Shopping, Vikings and Polka Dot Skirts

My son has the most extraordinary case of Mama-attachment I've seen since my own baby brother.  This is the newborn who growled at everyone who wasn't me the day he was born.  The baby who pushed back my return-to-work date by six months because he couldn't cope with being off my lap for five minutes.  The 18-month-old that I had to make a sling for so I could wear him on my hip* because he'd scream if I made him walk.  The three-year-old who acts like he's being ripped from his mother's arms to go to his death every morning at daycare - who clings to me at night, struggling to keep his eyes open to make sure I don't leave.

I spend a great majority of my time bargaining with my small Viking son over how I will be allowed to spend my time.  Mummy will pick you up after work but she has to go now.  Mummy will bring you something nice from the shops.  Mummy will be here in the morning when you wake up but you need to sleep by yourself.  Mummy has to go to taekwondo but she will be back in time to put you to bed.  Mummy will have her shower first and then you can get in with me.  A thousand reassurances to get him to just let go for five minutes so I can wash my hair, go to the bathroom, get the dishes done.

As he's gotten older it's gotten a bit better because he likes being in my space but doesn't necessarily have to be constantly attached to me.  Plus, he likes to help.  So I'll do the dishes and he'll arrange them on the tea towel to dry.  But there are still times where the Mummy attachment means it's better if I do it on my own.  Times like the weekly shopping - where I tend to distract him with the trampoline or the television and scuttle out undetected.  I hurl around the shops as fast as I can and hope he hasn't thrown a tantrum by the time I get home.  I'd take him with me but the need for constant skin-to-skin contact can slow me down and turn the trip into quite the chore.  This morning though I had no options because Charles was taking Charlotte to a birthday party.  I seized my small son as he zoomed around in a pink polka dot skirt he'd salvaged from his sister's leavings.

"Mummy needs to go and do the shopping and I thought you might like to come with me.  Will you be a good boy if we go shopping?"
"Yes Mummy!  Yes I will be a good boy!  I'll be such a good helper boy!"
"Awesome sauce buddy - but you better go put some pants on."
"No.  I don't want pants, I want to wear my** pretty skirt."

Since I'm not one to impose gender ideals at any age, let alone at the very tender age of three, I told him he could absolutely wear the skirt, but he would need to put some undies on.  But Mummy - insert completely inappropriate boy-related reason for wanting to wear a skirt with no undies that almost made my head explode.  Buddy, you can wear the skirt but you're going to wear undies.

The first part of the shopping was reasonably good.  He wanted to sit in the trolley, he insisted on arranging the shopping in said trolley and for the most part it was okay and he really was my big helper boy.  It's true every two minutes we had to stop because, "Mummy?  Cuddles!"  but even that was kind of nice.  No, the real trouble began after we were done in Aldi and we needed to finish up our shop in Coles.  With the trolley otherwise full the little Viking had to walk.  And he decided the best way to walk so he could have full contact with Mummy was like this;

Ever tried to push a trolley around with 20 kilos of Viking toddler strapped to your leg?  It's exactly as easy as it sounds.  And look at the face on it.  Not only is it almost impossible to shop like this but you get the sense the whole time that you're in the process of creating deep emotional scars that will lead to thousands of dollars in therapy and a string of toxic co-dependent relationships once the kid hits adulthood.

Finally I put the bag of dog food into the toddler seat and lifted my small son into place on top of it.

Perched like that he could wrap his arms around my neck and remain plastered to me throughout the trip.  He giggled and squirmed in delight the whole time and every time we went past someone he would announce, "I'm cuddling my Mummy!" at the top of his voice before tightening his arms around my neck until I started to choke.  But he was happy and so was I.

Finally when we'd cleared the checkout I addressed him quite seriously and said we were going to go and buy him some shorts because it's getting hot these days and he needs something other than trackies to wear to school.

"But Mummy," he whined, "I don't want shorts.  I don't like shorts."
"Well what are you going to wear buddy?  It's going to be too hot for long pants soon."
His eyes flicked down and he smiled slyly at me.
"I'm going to wear my pretty skirt."
"What's with the skirt buddy?"
He looked thoughtful for a moment.
"I don't have to take it off if I go to the toilet, it's good for dancing, *insert inappropriate boy-related comment again*..." he trailed off for a moment and then looked back at me, grinning, "And I look really really pretty."

