Wrapped in Cotton Wool

This is going to get long. Bear with me. (Maybe get a cup of tea first. And some biscuits. Get some for me while you're at it?)

As we are all aware, I'm not all that big on other people's kids (OPK's). I just don't like them all that much, and can list on one hand those kids who I like enough to tolerate for more than 10 minutes (nieces and nephews aside, because they are exempt by virtue of being related to me, and thus fabulous.) The kids are having a birthday party in a few weeks, and I asked them to each nominate 3 friends (other than cousins, etc) they wanted to invite. Lest you think I am being cheap, let me just say that 3x3+3 = 12, which is about as much as I can handle, activity and patience wise. For a 7 year old's birthday party, 12 kids is enough. Bear in mind, the trio go to a small school - their class is only made up of 14 kids. Over the years our kids have mentioned that, of that 14, there are some who they don't get along with, and some who they do. Because, you know, this is perfectly normal - to like some and not others.

So the kids drew up their lists of invitees - and not surprisingly, some of them were not in their grade. Friends from ballet, cousins, family friends, friends in older grades, friends who go to other schools...you get the idea. In the end they (collectively) only chose 5 friends from their grade. FIVE. I was a little disorganised on the invite front, and it was getting late. So I printed a bunch out and stuffed them in my handbag. A couple of days later, we were wandering around at pick up time a bit later than usual. The kids asked if they could give out their invites. I noticed that 3 of the 5 invited kids were around, so I let them pass out the invites.

In doing so, I allegedly committed a crime.

I hurt a kid's feelings.

One kid (one who was not invited) saw the three invites go out. He approached me and asked me what it was about, and I said, "It's for an activity at home." He wanted to know where his envelope was, and I just basically nicely told him that it was a private thing, and that was that. I gathered up my kids and left. A minute later his mother comes running up to me, asking me what "the commotion" was about. DD1, bless her heart, pipes up, "It's our birthday invitations!"

Yeah. BUSTED. Big time.

Long story short the Mom started asking loads of questions about it - date, time, place, etc. I had no choice but to then invite this kid, right? She made the assumption he would be invited, and I totally wimped out and let her believe that. She's had DS over for a lot of play dates...so I freakin' caved in. I assured her that her kid will get his invite the next day. We parted on good terms, but I will admit to feeling really annoyed that I had basically capitulated so easily.

I get home and the phone rings. Said Mom calls to TELL ME OFF for the hurt I have caused her son by not giving him an invitation. She literally tells me how her kid spent the ride home crying and wailing and being upset about what happened. She tells me how she had to promise him a whole bunch of stuff, to make up for the fact that he didn't get an invitation. She tells me how it was rude and inappropriate of me to give the invites out at school...and that she thought it was necessary that she tell me, so that I know what I did wrong. She then goes further to say SHE would NEVER not invite the whole class to her kid's party.

Ummm...yeah. That's why your parties of full of screaming, hysterical, out of control children running around like crazed drug induced maniacs coming off a bad trip. And, here's food for thought, lady - maybe, just maybe, the fact that you give in to your kid's every whim is the reason why he's an out of control, spoiled brat. A brat which my kid doesn't want to have at his party. A brat who my kid ASKED me to please stop sending him over there for play dates because he couldn't stand the noise and the chaos any more.

Clearly, she was trying to piss me off...because then she says, "AS A MOTHER, you should know that when your child feels hurt, YOU feel it too."

Oh, PUH-LEEZE!

This is where, for me, it gets a bit hairy. Did I do the wrong thing by handing out invites publicly? Maybe. Do I really think that this deserved a telling off? No. I am still finding it hard to believe this woman had the balls to do this.

What is this world coming to, that we cannot teach our kids that life is not always fair? Life is full of little disappointments. There will be parties they won't be invited to. Tests they will not pass. Dates they won't enjoy. Food that will smell better than it tastes. Dresses which aren't flattering. Boys who won't like you back. Applications that will be rejected. Dream jobs that will turn out to be horrible. Life isn't always full of blue skies and birds flying by and soft music playing in the background. At the end of the day, her kid will survive not being invited to this party. To put it bluntly: KID, SHIT HAPPENS. I don't understand this modern parenting culture of wrapping kids up in cotton wool...protecting them from every little disappointment.

On the party front, I don't understand why I have to invite kids who my kids DON'T like. Kids who they don't play with or interact with. Kids who have done nothing for my kids other than, you know, exist in the same classroom. There have been times when my kids have not been invited to things - parties, play dates, whatever. This actually happens to us way more than in most families... because someone in their class will invite over only one DD, or just DS. Maybe that's why I believe in the "give it to them straight" philosophy - because it's an issue we've dealt with numerous times. Still, I don't think this mother was doing her kid any favours - she won't be there to cushion the blow of every one of life's disappointments, will she?

Opinions? Are modern parents molly coddling our kids too much? Or should we be preserving their childhoods (because let's face it, childhood is getting shorter and shorter) and protecting them from life's little disappointments? Go on, give it to me straight.

