talking to kids

A while back I linked to this wonderful, insightful piece by (the always wonderful and insightful really) Rebecca from Girls Gone Child.

She calls bullshit on teaching your kids not to talk to strangers and I couldn't agree more. Go read the piece, I want to say everything she says and she writes it so much better than I could.

A few weeks ago I met a Mum who was anxious about talking to her young kids about any of the 'dangers' of the world and how to protect themselves. She knew it was regarded as highly irresponsible not to, especially given our country's crime rate, but she couldn't bring herself to shatter the peace and trust her children still had with the world.
I was that Mum some years ago, who of us want to talk about evil with our kids?

But I found an approach which is working for me, I'm teaching my girls to trust their gut. And the more I've committed to this approach, the more my eyes have opened to the opportunities to talk to my kids about keeping themselves safe.

We got this book out the library recently.

And when we got to this page, I saw the opportunity for a Conversation.

After lengthy discussion (every page has options of what you'd rather eat or wear or be - great book) it was unanimously decided we'd all rather be lost in a crowd.
And so I asked, 'If you were lost in this crowd, who would you ask for help?'

We talked about who looked as if they were in a hurry, and who looked a bit grumpy or distracted. We talked about who would be most likely to be able to help a lost child.
Lady with the baby came out tops. Followed closely by the Granny.

Life lessons. Without having to get into any unpleasantness. Trust your gut, be sensible, live, make friends, talk to strangers, learn from books.
These are things I can teach them.

'We are all meant to shine, as children do.' N Mandela

Back in June, when we got that first (fake) report of Mr Mandela's death, Friday turned to me, eyes brimming and asked: 'Will black people and white people now have to live separately again?'

This morning she remembered the conversation we had then and said, 'But even now that he's really died we can still live free hey Mum?'
And Sunday added, 'Yes, Mr Mandela will still live in our hearts.'

I pledge never to let my children forget him, or forget that they shared his time on earth.
We must always look back to know how to move forward.

gender bender

In keeping with the dichotomy which is this child, the two central tropes in Sunday's life at the moment are
a) how she CAN'T WAIT to have her babies and
b) how she's actually a boy, not a girl.

The boy thing has been around for some time. She loves a pretty frock, likes to think 'pink is her favourite colour' like her sister, but lest you be very careful of using the wrong gender pronouns or she'll rake you over hot coals.
She was having a vaccination shot last week and afterwards the nursing sister declared her to be 'such a brave girl'. Both Friday and I looked up in horror - nooooooo - but it was too late. 'I'm not a girl!' Sunday shrieked as the poor nurse floundered, eventually doling out lollipops to lighten the mood and commenting instead on their 'lovely blonde hair' until Friday told her 'my daddy's black' (what?) and I saw the woman's eyes glaze over with confusion as she ushered us out of her office declaring we'd been the 'most fun she'd had all day'.
In the car on the way home Friday muttered, 'I meant Daddy's hair is black', while Sunday rambled on about how she was a nice lady but 'a bit silly to not see that I'm a boy hey Mum?'

We indulge the phase, knowing from earnest conversations that she does really know what's what, but just chooses to live this fantasy for now. And as a child who really, really wanted a willy for my 5th birthday I'm okay with letting this one play itself out.

However the baby thing has been around for even longer. Friday had no interest in dolls as a smallie, but Sunday's maternal urge is strong. We all recall how when she'd just started crawling she'd collect dishtowels around the kitchen and clutch them to her chest, patting them hard and saying 's, s, s'.
She has a small but beloved collection of dolls, named Eyeball, Cucumber, Zebareba and Su'Lala (I couldn't make this shit up if I tried), and the subject of babies (growing them, birthing them and raising them) occupies a lot of her conversation.
For now she's happy playing with her dolls, but beware statements such as: 'You're such a good Mum.'
Oh no, if asked she's a big brother, a father or a granddad to this special bunch of weirdly-named kids.

So it was heart-breaking to watch, yesterday morning as her big eyes welled up with tears, the dawning comprehension that the two dreams had no clear intersect.
Chatting away about how she's a big boy, she suddenly had a moment of clarity and started sobbing, 'But if I'm a boy how will I have my babies Mum?'
My eyes teared up too. It's a sad thing watching the shattering of a dream, however nonsensical it may seem.

She tried to convince me that 'some boys can have babies' but I squashed that one pronto. There are limits to how much fantasy I consider it healthy to indulge. We chatted about adoption instead.
In conclusion she decided that when she was ready to have babies she might decide to be a girl again after all.
You go my boy.

