniel runs into my room to 'TELL ON' Elliot because he’s spilled yoghurt on the floor. Hello? Asleep. I wonder what he actually hopes to achieve by delivering me such trivia? Nothing positive in my view, I can tell you that. Awesome start to the school holidays. 

Later that same day Elliot was having a bath, making magic potions as he does. He hears me go into the toilet in the next room. “Mum, I need you to open this bottle for me!” I tell him I’m on the toilet. “Yes, but I need you to open this bottle for me!” Seriously? When I gave birth, not all of my placenta came away initially, and I’m starting to doubt now whether they got out the bit that was attached to the umbilical cord during the D & C. I’m not sure if it’s just me, or all Mothers suffer the same phenomenon? My children seem to reserve the divine right to full and unconditional access to me 24/7.

The reverse is not true though. I don’t dare assume privilege to access them if they’re in the middle of doing something self-serving. Elliot has even made signs to hang on his bedroom door to stipulate when and under what conditions I’m allowed access to his room, and therefore him. A recent door hanging was: “I’m doing artwork. You may enter only if you intend to buy something from my gallery - $1 for a landscape and 50 cents for a portrait.” Charming. Sometimes the sign just reads “Go Away, Or You Die,” which is no doubt intended for his brother rather than me. Anyone would think he worked for MI5 the secrecy that surrounds the goings-on in his bedroom sometimes. My friend's daughter has a sign on her door which presents a secret code that, if it can be cracked, will allow access into her room. I tried to crack it the other day and I couldn't. To be fair, I'd had a few wines, but I honestly didn't think it was crackable. Can you imagine if we Mothers took the same liberties and hung entry conditions on our bedroom doors ("Homework must be completed before entry allowed")? I'm not sure they'd be met with the same humor and respect that their conditions are. The reality is my children would probably feel like I’d cut their arm off if I was to even put a lock on my en suite door. A lock wouldn’t help anyway, they would still loiter outside the door making their presence and pressing needs known to me so they could be ‘attended’ to as soon as I emerged.

Believe it or not, I actually hid in my office closet the other day to avoid an "I'm telling on you" incident. I heard it brewing from the other end of the house, and was overcome with a gut instinct to HIDE. Their frantic footsteps were coming... coming... I sensed their urgent eye-sweep around my office as I held my breath buried deep in winter coats, affording me a comforting moment of peace. Unsurprisingly, they got over it fairly quickly after they gave up their search for me. Makes me wonder how vital I really am to their reconciliation process. I could possibly save myself a lot of aggrevation simply by hiding more often.

So my question is this: am I responsible for the 'accessibility' issue... have I made my own bed? Have I allowed myself to be so readily available to them over the years that it’s become absolute, or is it just the inherent nature of a Mother/Child relationship? I know and accept it’s my job to be there for them always. Without condition, I'll always be there for them if they fall. I'll always be there for them if they're unwell, or sad, or need to talk. I'll always be there to counsel, console, and cuddle. But there must be boundaries, surely. I don’t accept they can have a piece of me whenever they see fit. I don't accept that my expectation to sit on the toilet in privacy for a couple of minutes, or to rest in bed undisturbed for an extra half hour in the morning is unrealistic. 

I know if I can teach them to respect my need for space and privacy more, I’ll be teaching them a lesson that goes beyond what they need to learn within the dynamic of our family. They need to learn that the world doesn’t revolve around them (between us, in my world, it actually does, but that's something I'll keep to myself until they understand it for themselves one day). I’d also be doing them an injustice if I didn’t help them develop the skills they need to resolve issues between themselves and learn to be happy in their own space. Having said that, Elliot is apparently already quite comfortable in his own space, evidenced by the "signs." I must say though that tonight I was pleasantly surprised to see this sign hanging on his door: "Feel free to enter, am in cuddly mood." Respect. I'm not sure many of us adults would be so forthright. 

I feel a bit nostalgic even as I write this because I know one day my boys will be all grown up. They'll come a time I know, when them taking the time to seek me out will be something I'll love most in all the world. I'll miss hearing potions being made in the bath, and me being an integral part of that procedure. I'll be 60 years old, lying in my bed at 9am in the morning stretched out like a cat with cream, reflecting on how quickly my boys grew up; wishing that they would just bound into my bedroom one more time with their cries for help, just so I can be reminded of how much they once needed me. 

For now though, I’m feeling inspired to make a sign that says: “Do not disturb. Writing in progress,” which I'll hang on my office door the odd evening my husband is on putting-to-bed duties. The irony is that even though I will have created some 'delicious space' to have a break from my children, all I'll be doing is writing about them! They're just so very inspirational you see...

