We are currently week one of the hostage situation. There has been limited learning, sleep ins longer than needed and only mild attempts at instilling some “school work”.

Despite this, I’ve discovered a few things.

• I can’t do this without swearing.

• An SSO would be handy right now.

• I’m not sure if the people who voluntarily home school are slightly mad or slightly amazing.

• My children are not the children I read about in their school reports. The versions I have suck.

• Don’t give the youngest one the novelty pen with the little ball that spins around.

• Hoochiemumma Home School needs a stricter “Feeding Time Policy”. Currently we have 12 recess breaks for each child at varying times of the day.

• Year 6 maths is harder than I remember, but thanks to Mr Leo’s maths obsession I am the queen of fractions.

• Saying “just because” isn’t kosher in teaching land, which leads to the fact that…

• I’m really bad at explaining division.

• I don’t know my times tables as well as I thought I did.

• Everything is boring when you’re 8 and the use of full stops is apparently overrated.

• I think I need to take a mental health day tomorrow.

And finally….

• Teachers need to be paid a gazillion dollars a day. A GAZILLION. (Which can be divided by a Zillion with the quotient being a Jillion)

M

Well, 2020 can go and choke on a roll of sorbent. I remember thinking that 2020 had a special ring to it. I thought that this year was going to be something special.

This was NOT WHAT I HAD IN MIND.

On Sunday night I sat on the lounge talking with Mr Hooch, trying to figure out if we should send the kids to school or not. The only people who read this would know our situation, but just in case more than 5 people click the link, we have a son who has Cystic Fibrosis. He therefore falls into the ‘vulnerable’ category if he were to contract Covid-19.

I have felt this kind of anxiety before when Mac was a brand new baby, and I was a brand new mum. I cannot even imagine what the new parents of little babies with CF are feeling right now. It’s tough enough without the added fear of this unknown virus.

And what did I do when I felt like this? I mopped the floor a lot. Weird. But I’ve found that I’ve done it again. My floors don’t know what’s hit them because let’s just say, I’ve been a bit laissez-faire when it comes to whipping out the vileda. Also, we made the choice to tuck him away a bit. When I say a bit, I mean that I didn’t leave the house with him for a month, and anyone with a slight cough or cold would receive some serious laser eye gaze. I was young and polite back then. If you come near my kid now with your snot and cough I might just tell you to fuck off. I’m 45 now and write complaint letters like all good women who are over 40. People change.

So in the light of the arrival of the newest member of the Corona family, my first instinct was to hook on the caravan, head north and sit in the desert for 6 months. After I calmed down and realised that I don’t care much for the desert climate, I figured we should just lay low. On Sunday I thought this may be seen as an over-reaction, but it seems in the two days that followed, Australia joined in. There are no convoys of caravans heading to the desert, but there has been enormous changes for the world, our country and our community. A sad reality, but selfishly, I’m relieved that the decisions we’ve been grappling with have been taken out of our hands.

Scarlett and Elliot also get the fringe benefit of staying home at this time. I think the novelty may wear off pretty quickly because we haven’t hit full strength “home school” so I’m expecting that their apparent early joy will no doubt come crashing down when they realise there was a good reason I didn’t pursue the idea of teaching.

Over the weekend I filled more information about Covid-19 into my head than a doomsday prepper fills pasta into a trolley.

All I know from my self induced media frenzy is that we need everyone to stay healthy to reduce the risk. The more people who stay healthy also help keep those who fall in the vulnerable category to stay safe. It ain’t rocket science…

Please do the “social distancing” thing. It’s such a lame phrase akin to “conscious uncoupling” but do it anyway. Wash your hands… don’t spread your snot and sneezes, and most importantly please think of others.
M

I get it. It’s hard to play second fiddle. It would shit me to tears being the younger sibling to a brother who wins stuff and gets awards and seems to have more than his fair share of moments to shine. So when I told Scarlett that Mac had won the U15 boys swimming medal, her response was “of course he did”, followed by an eye roll.

I understand her anguish, I really do, but I reminded her that her big brother achieving something doesn’t take anything away from her. I’d hoped that she would be happy for him. But I still “get it”. As much as we don’t make Mac’s health a topic of too much conversation, I gently reminded her that these small victories taste a little sweeter. Sure, he’s not an Olympic athlete, but at the same time it’s a big fat giant middle finger to CF. This stupid disease might eventually rob him of being able swim at all, let alone win a race.