My big boy, in a fairy frock, holding his her baby up to see out the bird hide.

big girl talk

I really don't know how people with lots of kids (like, more than two) do it. Trying to find time for them all when one, or some, of them are more demanding of that time than others.

Since she could crawl Sunday's been ace at picking up that Friday and I are about to have a meaningful conversation, and scooting over to insert herself between us and have AN EVEN MORE MEANINGFUL ONE ABOUT ABSOLUTELY NOTHING AND MUCH MUCH LOUDER.

One does always seem to have more one-on-one time with the youngest as it is. She's home with me at least one morning a week, not yet going off on play dates by herself, and still much more physically clingy.
And it's great, it's lovely to have the time to spend with her.

But my big girl needs me too.

A year ago Friday found a tampon in my bag and asked me what it was. I was quite pleased with myself for replying that it was 'very hygienically sealed cotton wool' - an honest answer which neatly evaded any discussions about bleeding from the vejayjay or inserting foreign bodies there, both concepts I felt needn't be introduced to a barely 5 year old.
But today she found some again, and this time she asked, 'What are these really Mum?'.
So this time I told her.
In between Sunday prattling on about a hundred unrelated things and trying to climb on my back and get Friday to teach her the words to a song about a scarecrow.
This is not how I'd envisaged having these woman-to-woman type conversations with my daughters.
Plus, I'm bargaining on only having to go through this stuff once, so I need Friday to have grasped the concept well enough to pass it on to her younger sister (if and when she ever stops to listen) with the least possible terrifying misinformation.

Later, it being a TV watching day, she asked for The Lorax, but I persuaded her to watch David Attenborough instead. It's been a while.
So they watched The Great Tide, and when those sardines started running and the thousands of dolphins came a-leaping and the gannets were dive-bombing and the sharks were circling and Sir David himself was almost hysterical with the drama of it all, she turned to me with eyes shining and said, 'I'd forgotten how exciting this is!'

This evening we put the girls to bed separately. Even though they share a room we split them up for bed time and I lay in my bed with Friday and answered some questions about menstruation and sharks and how movies are made and what David Attenborough is probably really like.
I read her a chapter of Laura Ingalls Wilder and then inevitably had to lie with her to ward off panthers as she fell asleep.

And while she dozed off I held her tight (that is until she muttered that she 'couldn't breathe') and thought about how my big girl needs me for many things.
She needs me to have big girl talks but she also needs to me to remind her that she still loves David Attenborough when the call of loud and colourful Hollywood is becoming so much louder, to sing silly scarecrow songs together, to acquaint her with the literary friends who saw me through adolescence and I hope will be there for her too.

And you know what, I need her. I need to have big girl talks and sing silly songs and be reminded that nature is awesome and boys are gross and lipstick is only really cool when it's on so thick you can't grin. I need to find more one-on-one time for all that.

TGIF

Hey, remember my other kid?

You know, the one I've not really mentioned for posts and posts because of all the erhmagerd-3-year-old-from-hell type stuff that's been going on here lately?

Well she's still around. And she is just ... adorable. Really truly, 5 has been so very wonderful that I must admit to being a little apprehensive about 6. Surely this high of chatty curious sweet-natured playful fun must precede a low of emo angst?

We're seeing glimpses ... There's been some crying for no particular reason. There was an inexplicable meltdown because I got water on her new strawberry legwarmers (while filling a water balloon for her) because 'Now they're all weeeeeeeeeet!' There are some requests for her sister to leave her alone, some calls for peace and quiet.

But for the most part Friday is my fun, my sanity, my darling. And, in the same way Sunday's delightful baby-ness helped me get through her older sister's Tyrannical Three's, Friday's Fabulous Five is helping me get through them this time round.

She is patient. She is kind. She loves her sister so much. She is always ready with a cuddle, a chat, a song. She says thank you. Her laugh has the power to crack my darkest mood.

We're reading Little House in the Big Woods - an enormously important and precious moment for me, sharing my childhood love with a child of my own.

We're talking about her teacher's gay relationship, Mr Mandela and brand assimilation (she rolls her eyes while I rant about people forcing little girls to think everything they own must be slathered in Barbie).
We listen to the radio and when she notes that 'this guy's not really singing hey Mum, more like talking', and I say it's called 'rap' music she asks, 'Is that because he's talking rapidly?
Wow, maybe it is?

