Away in a Brick House...

Away in a Brick House,

With dislike for Cribs and Beds…

The Little Lord Harrison

Lay down his (sometimes) sweet head

The stars were in daddy’s eyes

On the TV he did fixate

While the Little Lord Harrison

Asleep on the cold living room tiles he lay

They say a picture paints a thousand words – so what then, to make of this scene that greeted me at 8.30pm last Thursday night when I returned, supremely supple and Zen from my Yoga class.

Yes, that is my 2 and a half-year-old son fast asleep on the cold tiles of our living room floor.  Yes, The Husband had been left in charge.  And yes, he swears, from less than fifteen feet away, in the seclusion of the lounge room, he did not hear nor suspect a thing!

Regular NappyDaze readers will know we’ve been waging a war on the sleep front for a while now.  So for the briefest second the thought flashed through my mind “huh, perhaps this is where he is happiest to rest.  There was obviously no long strung stalemate of screams or tears to get him to this state of sleep”.  But then I spun on my heel, and returned to the blissfully oblivious husband, deeply engrossed in the TV.

“Excuse me Father of The Year, can you come with me?” Startled, he sprung from his seat, obliging immediately; obviously curious as to what his oversight could have been.  As far as he was aware, it had been a drama free night of not having to constantly chase his wayward son back into bed numerous times, nor put up with his wails of indignation.  And he got to catch up on some mindless TV.  He’d have coined it as a successful evening all round.

Needless to say he then was as shocked as me as to see this sight, and swears black blue and beyond that the last he knew he’s safely tucked the little monster into bed.  I’d tally that one up to you Harrison, Daddy NIL!

For the record, I should state, other than this funny little blip, the Husband does has rather an impeccable record when it comes to going it solo with the son.  He’ll often offer up servings of sanity after a long week and shoo me out the door for a few hours of “me time” and I can be secure in the knowledge that, much like a pot plant, he’ll remember to feed and water him adequately.

And we never, EVER refer to it as the Husband “babysitting”.  Because for me, one of the larges pet peeve’s I could possibly ever have is the notion that some Dad’s out there refer to the task of looking after their own children as just that.

In male orientated conversations the world over you are all but guaranteed to hear the proclamations of such little gems as  “The wife’s out for her annual girls dinner tonight so I am babysitting”.  HELLO – does anyone EVER hear a mother call it that?  “Oh, I am just going to quit my job when I have a baby so I can return to my 14 year old lifestyle and take up child minding duties.”  Except this time there is no one paying you $10 an hour and giving you a lift home at midnight. 

All venting aside, I can be assured that the Husband, while he now has this infamous strike against him, will not have his father and son bonding duties revoked anytime soon.  Because I am sure crafty Master H will no doubt have some similar suspect act stored up his sleeve for when I least expect it and we’ll both be vying for the Parent of The Year mantle then!

If you ever thought YOU were having a bad day....

Pic courtesy of www.oprah.com

If you ever thought you were having a bad day, think again.

Yes, yet another Oprah viewing has left me shuddering with fear and shaking with tears that such terrible tragedies can occur.  In the time it can take you to flick a light switch, your life, as you know it could vanish in a plume of pain.  But, the irony in all the agony is that we also learn, magical miracles can also re-light your once darkened world…

We meet Chris & Lori Coble, who, 3 and a half years ago, endured the most unimaginable heartbreak when a semi trailer smashed into their mini-van, killing their three children inside. 5 yr old Kyle, 4 year old Emma, and 2.5yr old princess, little Emma.  Gone.  One minute Lori had turned around to tickle the toes of her sleepy toddler, and in the next breath there was the sickening sound of crunching metal.  In a split second their whole world, the thing the lived most for, their family, shattered like a millions shards of glass.

You might wonder just how a parent could survive this throbbing mass of agony & grief.  Indeed, they had to make a pact that they would not suicide and leave the other alone, because, truly, they were the only people left who understood the depths of the anguish and needed each other, like oxygen, to be sustained.

To think they could pick up the pieces as they did is remarkable in itself.  Because you cant help but put yourself in their shoes and think, well, I’d never survive to see the light of day again if this catastrophic event was befallen to me.  My chest heaves and constricts at just the slightest imagination of this and I have to squeeze my eyes tight to banish the thoughts from my brain.  And suddenly, the lightbulb goes off …  You, me, we're all guilty of sweating the small stuff again, of allowing the trivialities of life to colour our day as bad, when in all honesty IT.COULD.BE.SO.MUCH.WORSE.