Yes.  Yes you do.

*  I am not really the attachment parenting type - I spend far too much of my time up ladders to have anything that operates independently strapped to me.  But James' Mummy addiction has been like water on sandstone when it comes to my parenting style.
** Any parent will tell you that the instant the term "my" is applied to anything you've pretty well lost whatever battle you were going to have and you should therefore re-evaluate just how much you care about whatever it is they're getting possessive about.

Missing Post

Last night after a particularly nasty day I wrote and posted about the fallout from my weight loss - in particular, the shape that I come in now and the impact that's been having on me.  Today that post is missing and some of you have noticed and asked about that.  Well, while the majority of you were quite supportive about what I wrote I also got a message that indicated that the individual thought the photo I put with that post was a photo of what I wear to work and her point was sorry love but frankly I wouldn't want you anywhere near my husband.  I want to make it clear here for those who don't know me personally that it wasn't a photo of what I wear to work, it was a photo taken in a shirt I bought for a burlesque event that's coming up soon and I chose it to illustrate the kind of shape I come in these days.

At a more secure time in my life this is something I would probably choose to make a point of standing my ground on but, as anyone who read that post would know, this is not a secure time in my life.  In hindsight I probably shouldn't have posted about something I am so vulnerable about at the moment because I do always get comments and emails, both good and bad, and I'm not in a place where I can take much more of the bad on this particular topic.  And that is the reason that I've chosen to delete the post in question.  I'd like to thank those of you who were supportive and apologise to those of you who have expressed disappointment that it's no longer available.  I have saved it to my personal account and perhaps one day when I don't feel quite so sensitive I will re-post it.  Thanks for your understanding.

Further sandpit-related tantrums

Most of you who know me have gathered that I'm kind of running out of patience on a number of fronts and it's manifesting in weird ways.  The too-much-stuff-tantrum following hot on the heels of the nothing-fits-me-tantrum were documented here and the response was impressive (as a side note, for every single comment you see on this blog I seem to get about 10-20 private messages or emails.  It amuses me no end that me, the queen of bluntness, over-sharing and couldn't be bothered sugar coating that for you has an incredibly introverted readership that make me look like this blog is largely about talking to myself.  I digress.)  I had a bunch of people talking about how they too let things go until they explode in a flurry of activity, conquering the chore long delayed.

Anyway, without any patience left I've been systematically tackling things that have been long overdue.  Today's little thorn that was plucked from my side?  The (would-be) sandpit.  My son is a sand devil at daycare.  He comes home with the stuff in his hair, in his shoes, in his underwear and, most distressingly of all, in his ears*.  When we built Charlotte's fort (which I've just realised I never documented!  Stay tuned!) it seemed logical to include a sandpit.  And I built a very sturdy one using thick sleepers bolted together with galvanised iron brackets...which then proceeded to languish empty and unused throughout the winter.

Given that the Viking is three the sandpit days in our house are probably numbered so high on my list of "spring cleaning" activities was finishing this job so it did actually get used as a sandpit at some point rather than languishing as a lawn ornament before graduating to veggie patch or compost bin.  Let me give you some advice now.  If you need something to break you out of child-related procrastination, there's nothing quite like the child themselves to motivate you.  Tell a three-year-old he's getting a sandpit this weekend and by golly you better pony up a freakin' sandpit this weekend woman.

I foolishly mentioned we might finish the sandpit over the weekend on Friday night.  I spent all Saturday cleaning like a demon and was then out until three in the morning with a friend on Saturday night (not even drinking mind you, but three in the morning is still three in the morning).  The last thing I felt like doing today was hauling sand.  But when the Viking jumped on me early in the morning the first thing he said was, "it's time to get up and make my sandpit Mama".  My choices were somewhat limited to produce the sandpit already or face Armageddon.