There's some growing up happening, no doubt. Suddenly she knows who Taylor Swift is, and Justin 'Beaver'.  She got a brain worm the other day, saying HannahMontanaHannahMontanaHannahMontana - it does roll off the tongue quite nicely - and she dances gangnam style.

But she'll still romp in the sea in her knickers given half a chance. Collecting plough shells her lips will move as she tells herself some story.
Her eyes will still light up at the first whiff of an 'imagining'. She makes a game out of almost anything.
She'd give her life to David Attenborough if he'd have her.

Basically, in the words of Robert Smith:

I don't care if Monday's blue

Tuesday's gray and Wednesday too

Thursday I don't care about you

It's Friday, I'm in love

keep 'em in the dark I say!

I didn't talk to my kids about the Boston bombings. I didn't talk to them about Sandy Hook. Closer to home I didn't talk to them about Reeva Steenkamp or Anele Booysen. I don't talk to them about crime stats or how our president's an asshole. I don't talk to them about corruption. I don't voice concerns about our political future in their hearing. I don't talk about rising sea levels or global warming.

Not yet. They are too young.

We've talked a little about 'baddies' - we have to in the light that we lock our doors, live behind burglar bars and set our house alarm at night. We've talked about homeless people and children without parents, we've talked about poverty - we see these things everyday, and obviously the girls ask questions.
We talk about water conservation and littering, recycling and sustainability - these are part of their everyday lives.
We talk about being safe, about trusting one's instincts, gauging people and situations.

We talk about what I believe they're capable of understanding, processing, contextualising.

But for the rest, yes, I'm shielding them. I'm intentionally keeping them in the dark. I'm nurturing my little mushrooms.

I'm hoping to build their faith in humanity as much as I can before life inevitably starts wearing it down. I want them to have the strongest possible foundation of love and order and empathy before it gets shaken.
I know there's only a little time left to do this, Friday turns 6 this year and with 'big school' and her growing awareness of the world it's not long before we have to tackle the big stuff. But by then I'm hoping she'll have a confidence in the way the world can, or should, work which will sustain her through the tough lessons of how often it doesn't.

I know some people who think this is naive. But frankly I don't know how else to do it.

I do know how children can worry when they don't understand the news. I do know how fleeting and precious childhood is. I do know how easily I can access the news through my phone or the internet without having to have CNN in our living room.

I noticed someone on Twitter this week (a South African) asking how to explain the Boston situation to their 5 year old. My suggestion: don't.

Just don't. Until you have to.

girls will be boys will be girls will be boys

I've been fretting recently about how often I notice mothers saying 'Oh, you're such a boy' to their sons. As we know I don't have sons so this is possibly one of those things I should just leave alone ... but, just briefly, I won't.

I don't like gender bias as a rule, and it makes me particularly uncomfortable when people do it to kids. What does 'such a boy' even really mean?

We all know what 'such a girl' means. And that's why I never say it. There's a negative connotation right? An implication of softness, or squeamishness, or (horror) being over-emotional.
I don't say to my girls, when they're dressed all in pink or pushing dolls around in prams or freaking out 'cos they got duck poo on their feet, 'Oh, you're such a girl.' Just as I wouldn't say it to them when they're smashing rocks (ja, all those pretty rocks ...) or kicking a ball around the lawn or pulling wings off flies.
And when they're being unreasonable, or farting in public, or punching each other I certainly won't say 'Don't be such a boy', although I've had mothers admit to saying the opposite to their sons when they've thought they're being 'girlie'.

Yes, I have been intrigued to see how my youngest girl has embraced dolls and playing 'baby' since she could just crawl, I watch in equal parts fascination and horror as my 5 year old totally falls for the pink marketing so rife out there. No doubt if I had a son I'd be as amazed to observe his undeniably male character traits, and I'm sure I'd be proud of his boisterous bravado, or ability to quietly play Lego for hours (I'm particularly disappointed to never experience that one!), but I like to think I'd never voice his gender specificity to him directly.
I like to think I'm conscious about not engaging in any gender stereo-typing when talking to the girls at all (although out of their earshot I've been known to accuse my husband of 'screaming like a girl' - the spiders in this house are really, really scary!).

But maybe this is a concern for mothers of girls more than those with boys. Maybe this is purely my baggage about the world they're entering and the optimistic belief, like so many mothers before me, that somehow what I instill in my daughters before leaving home will reflect in the world they'll inhabit. That maybe this generation will be the one to experience a different gender paradigm.
Maybe this is all my own hey-sho-wow hope that if we don't pigeon-hole our kids at home they'll be freer to be themselves in the world? Girls can be tough and boys can be soft. Hurling rocks at ducks is not 'being a boy', pretending to change the nappy of the same rock not 'being a girl'.
Maybe our kids can just be kids and deal with all this complex gender crap as it comes, 'cos it will, without any prodding from their mothers.