Mum’s the Word:

It's OK to need space from your children. It's good for them to learn respect for that too. But keep it real... make sure they understand you will always be there when it counts.  

The Power of Music

I was caught somewhere between feeling amused and disburbed recently when I attended a school assembly and listened to a Year 3 class belt out Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep” with great gusto and passion. The lyrics basically express her lament for a love that crushed her heart and soul, and her desire to see that person burn in hell. I’d like to think the angelic little 7-year olds weren’t in tune with the intent of the lyrics as much as they clearly were with the melody. "We could have had it all..." they too lamented, ironically with much enthusiasm. How crushing for them not to feel empowered to the degree they might one day be in a position to actually have it all! Isn't that what our children should be learning at school? 

It took me back to my own years at school, when learning assembly songs was the highlight of my week. I still remember the words to all the songs I learned back then, which evidences the power of repetition. The song that left the biggest imprint (scar?) on my memory was the 1949 hit “I’m Nobody’s Child,” which is about a child who was abandoned in an orphanage and nobody wants him because he’s blind. Consequently, he’s starved of “Mummy’s kisses” and “Daddy’s smiles” and “wishes he could die.” Nice. I loved it! My other favourite was Don McLean’s “Starry Starry Night” which is a song about how much Vincent Van Gogh suffered for his sanity and eventually took his own life ("as lovers often do"). I embraced those songs with intense fervor and compassion. When I sang them, I was mentally transported to a place where I  truly felt the immeasurable suffering of the subjects, and was deeply affected by the unjust tragedy of it all.  

As does any serious artist, I practiced my ‘learnings’ outside school too. I used to sing those particular songs at home all the time. I also used to sing them on long car trips we took for family holidays, in a mini, driving from Wellington to Auckland. Any budding thoughts I had to become a singer when I grew up were quickly suppressed by my parents in those days as they repeatedly asked (begged) me to “change the tune... please” (evidencing that repetition can also have adverse side-effects). She never said it out loud, but I'm sure my Mum must have been deeply concerned for my mental well-being in those days. Aside from my addiction to the morose assembly songs, I used to bury myself in paper in my bedroom writing poetry about amputee bag ladies and abandoned children. In hindsight, my inspiration was more than likely ignited by my assembly experiences. Mum must have had episodes where she questioned her parenting skills, or wondered what she might have done in a past life that would have subsequently led her to spawn such a tortured soul. I suspect it was a desperate attempt to 'turn' me when she bought me a Madonna album one day as a reward for getting a good report. To her credit (and Thank God for me) that tactic worked, as I did then begin to embrace a more upbeat style of music. It was a fabulous time in my life and and I have such fond memories of lying on the lounge floor listening to the likes of Bony M, WHAM, Nik Kershaw and ABBA on my melon sized headphones. Oh thank you ABBA! "Thank You for the Music!" I even began to thread glimpses of hope into my poems 'of that period.' I started to believe that the child might one day be rescued by a loving family, or that the bag lady might actually be a princess in disguise testing people to see if they had enough goodness in their hearts to toss her a coin, at which point she'd reveal her true self and share her worldly riches with them.  

I’d never put much thought into it before now, but in hindsight it's clear to me that the song selections made by my teachers were both insensitive and age-inappropriate. I question the impact they might possibly have had on any child who was teetering on the edge of despair before our joyous assembly ensembles tipped them completely over the edge. I find it hard to fathom why our teachers chose such songs for us. I also have a new appreciation for how my parents must have felt when I incessantly sang about being “Nobody’s Child.” How annoying. Why weren't we taught songs that empowered us; that made us feel like the world was a better place with us in it? Michael Jackson was never short of a song or twenty around those themes. God, even Karen Carpenter offered our generation a couple of uplifting songs that would have been more positively affirming than being nobody's child. 

I’m sure the Adele feature was just a glitch, perhaps because the teacher of that particular class was caught up in the wave of her rise to stardom. Thankfully, I believe 7 year olds are quite simply enjoying the tune and don’t really have a clue what they’re actually singing about. The reason I’m sensitive to the subject is that I firmly believe in the power of  repetitive affirmation. Music is a strong (albeit sometimes subliminal) influencer of that, and consequently can be a major player in the manifestation of thought. I have a playlist on my iPod called Uplifting, and I play it whenever I feel needy of  a spirit boost. Without fail, I always feel tremendously more 'uplifted' when I listen to it, despite the measure of my despair to begin with. The reverse is true too. If ever I hear morbid songs about lost love or tragic outcomes, I sink into a depression that is unfathomable given the relatively perfect life I live. 