Yet More Sex Talk

After school today, one of the teachers approached me (not a good thing, as it's either a) to rat on one of my kids or b) to get me to volunteer for something). She wanted to tell me that my son had been explaining to the rest of his class the mechanics of sex. In full detail. Apparently the other kids were listening in rapt attention.

Her reaction to this was basically to take him aside and say that while she was glad he understood about it, really - not everyone wants their kids to know that kind of information. So, please, could he not talk about those things at school? I understand where she is coming from - it's no different to the Tooth Fairy or Santa. Some kids know the truth (as it were), others don't. I firmly believe it's a parent's right to choose how and when to explain about all these topics. In our household the policy had been one of age appropriate honesty. So when they asked a few months ago about how babies actually get INTO the tummies of mummies, we explained.

In detail. Appropriate detail. We also referenced the very handy video at the Melbourne Museum. A video they've seen dozens of times, which shows the whole experience in all it's soft focus but very real glory. As is the way of 6 year olds, a song was born. A song with only one lyric: "Daddy put his peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeenis in Mummy's vagiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnaaaaa!!!" (repeat. ad naseum, at full volume, in public.) When said Daddy returned to the car (because, of course, it was me who was confronted with this conversation), the kids asked if what I had said was really true. Because it if WAS true, then that meant we had done it THREE times to have them. And that, my friends, is SERIOUSLY GROSS and EEEWWW and YUUUCCCKKKK.

Never mind that having them actually required NO sex. Not even once (unless you count all the practising.)

DH's answer? An embarrassed, mumbled, "Well, it's been known to happen." At which point he looks at me, eyes wide, and silently asks, "What the hell? I go to pay for petrol and THIS happens?"

Needless to say many conversations about sex followed, and we just kept on with the party line of an honest, age appropriate answer.

So today, when the teacher thought I should clearly be mortified, embarrassed and apologetic, I just looked at her and smiled and said, "Well? Was he at least accurate?!"

Apparently, he was.

Very accurate.

She couldn't quite understand why I looked so proud.

Yeah, best we just leave that one alone...

Another sign my kids are growing up is that they now mostly shower rather than bathe. Sometimes two will shower together, but more often they go one at a time - to save time and my sanity. Often one will have a shower, and one or another will have a bath - but it's been a long time since all three of them jumped in the bath tub together. Mostly this is because they are just too tall, and also because 3 kids + body of water = tsunami. Today the trio jumped into the bath together, and were having a grand old time, until DH and I heard this:

DD1: MUM! MUM! Guess what?! [insert gleeful voice]
Me & DH: WHAT???

DD1: Me and DS JUST DID SEX!
DS: No we didn't!
DD1: YES WE DID! MUM, DS AND I JUST DID SEX!!

Oh holy sweet mother of god, I think it's time that we banned opposite sex bath time.

Because, you know, I don't want them going all Flowers In The Attic on us.

Morning Java

So there I was thinking DH was going to be pretty annoyed with me, when he got home (after reading this blog) and found out about all the things I did/didn't do while he was away. In specific I thought he'd be annoyed about the whole kids-and-coffee thing. After all, every morning of the entire week he was gone the kids and I shared a massive commuter mug full of coffee. He's has this "thing" (and really, I can't fault him) that kids shouldn't be drinking coffee. You know, all that caffeine. Not to mention the chemical cocktail in Sweet n' Low, or the fact that kids don't really need coffee per se. However, he now is left with no legs to stand on after: a) he readily lets them (occassionally) drink Diet Coke or Pepsi Max (which contain not only caffeine but also cancer-causing fake sugar substitutes) *and* b) he came home from his trip away with these:

Yup. Those are giant matching commuter mugs. Perfect for them to have their OWN tall mug of warm, caffeine-laden, pink sachet of cancerous goodness filled, growth-stunting cup of morning java. For shame, DH, for shame. This is how coffee addicts are born.

However, I've recently discovered that DH is smarter than I am. Funnily enough, HE won't make them coffee on mornings he drives them to school. Ya know, he doesn't want to support their habit or anything. So even though I was keeping java consumption down to a minimum (by us all sharing only one cup worth), he's gone and allowed them to have their own. Which, as we know, all six year olds who share every iota of their lives want. Something of their very, very own which they don't have to share because he/she is not sharing properly and it's not fair Mummy!!!!!!! So. He's the one who has made this bigger than Ben Hur, but *I* am the bad guy because I'm the one who actually fills the damn things up.

Sheesh. What's next? I offer them a sip of wine and he buys them matching hip flasks?

Yup, I'm The Worst Mommy EVAH!

Actually, I'm not, it's just that sometimes my kids make me feel that way. You know, when I'm being totally NOT FAIR and MEAN because I asked them to...oh, I don't know... GET DRESSED for school. Or maybe I asked that they tear down (and put away) their 10 foot high volcano of furniture, Lego boxes, Ken doll legs, playing cards and stuffed tigers. Or when I ask them to brush their teeth...having already asked 4 times previously, with an elapsed time of 5 minutes between nice, friendly, polite asking. Us mothers, man, are we HARSH!