When discussing this with my husband however, his parting shot was this, 'So what do you think the long term effects of calling them 'disgusting creatures' will be? Because you seem to do that pretty often.'

Oh, oops.

teach them to talk

I'm a big talker. Always have been. Many of my kindergarten reports said kind things like 'bit of a chatterbox!', or, 'always has an opinion!'.
Nice ways of saying 'oh my god could she just stop talking for 5 freaking seconds already??!!'

(If I only I could find all those dear ladies now and let them know karma has totally sorted me out on this one  ... times two actually ....)

I digress.

I've always been a big talker - I credit myself with being a pretty good listener too - and while these things are to a measure personality based, I think how to listen, and how to talk, are on the (endless) list of skills we need to learn, too.
Preferably starting at home.

I learnt about debate at my mother's knee, literally. My parents enjoyed lively discussion, had no qualms disagreeing on things, managed their disagreements with wit and humour, and knew when to agree to disagree (one of the most necessary conversational skills one should master I reckon).

I spent many evenings listening in on the lively political and social discussions which took place around our dinner table, and the braai-fires and living rooms of our family friends.
My parents lived in an age of disinformation - what news they were able to access was often heavily censored, there was no internet, and the ability to listen - really listen, to read between the lines, to intelligently ask the kind of questions which would give you the information you needed and crucially, to talk it all out, was all the material they had with which to form their opinions and views on their world and its future.
I didn't always understand what they were talking about, but from early on I picked up the ways in which one conversed, the rhythms and patterns of debate and discussion. How to disagree, how to stick by your guns, how to see something from someone else's point of view and if necessary tailor your argument to make sense in their terms. How to back down, to concede, how to walk away with your dignity intact.
I learnt that one doesn't always need to speak louder to be heard. That it's the strength of your argument, not your language which'll win your audience over.
I learnt how good language can cow the greatest conversational bully, how and when to let your emotions show, or not.
I learnt exactly how much wine one should consume to be razor sharp and entertaining, and how just one glass too many can turn you into a droning incoherent bore.

These are some of the most valuable lessons of my childhood, I never underestimate for a second how incredibly lucky I am to have learnt them at home. And today, as we all feel very raw about the violence at Lonmin mine yesterday, these are the things I'm pondering again, and recommitting myself to teaching my two chatterboxes how to talk.

To really, really talk. To listen. To glean the facts from the excessive amount of news, opinion and information which abounds today (the exact opposite from my childhood but arguably no more clearer), to know how to identify the truths and the lies, to decide for themselves what those are.
To debate - with themselves, their contemporaries, their world.

I can't arm my daughters against natural disasters, car crashes or freak accidents, but I hope to be able to arm them against lack of communication. Something which I regard to be as dangerous, and almost more destructive, than anything else.

addiction is terrifying

I've had two reasons lately to be reminded of this, neither thankfully too close to home.

One, a neighbour we've realised is using ... something. Weird requests for the loan of odd amounts of money at strange times of the day - the first time I lent her the cash (which was very promptly repaid) but subsequently I got really uncomfortable about it, especially as she kept asking me not to tell her boyfriend as 'he'd be embarrassed'. I turned down the second request, saying I didn't have any cash in the house, but I don't like lying, so the next few times I just said no, sorry but no.
She looks edgy, fretful.
She begged me the last time I refused her, but still wasn't saying what she wanted the cash for.
I've witnessed a couple of deliveries to her house at random times of the day.
The signs are all there, and it's terrifying.

Two, a friend of a friend has started using again after 8 years clean. In a matter of weeks she's lost her job, her relationship, her house, most of her possessions.
Her mother won't take her in after the hell she went through, emotionally and financially, the last time her daughter was in active addiction.
Her mother won't take her in.
The trauma of those words haunt me. For the the mother as much as for her child.

The self-loathing, the destruction, the hard, hard work trying to get out of it. The tedium and relentless self-examination required to stay clean. The debasement of using.
Addiction is terrifying.

Drugs are so much dirtier, and cheaper, then when we were 'young'. They're easier to get hold of and easier to get hooked on.

So what do we do? We teach our kids to love and respect themselves, to think. We educate them. We work to build relationships in which they feel they can talk to us about anything. We work to steel ourselves to trust them, to trust the work we've done. We stop our ears against the stories we hear of parents who do all this and still battle addiction in their families.