My belief in the power of music makes me conscious of the music my children listen to. Daniel has an iPod now and I set him up with a playlist that was a subset of my own. I'm pleased he has a newly acquired appreciation for Neil Diamond, Carole King, and James Taylor - good old-fashioned hearty stuff that lifts the soul. However, he's increasingly asking me to add new songs to the list, such as "Gangnam Style" or songs from "The Little Shop of Horrors," which is basically a musical about a human flesh eating plant. I can't really deny him or suppress his transition towards 'finding himself,' so  I entertain his requests without judgement. As he grows, he'll find his own unique style and groove. I can only hope that the music roots I've laid down for him will assist in his ultimate gravitation towards positive lyrics and positive feelings. 

Mum’s the Word:

Be conscious of what your children are listening to repetitively, because repetition becomes a powerful affirmation, and affirmation becomes a powerful catalyst to behaviour. 

Age or Beauty? 

During my periodic post-holiday de-cluttering and purging session, I came across an old box of photos. I paused to reflect over some pictures of myself, taken in the years B.C. (Before Children) and was struck by how fresh-faced and untroubled I looked. Today I saw myself ‘live’ on an iPod Face-Time chat with my son and was conversely struck by how worn and tired I looked. I got that sinking feeling one gets, similar to when one hears their own voice on an answer phone and thinks, please tell me that’s not really me. Yes, it's post-holidays so some of the lingering stress can undoubtedly be attributed to that (the last couple of weeks of the holidays had me marvelling at the irony that they are called 'holidays'), but I didn't find much comfort in that. The image was irrefutably there in all its glory.  

The trouble with such a frighteningly up-close, full frontal exposure is there is nowhere to hide. So I decided to "be" with it for a moment and took the time to make an honest assessment (all the while in a state of denial that I was actually looking at myself). The drooping jowls were the first thing I noticed, followed by the undeniable loosening of my neck. I pinched the skin under my chin and it didn't even float the idea of retracting back immediately. It actually retained its drawn out shape for what seemed like an inordinate period of time (not unlike a flour-filled stress ball) before lazily settling back into its resting position. The cluster of grey hair I thought I’d ingeniously disguised with blonde highlights was clearly still grey and fooling no-one. In fact, it appeared to have spawned itself since my last inspection. 

We all have those moments don’t we (don't we?). We’re still 25 on the inside, so it seems disheartening and incongruous to see a real-time physical image of ourselves that doesn’t match our mental image. It always makes me think of my own Mum when I see myself like that, which is actually quite a nice thought to gravitate towards because it offers me some comfort. Not because she is so much older than me, thereby easing me back into the relative position of being positively youthful by comparison, but because I've always considered her beauty to be a separate entity to her age. Her skin may have been more taut and her hair dark when I was growing up, but she was always beautiful to me, and will always remain so. Which brings me to the happy and encouraging conclusion that age and beauty are unrelated.  

During my spot-the-difference exercise, comparing my B.C. photos to the way I look today, I wondered whether having children speeds up the aging process, or whether the opposite is true. I’m sure there's an element of both. There are some who say that having children keeps you young, though I suspect they're taking about inside age rather than physical aging. I'm fairly certain I can attribute a great portion of the steady decline in my physical aging to having children. For a new mother, the back is generally the first thing to weaken, stemming from a preference to perch her baby until it walks on either the left or right hip (today's chiropractors advise mothers to mix it up for exactly that reason). Then there are the unfathomable bodily positions one has to get oneself into in order to safely insert a child into a car seat, or to disassemble a monstrous push-chair and squeeze it into a car boot full of shopping bags.    

If stress and worry contribute to aging, then without question, having children also gives birth to those tendencies. Having children brings with it hundreds of sleepless nights. Mothers begin their journey always keeping one ear open at night for confirmation and peace of mind their baby is breathing. For a very long time, they don't allow themselves the luxury of completely shutting down their conscious minds when they sleep - they must remain at their post. If their child is ill, no matter how old they are, a Mother will only ever sway on the cusp of sleep, for they must always be alert enough to leap forth with a bucket, a damp cloth, or a cuddle if an out-of-character splutter or plea for help is heard from their child's bedroom.

Despite the fact there is some truth that having children exposes us to more physical and mental stress than a childfree existence would, I believe our sacrifice is more than compensated for by the subliminal and graceful sort of rejuvenation that blossoms within our hearts as a result. The process of creating a new life, and being blessed with the mantel of responsibility to cherish something greater than ourselves fills us with renewed purpose, and passion for our own life. 