I had the frame, I had the weed mat, I just needed a huge amount of sand.  You can buy sandpit sand for $15 a sack at my beloved Bunnings.  Unfortunately I would have needed 20 sacks minimum.  You can, however, buy it in bulk from your friendly landscape supplier for much, much cheaper ($30 for a quarter of a cubic metre, $52.50 for half).  First thing's first though, I needed a trailer.  For which I called my brother and sister in-laws, Jenny and Chris.  Chris was on his way out with a load of green waste and asked me if I wanted him to swing past, collect me and we'd grab the sand at the same time.  Sure, I said, but that means you have to hang around until I've finished shifting it.  No problem, Chris replied, I'll help you do that.

I love, love, love Chris.  What a champ!  :)  So in fairly short order I found myself swinging back home with a trailer full of sand for my sandpit.  Photos and tips?  Absolutely!

1.)  Use weed mat.  It's tempting to think that half a foot or more of sand will kill the grass and its ambitions for world domination.  Ever seen a sand dune?  Put the weed mat down.  In fact, make it double thickness and make sure it goes under the walls of your pit if you can.

2.)  Be careful with how much sand you actually get.  I figured I'd need about a third of a cubic metre but showing up to the landscape supplier I realised it came in quarter or half measures.  Hmm.  I dithered a bit.  It's a big sandpit, not sure a quarter will cut it...then I thought sand's pretty heavy and I've had at least one popped-tyre experience previously hauling wet sand.  In the end I decided to play it safe and I went the quarter.  Best decision EVER.  As soon as it landed in the trailer I wondered whether it would even fit in what was beginning to seem like quite a small sandpit.

3.)  Make sure you have sandpit toys and a cover on hand.  The kids are going to want to land in it immediately and play up a storm.  When they're done you need to cover that stuff up before it becomes the local urinal for the kitty population.  Not to mention sticks, leaves and other assorted debris.  Keep your sand in tip-top condition with a handy cover.

That's Chris and Jenny's daughter (Cousin) Chloe playing with Miss Pink and the little Viking.  Quite the good time had by all accounts.  One more long overdue task off the list for the cost of $30 and whatever I decide to get Chris to say thank you for being such a hero.  Next up?  Laundry shelving...


*  "Me and Livvy were seeing how much sand we could fit in our ears."

Stuff Tantrum

Yesterday a good friend of mine announced on Facebook that she was turfing a bunch of shoes from her collection.  This friend has bags of style, a decent wage and is secretly called Imelda behind her back (okay, not actually behind her back, we're well past that point). She also just happens to be about my shoe size.  Since I am perpetually broke thanks to mortgage and kids (childcare for the two actually costing more these days than my mortgage does, if you can believe it) I tend to live from one pair of $12 Kmart flats to the next (with the occasional pair of wicked heels from the Rivers outlet store at DFO).  So I couldn't type fast enough to plead my case for a chance to plunder Imelda's fashionable leavings.

Absolutely, she writes back, I've also quite organically moved onto clothes, interested in those too?  *swoon* Imelda has always been a couple of sizes smaller than me SHE MIGHT BE THROWING OUT THINGS THAT FIT ME NOW.  THINGS THAT WILL LOOK GOOD.  You might have detected a small amount of panic just there amidst the excitement.  That would be the "holy crap I've lost over thirty kilos and have nothing to wear this Summer" panic.  Did I mention no money to buy new stuff?  Here was salvation!

What ensued next was a little like drugging a cat and pointing it at the catnip.  My pupils immediately dilated to kewpie doll status, I was rendered practically speechless, there was lots of rubbing against stuff (yes, just the clothes) and when I was done I had a bit of a headache and needed a sleep.  I came home a happy girl with no less than three massive bags of very, very pretty things that would have taken me two years of saving to achieve, even if I'd bought it all on sale.

Unfortunately the acquiring of new, pretty things coupled with the events of this week meant the story doesn't end here.  When it comes down to it, I'm not a huge fan of stuff.  And yet I seem to have so much of it.  Probably because I couldn't be bothered addressing it until it threatens to overwhelm me.  This week I got overwhelmed.  With the warmer weather I tried things on that I hadn't worn for a while while attempting to get ready for work.  I got increasingly frustrated as four tops, three skirts and a dress got turfed for being sack-like before I resorted to trying on a dress I bought two months ago when it was a size too small.  I was somewhat mollified when it fit beautifully but I needed to face reality - we are no longer at a point where I might gain a kilo or two and suddenly need this stuff, it is time to do a thorough vetting.

