Mum@large

It appears we are raising a hobbledehoy, or wathever the female equivalent might be.
I’ve known it ever since, at the age of two, climbing into her high chair, she announced, “Crikey Mum, me boots nearly went in me tucker!”
I’m not altogether sure where it comes from. Maybe her father, with his copperplate writing and boarding school education - not to mention the many nights spent sleeping on the ground at racetracks all over the country. Sometimes actually on the racetracks all over the country.
Maybe it’s me - born and raised in the city, but with an Australian accent so broad I’m a Dad and Dave team all on me bloody own. I can remember radio voice training at uni, and the “this will be a challenge” expression on the tutor’s face as I read my first bulletin. Oddly enough, I ended up in newspapers.
Anyway, however it has happened, she’s a hoyden. A rollicking, bouncing, hat-wearing, wide-gesturing hoyden.
It has not been helped along by the CD of Aussie songs we acquired from somewhere. She goes into a frenzy at the sight of an Australian flag, and knows every word of at least the first verse of the national anthem. Not natural at three.
She can bounce along to Skippy, affirm she’s a happy little vegemite, and declare that she likes Aeroplane Jelly - Aeroplane Jelly’s for her.
We caused a disturbance in Woollies last week with the rousing lines:
“The ringer looks around, but is beaten by a blow - and curses the old snagger with the BARE BELLIED JOE!” This was closely followed by Waltzing Matilda with just as much relish.
A lovely old lady stopped to tickle her under the chin and say, “That’s a happy little song!”
I was a bit worried the Squid, who is having personal space issues, would sock her one. It passed without incident, however, and I smiled fondly at my little Shiralee, with her ponytails at messy angles and half an Uncle Toby’s muesli bar stuck to her shirt.
You can understand my concern now that it appears we are moving to the country. I’ve bought her a flanellette shirt and gumboots, and she is often to be heard wishing for a home among the gum trees. Perhaps she will pick up a bit of refinement. One can only hope.
Anyway, strike me pink, I’d better go. Two chubby arms are strangling me in a bid to play “Tie Me Kangaroo Down, `Spot’”.
Love youse all.

It has been three years. Three years since I posed smiling grimly between contractions at the letterbox while the Squid’s father took photos. Three years since I first saw that angry little red face appear over the top of the sheet. Three years since those tiny fingers first gripped mine.

I sat awake the night through staring at the wall, high on childbirth drugs and euphoria thinking over and over again, “Wow, I’ve had a baby”. After nine months of preparation and how many years of trying before that, I still was in shock.

It was three years ago.

On her third birthday, the Squid, who had been in bed with us to take advantage of the air-conditioning, opened her eyes, looked at me, and smiled a smile full of all the mischief and naughtiness behind and ahead. I am in love with that smile.

What do you do to mark their third year? The over-the-top birthday parties are in full swing. Do we go down that track - hire a bouncing castle, call in the clowns, order the baby animal farm? How do we make it special without turning it into an “only child” extravaganza?

No party every year. We decided that after the last one. This time, after much deliberation and canvassing of friends, we settled on a theme park - Seaworld. By ourselves? No, maybe her best friend, and my sister and her kids - and the Squid’s Brisbane sister. Just the day? No, overnight to avoid the end of day rush. But where, and how many? Seaworld’s resort seemed the way to go. It was, of course, booked out on that night. Eventually, we made it Sunday instead of Saturday. That meant there would only be us staying the night.

What about presents? A cake? Treasure bags?

According to the Squid, a treasure bag is a party. The last two treasure bags she acquired slept next to her on her pillow for the night. Online party bags. The perfect solution. Except the stock wasn’t in. Except it wouldn’t be in. Except they didn’t know what they could get to us in time. A hotchpotch of monkey, ladybeetle and fairy themed-stuff arrived the Friday before the big day.

The cake? She wanted chocolate. It’s the in-thing. I had already spent two nights cooking cupcakes until 11pm for two different daycare centres. Back to the oven again - chocolate cupcakes to be packed away with candles, lighter etc and stored somewhere in Seaworld to await the occasion. Bless the person who invented packet mix, and thank goodness we didn’t have triplets.

The Squid didn’t know what Seaworld was. “Will we see tigers?” Uh, no. “Lions?” Sadly not. “Giraffes?” “Um, no, but there will be seals, penguins, fish and polar bears.” She looked uncertain.

“And a dugong.” The magic words. She went capering happily around the loungeroom. Dugongs have always had that effect on her ever since she corrected a daycare staff member who tried to tell her a dugong was a whale.