I watched, as I so often do, these harrowing Oprah episodes, not so I can be voyeur to someone’s pain, or even just because I am somewhat addicted to this show.  No, its always because I know I will come out the other side, with my tears stained face, heeding some wisdom and hope.

And this is it.  In the face of utterly incomprehensible disaster, miracles do occur.  Because almost 1 year to the day that this horrific accident took place, the Cobles were blessed with the birth of triplets!  And, you guessed it; there were two girls and one boy…

So let’s never forget while we all suffer the indignity of bad days, we are all at the mercy of the unknown lurking in our future; that you have only this second to make it count.  Hug your babies, hold those you love tight.  Tell them they are adored.  And  don’t ever think that your life is over because calamity has shaken you to the core.

Because the Coble’s have showed us that you can endure the most horrendous tragedy and have your world rebuilt with happiness and filled with hope once more.  May we all experience similarly amazing strength and faith if ever faced with such adversity, and honour the present moment for what it truly is: a gift.

The Crying Game

I’m sending out an SOS to SOS – Save Our Sleep.  You see my son has, over the course of the last 6 weeks, regressed to the sleeping level of that of a colicky newborn.  Complete with fits of uncontrollable sobs and endless stretches of unrelenting tears (and by 4.30am this morning that was just me!) we are suddenly missing long sections of sleep during the night that are leaving us all feeling like we’ve a hangover of epic partying proportions come morning – except for the small fact that the night before is anything but a partying paradise.

I truly thought our “controlled crying days” were over.  While Harrison was never an excellent sleeper during the day, night times were always his “thing”.  We’d always get complimented on how well he’d go down for us.  It was a simple exercise of sleep cues – pop him in his grobag, cuddle and croon to him his favourite song (Baa Baa Black sheep, I’m forever indebted to you) and kiss him goodnight.  You’d exit the room free from any fuss and barely have to see him again til morn.  Mind you, he’s never been good at sleeping in to a reasonable hour (like 6am!) but NEVER have we endured this mammoth (and multiple) middle of the night malarky on such a consistent scale.

This morning I felt like all the sleep deprivation of the last 6 weeks had come and slapped me in the face with a steel bat.  My head throbbed, my eyes stung and my body ached.  Its one thing to feel like this with a helpless newborn child, because you kid yourself that those unending nights of broken sleep and buckets of tears have an expiry date. 

Apparently they do not.

To hear your child sobbing with all the intensity of a stream of fighter jets, pleading for you to stay with him, for him to go to your bed, to just get out of bed altogether.  Basically anything that does not involve him being in his bed all alone….It just breaks your heart...  And you ask him, whispering into the still of the night “why do you want me to stay?” and he’ll reply through his salty tears “Because I love you”.  Way to play fair Harrison, and pummel me with the big guilt guns!

And the clenches he holds you in, ohhhh.  With all the might a superhero would muster in their efforts to save the world, my son clings to me.  Literally CLINGS.  He will wrap both his arms around your neck (part headlock, part frightened bearhug) in an attempt to ensure you do not leave his side.  And should you dare move a muscle the little voice breaks the darkened silence with a whimpered “just stay in bed a little minute Mummy, stay with Harrison”.  Just plunge that guilt edged knife in that little deeper, thanks son!

Because it does go against all my motherly instinct to leave him when he appears to need me most.  Damnit if I haven’t gotten all soft in my mothering.  I was queen of the controlled crying when Harrison was a bub and had to be taught to sleep.  I could restrain myself in comforted thought that I was doing him a great service in teaching him to sleep unaided.  And for so long he did just that.  Guess that is what happens to those smug mums of the great sleeping child – you cant have it so good for so long without a tasty little reminder of the reality.

So now I feel bereft of answers.  Part of me does wonder if it’s possible that he is spooked by something, because he tells me “my bed is broken mummy”.  Not sure how to fix that exactly and call me selfish but I don’t relish the thought of having to share my bed every night for the next 7 – 10 years.  I struggle enough with sleep as it is and having a small person in my bed on the odd occasion is fine, but every night is not on.  Somehow the smallest person in the bed seems to take up the most room and the husband and I are left each clinging to an edge and meant to wake peacefully after a night of that?  Then there’s the squirming, kicking and flailing while he locates that apparently elusive comfortable spot – which in the early hours of this morning was the small of my back.

