Category Archives: Parenting

Things I Didn’t Know You Could Do. Until You Did Them.

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You grow so used to your role; which is ridiculous, considering it is ever-changing. Like that saying about the river; you can’t step in the same day of parenting twice either. Though it may all seem a vibrant blur of similarities; the same faces and foibles and fruitless searching for misplaced items and adjectives, it’s an ecosystem that is constantly developing. Somedays hugely.

Like this morning; when Theo got in the shower, and washed himself, and turned the water off when he was finished, and dried himself, and dressed. And I was like, huh? Aren’t you…Shouldn’t I…Don’t you need me to…? Nice work, Bubba! I’ll just sit on the couch for 5 luxurious minutes, shall I? Wait, who am I again?

You don’t have much cause, I find, to feel genuinely astounded. But parenting is like an explosion of astonishment. At first, you’re pregnant! You or your baby-mama are literally growing a person! In your/their body! Then, everything going to plan, you/they give birth to that person! From your/their vagina! I know! Then, you actually have a baby! …but what do you do with it, exactly? Oh! You do everything! Everything!

But with that Everything! comes opportunity of shameless astonishment. Of falling in love with everything about this tiny person you are getting to know. They have such tiny hands! They look like you today!  You’re obsessed with their bowel movements! They were foamier than yesterday! But it is allowed. It is warranted. Because, wow, you know? It’s huge.

And then they do things like roll! Off the change table! And sit up! And get teeth! And you stumble through all these parameter shifts, clinging hopefully to established milestones for reassurance, where there is no certainty. Crawling, walking, communicating. It all happens, but on its own vastly broad and variable terms. But at its heart, it’s you and them. The same.

And though it is all you are doing, it often goes unnoticed that you are teaching them everything. How to be people. What to do, and how and when. So though it is your very mission, it is still cause for astonishment when they actually do it. Especially of their own volition. That they are learning to do everything. The very Everything! you have been so dedicated to. That the central goal of your role is to gradually do yourself out of a job.

Parenting is so immediate, even though you will always be a parent now. It is easy to lose sight of futures you are only able to imagine. Where you do not have to wash any bottom but your own, or remind anyone to share or say sorry or use their manners. Where you do not have to do Everything! But, everyday, those futures are finding their way to you. Slowly and surely. And for certain.

Rise and Shiner.

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It is 5.30am.

Mabel: ‘You need to kiss me! I’ve got a purple poo! Kiss the purple poo! You’ve got a green face, Pink Face! Peppa Pig! Mabel Pig! Purple poo! You’re getting hungry. You need to eat pasta. I did a fart. I need to say pardon. Lie down! Lie down! Lie down! GET UP! Mind out of my way! Let’s have a picnic! Of soup!’

Then she karate chopped me in the eye.

How To: Have Chickenpox – A Retrospective.

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Your crippling social phobias will allay long enough for you to entertain the largest group of children you are not obliged to have at your house if not for a birthday. They will kiss and dance and squabble and feed each other handfuls of hummus, sand, bogies on toast; that sort of thing. And because you are all liberal; or perhaps, because you are so tired; or perhaps because this is the first adult conversation you have had in months, you and your merry band of other long-suffering parents will not interfere or send them conflicting messages about sharing or delouse and disinfect them as you usually would.

And when things begin to turn; when the babyest packs it in or the eldest begins to resemble a communist dictator; or when the adult conversation turns to money or ailments or age, and bags are packed into bags and babies are packed into bags; and remember the days when you could just walk out the door? And some semblence of sticky normality is returned to your overturned house, you will relax and commend yourself on living the dream; of raising children, of having friends you’ve had since you were children, of having friends you’ve had since you were children and now they’ve children. You’ve come full circle and you all eat organic. Atleast in front of each other.

Then the next day you will receive a call; if they have manners. A text if they don’t. Atleast the text will be in all caps, if they have any decency. ‘OMG!’ it will say. ‘WE HAVE CHICKENPOX!! I AM SO SORRY!!!’. And you be initially sympathetic; send over good vibes or hard liquor, dependent on your resources, and you will talk about the process and keep tabs on the development and tell your own childhood war stories and assure them that these things happen and placate each other with lies like ‘rather sooner than later!’ and ‘better to get it young!’ and ‘no, no, don’t apologise!’.

And then you will wait.

Did you know that Chickenpox has an incubation period of up to 21 days? It does!

And then on the 21st day, after 21 days of ‘Is it? Do you think that’s one? Is this it? IS THIS IT?’ your littlest baby, who is most prone to generosity, and partial to fistfuls of hummus, sand and bogies on toast, will get a cough and a cold and a fever; will yell in your face of this grave injustice; will have a fanny that’s on fire, that you will have to fan with a magazine, for hours on end, while they lie, pantsless, in your bed on a towel, just so they can sleep fitfully enough that they will be less fearsome in the morning. Then as days pass they will itch and pick and flail and not sleep and then only sleep on your head and scab and scar and continue to yell in your face of this grave injustice.