The dugong was indisposed on the day. Actually, I think they were upgrading the poor, sad-looking thing’s enclosure. A lonely life for a dugong.

It didn’t matter. From the first glimpse of a fish tank with dull-coloured fish, she was hooked. The Squid and her cousin, and later her little mate - all aged three - ran squealing and holding hands from one tank to another. The older kids did a more subdued dance. She was an instant Seaworld fanatic. Five times on the carousel, twice to the Sesame Street show, three times to look at the poor little penguins looking stunned in the heat - and a bucketload of lollies each in a Seaworld-themed cup.

At 11.30am, she started to flag. “Curry, curry!” she demanded, sticking up her arms and barring my way. “I want curry.”

We decided to fix the whinges with a go on the flume ride. The Squid and her little mates only just passed the height test. There was a tantrum when she realised she would be separated from her friend, but she was soon silenced by the novelty as the ride started with her big sister sitting (illegally) backwards to watch her face.

It began sedately, rocking gently like Poppa’s blow-up dinghy at Coochiemudlo. We went through a dark tunnel. All good. Up the steep climb. Nice scenery. Sister had to scramble to face the right way around in time.

And then the drop. I screamed. And screamed. And screamed. Visions of the Squid catapulting head-first into the drop made me grip both her and the bar tightly. I was waiting for the wail of terror and the mad scramble to bury herself in my middle. It never came. Laughter bubbled out of her and by the time we reached the bottom, her eyes were shining and her hair was wild. The two littlies who found each other jabbered together excitedly, while I looked for somewhere to sit down. People in the queue watched the kids with interest to see how they had handled the ride. Seaworld thrill meter rating - “chilled”. I decided not to try the new jetski ride.

Time for a lunch priced to rival a Mayfair high tea and we headed to the kids’ rides. Blessed relief. Of all the rides, shows and attractions, the kids’ fountain was the favourite. They played happily for more than an hour, with the overheated mums rushing in fully-clothed for a splash every 15 minutes or so.

Who knew the park Nazis would order such an abrupt end at 5pm? We just had time to liberate the cupcakes from the locker, light the candles, belt out Happy Birthday and scoff the lot. A very tired Squid, framed stuffing down cake against a backdrop of the ski show, fell off her seat. Her dirty face reappeared a moment later, still chock-full of cake.

We all loved it. We all slept well. The Squid barely escaped falling face-first into her spaghetti.

“It’s my birthday,” she said for the 47th time that day, and fell asleep.

So what if the spouse missed the train, we got banned from the waterpark, and the car battery went flat the next day - this birthday was a success.

I wish the best to both of you, A and our lovely old duck.
xx

I want my mummy

That’s what she said

Over and over again

I want my mummy

Going quite red

I started to count up to ten.

I want my mummy

Mouth gaping wide

To deliver the maximum sound

I want my mummy

Drops from my side

To pound both her legs on the ground.

Tears, gunk and butter

On my black skirt

As I stumble away for the day.

Tears blind my eyes

As I turn back to wave

But the little toad’s run off to play.

It’s Christmas.

It’s hot. The air-conditioner has broken down. The Squid has broken almost every ornament on the tree. Her dad’s having chest pains.

Two weeks to go.

The last 12 days of Christmas have brought:

·        Twelve monstrous presents – lugged home at great trial and tribulation on public transport to go to children who probably have three of exactly the same thing at home.

·         Eleven Christmas catch-ups – what makes seeing people this side of Christmas so important? Leaving a visit until after New Year seems just downright untidy.

·         Ten terrible TV shows – what hole do the few okay TV shows sink into at Christmas time? No wonder The Bold and The Beautiful has made prime time.

·         Nine cranky relatives – why is it so hard to decide the where, what and who of Christmas when the when is so easy? Take it from me, THERE IS NO EASY OPTION.

·         Eight unraveling Santas – definitely hard to explain when two appear at the same time. And really, sometimes Santa could take a bit more care in the morning. Travelling tummies, askew beards, ropes for belt… Santa, have some pride.

·         Seven half-baked carols – you never realise until you have a child just how few words to those Christmas carols you actually know. “Dum dum de da” is a standard Christmas lyric at our house.

·         Six tired carers – They’ve held it together all year, but Christmas just seems to be too much for those childcare providers. It’s apparently hard to raise a smile as you unwrap your seventh soap giftpack.

·         Five office shindigs – Crikey, do they ever stop? Too many drinks, too many indiscreet remarks and too many servings of fries.  