Her eyes dropped down, and silence fell. I didn’t want to make her feel bad. God parenting is hard. “But I still get it” I assured her.

Earlier that day a woman approached me after the swimming carnival, sharing her congratulations to Macauley and telling me how she hopes I let the doctors and people at the hospital know what he achieves. “He’s an inspiration” she added. Wow. Inspiring. I guess he would be for some.

Later, I realised that it’s not the people at the hospital who need to hear this story. It’s new parents of children who have CF or any other condition which may see them sitting behind the eight ball of life. I remember being drowned with the harsh reality that was ahead, eagerly searching for the positive stories. I needed good news. I had to know that sometimes good things would happen too.

This one is for them….

.

.

Dear You,

I see you…The new mum who’s holding her baby in the waiting room. I see you grapple with forcing medication into your brand new baby. I see your eyes darting around this strange place, which one day, will become all too familiar. I see you staring off into the distance wondering what this all means. I see the exhaustion and stress on your face….a deer in the headlights of an insidious disease, beaming into your reality.

I hear your thoughts…What does this mean for my child? What is his future? How sick is he really going to be? Will I have to bury him? I can’t ever leave him. I can’t ever go back to work. We can’t ever have any more children. This is it. Our lives are going to be swallowed up by doctors appointments and sickness and treatment and sadness.

I see you, as you research every morsel of information. I see you, as you constantly clean your house and disinfect toys to prevent the germs. I see you, as your stomach flips inside out at the sound of another child coughing near your baby. I feel your anxiety not knowing how to stop the sickness, how to stop the germs, how to protect your child from normal childhood things. I feel the monotony and relentlessness that daily treatment brings you.

But as they say, time stands still for no-one. The days roll into weeks and the weeks become months, months into years.

The roller coaster you are on is sometimes scary. You will scream for it to stop, but you’re strapped in and can’t get off. You will get used to the ride, and settle into it. You will eventually go back to work and will be able to trust others to take care of your baby who is now a toddler. You will have more children too. Your life and that of your family’s won’t be swallowed up by this disease, because you won’t let it. You will somehow become used to the sharp turns and the steep falls. You will learn to expect the unexpected and be open to the unknown. Once you’ve been on this ride for a while, you will learn which dips you need to brace for and which ones to simply raise your hands and surrender. You will surprise yourself at how far you’ve all come. The daily grind will become part of a daily routine, and the things you stayed awake worrying about will seem not so worrisome anymore. Life will be messy and good and normal for the most part. The disease will get the attention it needs but you won’t feed the beast. It will have no more power or control over everyone’s life, other than which it is given. It will define no-one. You will make it fit. You will work around it. It will be like the unwelcome visitor at Christmas… the drunk uncle in the corner. It has to be here, but you don’t have to like it and you’re certainly not going to celebrate it or give it more attention than it needs.

Then one day you will turn around and your baby will be almost 15. Not only is he taller than you now, but he is also living a pretty awesome life and achieving things that you never thought would be possible for that little baby in the hospital waiting room.

To everyone’s surprise, those runty little legs helped him run like the wind. He began to love sports and he wasn’t too shabby. He went on to win trophies and awards and ribbons for all kinds of stuff. He got picked for teams and development squads. He collected a shelf full of trophies and a draw full of ribbons. Along with this he managed to come home with some snappy school reports despite the missed weeks for hospital stays. He developed a good work ethic and strives to improve. He helps out, takes on leadership roles and despite the normal frustrations of raising a teen, he is turning out ok.

Somehow, this disease which was seen as such a curse, has given as much as it’s taken away. It’s taught the lessons of patience, persistence and determination. It’s taught us all about resilience and the power of reframing thoughts. It is part of the fabric that has made our son who he is. It’s part of the fabric that has made those of us who love him.

The future is still a scary place. It’s still unknown. There are some fabulous new treatments, but there’s still no cure. There will be many hurdles to jump as time unfolds. But that’s a truth for everyone, with or without a chronic illness.

Out of all the things you will need to power through the hard times, it is the power of hope. So strap in, hold tight, cross your fingers and be prepared for the possibility of being pleasantly surprised.

Love, me.

M

 

Dear Elliot,

I snuck into your bedroom and carefully carried the glass of water with your ninth baby tooth sitting at the bottom. I would have never known that it was the ninth tooth you had lost, but you knew.

