FOMO is Killing Our Kids

I wish, god I wish, that I wasn’t parenting in the age of the online era. This shit is out of control and if you think it isn’t you are blind to the damage this is causing. We hate to see our kids missing out and we don’t want to isolate them from their peers but why has this “missing out” become about unrealistic “things” and by unrealistic I mean unreal, not real, made up, created, manufactured, pretend. But not in a healthy pretend play kind of way. This is a messy screwed up virtual world that I’m talking about.

FOMO by simplified definition: Fear Of  Missing Out

There are some kids who have access to smartphones, iPads, laptops, social media, internet (or as us realistic parents call it – PORN) as often as they like. That is frightening.  Truly fucking frightening. I know all kids are different and some can be completely trusted? Ok partially trusted? NO! Fuck that! They are kids! Kids are curious by nature. They are going to explore the online world and if you totally leave that exploration up to them they will find their way to things their young minds cannot process. So there is no trust! But it’s not even about trust. You are the parent – so monitor, assess, be vigilant and PARENT!

We have the right as adults, parenting adults, to join forces together and stop saying yes to every damn request our kids ask for! Start looking at the bigger picture, clear those rose coloured glasses and finally “adult” by using the N-word… NO. NO you can’t have a smartphone. NO you don’t need Snapchat. NO you cannot sit in your room with the door closed on your laptop. NO you cannot sleep with your device in your room. Be the bigger person – aka the ADULT!

This virtual world they live in is going to have huge future consequences to their lives. We know this already as cyber bullying, sexting and teen suicides have increased exponentially. It is children exposing children. This virtual world is addictive, we know that because we as adults are addicted to it! They are exposed way too young to understand how it affects their sleep, their thoughts, their reality, their mental health. It is a virtual world. It is not real. None of it.

We need to start encouraging our kids to pick up the phone and call their mates, hear their voice, understand their reactions. Encourage our kids friends to come hang at your house, kick the footy, go for a bike ride, build a cubby house. Encourage our kids to get outside, to get amongst it, in the real world, the fresh air, hang with the real people with real thoughts and feelings. Real smiles, real tears, no emoticons or abbreviated words they had to google initially to know what they meant.

Technology has its place but there is no place more important than the well being of our children. Stand up. Take notice. Our kids are the future.

One love

DRK xxx

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Knight In Shining Armour AKA Superwoman Cape & Trackies

I haven’t had the best week of my life.

I have been an absolute mess actually. Not because of one major life changing ‘thing’. Not because of something big enough that changes a life in an instant. No cancer diagnosis. No major car accident. No loss of life.

Just lots and lots of small things all stacked up. All precariously sitting on top of each other swaying. Threatening to tumble. Competing with gravity.

And gravity won.

Gravity always wins. I should know that by now.

And so, predictably, with gravity they all came crashing down. And by ‘they’ I mean me.

I haven’t cried like that in a long time. I haven’t prayed so hard to whoever it is out there since I was a young confused teen. I haven’t felt so desperate for a reprieve since … well since I can ever remember.

It was a deep, sobbing crying. Not a self pity cry.

A cry of really truly having had enough. A cry that was possibly a pivotal moment in my life … But I’m not sure on that one – it’s too early to tell.

On Sunday my Mum found me hiding out in the laundry deeply sobbing to myself. Hiding in the laundry to keep my sobbing from my two little boys a secret.

“What’s wrong?” She asked before all the words started tumbling out of my mouth. Short, sharp statements that weren’t really the reason for the intensity I was exhibiting.

She took me and wrapped me in a cuddle. Like my knight in shining armour. Except she was in trackies – which she totally pulls off by the way.

We talked. I cried. She advised. I cried some more. Then she took control. She put her foot down and gave me firm directions for how the rest of my day was about to play out. I was to 1) Call a friend. 2) Make a dinner date. 3) Let her take the kids. 4) Go out, drink some wine and feel like an adult.