Never mind that I let them have treats which I shouldn't have, including our new morning tradition of sharing a massive commuter mug of coffee (made with instant, and made with Sweet and Low! Oh the horrors!) on the way to school. Or the fact that I will move hell and high water to make sure they get what they need. You know, like a roof over their heads and pants that fit and exactly the right outfit for the dress-up parade. All of this goes out the window the very second I become the unreasonable, horrible, you-made-me-cry Mummy ... because I dared comment that it seems to take them 45 minutes to put on their school uniforms, but 2.3 seconds to get into PJ's so they don't miss one second of the Backyardigans.

Here are a few more reasons why I am a mean Mummy:

• I ask them to eat some sort of protein at dinner. No, tortillas are not protein.
• I ask them to brush their hair in the morning. You know, so that the other mothers don't think I'm neglectful. I have a reputation to uphold!
  
• I ask them to re-brush their hair, only this time with an actual hairbrush and not their fingers.
  
• I act somewhat exasperated when they spill their milk, all over the dinner table, AGAIN.
• I expect them to call me by Mum, Mummy, Mama, or variations on a theme, but not my first name. I earned this parenthood gig (with injections, money, emotional upheaval and a c-section scar.) Dammit, I want to be MUM. I'm the parent, I'm not your friend.
• I politely, nicely, steel-pins-in-my-voice ask them to please, PLEASE stop leaning on me so hard it feels as though my arm will break off.
• I remind them that picking one's nose and then using the same finger to lick icing off a cake is just, you know, gross.
  

Thing is, the Mean Mummy badge is one I wear with pride. Whether they like it or not, these three kids are going to grow up polite, pleasant, capable humans...and all because I dared to be mean to them. I say, Mean Mommies unite! (and god help us when they become teenagers.)

So - humour me - How have YOU been a Mean Mommy today? (Comments welcome. Don't pretend like you weren't mean. Seriously. No need to pretend. We're all friends here.)
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emzee housekeeping: Go read some articles over here because I wrote some recently, and Three Sweeties now has a home (!) so expect more news on that front, and for two nights running the children have not eaten dinner from a square box with a picture of a guy named Luigi on the front. Yay me!

Tooth Fairy Economics

It's raining teeth in our house at the moment, with each of the kids either losing a tooth or wobbling a tooth or discussing their wobbly teeth. A veritable dental typhoon around here! Since us Jews don't have Santa Claus, the only real 'fantasy' character we can use is the Tooth Fairy. I make a pretty good Tooth Fairy, even though my wings don't quite fit (and frankly are a bit out of fashion), and the pink dress does nothing for my complexion. Some months ago the kids found my stash of their fallen-out teeth (yes, I know, it's kinda gross to be keeping them - and scarily enough I even have some of my own baby teeth). They were thoroughly confused as to why I might have them, given that TTF herself is meant to take them away.

Hmmm. (Insert mad scramble thinking) Ummmm..... wwwwweeeelllll, you see, The Tooth Fairy SELLS them back to the Mummies and Daddies after she collects them, so the Mummies and Daddies can keep them as a memory of their kids growing up. Yup. That's it.

So this weekend we discussed TTF again - specifically, how someone so small can possibly carry coins which are so big and heavy. DD1 opined that in her fairy dress, TTF has magical pockets which can fit giant coins in so that the coins just barely peek over the top of the pocket edge. Sorta like Mary Poppins' carpet bag, the pockets look normal sized (eg tiny and suitably fairy-ish) but they can hold much bigger things than they look like they should. DD2, however, had a different theory. Namely that the people who give TTF the money in the first place give her tiny money, and TTF has a special magical skill which means she can carry her tiny coins and then magic them into normal size when she puts them under your pillow. Either solution works, really, and I was most impressed about the kids coming up with these answers.

It was quite an entertaining conversation, until such time as I asked HOW TTF comes upon all this money in the first place. I mean, millions of trillions of children across the world, times however many teeth - we're talking some serious dosh here. This is the point where my children proved (yet again) that they are smarter than I am, and that they remember what I say.

"Um, DUH Mummy! She sells the teeth to the Mummies and Daddies, and then she has money to give to the KIDS."

Ahhh. I see. My original explanation for why I had ziploc baggies of teeth hiding in my closet comes back to haunt me. Seems ol' TTF has a bit of a "robbing Peter to pay Paul" scheme going on. Clearly, a free market economy exists even in Fairy Land.

News Flash: Apparently, Isabella (friend of the trio) has SEEN TTF, for reals! Hmmm. Me thinks this report might be suspect.

News Flash #2: Apparently DS, when he lost his very first teeth (at age 3), stayed up awake ALL NIGHT to see her, and he didn't see her. Apparently she was SO small, he couldn't see her because it was soooooo dark in his room.

News Flash #3: Boy, are these kids going to be pissed off when they realise their Mum owns a fairy dress with no pockets!