We hope against hope against hope that we never have to fight that fight.

And we talk. To our children, our friends, each other. Anything you'd like to say?

a little TMI for now ...

I've mentioned before how Friday's pretty clued up on the whole procreation thing. As illustrated by that experience, to my utmost relief at the time, she's still a little fuzzy about the actual mechanics, but she has the biology down pat.
We've been waiting for the penny to drop, for her brain to tick over and produce the much-anticipated question: exactly how do the mummy egg and the daddy sperm join in blissful union? I've totally been expecting The Question to come at the least convenient and most socially inappropriate time, but I wasn't expecting this ...

A book we checked out of the library on Saturday.

I guess, in retrospect, I should probably have scanned through it first. Before I found myself tucked up in bed with her that evening, innocently charging through this (it must be said, very funny and delightfully illustrated) book. In hindsight it's pretty frikkin' obvious it's a book about where babies come from right?

Especially when we got to this page:

I took a deep breath, reminded myself I'm a grown-up and soldiered through until I flipped pages and ... er ... wham!
 

Come on Babette, what did I ever do to you?

In one fell swoop you managed to;
a) drop me right in the oncoming path of Questions I May Not be Ready to Answer Just Yet (explaining the basics of the sex act just become soooo much more preferable to answering some of the questions these illustrations could inspire)
b) make me feel completely sexually unadventurous and boring (a skateboard??)
c) possibly change the way my young daughter feels about balloons forever.

Never mind all kinds of related queries pertaining to gimp balls, hallucinogenic drugs, bondage, gravity, anatomy and ornithology. Or maybe that's just me ...

However, I think Friday was as gobsmacked as I. She remained silent as I rapidly read to the end and whipped out another book, quickly changing the topic and hopefully her chain of thought.

But I know that little inquiring mind I've spawned. She'll file this somewhere, to be brought out and examined when she's ready. And one day, at the least convenient and most socially inappropriate time, she'll suddenly ask; 'Mummy, why was that Daddy in that book looking so worried while he mated with the Mummy?'

Thanks a lot Babette.

PS, I was going to apologise for how blue these photos came out but hey, it seems kind of appropriate. So I won't.

parenting in public

I read an article a few weeks back, an opinion piece really, wherein the writer was commenting on some kid's atrocious behaviour in the KFC. I've searched but I can't find the article to link to - sorry - but the point was that the writer, and most of those who left comments were taking the old 'in my day we just got klapped good and proper for bad behaviour - what's wrong with today's parents?' line. Yawn.

Whether you're a spanker or not, if you're a parent you'll know from experience or observation that 2% of the time a swift slap will silence an unreasonable child, the other 98% of the time? He or she'll just scream even louder.
Not the end goal you're hoping to achieve in a public place right?
Also, again whether you support spanking or not, I think that to spank in public is a very different kind of punishment than spanking at home. In public you're adding humiliation to the pain you've inflicted, on top of whatever emotion got the kid acting out in the first place.
Of the list I feel humiliation is the most harmful.

My take on the KFC-screamer was that the kid was over-tired, needing a poo, or hungry - hungry for real food I should add. These are the 3 main reasons my girls act up, though like all children, they're totally capable of pulling new reasons for losing their shit out the bag anytime.

All of this I considered as, under the watchful eye of a good dozen other parents (and knowing that whether in judgement or sympathy, they're definitely gauging my response), I had the rare delight of extracting my kicking and screaming, hungry, over-tired (and probably needing a poo - because don't they always in a public place anyway?), big girl from a restaurant over the weekend.

Here's how I did it:
I left husband to pay bill and handle non-screaming child
I told screamer firmly and quietly that she's disturbing the other diners and needs to calm down and come to the car. NOW.
I offered to carry her (a diffusing tactic which usually works - she's so big now that carrying is a treat)
But when it didn't, I scooped her (and her long, long kicking legs) up, and carried her to the car in a calm and dignified manner
At the car, I chucked her in the back seat, slammed door shut, locked car and while she thrashed and foamed at the mouth inside, sent this tweet:

And it really did.

I was proud of myself that I didn't lose my shit. That I didn't make any ridiculous threats, that I remained calm, that I didn't flash too much flab at innocent bystanders as I wrangled my girl, and crucially: that we didn't cave on the ice-cream issue which had caused the furor in the first place.