And so I did. I took my swollen leaky nose, puffy red rimmed eyes out on a Sunday night with my friend.

My friend, who also jumped at the chance to get out on a Sunday night for some adulting, is someone who makes me laugh. She’s relaxed and calm and she’s pretty bloody good at being genuine too. I chose her because I knew she’d accept me in my state and be happy to be seen with my puffy eyes in public too.

I don’t know how to explain how lucky I am to have lost it like that and had someone there for me. I know how lucky I am and that alone should bring me out of my state. I am surrounded by these supportive people on a daily basis and if they are not beside me they are only ever a phone call away.

I have the kind of mother so many people would dream about. I have the kind of mother I hope to be one day. But for now she has her shit sorted while I’m still trying to put all my shit together.  And for this I am so thankful.

I love you Mum xx

One love

DRK xxx

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The ‘Sometimes’ Thoughts of a Parent

Sometimes I feel like I am missing out. I’m sorry to say it but I do. It’s so normal to feel this way yet we aren’t allowed to say it out loud as we are deemed ungrateful, spoilt, jealous. I had kids young and then I continued having kids until I felt old. And one day, before I know it and probably before my youngest has left home I will be a grandparent which is wonderful and all but then I’ll still be here. Doing what it feels like I have always done.

Not much.

A stay at home mum.

A taxi driver.

A cleaner.

A cook.

None of which I excel at. Or so it feels. It’s fucking ruthless though.

And I sound ungrateful. Yet it’s real. I’ve just watched my newsfeed tell me how wonderful other peoples lives are. They’re living the dream. Living abroad. Travelling the world and only now settling down to have babies. People I went to school with who were smarter and more committed to their future than I ever was. I wanted things now. Like a baby. Like a marriage. The first one didn’t work so why not do it again. The furtherest I have travelled is Bali when I was 11, hardly self-sufficient. Then Melbourne a couple of times. I am not worldly. I’m not even sure if this is what bothers me. I’m not convinced that I want ‘worldly’ in my nature.

I haven’t set myself up financially. My husband did that. Don’t get me wrong I worked. I worked my butt off in many jobs while being a single mother. And when I finally got myself secure in a permanent job selling real estate, and doing quite well, my hubby came along, swept me off my feet and asked me for two more kids. Which I gave him for love. But I also gave up what I’d hoped to be a forging career. But maybe I am not cut out for that. Maybe a career is not my thing. Parenting is. And of course I am going to tell you that I would never take it back. And I mean it. My kids drive me bonkers and make me question everything there is in this life but they also give meaning to my life … But somedays I have to first peel back a few layers. And somedays I worry – do they even like me? Do they wish they had a better/funner/more organised Mum? The stress of raising little humans into big humans is fucking scary. What if I fuck up? What if I have already fucked up and there is nothing I can do to change it?

When I go to my school reunion late this year – who am I? Who have I become? Where are all my great stories? There is only so much kid-talking you can do before yawning begins and they find someone far more interesting … And less drunk. Is this an achievement? The fact I have had five kids? Is this the biggest achievement I have made in my life? Again, I know this sounds ungrateful. I know to people without children this sounds like fingernails down a very ugly and very selfish chalkboard. But I am asking it anyway.

My responsibilities lie at home. My house. My husband. My kids. That is my job. My career. Somehow this doesn’t satisfy the burning for something more. The desire to be doing something else. But then I remember that even if I do something else this will always be here – but harder. There will be just as much to do except with less time to do it if I devote my time elsewhere, to me. To something I want to do.

I am a Mum forever. I know how lucky I am to say that. But what else am I? It’s a rhetorical question. Just a thought after a relentless day.

One love

DRK xxx

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The Fat, Mean Mum

I woke up this morning and consciously decided to speak nicely to myself. You know, manifesting good things by thinking good things. Tapping into that kind and forgiving inner voice that I know is in there somewhere. Turning the volume of my Devil down and telling my Angel to speak up. Flipping the negative talk into positive language. Slapping the bitch in me to give the belle of the ball a second to stand up and curtsy… You get what I mean.