The Forty List

As I mentioned previously, one of the activities at my 30th birthday party was for the guests to help me come up with a "To Do" list of goals to achieve by my 40th birthday. They could make as many entries as they liked, and the only rules where that the activity could do no harm, and that they could not work together. Otherwise, any suggestion was fair game. My intention is to complete all of these by my 40th birthday. Some will be harder to achieve than others, but the promise is to at least attempt all of these. So here it the list my friends and family provided. The ones in RED are those which I have already completed, and GREEN are those in progress. Any comments in [brackets] are mine, in (parenthesis) are theirs. Each bullet point represents a person, NOT an individual goal, as several people had more than one goal.

Without further ado, here are the things I'll do by the time I am 40:

• Watch these movies: Citizen Kane, Hamlet (Kenneth Branaugh's version), Death Trap (with Christopher Reeve and Michael Caine.) Watch all 12 episodes of "Fawlty Towers", and learn a song and sing it in front of a crowd. A small group is okay, but YOU must sing it.
  
• See your name up in lights [Heck yeah!]
• Become an Australian Citizen [Frankly, I can't be bothered.]
• Design a cake that looks like me (Jess), finish your course with flying colours, make up a song and sing it in front of 10 people, swim with sharks.
  
• Repeat your [9 weeks in Europe backpacking] honeymoon trip, but with with triplets
• You and DH should spend 50 hours a week together in the same bed for the next ten years. [Okay, I don't quantify the hours we spend in bed together, but we do spend as much time as we can. What we do in bed isn't your bees wax!]
• Write a series of children's books that will be as interesting and as successful as the series of books I just read [she had just finished the No 1 Ladies Detective Agency series.]
• Have such success in your business that you can come visit me three times a year. [Three Sweeties' doors officially open on October 1st.]
• Graduate at the top of your class, or at least in joint first place with me.
  
• Take a week off without DH and the triplets. [In November 2010, my BF Alexis and I are taking a 2 week, girls only vacation to celebrate our 35th birthdays.]
• Join a weekend circus school, become a life coach or motivator, take singing lessons, learn to play the tuba, be under-ambitious at some point. [that last one is the real killer.]
• Learn pole dancing, shave your head and do a mohawk [if I shave my head, how do I get a mowhawk?], get a Brazilian wax if you haven't already [I haven't], learn to tango with DH, go trick-or-treating, in costume, as a family, enter a serious karaoke competition without laughing, learn a musical instrument like a triangle or a kazoo, play naked twister with DH only, learn to scuba.
  
• Write a cookbook that is suitable for people with nut/egg/coeliac allergies
• Achieve a weekly column in a prestige publication covering topics which make a difference, become proficient in dialectic [I don't even know what that word means], acquire patience with "what if" discussions around the dinner table and "happily" participate, never lose your ability to laugh at all the silly things life throws up, keep your talent for embracing life without steamrolling the people who love you.
  
• Swim with the dolphins, go to the top of Mt Kosciusko, invite me to your 40th birthday party, give me the cake that looks like Jess, encourage the kids to remember to call me "Uncle", dance at my wedding, and put a king sized bed in my bungalow [this is my BIL, who I want to live in a cool house in our backyard].
• Climb Ayer's Rock to the summit, you will never forget it. [I refuse to do this, on principle. I've been to Uluru, I chose not to climb to the top. I wouldn't want someone scrambling on my sacred site, either. I will, however, amend this goal to be walking around the base of Uluru.]
• Bake a cake for royalty, run a marathon, own your own cake shop and hire me.
  
• Say NO to teachers who prey on you because of your culinary ability at least twice this year.
  
• Go BLONDE blonde for a month, wear high heels every day for a month (with the weekends and gym sessions off), write a book that at minimum is published for friends and family.
  
• Write a regular column for a magazine or newspaper, set up a franchise (baking or otherwise), bungee jump in New Zealand
• Get to know each other better [I tried to do this, and I failed spectacularly. How do you 'get to know' someone who never wants to talk on the phone, send emails, go out to dinner, or otherwise? This one is a bit of a lost cause.]
  
• Swim the "Pier to Pub" in the same year that I do, go for a 40km ride down to Sandringham and back with me and anyone else you choose, turn Three Sweeties into a national franchise to rival Mrs Fields.
  
• Do at least one stand up comedy gig, do the Great Victorian Bike Ride, write a novella/short story and endeavor to have it published somewhere (your local multiple birth newsletter doesn't count).
  
• You need more adrenaline, so sky dive, preferably with parachute and instructor
• Survive three bar/bat mitzvahs, enter the Great Victorian Bike Ride, win a prize at the Royal Melbourne Show for "Cake of the Year"
• Scuba dive in the Great Barrier Reef and the Dead Sea [I don't think you can scuba in the Dead Sea, and given that it's dead, what would there be to see?], or if you feel daring, a nice left nipple piercing wouldn't go astray, to match your nose ring (well, the one that's going to be revamped.) [I was young and stupid, what can I say?]
• Take me dancing again, because we are such a good couple, find a way to balance food, work, sleep and family. [This entry was not written by DH. DH refused to participate.]
  