·         Four feisty guinea pigs – Both females? Yeah right.  “A” and “B” were suddenly joined by “C” and “D”.

·        Three jolly sisters – the Squid and all three of her big sisters - no.3  back from Holland for the first time in more than two years – decided to put up the Christmas tree.  Johnny Cash is playing, no 2 is having a rare lie-down on the couch, no 1 and no2’s partner are dancing with the Squid around the loungeroom and no 3, their Dad and I are having a wine on the verandah.

·         Two children’s parties – two meltdowns following overload on lollies, excitement, jumping castles and smelly ducklings.

·         And one cracked and lumpy Christmas cake – total cost, about $312 worth of slivered almonds, every single variety of dried fruit, brandy etc. Result – one dodgy but bloody well going to be eaten Christmas cake.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!

I’m sorry Mem Fox, but you’re going to have to find the green sheep all by yourself from now on.
I feel very, very sad when I think of those mums who, like myself, reluctantly left their baby - the Squid was six months - at childcare while they went out to earn a quid, crying as they drove to the train station, or the bus stop, or to work.
I feel sad when I think about the single mums I know - can we wish children undone? - who struggled to make a good life for their child and themselves, and were obliged to use childcare.
I feel sad when I remember hearing our little one was sick, away from her mum and her dad, and still had to juggle the expectations of work with the longing to be there immediately.
I feel sad when I think how comments like calling childcare for small children “child abuse” makes already guilt-ridden mothers wither inside a little more.
We no longer have extended familes. We no longer have communities who care for each other’s children. We can no longer pay the bills while making cakes for the fete.
We tried six years to have a child and she came along during the drought. No income for my partner who did what work he could when he could. My friend has never had assistance from her child’s father. Another wouldn’t take it if he offered.
Children are born into all sorts of families.
My child attends childcare. I left her there this morning with her hand in a carer’s hand, excitedly telling her about her weekend. Her best friend goes to the same childcare centre. Each day, she tells us who has “got up to mischief” and what she said to her mates.
We love our child and the funny thing is that I think most of the parents there also love their children.
Mem Fox, your books are great, but you will no longer find them at our house.

Shame of all shames, my kid has been busted down a grade in swimming.
Oh, the mortification.
I could see the writing on the wall as soon as the words “I don’t want to go to swimming lessons!” began in periodic wails this morning. They started softly, died down a bit after some jollying along, revived as the time drew near, reached full pitch as it was time to climb into the pool.
“Noooooooooo, Mammmaaaaaa!”
“Come on, Squid. It’ll be fun. You’ll love it.”
“Noooooooooooooo, Maammmmmaaaaaaaaaaa!”
It had already been glaringly obvious she was a mere two-year-old in with the more urbane four-year-olds (don’t ask me what happened to the three-year-olds), but the difference was even more stark as she hid behind my legs from her new swimming instructor. The pool was, of course, packed with parents. It appeared to be daddy’s day, with several fathers about the place and a full complement of two parents in with one of the kids in the class further down the pool. Today, we were the entertainment.
After several playful dunkings of her legs into the pool, the Squid let out a giggle and deigned to stand on the pool ledge. The smile turned into a frantic scrabble as the swimming instructor approached, and a trail of shrieks clean across the pool and back again as her instructor took her for an experimental spin.
Anxious not to appear the over-protective parent, I tried to retreat from the edge, but found myself oddly paralysed.
Her usual teacher, in with the littlies down the end, came sailing out of a sea of adoring parents to the rescue, scooped up the Squid and carried her back down to her old class. I caught a glimpse of a pale, panicked face before Squid realised she had been saved from whatever fate she had feared and, clasping her fat little arms around Deb’s neck, burrowed her face in her shoulder.
The next thing I knew, she was galloping along on the mat on the surface of the pool, giggling as she launched into the water, shooting me big smiles as she went.
Result: Deb handling the Squid, plus one half of the twins and managing four other sets of parents and squids for the lesson. I hadn’t put my togs on in anticipation of the Squid’s lesson with the big kids (it wasn’t her first) - no parent required in the pool.
Following a quick but serious post-lesson conference between old instructor, new instructor and embarrassed parent (myself), it was decided the Squid needed to be busted back to her old grade. She wasn’t “mature” enough for the next grade.
Final result: one immature (crikey, she’s two) but triumphant and happy Squid.
My thanks to the two very kind mums who, later in the paddling pool, helped bolster the Squid’s tattered reputation.