So I showered and let positivity rain down on me. Cleansing the negative thoughts away as well as showering to be all hygiene and shit – seems as though some people skipped that memo from The Universe. I let the water warm my body and my soul on the cold autumn morning but of course, I’m a mother so I’m doing the whole showering thing while parenting at the same time. I call it Shower-Parenting.

Shower-Parentingbetter known as yelling from the shower to a bunch of minors who know you’re not really going to get out of your nice warm shower to follow through with any of your threats so they continue to completely ignore you. Arseholes! Just wait til I’m outta here!

So I’m yelling and I’m showering and I’m washing negativity away. I know, I know I’ve totally got this shit sorted, huh? I’m just about done when my six-year-old son wanders into the bathroom because mothers, as we all know, never shower or shit in peace. He plonks himself on the toilet and begins his morning cleansing process. First, the passing of gas, then the smile and then me screeching “Are you doing a poo?!” To which he sleepily replies “Mm-hmm.” Affirmative confirmation. I try to stay in my positive state while the hot air and gases combine.

Eventually, I admit defeat with the hot stench being too much to bear. I drag myself out of the shower and begin the drying process. Continuing with the positivity I thank each body part as I go. I dry my legs and thank them for doing their job. Thank them for functioning properly. How lucky am I to have legs that work, I say to myself. I wipe my rounded tummy and my voluptuous hips and thank them for carrying five children into the world. I thank my gluteus maximus for all the jobs that it does which I don’t even know about. Then in between my positive self-talk and my six-year-olds stinking plops he sweetly says….

You’re fat Mum.”

It was matter of fact.

The truth.

A bomb.

Slightly harsh.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Three words from a child who doesn’t have a filter but he doesn’t need one because he’s just calling a spade a spade.

I felt the need to clarify, or maybe for further punishment, his judgement so I asked, “What makes you say that?” While thinking, praying, it must have been the way I bent over? Maybe the angle I was standing at? It definitely wasn’t my outfit – well actually thinking about it now I guess it was because there’s nothing more honest than a birthday suit.

He looks me up and down confused by my confusion and reaffirms, “‘Cause you are. You’re just fat Mum.

Bam! Right next to my reflux pain I feel something … Oh, yep that would be my heart shattering into tiny pieces. 

I’m fat. 

My kid thinks I’m fat. 

He’s being honest not mean. He’s using a word I hate to hear as a description of how he sees my physical body. It’s a word he knows and understands that he can relate in describing me. Yes, I know I’ve put on weight and yes, I confidently tell everyone that I have while really hoping people don’t actually notice that it’s there and all the while praying to the Universe, God, the Weightloss Fairies that it will just disappear overnight. But it won’t because it’s not bloating or fluid retention or ‘just a good shit’ it is actual fat caused by over-eating.

Clever clothes may hide my rolls, I can paint my face pretty and I can do positive affirmations the fuck to death but underneath it all the Pope is still Catholic and I am still fat. It is what it is. I get to either be ok with it or do something about it. But first of all I’ll cry. That’ll help. Foetal position, on the floor and cry.

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Really?! Aww hell no! You ain’t gonna to let a little three letter word bring you to your knees?! Bitch really?!

While temporarily in the foetal position, memories from only a few days before of my teenager informing me that I’m known as the ‘mean mum’ to his mates came to mind. So with these flashbacks rolling and from the comfort of the floor I define myself as the fat, mean mum. Damn girl! You used to be the hot, fun mum. What the fuck happened to you?!

Seriously! What the fuck happened to me, my body, my care factor?! And more importantly, what am I going to do about it? I took myself off the rollercoaster – or so I’ve said. The cycle of diet-eat-starve-eat-diet-eat-starve-eat … Oh, fuck it you know what I mean. I’m out of that cycle, aren’t I? I’m happy with who I am? So why did those 3 little letters bring me to my knees?