So there you have it. Seems like everyone is obsessed either by my getting exercise, or by my writing something and having it published. I have visions of being at my 40th birthday party with a big slide show, showing me achieving all the things I've done on this list. I think it's doable, although perhaps a bit painful as well. :) Ahh, well, I've got 9 years left to go!

HPG & Me

My niece, HPG (stands for Harry Potter Girl, as yes, she is obsessed) and I get along really well. Her Mom (my snester) often says that she feels as though she is raising me all over again - which is pretty accurate, since my snester is seven years older than I am and was at least partially responsible for my influencing my formative years. So HPG and I have a lot in common - namely that we like to read, and cook, and laugh, and are considered mature beyond our years but often lack street sense, and people treat us like adults even though we find totally immature things funny. Given that there is a pretty big age gap between HPG and I (about 17 years, which I just realised is only one year more than there is between DH and I...scary!) it's amazing we get along as well as we do. While she was here, I tried to come up with a reason for why this is.

The only reason (other than her being cool and fab and just plain awesome) is that in many ways, I'm still a teenager. I don't think I've ever made it past that stage. I definetly still have the pimples to prove it (and geez, didn't someone promise me these would disappear with the onset of adulthood?! Fuckin' liars.) I have a disdain for authority. I have crushes on people. I read trashy magazines about celebrities (granted I did graduate from Teen Beat to People.) I worry about my grades. I worry about my future. I sometimes act sullen for no reason. I'm impatient, especially with my parents and siblings. I'm moody. I naively believe that everything will turn out all right in the end and that people are basically honest. I have bad hair days. I want a snack after school/work. I am often filled with angst. I always want just five more minutes in bed. I think ugly shoes are really cool. I care about the environment and other social issues. I write a journal (no longer a pink notebook but now a blog.)

HPG and me, we're not all that different. For her sake, though, I hope she grows out of the stupid stuff of teenager-hood, and keeps the better parts - parts like finding totally dumb jokes really funny.

Jokes, in fact, like the one she told me recently:

Two muffins are baking in an oven.
One muffin turns to the other and says, "Geez, it's getting hot in here!"
The other muffin screams, 'ACK! A talking muffin!"

*snort* See? A damn funny joke.

Love ya, HPG.

A Life Less Ordinary

Note: There may be a bit of "yay me" in this post, and there may be a bit of "woe is me" and there may be a bit of "self deprecating me" and a whole lot of other references to "me." No different to my other posts here, but made somewhat more interesting by the fact that a) I plan to spill out my guts and b) I plan to not edit it, but just hit "publish post" instead. This is emzeegee, laid bare.

I recently had a conversation with DH where I admitted (for the millionth time) that I am totally unsure of myself as a chef, and that I think I use the children as an excuse to NOT challenge myself. To whit - a few weeks ago I saw an ad in the paper for a job I'd like to have. It's was at a well known, internationally recognized restaurant. To put that I worked there on my resume would be a BIG thing for me, and potentially would open some doors. The ad was hiring for all levels of staff, so there is no reason (theoretically) why I couldn't apply, and at the very least get to the interview stage. However as I looked at that ad, several thoughts ran through my head. First came self doubt - but I've never worked in a restaurant (of this type) before. I wouldn't know what I'm doing. What if I get hired and I suck and then I get fired? What if I'm not fast enough? What if I hate it? What if I don't get along with the people who work there? Shortly after the self-doubt came the supposed "reasons" as to why this job wouldn't be good anyway: I love pastry, and they aren't really known for pastry. I'd have to work loads more hours than I do now, and that might be bad for my mental/physical health. It's in the city, and I hate shlepping to the city and dealing with the traffic and the parking and the whole thing. I wouldn't ever be home for dinner. DH would have to take on more than he already does. Then came more excuses: I wouldn't get to see the children at night. I'd never be able to go out with friends or be involved with the kids' school or other social organizations which hold meetings at night. How would I fit culinary school in? Would I ever see the (rest of) my family? My relationship with DH would suffer. This job would put a serious dent in my lifestyle.

Interestingly, I had this same conversation with the Executive Chef at my current job. His take on it was that the people who work in these types of places might be lauded for their culinary genius, but that they're also divorced, lonely, burnt out, and on drugs and hating their lives. In his opinion, I have been making the right choice all along, and it's far more important to balance work and life than it is to say "I worked at Spago." (or wherever)