And you will think; gosh, that was worse than you were lead to believe it would be. And, have I been wearing these clothes for 10 days? Is that a new personal best? There will be a tube of calomine lotion in every room of your house. You will have had more luke warm baths and less sleep since that time you got Mastitis. And your friends were right to apologise.

And then you will wait.

Did you know that Chickenpox has an incubation period of up to 21 days? You did?!

Did you then realise that if your other child was not initially exposed, you, my friend, will now have the potential of up to 42 days of combined individual incubation periods PLUS! Up to 10 days of active illness in each child! For a grand total of 62 days of Chickenpox! Right in the comfort of your own home!

And then on the 21st day, after 21 days of ‘Oh no, is it? Bloody hell, do you think that’s one? This is it! THIS IS IT!!’ your biggest baby, who is most prone to hypochondria, and partial to fistfuls of hummus, sand and bogies on toast, will get a cough and a cold and a fever; will yell in your face of this grave injustice; will dare not admit to his fate, though will beseech you for trips to the Doctor, at once and often, for the treatment of his ‘pimples’; will insist on sleeping in your bed, though they are enormous and hot and only content to sleep at a 45 degree angle, which you will abide with a toe up your nose so that they will be less fearsome in the morning; then as days pass they will itch and pick and flail and sleep and scab and scar and continue to yell in your face of this grave injustice, and remind you, constantly, to make them that Doctors appointment.

And you will think; nothing. You will be a withered husk of zen-like endurance. Just burn those clothes. You will feel anxious if there is not a tube of calomine lotion in every room of your house. You will have had more luke warm baths and less sleep since that time your littlest baby had Chickenpox. You will hate your friends. They could never apologise enough. They should bake you a cake! And mow your lawns! But you’re never socialising again. And not just because you now look like this:

THE POX!

I should have said I’d make him into a purse. – A Children’s Story (with Stage Directions)

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There were a lot of Crocodiles in our house today.

They sat on the couch and hid under the pillows on the bed. There was one in the pot cupboard before lunch and Mabel claimed to have one up her jumper at one point; though on investigation it appeared to be her own arm – but we took it off and jumped on it, just to be safe. Her jumper, not her arm. That would be silly.

Naturally, this infestation was keenly discussed at bedtime; where it is common for me to make up a story with whatever prompts the children provide. They weren’t interested in a fanciful tale this evening, oh no. They just wanted to know how I was going to deal with all these bloody Crocodiles.

“First!” I told them, “I will sneak up on them, very slowly, like this”( – Exhausted, unwashed Mother sneaks across Lego strewn bedroom.)

“Then! I will look them right in the eye, and tell them firmly BE STILL CROCODILE!” ( – Exhausted, unwashed Mother does best Crouching Tiger.)

“Then! I will leap upon its back and tie a bright red ribbon around and around its snappy jaws! I will tie it in a bow, nice and tight.” ( – E.U.M demonstrates much wild yet determined miming of clutching and winding, ending in an elaborate bow tying flourish.)

“And I will kiss its Crocodile lips, like this!” (- E.U.M furiously kisses squealing children.)

“Then! While the Crocodile is dazed from my kisses, I will slip a collar and leash on to its neck and walk it to the bathroom” ( – Pretty straight forward, really. Leash over head, strut across Lego strewn floor. Not my best work, but it was solid. I stand by it.)

“Where! I will throw it in the bathtub and gurgle him down the plug-hole!” (- E.U.M snatches up Crocodile before flinging him into the bathtub, throws arms in to the air, triumphant big finish.)

“But…what if the Crocodile eats you?” Theo asks.

“He wouldn’t dare! Look how tough I am!” (Exhausted unwashed Mother flexes arm muscles.)

“BUT! What if he eats Otto?! Otto would be sad!” He remains unconvinced.

“I would have that Crocodile down the plug-hole before he even got the chance. Remember?” (More arm flexing. Both arms this time. Draw up sleeves of my ever-present shrouds for effect.)

“Mama?” He sighs. “That’s not a very good idea.” Jeeze, kid. Don’t let me go on or anything.

“We should just take the Crocodile outside and lock the doors and shut the windows.”

“Well, sure, Bubba.” (E.U.M scrambles to regain some credibility.)

“That’s a great idea too. But we don’t really have to worry; there are no Crocodiles in New Zealand. That’s the country we live in.”

“…What about pretend Crocodiles?” Mabel chimes in.

“Well…yes. There are pretend Crocodiles in New Zealand, I suppose. But-…”

“THE CROCODILES ARE GOING TO GET ME!”

It’s going to be a long night.

February.

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This morning I was woken up by you bringing me the phone. ‘It’s for you, Mama’, Theo said as he handed over the reciever. ‘Hello, this is the 111 Operator. Do you have an emergency?’.

‘Mama! I love your big bum!’ Mabel roared in the background.

 

Yesterday Mabel was sitting opposite me in the lounge; pink leggings tucked into rainbow socks in red polka dot shoes. Theo beside her, every item he wore was striped, as usual. You were dimunitive there, swamped in cushions and beseiged by animals. It is strange to notice how small you are; because who you are is so big. The vastness of your presence, your importance; the enormity and complexity of your personalities.