In all honesty and with a little bit of dignity remaining I can say that I actually didn’t curl up in the foetal position. I just said that for the benefit of my internal breakdown. I didn’t even cry. Almost, but I didn’t. Why? Because of two things.

1) Fat doesn’t define me. I know that. I am not less of a person, mother, friend, stylist, lover, life-giver just because I carry 10kg more than I should and,

2) I do not want to teach my son that the word ‘fat’ is another f-word that he can’t say. You have fat and sometimes too much of it but you are not defined by fat and no this isn’t an excuse to be carrying extra fat either – maybe I will pull my finger out, maybe I won’t. It just doesn’t define the person I am – unless I let it.

b8e9d3875bd6239dafe0db0c08165db7I did give my six-year-old some life advice though about using that f -word because let’s be realistic, he is going to be somebody’s husband one day and I’d like my son to live beyond their first year of marriage. Honesty here can take a back seat. I really tried to make sure he didn’t feel bad about saying it but unfortunately either my face gave it away or he can read me well energetically because for the rest of the morning he was all like, “Hey Mum can you help me put the toothpaste on my brush because you’re so strong.” And “Can you help me put my shoes on because you’re so clever.” So he may see me as fat but he also sees me as strong and clever. I’m happy to take that on.

One love

DRK xxx

Mother of All Meltdowns

Today I had the mother of all meltdowns.

Today I had the mother of all meltdowns and kicked my beloved vacuum cleaner for getting caught on a chair. Yes. That’s right. I kicked it because it got caught and I had to walk a whole three steps backwards to release it from that said chair. I swear my kick hurt his feelings and I made his motor skip a beat. He is afterall my favourite household appliance.

Today I woke up knowing a meltdown was imminent. It was brewing before I had even opened my eyes. Brewing hotter and faster than any instant cup of coffee that I once was too snobby to drink but on a day like today I’d drink piss out of a toilet bowl if I knew it would give me energy and a happy face.

Today I woke up with a meltdown in full sight of sleep deprived vision. Sleep deprived due to the woman version of the man flu – just a cold – and a thunderous killer period to boot (me in the vagina) on top of that. So not only did my head and face hurt but so did my belly and my vaj. All parts throbbing like a motherfucker. Merry fucking Mothers Day Eve.

Today I woke up to a little face that was another reason for my poor nights sleep. A little face screaming at me to let him get the budgie out. Fuck the budgie, I wanted to say. But I didn’t. Well not to his face.

Today I yelled like a soccer mum to my young impressionable household, of who I’m pretty sure were not actually listening. I screamed out my standard mum-type lecture… “How would you feel if everyday I rubbed out all your school work and made you do it again.. And then when you rewrote it I rubbed it again… And again. That’s how I feel when I clean up this pig sty over and over again!” Today I tried to make my kids see housework and school work on the same level. Who am I kidding.

Today I attempted a food shop with four energetic boys who I’d spent the morning yelling at. I attempted a food shop with a throbbing head, a pounding vaj, a billion other cranky shoppers and four energetic boys. I should have known better but I needed bread, butter and tampons. The epic meltdown kicked in before I even made it to the first aisle. My meltdown that is. Today a woman stopped me and said; “Don’t worry all of us mums feel like this sometimes. Sometimes we don’t feel like being mothers.” At which point I smiled and replied honestly; “really don’t feel like being a mother today.” An encouraging smile came my way.

Today I flipped my hamburger over crumbs on the floor, toys under my feet, a stubborn three year old, “I’m hungry” every five fucking minutes, the argument between the 6 and 14 year old about whether it was light pink or pink, the banana mushed into the couch, the not-good-kind-of-throbbing, the heavy eyes and the no escape. Today I just wanted to get everything done so then I could enjoy Mother’s Day tomorrow in a clean house. That’s my present to myself. A clean house for a whole 24 hours. Today I learnt that a clean house for 24 hours and kids is un-fucking-realistic. Today I learnt we shouldn’t even aim for 24 seconds.

