It’s been a few days since I was able to even sit, let alone blog. When did my life get so bloody busy? How on Earth does an unemployed, part-time hairdresser, Junior Football Club Administrator, friend, mother and wife fit it all in? I ask myself this question every single day. I spread myself like Vegemite across all facets of my life and I’m honestly waiting for it all to unravel and to come undone; much like the kids I saw running round Target today. Cranky little fuckers!
For those who know me, know I don’t talk ‘kids’ much. In fact I fucking dislike the subject, and will only engage in it if I am asked, someone else brings the topic up, or someone needs to be told. Then, generally, what I say will be brutal and honest, so don’t ask me what child-birth is like, unless you truly want to know that it feels like a really bad Chinese burn on your vagina…
Don’t get me wrong. I love my boys and I’ll boast once in a while. I’m oober proud of them and the young men they’re becoming, but I don’t need the whole world and all of Target to know that. It is what it is, they know, I know and it’s all good.
GThe mundane dribble and coma inducing conversation about a child’s achievement in school or sport bores the fuck out of me, particularly when it’s a conversation I’ve heard already, read on Facebook twice already or Nanny Gertrude has told me too. Why is it, that some parents and grandparents just don’t shut the fuck up? A constant slurry of the verbal runs. I appreciate achievements and will congratulate when warranted, but why must they harp on about it? I love to hear of milestones that mean oodles and events that really show how hard someone has worked, but I’m not really interested in the everyday child talk of Little Johnny using the potty six times.
Being proud is one thing, but drawing attention to your child and then yourself by means of explaining every single iota of the 324 minute birth that was WAY more interesting than your own, but only you know that because you can’t get a word in edgewise, does my fucking head in. Little Max is better than your Barry because his little finger is longer and my uterus can fit a mini bus in it. Who fucking cares? At what point do women stop comparing birth stories and vaginas? When do they cease the constant comparing of their children to other children? Am I normal? Should I give a fat rats arse about it?
As I walked through Target this afternoon with our youngest son, a strapping young man of almost 13, we walked through a group of women with a tribe of kids, who were all running wild, each one pushing one of those kids shopping trolleys around. They all had one can you believe? Saying no wouldn’t have even been a conversation thought about. Crashing and slamming into each other. One mum hollering across the aisle to the other mum facing her about three meters away, something about “kids, who’d have them?” Hmmm. Yup. You, you fucking moron, well done! Even Colby muttered to me, geez Mum, they’re out of control!
Everywhere you go, you see kids just doing what ever the fuck they want. Parents letting them do what ever the hell they want. Restaurants where kids are running around, shopping centres, theyre pulling things off shelves, I even witnessed a little boy in the post office last week hitting his mum and yelling no, no, hate you, no because she wouldn’t take him home, she then slapped him across the top of the head, three times. My look was probably enough for her to know that that was out of line, but the look I gave him shut him up. He then stood behind his mum. Kids aren’t afraid of their parents anymore. Not that hitting a child is right, and your children fearing you is not ideal, but having boundaries is important, that’s where kids learn to stop.
My boys aren’t angels. They have their moments. So do I no doubt, but not at any point have either of my boys run around a restaurant out of control, nor have they abused something that didn’t belong to them slamming into things, and never have they hit me, lashed out and carried on like a spoiled little brat. Sure I’ve been told they hate me, but a quick reply with, oh but I love you and there ain’t a thing you can do about that, is enough to finish the conversation.
Kids are given too much voice, and too much choice now. Would you like a sandwich for lunch? Uh uh, not in this house, what would you like on your sandwich is about the only choice you’ll get. Kids don’t know disappointment anymore, they never hear the word no, or, not a chance, for fear that they’ll be beaten down by it, or that they’ll be scarred by the disappointment. I’m sorry, but I think my kids are who they are because they know their boundaries. They know what it is to go without, they’ve felt disappointment sitting on the footy bench and losing a swimming race. Being told no is very important. So just fucking do it, once in a while PLEASE!
I attended school interviews last week. The boys attend the same school and have a teacher or three the same. On three occasions I was told I have fantastic boys, they’re well mannered, try hard and are respectful. Every teacher praised them and told me they were great young men. I have to say I was a little gob smacked by it. Its a huge pat on the back for me, for Ben and our hard work raising them. It’s not all beer and skittles. It’s hard work raising kids that respect others, particularly their elders. I’m proud of that fact. I’m proud of my boys. It’s not over yet but the foundation blocks are laid and I believe in our boys to keep doing the right thing.
So in among all the hum of my life, the external commitments with Footy and part time work, being a wife, and sister and not forgetting a friend, being a good mum is working. I think… I try to be there as much as I can, while I can, even if it is like the scratching of Vegemite across toast. You don’t need much vegemite, just a taste because it’s soooo good! 😉 Guess Im yet to come undone.
Make sure you turn the teapot twice clockwise and once anticlockwise!