You love numbers and weirdly count everything. It’s your funny quirk, this whole number thing. We are all in awe of how you can never find your shoes and forget to shut the car door EVERY SINGLE TIME you get out, but somehow in that brain of yours, you can tell us everyone’s birthday and ages, including the age of your dead grandfather if he were still here.

As I tipped the glass upside down and watched your ninth tooth slide down the drain of the bathroom sink, I wondered if this would be the last time I was going to play the tooth fairy. I sensed a difference in your reaction that night as I tucked you in, excitedly telling you how the tooth fairy would be visiting. Maybe you had twigged? “Did you know the secret?”, I wondered.

I’ve been the tooth fairy over 40 times. I can’t remember tipping out 40 teeth, or hunting for coins to fill the glass where those precious teeth sat… but I must have. You will eventually find out that I’m the one who filled the glass with coins, and just like your older sister and brother, you will stop putting your lost teeth in a glass of water and just hit me up for some cold harsh cash instead.

I was told by one of my dearest friends that motherhood was a process of letting go. It starts with your children leaving your body and from then on it is incremental steps of release.
I now understand why I have heard fellow mums trying to convince their children that Santa was real and “if you don’t believe you won’t receive”. I never understood that until now. I never knew the bittersweetness. I never knew it until it was my last. Until it was you. My last one. My baby boy. My funny little man who we took a huge gamble to have. No wonder the baby of the family gets spoilt. It has nothing to do with you but has everything to do with me, as I stand at the bathroom sink, playing the tooth fairy for possibly the last time, letting go of yet another piece of you and your childhood magic. Letting go of a piece of me and motherhood. No books or advice can prepare you for the ride of sweet agony you feel when your children grow out of childish things.

I groan when people say that “time goes by so quickly” and you need to “enjoy every moment”. Like most mums, there have been times where motherhood hasn’t been enjoyable. A lot of it can be a hard slog. So much if it is exhausting and relentless. Hanging in the back of my mind though is that one day, I will tip that last tooth down the drain. I will pick you up and tuck you into bed for the very last time. You will no longer slide next to me, in the middle of the night needing comfort from a bad dream. Before I know it, you will be standing taller than me while I ask you how to use my smartphone.

I wish I could freeze time for a while… not forever, but just long enough so that I can catch my breath and soak you in just a little bit longer….my baby boy, with nine teeth down the drain.

Mum

Oh god it’s started.

Body image and a daughter.

I have struggled with body image my entire life. It’s awful. Negative self-talk can become so consuming that sometimes the battle to fight it off is too hard.  Most of the time I’m a warrior, but there are times I’m a prisoner. Due to this, I have been super vigilant, in those moments of “meh”, not to speak negatively about my appearance in front of the kids. Especially my daughter. My Warrior language is the only thing they will ever hear.

Miss Tween mentioned how she hates her pale skin and her hairy legs. I gently empathised how, I too, had always wished that I was tanned. “We can’t change it, so we just have to work with it” was my message.  I also shared that I was once told I had skin like peaches and cream and that peaches and cream are delicious.  I had never thought to celebrate the fact that being pale can be a beautiful thing until it was pointed out. My answer was to run out and get a fake tan and cover up my paleness. So, with that in mind, my wide eyed girl and I listed all of the glorious pale skinned people we knew, which reinforced that we weren’t alone. As for hairy legs, we talked about how girls are actually allowed to have hairy legs, because we are humans and humans have hair. We can also have hairy armpits too if we choose.. cause once again, we’re humans. However, I’m also a realist and society tells us that women are hairless creatures, so I understand that an 11 year old girl who wants to fit in isn’t likely to buck the system. We aren’t all Greta Thunberg or Malala Yousafzai. I’m not sure where Greta or Malala stand on hair removal, but safe to say they are probably focusing on bigger issues.

 

 

Perhaps this is the answer. Perhaps if we focus on more important things than the insignificant things like pale skin, hairy legs, or even thighs, they simply fade into the background. Or do they? This would be an ideal world for me, but we don’t live in one. We live in this world.  A world where women are still strapped by the social expectations that we have created and insist upon. The world is changing in this arena for the better though. There are more body positive movements, we see more diversity on our TV screens and social media, and if you carefully navigate your way through, you can feed your brain with mostly healthy positive messages creating a healthy and happy body image. We can block out the thousands of Instagram “influencers” selling their appearance for profit and gain. We can choose to unfollow, delete and unfriend. We can control the shows we watch, the magazines we buy and the friends we have. We can refuse to lap up negative messages like hungry little puppies at dinnertime. We can, in a sense, have our own revolt against the rulers of the beauty matriarchy.