‘You have a big personality’, I am sure people will say to you, as they have done to me. And it may take time for it to not feel somehow backhanded; like you are somehow too much, or that you should try and be less in some way, so others can be more. In times like that, please remember, that you can never shine too brightly. And that those who shine brightest often do so to lead other people out of the darkness. That’s what you did for me. I was at sea and you were the stars that I swam towards. You are the light of my life; and I finally understand what that means.

So it is funny when the world around you makes me notice that you are big, or long, or little, or round. Because whatever you are, you always feel just right to me.

Another thing to remember, when you are older, and I tell you not to buy a cream coloured couch, like my Mother told me, when I was young and reckless and only cared about form over function, please listen. Because 5 years later it will be so ruined by your potential future children and your potential future parties and your potential future life, that the exhorbitant cost of the hire purchase repayments will not haunt you so much as your own stupidity.

 

Mabel; you are joy. And you make me laugh so much it causes me physical pain. You dance on my bed every day as I get dressed, “Look at my bum!” you yell at me. “It’s dancing! Look at my bum! It’s singing!”. “What’s it singing?” I ask you. “Bum bum bum! I’m a bum!” you answer. You sing your A,B,C’s like “a b c d e f g, itchy j k, alabuzza p, q r s t u b, w x y z! Now I know my A,B,C’s, now I know my A,B,C’s!”. You followed me down the street to the Dairy earlier, singing at the top of your lungs “NORMAL, NORMAL, NORMAL”.
You sit across from me now, instructing me to assist you into your seat on the couch; your hands are full, you see, with afternoon snacks. You want my glass of water now, “I’m so thirsty!”, you inform me, with great longing. I tell you you are welcome to share mine, but you have to come over here to get it. It’s a battle of wills. And your Mother never loses. Though you did tell your Aunty yesterday about ‘Mama’s sneaky naps’… You like to hold my hand and slide back and forth on the wooden floors, great sweeping movements in your little socked feet. “I’m ice-skating! I’m a butterfly!” you tell me; your whole face a smile.

Theo; you use words like rascal and peckish. You call Hundreds and Thousands, Two-Hundreds, which could just about be my favourite thing ever. You and your sister are deeply into imaginative play. “I’ve got your teeth!’ you tell her. “You want them? Get them! They’re in the box!”, she mimes along. “And the box is locked!”. I yell ‘Gentle!’ from the sidelines and threaten you broadly with various consequences of your various actions. Earlier today you told your sister, “There’s a fire on my bottom!”, before you worked together to put it out with a pretend hose made from a sock.
I realised today, while we laid on the bed and played a game we often do; where hold you like a baby, though you are nearing half my height, and kiss your face wildly and thoroughly while you erupt into giggles and beseech me to stop, until I do, and you tell me ‘AGAIN!’. That when you are small, there is nothing more pressing than the very best thing you could be doing with that moment. Nothing more important than your favourite thing. The worship of fun. Expressions of love. Contentment and happiness. Nothing beyond it.

You are teaching me about the importance of now. How meaningful it is. The richness you have brought with you, and into my life, is boundless. Your love has made me feel worthy, and there is no way to thank you for that, except to kiss you often and help you onto the couch and wipe both your bums and answer your questions and be as much as I can. To be more than I ever realised I could be.

 

I’m grateful, I’m grateful, I’m grateful.

Love, Mama xx

 

(Mabel is stroking my hair with the hand of one of her dollies as I write this. Thank you darling, it really helps the creative process.  Everyone should be so lucky.)

 

In Every Dream Home a Heartache.

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Everywhere you go, it’s disappearing. The places that came to symbolise the times of your life. The places you went and were. You can no longer find where you are. There is no going home.

Walking around where I grew up, saying hello to the houses that are waiting, waiting. They were a part of a family too. And people will say to you, ‘it’s only a house!’, but houses are homes and that’s where your heart is. And my Mothers house is waiting, and my baby was born there. And my Grandmothers house is gone and my Grandfather died there. And I don’t know if it’s sentimental to miss those places, because they were a part of our lives. They were where we did our living. There is no explaining to people who don’t see it. And I know I’ve gone looking, but they are all still there, fallen in the woods.

And those who look on from London, or are sick of the story, or who come home for Christmas and tell you it’s not that bad; it takes all the air out of you, and you think about the people that are missing, and their families who can no longer hold them, and the homes you don’t have to go to, and how it was that day, and all the days after, and what our new normal is.

Why do you stay?, they’ll ask. Maybe you’ll ask yourself. Especially at night, when there’s a 3 or a 4 that you wait, breathless, to turn into an 8. Or because you have children, and shouldn’t you take them away from all this? But what the Earthquakes stood to teach us, and what being a parent shows you every day, is that anything is possible.

You stay because it is yours. Because it belongs to you. Your memories belong to one another.

It’s what holds us together and stands us apart. We are now connected by what we remember, and that’s ours forever.

It’s our home and our heart.