But I know enough to not regard this as a precedent set. I'm lucky that I can count on one hand the number of times my girls have (so far) caused a scene in public, but I'm under no illusions that I'm out of the woods on this one. And I know that my response hinges on as many factors as their behaviour does - very possibly this time the large G'nT I'd enjoyed with my meal made all the difference.

What I did learn is that parenting in public carries a whole set of different challenges to parenting at home, and that decisiveness, swift action and feigned nonchalance (to the freaking kid and the inevitable audience) is definitely my game plan. And maybe a stiff drink where possible.

Let's see if I have occasion to eat these words.

And btw - we don't have the pox! Yippeee.

impossible conversations

Impossible Conversation 1:

Working Mother: ‘Where do you work?’

SAHM: ‘I don’t, I’m home with my kids.’

Working Mother feels judged.

Impossible Conversation 2:

Working Mother: ‘Where do you work?’

SAHM: ‘I don’t, I’m a full-time Mum.’

Working Mother: ‘Oh I could never do that.’

SAHM feels judged.

Impossible Conversation 3:

Woman 1: ‘I’ve 2 daughters, do you have kids?’

Woman 2: ‘No, I decided not to.’

Woman 1 feels judged.

Impossible Conversation 4:

Woman 1: ‘I’ve 2 daughters, do you have kids?’

Woman 2: ‘No, I decided not to.’

Woman 2 feels judged.

4 conversations women have with other women in which it's virtually impossible for someone not to feel judged. Usually by themselves.

One more impossible conversation:

Me to Friday in moment of extreme frustration: 'Do you have any idea how lucky you are to have me around so much? Lots of children's mummies work really hard and don't spend nearly as much time with their children.'

Friday: 'Uh?'

Serves me right for trying to have that conversation with a 4 year old. It's hard enough with my peers.

pants on fire

I remember, years and years ago, watching aghast as a friend of mine told her then 6 year old daughter that she couldn't ride in the back of my bakkie (pick-up?), 'cos the canopy door 'was broken'.
In my pre-parental naivety I felt the size of the lie was hugely disproportionate to the issue at hand, such a blatant untruth merely to prevent a possible melt-down?

Now that I'm a parent I have a whole lot more sympathy. I now realise that this could have been one in a series of power-plays which had been taking place all day, that my friend possibly knew her daughter was hungry or tired and that getting into a debate just wasn't worth the risk. I now know about picking your battles. I know how fragile a child's young ego is, and how a parent quickly learns to tread gently around it, often risking other people's judgment and disapproval, but trying to ignore that in the knowledge that you know your offspring better than anyone.

I also know how easy it is to lie when you're tired, or hungry, or your ego is feeling a bit fragile.

But I'm determined not to. This is not a judgement, or something which makes me feel sanctimonious and holy.
Lying makes me feel crap, and I don't like feeling crap.
Not lying makes me use my imagination, and I like using my imagination.
I want my kids to trust me, and I credit them with being bright enough to learn quickly if they can't.

It's not possible to tell the blatant truth all the time. One can't be honest about the truly horrific birthday gift (at least not to the giver), or exactly how many Smarties one may (or may not!) have eaten last night while baking cookies for Friday's school bake day. But this doesn't mean one has to lie.
'What an enormous vase!'
'Not as many as I could have.'
These are both legitimate, and honest, answers. And both true.

If my children are to learn from me, from my example, then I want to teach them the classiest, most imaginative, most respectful way to navigate the world as truthful human beings.

I want to be able to say 'I never lie to you' and mean it. I want them to trust me on that.

wild monkey love

I really struggled to think of a title for this post which wouldn’t attract all kinds of heinous Google searches ...

I think I’ve done quite well considering the story (all true) to follow.

A few weeks back, on a weekend morning I was lying in bed with Friday when she initiated one of her endless (and so, so tedious) games of ‘mummy & baby’. This time she was a baby monkey and for a slightly less b-o-r-i-n-g take on the whole game, this time she was ‘still in my tummy’.

Where upon she tries to fold her lanky frame into a little ball on my stomach. Seriously, this is so lame.

I'm trying to place my thoughts elsewhere while she witters away when, clang! 

'Oh no wait mummy, first you must mate with a male baboon.'

Oh. My. God.

'Here comes a male mum, he wants to mate with you.'

Frozen with horror, I desperately try to work out an appropriate response to the next stage of the game while my mind shuts down on me, curling itself into a ball in the corner with its fingers in its ears.

'Wave to him mum.'

I scream at my brain to pull itself towards itself, which it does just enough to send shaky instructions to my hand. Hand waves weakly at invisible baboon lover.