With these reflections in mind, I decided to have a closer inspection of myself after the iPod exposure. I looked in the mirror (not so closely I must admit) and yes, I do have some baggage under my eyes. But my eyes have two little twinkles in them too, which weren’t there before I had my boys. Yes, my skin is sagging a tad, but it’s also much softer than it once was. And not all the lines are from aging... many are from laughter. Though it may not be visible to all who look at me, I know there is something much deeper within me that lights my face up when I feel it. That thing is the phenomenal love and gratitude I hold for my children, and therefore life itself. In my heart, I know that's where real beauty resides, and suddenly age is of no consequence. I humbly suggest I'm much more beautiful now that I ever was in the years B.C, thanks to my children.

On a final note, I’m sure when my son saw my image pop up on his iPod today, he didn’t see me the way I saw myself in that brief moment. He didn't just see my face, he saw me. He saw his Mum. And I know deep down that time and the inevitability of my physical aging will never change that.

Mum’s The Word:

Next time you look at yourself in the mirror, no matter what you see on the surface, try to see and feel what your children do... unconditional love. 

The Truth About Christmas

I was driving home from shopping the other day with Elliot in the back seat, when he suddenly asked, “You know Christmas Mum?” I replied “Yes Love, I do know Christmas,” intrigued as to what his next thought might be. “Well I’ve been thinking, and I find it hard to believe that Father Christmas could deliver presents to all the children around the world in just one night.” This is it I thought. He’s going to pop the question. This phenomenal yet unquestioned ‘truth’ he had been receiving and believing all his life had been pricked with realism and doubt. 

Before responding, I looked at him in the rear view mirror to try and judge the depth of his thought position, and level of intensity on his face. I wasn’t eager to dispel the Christmas myth so casually and without warning. I still wanted him to believe in magic. He’s far too young to get real.

I held a theory for a long time that a child’s exposure to the truth about Christmas plays a significant part in their growing up. I assumed it would dilute the monopoly we have as parents to ‘feed’ information to our children, and have them digest it unconditionally. Which lets be honest, is a fabulous position to be in because it gives us great leverage in trying to solicit good behaviour from them. But once they find out we’ve lied about Father Christmas, what else might we be lying about? Naturally as we all do, I’ve always understood that we propagate the Christmas myth because it brings great delight and pleasure to our children, hence it’s justifiable as a “kind-hearted and harmless lie.” Nevertheless, it’s still a lie, and we teach our children not to lie. I’ve always felt a little uneasy about the topic because no matter which way you look at it, it does feel a tad hypocritical. 

Anyway, back to the look on Elliot’s face as he waited for my feedback. I could see there wasn’t a lot of deep thought processing going on. He was rummaging into a packet of salt and vinegar chips, trying to get the last morsels out from the bottom of the bag. So rather than go for the more carefully constructed and delicate response I’d mustered up in the few seconds I had to prepare, I just leapt in and said “You’re right, good thinking.” Calmly receptive to my confirmation whilst still digging for chips, he added “So it’s you then?” There went any chance I had at prolonging the inevitable into some drawn out explanation of Santa having elves as helpers. “Yes, it’s me,” I said. “That’s cool,” he responded and then promptly changed the subject as quickly as this one had come up, and asked me what we were having for dinner that night.   

I said I held a theory about a child’s innocence being quashed by the Santa exposure, because I no longer hold it. I still think there’s sometimes a fine line in distinguishing the difference between a ‘good’ lie and an otherwise one, but I now think children are wise enough to know the difference, and we need to give them credit for that. It was silly of me to anticipate one incident of revelation would brand me as an untrustworthy Mother. I doubt very much my son even put much more thought into it after our discussion, other than perhaps to make sure his Christmas gift list was communicated directly to me in future rather than via a secret letter to Santa in the North Pole. 

I think on reflection the biggest issue for me around the subject is that I don’t want my children to lose faith in magic, ever. Just because Father Christmas isn’t real, it doesn’t mean magic isn’t. But that’s not something I can discuss with him in a casual conversation coming home in the car from shopping. That’s something I will need to keep discussing with him for as long as I live. Because magic is all around us everyday. It’s not a myth, it’s real. The very fact we are alive is proof of that. 

For now at least, I know Elliot’s belief in the fantastical is still alive and well, because just today he picked a fully seeded dandelion head from our garden. He closed his eyes and made a wish, which I could tell was intense and passionately desired from the flickering of his eyelids and the burrowing of his forehead. He then blew it with all his heart into the wind. “What did you wish for?” I asked. “Can’t tell you,” he said, “otherwise it won’t come true.” I’m pretty sure I know what he wished for; I’m pretty sure he wished he’d get a pillow pet for Christmas. In which case, I'm very glad I'll be able to make his wish come true. Bless. He picked a dandelion for me and asked me to make a wish too. If you’re anything like me, you’ll know what I wished for... it wasn't something anyone could buy me.