So today I spent FOUR HOURS going through everything I own and tossing anything that doesn't fit or that I don't like.  I am now on the verge of a massive, massive tantrum followed by a lengthy sulk because almost everything I own that I love is too big for me.  And not just put a dart in it and it will look spankers big but, holy hell dude if we get a gust of wind that sail you're wearing will blow you onto the next continent big.  Steel boned corsets.  Lingerie.  Sexy nightgowns.  Very expensive evening gowns and cocktail dresses.  Business suits.  Everything.  At one point I flirted with trying to estimate how much the stuff I was turfing had cost me but right around the point where it became the GDP of a small nation I realised I was well and truly on the path to a migraine.

I am now thoroughly flat, quite miserable and in possession of five crates of clothing destined for friends who plan to rummage followed by a very grateful Salvos store somewhere.  Every time I start to cry I go stroke all the pretty things Imelda gave me.  Come Monday I'm going to be so pretty in clothes that fit.

Postcard from the edge

The thing about being depressed is that mostly I'm fine until I'm not and then I'm in the bottom of the well and everything is dark except up there, where everyone else is.  On the days when I'm fine my depression is almost something I could love because out here, living on the edge of oblivion, the world is so beautiful and my emotions are the whole rainbow and then the colours that don't exist like octarine too.  I write better like this, I understand my kids better like this, I feel everything more acutely like this... I am a different person like this.  Unfortunately, a somewhat fragile person and that's the part I hate.

Today is one of those days.  I am stressed out and exhausted after driving to Queensland and back with two small children in a week.  I am emotionally strung out thanks to the events of that week.  I feel so thin I'm sure I'm transparent.  It's the perfect environment for a trip to the bottom of the well.  And here we are.  I have a tendency to write when I'm out of the well.  To share when I have clarity and distance.  But I'm never brave enough to write from my misery.  Or at least, not brave enough to share.

But recent events and experiences indicate that what is required in my life is bravery.  So here goes - a postcard from the bottom of the well to those of you at the cocktail party of normalcy at the top.

I hate everything about myself and the way I feel at the moment.  I hate feeling vulnerable, I hate second guessing everything I say and do, I hate being paranoid about my relationships with people, I hate being stuck inside my skin and wanting to just crawl out of it and AWAY.  I hate wishing I could just curl up and die somewhere unnoticed.

There is a filter of negative that suffuses everything I look at, even my logic.  I know I'm the sort of person who will hold anyone while they cry and soothe them.  I know I've done that for the most random of people.  I know the extraordinary lengths I've gone to to cheer up those nearest and dearest to me in their darkest hours.  I know that I've laid myself bare and told people everything I feel for them, even when it hurt to do it, so they would understand that what they are is something special in a world of ordinary.

You'd think, given all of that, that I'd cut myself some slack and lean on some of those people I've been there for when I feel like this.  But then there's the pervading paranoia ready to undermine everything.

In the back of my head, where the logic is, I know that I'm a positive force in the lives of many people.  And I know that I'm loved for all that I am.  But here in the bottom of the well I am absolutely certain that if I go to the people I need the most and I'm honest with what it is I need they'll laugh and tell me to harden up or pull up the big girl panties and then I'll die inside, smile while I cry and agree with them.

Which is why when I feel like this, I choose instead to disconnect from everyone and everything, to not write, to not tell you how much I need you and how ugly it is inside my head.  Chances are three days from now, given enough sleep and exercise, I'll have dug myself out of it and I'll be back to posting stupid crap on Facebook.  And no one need ever know how much I hated myself and how much I wished I was dead or how much I needed them right here on the edge where the world is beautiful and bright but inside me is as black as midnight in the grave.

We don't negotiate with terrorists

I am far from being the world's most patient mother.  I find children challenging to deal with because I'm not big on a bunch of things that seem to go hand-in-hand with small people.  Consequently, while I love my own small people, there are a bunch of behaviours I spend a lot of my time attempting to erase from existence.  Tantrums are top of that list.