'Look mum, he's imitating you, he waved back.'

Yay.

'Right, that means you've mated. Now I'm the baby in your tummy.'

Shew, that went well. 

Note to self: when she asks the actual Question (coming soon to an awkward scenario near me) I'm so getting David Attenborough on the line. He opened this can of ... baboons?

eye to eye

We walked into Checkers and I spotted her just before Friday did.

This, is going to be interesting, I thought.

Friday stopped dead with an intent look of studied interest and puzzlement. I racked my brains for the current politically correct way to explain dwarfism.
Then I decided to let things run their course.

'Mum, why is that lady so small?'
The lady moved closer, selecting her veggies.
She smiled at Friday, eye to eye.
'Hello, what's your name?' she said.

Friday answered and then the lady said.
'I'm quite small aren't I?'
To which Friday responded, 'I've got an eye infection.'

The lady smiled, and took a step back.
'Are you looking forward to Christmas?' she asked. 'By Christmas you'll have grown a bit, ' she continued, 'but I've finished growing. By Christmas you'll be taller than me.'
She put a punnet of strawberries in her basket, smiled goodbye and moved off.

On the way home I explained that the small lady's bones had stopped growing when she was a child and so she stayed small. And later when I got a moment I went online to gauge how well I'd responded to the situation. There's not much out there, but from this I think I did okay.
Except for the poor character part! Staring is a family failing I'm afraid, though I prefer to call it 'noticing intently'.

Any of you been in a similar situation? How did you handle it?

we're talking about ... the black widow spider

Black. Widow. Spider.

She must've said it no less than 48 times on the drive home from Hout Bay last week.

Black. Widow. Spider.

Say it out loud, it definitely feels good in the mouth.

She told me everything she'd 'read' about them in a book at school. She declared that 'widow' means 'white'.
Not an unintelligent deduction but I did have to correct her, explain what a widow is and talk about why the spider would be thus named.
She then summarised, 'So the Lady Black Widow Spider ate the Daddy Black Widow Spider making herself a Widow Black Widow Spider. Black. Widow. Spider.'

'They're nice words to say aren't they?' I say.

'Yes they are.' she answered.

Then, 'They're clear words.'

Go on, say them. Black. Widow. Spider. The words are as clear as they are frightening. To us.

To her they are merely comfortable words to say, intriguing creatures to read about, and a gentle introduction to some pretty hefty concepts.

What are your kids talking about?

4 going on 14

Last week I had a moan on facebook about how I thought we were supposed to be in the 'Fabulous 4's' with Friday, and a whole bunch of mum friends commented that sadly I seem to have been misled.
Apparently it is in fact the 'F*cking 4's' we find ourselves in the middle of right now.
Which does seem to make a lot more sense ...

We are having a bit of a tricky time with Friday, and it is disrupting family life somewhat. She's moody and uncooperative, prone to sulks and huge sobbing fits over ... nothing. She's not taking instruction well at all and has developed a hard and defiant little facial expression which instantly makes my palm tingle with an almost uncontrollable urge to unite the two.
Those in the know say kids experience a hormonal surge at this age not unlike those that come with the teenage years, and if you scan the list above I could very well be describing a 14 year old right? Joy.

I think all of her behaviour is rooted in one thing, an admittedly very teenage thing too: she's just loving the sound of her own voice.

She doesn't hear us when we tell her to eat her supper because she's too busy talking to herself inside her head.
Or just too busy talking.
She'll lie sobbing on her bed for 30 minutes because she's quite intrigued by the sounds she's making.
She'll scream at me for the same reason.
She'll argue just to try out her voice and see how much influence she can wield with it.
She barks instructions for the same reason.
She shouts at her sister, she squeals in the bathroom, she 'sings' as loudly as she can so as not to hear us.

She basically cannot stop talking, through the good chats and the bad spats, and I think it wears her out.

I'm a little averse to all this talk of the Terrible 2's, then the F*ck You 3's, and now the F*cking 4's. They feel like handles with which to explain away a whole lot of (trying but normal) growing up behaviour. And they fall into that old trap of focusing on the negative, never a healthy way to view the world.

Growing up is hard, I still feel like I'm struggling with it everyday. But I'm resolved, on this one, to remember that I'm more grown-up than her, I'm the Mum, and just like my long-suffering mother did for me, I'll try and muster the creativity and patience to deal with this.

And possibly invest in some earplugs.

by any other name

Friday calls her Dad by his first name.

She calls me Mum, or Mummy, or sometimes Mama, but he is always Charl.