So I had my excuses of kids, hours, money, life...and so on and so forth. An endless list of why this job, a job which I think would teach me a lot and really, really put me on the map, and potentially somehow VALIDATE my chef self... isn't the right job for me. So this has me thinking. Do I feel it's not the right job for me because it really isn't? (See reasons above.) Is is not the right job for me ...just because I am terrified of somehow not succeeding at it? Is my fear of failure somehow keeping me from achieving more in the first place? Truth is, I don't really know the answer to this one. I make no secret about the fact that I am a Type A personality, a classic extrovert competitive overachiever Capricornian success-hound. The sad thing is, I not only want to be successful, I DESPERATELY *NEED* to be. Case in point, if I make/cook/bake/write something (anything at all), I need enormous, ridiculous amounts of positive praise just to feel as though what I've done is good enough. Case in point, this past weekend I made some sandwiches and platters for a meeting DH had to go to. When he got back, I totally HOUNDED him about how it all was. Did they like it? Why didn't they finish it all? What did people say about it? Was it enough for everyone? Were YOU happy with it? ...and when he gave me a (very reasonable) answer of 'it was all fine and everyone was happy' - *I* wasn't happy. I kept at him, nipping at his heels wanting more info about how it all went. For fuck's sake, I was harassing him for feedback about egg salad sandwiches and a fruit platter. Yes, really. This is how much I need to know that I am good enough. Good enough for who? I'm not sure about that either.

The Baker's Wife mailed me this article about the "power and peril" about praising your kid. She sent it because she thought it might be of interest to me, as a parent of school-aged kids. I spent the entire time reading it thinking, holy shit, this article is about me. For as long as I can remember I've been told how great I am. How clever, how smart, how mature, how well-spoken, how well I do a bunch of things, and how "everything I touch I succeed at." At the end of the day I don't really care how hard I tried (although I try to convince myself that this matters). I care only that I WON, I SUCCEEDED, and that other people know of my brilliance. Reading this article I was reminded not only of the praise I got as a child, but the fact that my grades through most of junior high, high school, and college netted me a solid B/C average. I freely admit that I made almost no effort through those years, and as a result I suffered the consequences. I didn't win awards in high school, didn't get into my "dream" college, didn't study a degree in college which I gave two shits about, didn't get a great job, didn't really have any focus whatsoever (and yet was "good at everything"). I knew I was smart. I didn't really have to try. That not trying, though ... the not trying is what left me in my late twenties with a feeling of mediocrity. An unchallenging job, a constant seeking for something to "DO" with my life. I don't blame my parents, or my childhood experiences - I've had a great life, with exceptionally loving (if demanding) parents. They did what parents (myself included) know how to do. Sadly, I think it did me a disservice.

Throughout my various jobs I've often been praised for being dogged in my determination to get things done, see them through to the end, meet my goals. This was true of my weight loss efforts, too. However as soon as the reward was given - the goal achieved, the praise no longer given, the task finished, the paper handed in... I lose all interest. In the case of my weight loss, I was getting months and months of praise for my dramatic changed. I hit a fairly lengthy plateau and thus was getting no praise....and I basically abandoned ship, and gained it all back again. In the article I mention above Po talks about research into "praise junkies" - people who are literally hard-wired to need praise, and who have very little persistence because they "quit when the rewards disappear." While I have persistence, as soon as I either approach or just get over the finish line (whatever that line might be), I'm looking for my next challenge. Similarly if a task is no longer rewarding (as in the weight loss), I lose interest. If it's not hard to do and I'm not good at it, it's not worth it.

This is me, in a nutshell. I constantly need positive reinforcement, just to feel like what I do is adequate. This means I stay in a job where I know I perform well...and I don't apply for the jobs where I can't be 100% sure that I'll perform not only as well, but better. I dwell on negative feedback for an unhealthy amount of time - regardless of whether or not the feedback was justified. I'm somewhat terrified of culinary school ending this year, because then I will be without the one forum in which I am always, always miles ahead of my classmates. Bloody hell, it's not unusual for my TEACHERS to call me outside of school for pastry advice or good recipes which they know they can trust, because they believe in my skills. I have built around myself a cocoon of expectation. The people around me expect me to succeed -- and I almost revel in that expectation, because I know I can meet it. Over the course of my schooling several teachers have openly admitted to grading me harder or demanding more of me because they know I am capable in the first place. Rather than see this as a compliment, I have tended to see this as an injustice. Why should the benchmark be set higher for me?

So I come back to the original question. Am I hiding out in an easy job because there are valid reasons for me to do so (money, kids, flexible hours and so on)? Or am I hiding out in an easy job because I am afraid I will fail somewhere else? Maybe the truth exists somewhere between both of those - that I've made the choices I've made because they both put me in the comfort zone of success, AND they meet my criteria of living a life of balance and quality. What happens, though, when I really need to challenge myself (for health reasons, for work reasons, for whatever reasons), regardless of the praise I might get? WHAT WILL I DO THEN? Will I fail?

The ripples of self-doubt travel far and wide, and now I find myself doubting, wondering and worrying.

This is the single hardest blog post I've ever written.

Now We Are Six

Borrowing from A.A. Milne, to celebrate the trio's sixth birthday (May 17):

When I was One, I had just begun.

When they were one, DH and I celebrated not only this milestone in their lives, but the fact that he and I survived (intact) through their first year. Sadly, I remember very few details of this year, but I diligently wrote down miles of notes about them. Someday when they ask, I'll be able to answer because somewhere in that sleep-deprived, formula-scented haze, I knew they would want to know and I wrote it down. My only real memory of this time is them coming into the world and my wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into. It didn't take long for me to discover that what I had gotten into was a lifetime's worth of adventures.