Then later today my three year old woke up early from his nap. Too early. Today he screamed blue murder when he woke up. Today I finally gave up yelling. I waved my white flag, surrendered and laid with him. I laid with him to console him, to give myself some time to rest and to hopefully get another hours peace from the stubborn threenager. Today instead of the threenager fighting it he rolled over to face me and wrapped his arms around my neck. Not in a choke hold. In a cuddle. A real life, nice cuddle. And he drifted off to sleep. Today while he slept and we cuddled he patted me on the back.

Today I needed that. Damn I can’t tell you how much I needed that.

Today I’m trying to convince myself that I am a good mother I’m just having a bad day. Today I had the mother of all meltdowns and we all survived. Today I’m lucky that they’ll still love me tomorrow.

NOW REPEAT AFTER ME:

I am NOT a bad mum.

I am a GOOD mum having a bad day.

One love,
DRK xxx

Now for a bit lighthearted autocorrect text mum fun….




The Eight “Mistakes” Parents Make… Here’s a tip: there are no mistakes!

Just as teenagers awkwardly navigate through their pubescent lives so too will adults fumble through a time called parenthood. These so called adults going through parenthood will undoubtedly cross unpleasant times, have to frequently learn the same lessons time and time again and they will undeniably shed many tears from the injustice and confusion of this alien life that didn’t come with a satelittle navigation system.  It’s a tough journey on some rough terrain but some of us have to do it.

Parenting five times over certainly hasn’t made me an expert, in fact, it’s probably made me go backward more often than I have ever come forward. I can honestly say I’m still not even close to being an awesome parent and I don’t say this so my friends can tell me that I am. I’m here to blog not play that “I’m-just-saying-it-so-you-will-say-that-I-am” game. Having five kids doesn’t make me smarter, wiser or braver than any other fallen soldier, ahem, I mean parent. Some people would actually call me crazy and/or stupid for having so many kids – well, the ‘Don’t you have a TV?’ type of people definitely do. Often.

It makes no difference whether you have one child or eighteen children there are always hazards and obstacles involved in parenting and there is no technician to call to help with the troubleshooting. The fruit of our loins are not cardboard cut-outs designed to be easily pliable and shaped around our dreams and ideals. They are actually real life mini humans with thoughts and feeling and wants of their own. Plenty of wants. Making mistakes as a parent is usually not life or death, well at least these aren’t the types of mistakes I am referring to. To me, mistakes are just lessons yet to be learnt and I personally seem to have a lot of lessons I’m learning over and over again. It’s like being back in highschool but I’m actually taking every subject there is on offer and I’ve failed them all twice before I finally, on my third attempt, get a D and pass. I am just scraping by with this parenting gig too. D minus all the way. The key here is that I’ll never give in. No matter how hard the wall my head is hitting feels I will continue to try to be better.

Let it be known that when we discuss ‘mistakes’ here we are not judging so let us not get all defensive or hurt and keep those knickers from knotting. Mistakes can be fun. I made three definite ones but they turned out to be pretty awesome kids 😉 Haha I’m kidding. Or am I.

8 MISTAKES YOU SHOULDN’T MAKE AS A PARENT …

‘Shouldn’t’ because this is me giving YOU the heads up! So buckle down, pay attention and be a good student! Oh and don’t take any of my advice too seriously!