'Mum! Charl! Let's go this way!', echoes through the forest on a Sunday morning.  
'Mum, Charl suggested we have a chocolate biscuit now.' Oh really?

I think it's kinda cute but he doesn't really like it.
'Clearly you're the Mum,' he says, 'but people must think I'm just the boyfriend.'

We buy our veggies on a Saturday from an old guy who comes round in his bakkie, Yunis. His kids, married with kids of their own, still call him Daddy.
'Doesn't it bug you when she calls you that?' he asks Charl one morning.
And it does a bit.

I'm fond of it 'cos that's what I call him, and I reckon she'll outgrow it eventually.

And I like to remind him it could be worse. A friend's kid when she was this age used to call him Michelle.

What do your kids call you?

mummy cool

The other evening I got the girls into the bath, slipped away and reappeared in bright red lipstick. They were entranced.
I then launched into a shockingly awful rendition of Shirley Bassey's 'Big Spender', complete with the old hairbrush-as-a-mike prop and suggestive hip waggles.
Can you see their eyes, wide with admiration, magic, adoration, fascination?

In De Waal Park some months ago a horrible witch of a lady with a troupe of mismatched dogs and an extremely bad attitude started shouting at Friday and her buddy for chasing the pigeons. Now I don't condone bird-abuse, but no one (else) shouts at my kids without a really good reason so I gave her a piece of my mind.
The girls stared at me with awe and love.

I think they like me, they really really like me. They think I'm cool. In fact, they think I'm so cool that one of the most damning things I can say to them at the moment is, 'That's not cool' and they immediately start to look sheepish.

And it's breaking my heart.

'Cos I know that one day, all too soon, I'm going to be the uncoolest person on the planet to them. That sticking up for them in public or singing out loud or wearing too bright lipstick or probably even just breathing is going to relegate me into eyeball rolling deep sighing territory.
One day one of them is going to turn to me and say 'Mum, that's just not cool'.

I can only hope by then I'm too cool to care.

who you calling stupid?

Ah the sins of a four year old. Still so sweet, so innocent.

Friday came home from school a few months back calling us all 'stupid'. The perfect example of a boringly responsible parenting moment.
'We shouldn't call people stupid Friday. It's not a nice thing to say to someone and you can hurt people's feelings.'

The trend continued for some time, we carried on gently reprimanding her, but we didn't want to turn it into a biggie and I was pretty sure the novelty would wear off. (Or, more likely, move to much worse words. Ack.)

The girls and I went away with some friends for a few days and the 'stupid' bug spread like wildfire, putting me in the unenviable position of The Mum of the One Who Started it All.
Don't laugh, you'll get your turn one day.
Soon the climbing frame was 'stupid', the cereal in the bowl was 'stupid', the stones on the path as we went for a walk were 'stupid' - and it was getting boring.

I upped the discipline, tried banning the word, having quiet to-the-side (as in 'now I'm serious and lest you be afraid') chats but egged on by her peers, I honestly wasn't having much effect.

Help came from a very unexpected quarter. Late one afternoon as the kids sat drawing at the dining-room table of the seaside house we were staying in, the peace was shattered by Friday screaming; 'Mummmmeeeeee, a baboon! Mummmeeeee, a baboon!'
I ran in from the kitchen to see a large male baboon sitting shamelessly on the table, eating crayons. The kids scattered as I stormed him, yelling and clapping my hands.
He nonchalantly jumped off the table and sauntered out, taking a box of puzzles for closer inspection on the verandah as 3 women, a dog and a bunch of kids shouted at him through the (now closed!) door.
Eventually, having tried and rejected several cups of tea, the puzzles, a tub of baby-food and a tomato sandwich, he moved off, and we tried to calm the kids down.

There were tears and re-enactments, claims of bravery and terror. Juice needed to be drunk and bathrooms visited, lots of hugs were required - I could certainly have done with a gin - but after some time, when we'd all calmed, Friday said quietly from her place on my lap,
'Mum, that baboon was really stupid hey?'

And I had to agree that he was.

Since then we've hardly heard the word. It occasionally crops up, but now her usage is almost always completely correct.
It seems what was required was a context, a real self-experienced context, for her to decide for herself the meaning and appropriateness of the word.

I'm certainly hoping future life lessons won't be quite so dramatic, but I'll not forget what I learned from this one:
Contextualise always. Let her find her own way, she almost always will in the end. Remember the baboon, use the baboon - this story will have many other applications in the future.

Sorry 'stupid' bab, you had to be the fall guy on this one.