Charlotte was dead easy.  Aged two she tried it on in Coles.  I bent down, told her she would never get a single thing out of me by behaving that way, picked her up and marched her straight out the door.  It was the only tantrum she ever threw.  A week later she watched as a small girl performed in the very same Coles and I pointed out the little rioter.

"Do you see how ridiculous  that looks?" I asked and my solemn little daughter nodded.
"Right.  Would you give that little girl anything for behaving that way?"
A small shake of her head.  She watched the kid in action for a bit then wandered over, bent down and patted her gently until the little anarchist paused to look up.
"You know you won't get anything if you behave like that," Charlotte informed her.

The little Viking has been another matter entirely.  About five months ago the tantrums started.  It was almost like he had to make up for his sister's failure to perform by doing his share, her share, plus accumulated interest.  We had tantrums every fifteen minutes.  We had tantrums lasting fifteen minutes. We had tantrums at home.  We had tantrums at the mall.  Tantrums, tantrums, tantrums.  And over the most ridiculous of things.  His television show ended.  We put his sock on the left foot instead of the right foot first.  He didn't want to wait for dinner to cool down.  The dog looked at him.

At first we tried to get him to talk about how he was feeling rather than just bursting into tears and wailing.  Then we tried bargaining.  Stop the tears and we'll go for a walk.  Then there were the threats.  Cut that out or there's no dessert at all.  Finally we decided there was something to the superpower way of thinking - we don't negotiate with terrorists.  And so the timeouts began.  First sign of tears and it's off to your room for timeout.  Come out when you're ready to talk and deal with us on a rational basis.

This didn't seem to halt the flight of the tantrum.  He would wail away, kicking the wall, crying for up to twenty minutes before emerging tear-stained and blotchy, bottom lip out and head down.  "Sorry for having a tantrum Mama, can I finish my dinner now please?"

This, we were quick to point out to both ourselves and the kids, was not about punishment.  It was about learning to deal with your emotions so you can communicate calmly.  Clearly there were times where our little Viking's emotions were simply too big for his body and he needed to express them, long and loud, before he could talk to us.  That was okay but we wanted to make sure he knew that it was for his benefit alone and not a tool to manipulate us.  So even as they didn't appear to be subsiding, we continued with the timeout rule.

Eventually the technique began to pay off.  The tantrums have thinned to a dribble and he's much better at articulating why he's unhappy and working with us to resolve the issue or negotiate a compromise.  There's only one ongoing, tiny little issue and that's when you ask him what his full name is.

"James Jason Bateson TIMEOUT!"

Agents for Change

As much as I don't want a counselor who holds my hand and sympathises, neither do I want a best friend who constantly tells me how fabulous I am.  I want the best friend who questions me, challenges me and prompts me to be a better person.  Kat is my best friend and she is all those things...and a study in being careful what you wish for.

Kat is ridiculously girly.  She has always been about the clothes, the makeup, the hair and the girly activities.  I'm less about those things and more about building, renovating, martial arts, gardening and power tools.  I don't suppose when you are someone that loves getting dressed up and hitting the town that it's a happy state of affairs to be the proud owner of a best friend who lives in jeans and is happiest up a ladder with a drill.  Still, Kat gets marks for persistence.  Years of buying me clothes, makeup, all in vain but still she persevered.  And then there was Charm School.

I don't suppose anyone would be flattered if their best friend announced that for their birthday they had bought them a spot in Charm School.  Horrified at the suggestion that I needed a class in etiquette, I was even more annoyed when she explained that it was less about deportment and more about hair and makeup.  I was speechless with the audacity of it.  But Kat being Kat, I knew I was going to give it a go, if only to sit there in resentful silence freezing her out with attitude purely to teach her a lesson in what not to buy me in future.

We had a list of everything we'd need for class.  Mirror, bobby pins, curlers, makeup, hair spray... I had to go and buy everything on the list brand new because I didn't own so much as a bobby pin.  Deep in the middle of Canberra's winter I showed up in a mood best described as "chippily resentful" for Charm School.  I was mortified when two women who looked fresh off a film set from the 40s stepped into the room.  I sank even lower in my chair.  This, I was sure, was not going to be a happy event and my colourful imagination was conjuring all manner of Trinny and Susannah-style intervention where the dearth of makeup on my face would be critiqued in front of everyone.