  1. SELF-DOUBT. It is a well known fact in the parental kingdom that kids can smell fear and doubt a mile off. It’s as potent as a packet of double coated Tim Tams being opened in the laundry linen cupboard by the real life ‘parent’. Give fear (or a Tim Tam) a mile they’ll still smell it, hear it and feel it. When you tell them “NO” make sure there isn’t any trace of a quiver in your tone and ensure that you are firm and 100% certain because when you tell them “No.. I said no.. Not right now… Maybe later… Oh ok…. Whatever then! Have it!” You’re actually telling them you’re a push over, a sucker and that you are the parent they need to go to whenever they want something because you’re guaranteed to be an easy crack. For the record, I’m the push-over parent. I don’t want to be but I don’t know how to take all the “umms-and-ahhs-ok-fucken-have-it’s” back. It’s gone too far. Don’t be me.
  2. CONSISTENCY. This is kind of like mistake 1^^ except we are making the assured NO consistent. If you fail at being consistent even if it’s just one time you are doomed for all parternity…. See what I did there? Parent? Eternity? No? Oh, well, nevermind. If you consistently suck at being Mum (or Dad) and consistently let them, the child, win you really are screwing yourself over. You have just turned yourself into the inexperienced undergraduate law student whose way out of their jurisdiction and the child has now been supremely promoted to senior associate. You are going to be objected, overruled and begging for a plea bargain the rest of the way through parenthood. Inconsistency is an epic mistake! Be consistent no matter how hungover you are. If there’s consistently been no icy poles for breakfast then it’s never ever any icy poles for breakfast. And for the record, it was only once and now he asks for one every fucking morning.
  3. CLEANING. Ok so basic hygiene is fairly important and we all know that a tidy house feels good but if you invest all your energy into a tidy house and perfect looking kids you will be left a quivering ball of pyschotic mess curled up in the foetal position on the twice mopped floor that is now covered in wet grass and sucked’n’soggy naked Tim Tams. If you plan, as a parent, to have a spotless display type home and TV advertisement children you might as well pack up your uterus right now, hang up your French Maid outfit and drive yourself to the nearest pyschiatric unit. Especially on school holidays. It’s not plausible. It’s not fun for child nor parent and it’s not worth the frustrations. It’s also not worth the crazy cleaning spree you do before a childs birthday party. Seriously you are going to have five hundred dirty little feet, five thousand sticky stubby fingers and a bunch of five year olds who don’t give one fuck. You’re doing it to impress the other mummies – I get it, I’ve been there too – but all it does is make those mummies go home and feel insecure about their parenting and cleanliness. Hang up the facades they’re detrimental to all of our wellbeings.
  4. DREAMS. Before becoming a parent you will have had dreams of the type of parent you were going to be and the kind of child you were going to deliver. Please, honey bunny sugar plum pudding pie, lay those dreams to rest. Right. Now. I’m not trying to blow up your dreams with a motherfucking truth laden stick of dynamite but I am going to say that high expectations may lead to big disappointment. And big disappointments lead to many other things that aren’t nice. Adapt your dreams instead. Take an attitude of seizing every parenting day as it comes. Take each moment as a unique moment in your parenting life and roll with it. Stop, drop and roll. It’s a survival technicque. Use it.
  5. ORGANIC-PALEO-LOW-GI-GLUTEN-DAIRY-SUGAR-YEAST-AND-TASTE-FREE HOMEMADE FOOD.  **Allergy kids not included – der obviously** Nutritious food is paramount to a child’s health and development. It’s not rocket science we all know that. But if you are going to lay claim that you will never, ever give your child a plastic-wrapped piece of what some of us may call ‘food’ then you are setting yourself and your child up for failure. You don’t want to put this pressure on yourself because there may be a day when you’re stuck at the hospital with your sick child who is now screaming for food and your only option is a white bread, butter and vegemite sandwich from the canteen. Give it to her. She’s fucken hungry. But don’t, I repeat, DO NOT give yourself a hard time over it. 100% healthy food only intentions are well meaning but totally glorified and sometimes unrealistic, well for us average parents anyway. Look, I know there are some hybrid parents out there who have and are pulling this 100% free range meat, organic fruit and vege only diets off and kudos to you guys… Ahem Curtis Stone Ahem…. But it’s not going to happen that way for a lot of us. Eventually there will be a day that you’re child is invited to a birthday party. Don’t let him/her be the only kid there that isn’t allowed to eat any of the party food because it isn’t healthy. Don’t be that parent. Don’t be that jackass.
  6. GIVING UP YOUR LIFE. Mummy guilt is a real thing so it is understandable that so many parents give themselves up in order to be parents. Don’t let your children grow up to believe that you only have one identity – as their arse wiper! You are a human with needs, wants and desires of your own. Not fulfilling them will leave you a little empty, slightly confused and probably just a smidge resentful. Honour yourself as a woman (man or dog) and take up a hobby or give yourself the space and a place to go to be you – authentically grown up adult version you. You will be a better parent and they will resepct you more. Lol ok just kidding. You’ll still be an average parent and your kids will still disrespect you. Big girl knickers up and enjoy that ‘you’ time while you can!
  7. PEDESTALS. These fuckers are dangerous. Seriously. Worshipping the ground your children walk on is very different to loving them unconditionally. When you worship them you see them as a glorified version of who they truly are and you expect others to see what you see. Rolling out the red carpet for your children instills an entitled belief system that is going to set them up for failure. Essentially you are lifting them up and placing them on a golden revolving pedestal like they are an object to be admire and adored. Let me warn you there are no rails on those motherfuckers and those objects you call your children will quite possibly fall once they grow up and meet the real world. Be a champ and don’t do that to them. Love them. Nurture them. Ground them. Yes. Yes. Yes! But don’t kiss the air you make them walk on. Not even Jesus walked on air. Remember that.
  8. COMPETITIVE PARENTING. Argh. I hate this. This is what those child worshippers do. I believe children should be allowed to be children, after all it is what they authentically are. It’s like cats. We let them purring pussies be who they are. We don’t dress them up as dolphins and throw them in the ocean just because we ordered an olympic swimmer. Parents shouldn’t be allowed to live their dreams through their children. Sure, teach your kid to swim and to be water safe by what’s the point in making them a bronze medallion swimmer by the age of 3. By all means teach them how to play and be a part of a team sport or a solo game like tennis but why enrol them in strenuous daily sessions, going on for hours at a time just to make them elite athletes by kindygarten. Let them play outside. Let them relax inside. We are breeding a bunch of over achievers instead of fun loving children who should be naturally developing thoughts and feelings and experiences of a child. Over-achievers are arseholes and people generally don’t like them so while they might have many trophies on their mantles they may not have much substance in their souls. So many parents push their kids into being things they didn’t get a chance to be and take control of their ‘talents’ instead of letting them find their joy in what they want to do. Like a little girl who wants to get all rough and tumble while playing football but is made to pull her hair back tight, put on a tutu and dance all because her mother wanted to be a dancing star. It’s selfish and it’s unfair. Give them encouragement and give them an extra little push where needed – especially to all those lazy little sods – but don’t force them to be the 2.0 version of what you wanted to be. That’s just being an a-hole.