When I was Two, I was nearly new.

We started to get into the swing of things by the time they were two. Before the year was out they would all not only be walking but also be potty trained. Both the children and DH and I as parents learned a lot that year - not only that personalities are formed in the womb but that they declare themselves very loudly once children can speak. We finally came up for air ... and you took it all from us in your endless, glorious chatter. The expression "silence is golden" suddenly took on a new meaning in our house - but if I ever thought about our home being without those little voices, I was left with overwhelming appreciation for them, noise and all.

When I was Three, I was hardly Me.

No true, A.A, not true. By three they were a force to be reckoned with, as was displayed by various acts of fierce independence and defiance ... acts which were always then followed with equally fierce acts of love and adoration. This was the "I can do it MY-self Mummy!" and sadly, I watched as they really did achieve many things for themselves. This year also brought the disappearance of those precious cribs, to be replaced by 'big kid' beds. You were indeed hurling head first into big kid land. I was torn between swelling pride and a heavy heart.

When I was Four, I was not much more.

...not much more than a hurricane, tornado, and earthquake all rolled into one, I suppose. This is the year you started pre-school and suddenly knew so much more than we did. You were quicker, smarter, funnier, and more demanding than we could have imagined - plus louder, messier, and more opinionated. You started grabbing your world with both hands - mastering the art of swimming, grooving to music, speaking some Hebrew/Yiddish words, and bringing home more paintings than I could count or find room for. You often made us cry - sometimes tears of frustration, but more often tears of laughter. You learned the meaning of the expression "happy tears" as DH and I discovered just how hard this whole parenting business is. We wished for the millionth time that you had come with instructions, and then were glad you didn't as it meant we could discover the world along with you.

When I was Five, I was just alive.

When you were five, you EXPLODED into life. You learned how to ride bikes, climb trees, play footy, dance ballet, contort through gymnastics, swim in the ocean, run 'like in the Olympics", get haircuts of your choice, draw pictures which look like the real thing they are, ride scooters, set the dinner table, count money, "read" books, start school (uniforms and all), make your beds, begin to cook with Mum, manipulate your siblings to get your way, fight off a tickle attack from one or more parents, go to Temple more regularly and sing along, put on costume performances regularly, sing along to the radio, be purposely irritating, tell a myriad of knock-knock jokes, dress yourselves from head to toe and a whole cornucopia of other life skills. Best of all you become part of a family which supports each other, plays together, eats together, shares all of life together, drives one another batty and yet can fall into a giggling, massive heap but a few seconds later. You even discovered that your parents were human, too - and you forgave them for it.

But now I am Six, I am as clever as clever.
So I think I'll be six now for ever and ever.

Amen to that.

How Quickly The Tide Turns

I need to get something off my chest.

Kindergarten (Prep) really, really sucks.

I want to go back to pre-school.

There, I've said it.

Disclaimer: Yes, I'm proud of them, yadda yadda, I know we can't go back, yadda yadda. Just listen to me bitch, okay?

I am feeling really overwhelmed by kindergarten. I realize that sounds ridiculous, so let me explain. The kids started school about 3 weeks ago and I am already feeling very snowed under with all the 'responsibility' which comes with formal schooling. Every day we have to check their communication folders - and then either do the homework there, read and action the jillion of announcements/requests that come home, and deal with other school related stuff (like finding x3 a show and tell for letter of the week). Then I need to remember (although the kids mostly do this) which days are sport uniform days and which are formal uniform days. Then one day a week they need to take library bags as well as normal ones. Then we need to practice their letters in 2 languages (English and Yiddish), then we need to make sure they have money (for whatever the cause of the week is), then I need to get uniforms pressed (etc) and make sure they have enough of the right colour socks....then I have to be there exactly at pick up time (previously pick up time was flexible - and while they CAN do aftercare, it's more dinero which I don't have). Anyway, you get the idea. School just seems to have so much more, well, STUFF to do, you know? It's really forcing this slacker Mom out of her comfort zone and into real, proper adulthood. *stamps feet* I DON' WANNA GROW UP!

The homework thing is making me crazy - it's nothing formal (this week was to cut and paste pictures of things starting with 'T') but times three it's a pain. I don't do it for them, but I do have to remind them, help them (like yesterday, I helped to cut and stuff), be involved with it all. I adore my kids but am feeling very overwhelmed by it all. I am also really worried about how to deal with their school vacation time (no such thing as summer camp here, and kids get 2 week vacations every 3 months or so). Where other parents need to get one kid organised, I've got to get three. The whole show and tell thing has become a PAIN in the ass! Will someone please explain to this teacher that doing it EVERY WEEK keeps it from being special? It's like saying "i love you" - do it too often and it begins to sound suspiciously like "go do more laundry." You hear it, but you don't HEAR it, you know?