And then Miss Chrissy started to talk.  Beauty and glamour, she said, were not about age, size or colouring.  Beauty and glamour were about looking the very best you could and carrying yourself with confidence.  It's not just the look, it's attitude.  The look is achievable quite easily and quite cheaply, she told us, the attitude is all up to you.  The odds of a Trinny and Susannah-style dressing down seemed quite slim.  She had my attention.

For three hours we learned how our fore-mothers achieved their look on a budget.  The cheats, the tricks, how to be glamorous with little more than red lipstick, mascara, hair spray and bobby pins.  At the end of class I looked in the mirror and I was speechless.  I was beautiful.  Not just beautiful but glamorous.  Kat was practically choking on self-satisfaction when we left and insisted that we go somewhere for a late lunch so we could be fabulous in public.  She was practically skipping with glee.

It's hard to describe how I felt that afternoon.  I was uncomfortable in my skin and I was completely at war with myself.  I looked beautiful from the neck up...but the neck down was clad in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt.  I felt like a slob.  For the first time since I was about six I wished I had a beautiful dress.  I wished I could be and feel beautiful every day.  I knew in my heart that the time had come for painful change and I honestly wasn't managing it especially well.

I smiled the whole time we were out while people came up to me and complimented me on how wonderful I looked.  I watched Kat take her compliments gracefully and I kept right on smiling while inside I felt the cracks spreading through me.  I made it home to show Charles how I looked and then I climbed into the shower and cried hot tears of frustration for everything I wasn't and for the sudden possibility of what I could be if I was only willing to apply myself and try.

It's been four years since my first Charm School.  I've been four more times and learned new things each time.  The second time I took a co-worker who was just like me.  No confidence, jeans and t-shirts, so like me the previous year.  I watched her face in the mirror after I finished her hair and makeup.  I watched her do a double take, look again and saw the excitement blossom on her face.  It was the first time in her life she'd felt beautiful and she told me later that her mother had cried when she saw her and made her take photos in the backyard.  I've seen it so many times now but it never gets old or tired or boring.  It's always wonderful to see.

These days I feel like I've mostly nailed the glamour.  I own more skirts and dresses than anything else.  Pantyhose have been swapped for garter belts with lace top stockings.  I can don liquid eyeliner and not look like someone's punched me.  I wear makeup to work almost every day and at the beginning of this year I made a commitment to not wear trousers, slacks or jeans to work except on Fridays.  It's August and I've stuck to that commitment.

I get people telling me I look great all the time and when I do full hair and makeup, don a dress and head out random people come up to me to compliment me, ask me where I learned to look like that and even to take photos*.  It's kind of disconcerting but I've learned how to accept compliments gracefully and be confident that what people see is different to all the flaws and failings I see.

Today was my fifth Charm School and instead of being a part of the class I went to take before, during and after photos for Miss Chrissy, who is not just my idol, but my friend now too.  Kat and I helped out where we could and I ached inside to see the face of one gorgeous woman twisted the way mine surely twisted in that first class with fear and doubt and self-loathing.  I wished she could see how beautiful she was - I wished she could see herself through my eyes.  I settled for telling her that I knew exactly how she felt because I'd been there too.

How very different the post Charm School late lunch was this time.  The ache of inadequacy replaced by confidence as I laughed and lunched with the ladies, as happy in heels and a dress as I am in jeans armed with a drill.  Compliments were gracefully given and received, a good time had by all.  I don't know whether I ever thanked Kat properly for her birthday gift all those years ago but here it is - you were right, my darling, you are always right when it comes to me and I am so very lucky to have you.  Thank you for the best birthday gift ever**.  X X X

*  The first time this happened I nearly had a panic attack.  After I managed to control the panic I then had to work at suppressing my nasty subconscious which was convinced they were asking so they could turn the photo into a horrible meme about drag queens or something.  It took everything I had not to threaten to hunt them down and punish them in the event that they did anything awful with the photo.  So on the outside I'm largely there but the self-esteem and the inside has a loooong way to go some days.

**  And sorry for all that crap attitude.