Mum's the Word:

The unconditional belief our children will always have in us far outweighs their loss of belief in Father Christmas.  

The Beacon

The mind works in mysterious ways. Yesterday my conscious mind was delivered a snapshot of Gotham City’s Batman Distress Beacon. Clearly, my subconscious mind had been safe-guarding that image over the years and felt a sudden urge to expose it to me. The comedic association between the image and events that were occurring at that time wasn’t lost on me. I was distressed. I wished I could send out a beacon sometimes that would alert a super-power to swoop forth and rescue me. Perhaps it could make “Perfect Mother” appear, waving wand and wisdom, casting peace and calmness upon us all. Truth is though, I don’t believe such a super-power exists. The Perfect Mother is an urban legend, whose mythical presence is sadly perpetuated every time one of us imperfect mothers believe we are less than Her. 

Let me share with you how I arrived at the point of despair. My distress beacon triggered when my youngest son felt a sudden rush of deprivation because he believed his brother had stolen his pen. A fairly standard sort of incident in isolation. However, he consequently made his dissatisfaction with the situation apparent as he forcefully pulled out the kitchen drawer to find a replacement pen. Given that his emotions aren’t yet in harmony with his physical strength, the drawer came right off its rollers and plummeted to the kitchen floor, along with all of its contents. Nice one. It wasn’t just any drawer either. It was the drawer... you know, the one that contains ALL things - from paper clips, envelopes, and lunch forms, to untried recipes, shopping lists, and pens. Lots of pens. FABULOUS! That meant I had to add yet another job to all the others I was simultaneously juggling (only I would know how to reconstruct the drawer contents so everything was back in its rightful place). So now there was a floor covered in “stuff”, a pot boiling on the stove, chilled (rapidly moving to soggy) pastry on the bench waiting to be cut and baked, and a builder impatiently knocking on the kitchen door to indicate he needed my input before continuing. I was also on the phone to a friend who had called me just prior to the ‘trigger point’ to ask me what I was planning to bring to a pot luck dinner she's having... in 3 weeks time! ARGH! To make matters worse, I’d seen some of the lunch money coins roll under the fridge when the drawer dropped. Whilst balancing the phone in the crook of my neck, I’d lunged to floor in a desperate attempt to retrieve them, and noticed all kinds of shit under the fridge that I’d been blissfully unaware of before. So then I had to make a mental note to add that to my list of cleaning to do tomorrow. Oh, but that’s right, I had to go to ‘work’ tomorrow. The cleaning would have to wait until I got home from ‘work.’ I’d probably need to make an appointment with the chiropractor too since my neck would more than likely be out.  

Normally, I’m a very organised and methodical person, but I have to admit that right about then, I started having ‘issues’ prioritising. To make matters worse, the son I’d banished for his drawer-dropping crime was wailing cries of injustice from his bedroom, while the other seemed to have his computer turned up to maximum volume so I could hear the moronic  cessation cry of every zombie he ran over with a lawn mower.

For me, there is a cut-off point when my brain stops functioning, and I’d hit it. I assume it does this to preserve itself from combustion. I recognise the moment it occurs, and slip into my “resign and wine” (RAW) stage. Amazing how a couple of sips of wine (OK, gulps) can still the mind to a point of apathy and things start to seem manageable again. 

My husband arrived home from work just then, and saw me chilling with a glass of wine. “Cruisy day?” he asks, looking vigorous and full of energy after being at ‘work’ all day. He doesn’t actually look me in the eye when he says it though, because he’s too busy checking out the suggestive (though not intentional) gap in my sarong, trying to assess whether I’m wearing underwear not. I give him the death-glare. He knows what that means and retreats. Smart move. 

Dinner and drama over and forgotten, I tucked the previously banished son up in bed and read him a bedtime story. We also had a quiet discussion about anger management, which is always easier to do in a more calm and serene environment, whilst fairy lights glisten in his room. Just before lights out, we went through our common ritual about how much we love each other and how tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes, full of possibility and wonder (I watched a lot of Anne of Green Gables when I was a child - she was always so very optimistic). Is he the perfect son? No. Am I the perfect Mum? No. But we have many perfect moments. I never cease to be amazed how one brief moment of shared love can instantly dissipate all the angst that precedes it. It’s a powerful thing. It’s the real super-power that without fail, always ultimately responds to my distress beacon. 

Mum’s the Word:

P.M.S. alternatively stands for “Perfect Mother Syndrome.” It’s a psychological disease. We need not suffer from it though, as it can be unconditionally slayed by a greater power.