Parenting is a full-time position complete with exorbitant amounts of uncertainty, no pay and a few headaches here and there. It’s a job based around other peoples needs and feelings while your own are generally left on the back burner. It’s a tough gig yet somewhere in there it’s an absolute joy and a pleasure. It’s a nightmare rolled in hot chocolate and coated in 100’s and 1000’s (or cacao and chia seeds for the health conscious). Parenting kicks your arse and hugs your heart all at the same time. I’ve been doing it for over 18 years now and I still suck but one thing is for certain and totally not sucky – I love all my little offspring and there’s nobody in this world that could love them more than me. Which is lucky coz that, and the fact they’re all pretty cute, keeps them alive each and every day 😉

Kudos to all adults doing parenthood. We got this.

One love,

DRK xxx

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And finally.. Just b’coz it’s funny…

 

Ever Had One of THOSE Days?

I’ve had one of “those days”!

I know you get what I mean when I say that because I bet your bottom dollar you’ve had at least one of those days this year too.

It’s the kind of day where you’re dropping your child at school and you’re totally high fiving yourself coz you’re there right on time for once… And then you see every other student in free-dress. It’s the kind of day where your child cries relentlessly because he is the only one in his uniform and you feel like the worst Mother in the world because you didn’t read the memo! So you drive home, you change him into free-dress and you take him back – which by now, of course, he’s late.