Even if we manage to become warriors of body image wellness, the negativity still seeps in. It comes in whispers. Hundreds and thousands of tiny messages whispered into our ears and our psyche. That’s why we need to shout above the whispers so that our children hear the message that appearance is a bullshit myth of importance. It’s ‘nice to look nice’ and be complimented on that, but when the majority of the compliments you hear are the ones about how you look, it makes appearance equal self worth.

 

Photo Source: Meg Gaiger/Harpyimages

 

As a child and teen, I soaked in these whispers like a sponge, and it’s these whispers that I sometimes fight against in my mind as a 44 year old, reasonably well adjusted woman.

We certainly do a lot of things better now, but back when I was growing up things weren’t so fab, so over that time I’ve heard, and also been told, some pretty horrendous stuff…mainly about weight. I have also said a few of these things too, because that’s what I thought was important. So in the vein of Jane Gilmore’s FixedIt , an incredibly powerful message that reminds us about the power of words in a headline, I’ve corrected some of the tripe I’ve heard over the years when it comes to appearance.

 

If you feel yourself about to say this…..

Say this instead…..

“If she just lost a bit of weight, she would look so much better and maybe get a boyfriend”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“You may be larger, but you always look nice because you ‘know what to wear’”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“You’re lucky your hair isn’t ‘red-red'”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“You’d think she’d put a bit of make-up on”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“You’re not a ‘typically pretty’ girl”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“She should NOT be wearing that”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“She should NOT be eating that”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“She must be a lesbian with armpits like that”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“How did she let herself get that big”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“She needs a spray tan for those legs”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“You move well for a big girl”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“I’m just concerned about her health”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“I’m so fat” says size 10 girl to size 20 girl

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“You’re looking good.. have you lost weight?”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“It’s just calories in vs calories out…it’s not that hard to figure out”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

Mmmm. Yep. I think I fixed it.

 

M.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is one for those who set out on a family making expedition and found themselves travelling a path they weren’t expecting.

Who knows what you’re going to get when you embark upon making people.

It’s an exciting lotto.

Most of us know that there is a risk of things going wrong, but thousands of perfectly healthy children are born every year. Why wouldn’t we have one too? When the scans come back with the all clear and you’ve hit the “safe zone” it’s smooth sailing until d-day. And once that baby is in your arms you’re home and hosed right? Or are you?

Sometimes that’s not the case.

I’ve spent a fair amount of time in hospital with our teen who was born with Cystic Fibrosis.

Throughout these years I’ve met a lot of parents going through some horrendous stuff. Usually I’d be making myself a shitty cup of tea when I would meet some fellow hospital parents. The parent room is like a prison yard where by the time you’ve run into the same people for more that a couple of days, one of you inevitably ends up asking “so… what are you in for?”

Some of the parents I have met didn’t know what was wrong with their child. Their exhaustion was palpable with worry strewn across their faces as they downloaded their stories in the moments between toasting bread and dipping tea bags.

These moments have definitely given me a deeper appreciation for the most simple things in life and I was often left in awe of their resilience.

Other parents I’ve met are frequent fliers, like me, supporting their child who is managing a chronic illness. We share the commonalities of having wandered these wards and passages. We share the gratefulness of the brilliant care our children receive, as well as frustrations of finding car parks and being woken by beeping machines. We long for the time to pass quickly and for the treatment to work. We count down the days until we can go home, knowing that we’ll be back again at some point in time doing it all again. Despite this, I often feel grateful that I know what we are “in for”.

In the early years, when we were in the trenches of managing a baby in hospital, I read a poem that was stuck to the wall next to the fridge. I was feeling a bit fragile that this was our life and hadn’t become used to the roller coaster ride of chronic illness.

The poem below was written for parents of children born with a disability, but I think it resonates for all of us who embarked upon this child making caper and didn’t quite get what we ordered.

So here’s to all of us, who not only kick the arse of parenting, but also have extra challenges along the road of parenthood.

M