I know, I know, I need a sharp cheddar with my w(h)ine. Pre-school was so much easier - pack a lunch, pick them up, that's it. *sigh* *complain* (I'm getting good at this, aren't I?)

If only I were not allergic to alcohol, I swear I'd be pouring a margarita every day at 3:45.

I know I'll get used to it, but in the meantime:

SKOOL SUX.

____

The only part of school which doesn't suck? DD getting "Student of the Week" for her "fantastic attitude to her work this week." This is a *BIG DEAL* for her, as it's the DD I refer to in this post.

Maybe She's Born With It

Last night DH and I had to fill out some forms about one of our kids. It asked for information like "at what age did the child sit up independently? At what age could they form 2-3 word sentences?" Needless to say my kids early childhood experience is not one I remember clearly - I was in an endless cycle of diapers, feedings, sleepings or not sleepings, and myriad other baby-related activities which never seemed to stop. Somewhere in that fugue, I knew that one day, my kids would want some detail about their baby and toddlerhood. So every few months or so, I would take the time to write down things about them - what they liked or disliked, how well they played together (or fought together), what words they could say, what new skills they achieved.

Lucky for me I kept those notes because it enabled me to answer the questions on the form! In looking through those note books, I started to re-read the things I had said about them. It seems like a lifetime ago that I wrote about them at 9 months, 12 months, 19 months, 2 years old, and so on. Reading these snippets of my children's lives, brought me to a very interesting conclusion: they were born with their personalities. Their special quirks, attitudes and likes/dislikes I noted at early babyhood age were no different at 2, 3 4 years old and into now. They were essentially the same people then that they are now - albeit more vocal, and more physical, and much more able to defend themselves. At only a few months old I described one DD as a "drama queeen who loves to dance" ...and she now does ballet and Oscar-worthy drama performances on the unfairness of life. Another DD I described as "a real Houdini and monkey girl" and SHE is now not only doing gymnastics, but adores all forms of hide-and-seek games. DS was "very lovable, ticklish, but moody and overly sensitive"...and it's not great surprise that the very same could be written about him today. It was almost eerie, reading the words I'd written. It made me wonder again about the whole nature vs. nurture argument.

In my goldfish bowl of a household - where everything is observed three times and under (mostly) controlled conditions, it's seems obvious that the answer is NATURE. We've raised them with the same values, the same access to resources, the same love, the same people, the same places. So if the nurture part of their lives is more or less the same, then it must be their nature which has made them so unique.

This then begs the question - are we born with our "nature"? Are we somehow 'hard wired' before birth to like or dislike some things? To behave in a certain way? To react emotionally to things differently? Alternatively, are these things somehow learned or gained after we are born, as a result of external influences? It's an interesting question. I can only say that in reading those babyhood entries, it would seem my three were born with the quirks and nuances which make them so interesting to watch grow up. It also makes me feel foolish - I often say "if I only knew then what I know now" ... the reality of it is, I did know then what I know now- I just didn't realise how useful or telling that information would be.

In some ways it is comforting to know that they won't change much. They are who they are, and that's it. At the same time, when DD has said (for the tenth time today), "But Muuuummmm, it's NOT FAAAAIIIIRRRRRRRRR!!!!" I can't help wishing I could somehow get that drama queen out of her personality and bash her over the head with the Oscar.

In some ways, it is comforting to know that I won't change much either.

When Size Does Matter

Lego is my life. After several hours, bleeding fingers and a village made of: one plane, one ambulance, one house, several robots, a few sculptures and one 18 wheeler truck later, DS and I decided to get some fresh air. DS and I wandered to a local park today - a small park about a 5-10 minute walk away. It's one he hasn't been to in quite a while - several months at least. We get into the park and DS has a good race around and then says to me (with an edge of hysteria in his voice), "Mum? Something's wrong here! I think they remodeled this park!" The park hasn't changed one iota, but I could sense where this conversation was going. So, innocently, I ask DS, "Really? What do you mean?" to which DS replied, "Well the slide is much shorter and less twistier than it used to be, and the ramp to the play area is *much* shorter, and the see-saw isn't as bouncy as it used to be. It's kinda like the whole playground just...you know...well, its SHRUNK, Mum!"

He really believes that the park got smaller.

What he doesn't realise is that the park stayed the same, it's just that he has gotten taller, and stronger, and smarter in the meantime. The flying fox he was terrified of is now "weeeee!! look at meeeeeeeeeeee!" as he flies across. The twisty slide is an excuse to see how many ways you can go down - on your stomach, on your back, with legs in the air, backwards....the "baby" slide is for climbing up and the see-saw is for practising balancing on, not sitting on. Some of the apparatus he is now too tall for - he has to crouch down to see through the binoculars, and when he runs across the metal platform it sounds like a herd of wildebeest.

When I look at all he has achieved in the past few months, I think there is no greater gift than the privilege of being a part of his growing up. When he wonders why the park has undergone a major shrinkage, I find myself thinking that his growing up sucks. I miss my baby boy already.