It’s the kind of day when you have so much to do but you have an almost-three-year-old who won’t let you do any of it without a fight. Fuck the terrible a twos these fucked up threes are a nightmare! A tantrum down every aisle, bargaining like a mother fucker just to keep him quiet, a shit in his pants in the Bunnings car park, shoes off/shoes on argument every single stop we make, a Houdini in the seatbelt and a bite on the behind in Spotlight. And just to be clear he bit me! Not from anger just pure enjoyment.

It’s the kind of day where you get granted 1 hour alone time without that Houdini biting child just to finish what you started because it was simply impossible to do it with him and stay sane. You get to the supermarket but you can’t remember how you got there and you start to wonder whether silence in the car is actually more distracting than a noisy and demanding toddler. You arrive safely, thank god, and park in the furtherest spot from the shops because it’s the only car bay where someone has actually parked in their lines. You suit up, smack that “I got this shit” smile on and head in. Locating all your items in the “new look” supermarket is tough and you seem to get caught behind every single granny who has recently had a hip operation. They’re clocking their Zimmer-frames at minus 40km/hour while swerving dangerously all over the aisle. You can’t go around them, ones coming up the rear and their too deaf to hear your polite excuse me’s. It’s snail pace on horse tranquillizers… and there is seriously a billion of them.

It’s the kind of day where you’re “late” for appointments that you actually secretly forgot and your kid forgot to hand in a permission slips for an excursion so you have to do an emergency dash to the school otherwise they can’t go. And if there’s something worse than a three-year-old tantrum it’s a moody fourteen-year-old boy. Ergh, fast forward to a happy well adjusted adult please.

It’s the kind of day when you’re about to sit down, finally, only to realise you have two kids still ‘out there’ awaiting your pick up some time soon. So you fold up your PJ’s and put them back on the bed for later… Much later. Oh well, what’s two more trips to the fourteen hundred already clocked up today.

It’s the kind of day when you’ve finally sent out your child’s three-year-old birthday party invitations only to find out apparently he’s turning one coz one rhymes with fun and three doesn’t and you probably should have known that when you bought the cute little invites.

It’s the kind of day when it seems everyone has decided to drive on the roads at the exact same time as you, but super cautiously…. Must be those hip replacement Grannies from the shops! Like 20km-below-the-speed-limit-cautious. And you want to scream and yell and be one of those psycho road ragers that you see on YouTube coz you’re in a hurry but you’re way too cool and kind for that so you sit behind them muttering obscenities under your breath because if you say them out loud the almost-three-year-old will repeat it in front of his Speech Therapist who wants to hear his ‘new’ words.

It’s the kind of day you need I.V coffee just to get you through.

It’s the kind of day where I may whinge a lot, I know, I seriously do, but I can also find the joy. I’ve high-fived myself on numerous occasions because even though I’ve been late, I’ve been frustrated, I’ve been bitten by my almost-three-year-old … I’m alive. I made it. The kids made it. We managed to laugh and talk and tickle. We’ve managed to shower and eat and fall asleep peacefully. And those slow drivers probably saved me a speeding ticket, maybe even saved me from having an accident. 

Nobody’s going to shake my hand or pat me on the back tonight to tell me what an awesome fucken game of survival I played today. Nobody’s going to give me a pay cheque for being an event planner, a taxi driver, a personal shopper, an au pair, a negotiator or a teething ring for someone who already has a mouthful of teeth. Nobody really cares.

But it’s the kind of day that when I finally crawl into bed at midnight that I can count my blessings. Of which I have many and whinging, freely, in my blog is one. Because I get to say it, unleash it, vent it and let it go while you get to relate or hate or whatever tickles your fancy and we all get on with our day after that. And so my venting here is done and my blessings have been counted. 

How about yours?

One love,

DRK xxx