But whether or not its some hang-up he has introduced after the departure of his beloved Dummy (because sleep and re-settling all on his own came breathtakingly easy back then) of there is something more sinister at play (I swear I suspected night terrors the other night, after an all consuming onslaught of tantrum-y tears lasted 90 minutes, and NOTHING could console him, utter fatigue eventually winning the duel in the end) all I hope for tonight is a miracle that somehow puts a stop to this vicious sleep depriving cycle and reinstate the blessed old norm.

To Valentine Or Not To Valentine, That Is The Question...

So here it is again, thrust upon us with all the commercial good will a Hallmark Greeting Card can muster, the day that divides a nation: St.Valentines Day.

I’ve deduced there are three main groupings of belief that people subscribe to when it comes to this most controversial of “holiday celebrations”.  There are the hopeless romantics who use this day to lavish gifts and love on one other, often dedicating countless hours preparing for this celebration; and dare I say it, a little predictably, getting either engaged or married.  Perhaps you are of the ambivalent opinion who views this event with the same level of nonchalance Tiger Woods classed his marriage, in so much that you don’t bother to give it much of a second thought, but like to make it look as though you give a damn.  Therefore you are happy for others to indulge in all the adoring festivities, resplendent with red hearted, love laced trimmings – so long as no one forces your hand to commemorate it to the same extent as the first camp.

Or finally you fall into the class who loathes this heavily commercialised day with all the distrust a jeweller might when considering “loaning” Lindsay Lohan a priceless diamond necklace and opt out ON PRINCIPLE from its requisite romantic activities.  Or maybe just because you have no significant other to share in the merriment with and there for no choice to not participate.  Detesting does come rather naturally in that case…

I’ve stamped a footprint into each of the three camps.  Yes, I’ve celebrated the day with all its ultra romantic embellishments, I’ve played the part of the nonchalant partner who brushed off the Hallmark holiday with a good hearted roll of her eyes,  and I’ve also sulkily declared I don’t give a damn about the duped masses who are wasting their hard earned cash. 

And eventually, over the years this is what I have unearthed: this day is not at all what love is about.  Because you cannot by definition call a man romantic when one year he gives you a shoe box full of Fererro Rocher chocolates (164 to be exact) during the heady first months of a relationship and then the next few  years pull a complete blank.  Rather, I am more of the group who believe you don’t need a set date on the calendar on which to declare your undying love.  Which is why my darling husband created “Devotion Day”: the date of which always remains a mystery, and we don’t need a barrage of overpriced cards and fresh flowers to dictate to us when we can celebrate it.

With age has come the wisdom to understand romance comes in many forms; it’s the Sunday sleep-ins that my lovely husband insists I have, the way he works so hard to provide for his little family and how he never fails to hold me high and believe in me, especially during times of self doubt.

So yes, while I may appear to be the disgruntled forgotten significant other who is left conspicuously empty handed come the middle of the last month of Summer, I am also the starry eyed, still soppily in love woman who can crow about her romantic husband who has chosen to declare his day of devotion when you least expect it. 

Because what good is a commercially induced declaration of your undying love come Feb 14, when on the other 364 days of the year you fail miserably on the affection front?   I’ll take the surprise over the same old traditional celebration any day!

The Tiger Claws Are Out!

The US “Tiger Mom” phenomenon recently came to my attention via the witty Mrs Woog, but it wasn’t until I saw the controversial Amy Chua interview on The Today Show earlier this week, and read about it via Time Magazine online that it all became clear with the uproar was about.

Here is a woman who is apparently trying to give her children the best chance possible in life to succeed.  Except that, in my humble opinion it’s at the expense of one little thing:

Their childhood.

No sleepovers, no school plays, no mindless TV, and HEAVEN FORBID, scoring any grade less than an A.  Then there’s the sin of offering over a lovingly hand-made birthday card which apparently was not up to “Picasso” standard.

"I don't want this," Chua announced, adding that she expected to receive a drawing that Lulu had "put some thought and effort into." Throwing the card back at her daughter, she told her, "I deserve better than this. So I reject this."

Read more: http://www.time.com/time/nation/article/0,8599,2043313-1,00.html#ixzz1DdkdjkmW.

Sounds more like a 15 year stint juvenile detention centre, without chance for parole; not a loving family home!

I’m all for freedom of speech, and the fact that each parent has the right to instil their own values and rules into the raising of their children.  But to write a book about it, and sermonize that this is the only way to ensure your child succeeds in life?  Please.  Step down from your preacher’s pulpit a second and take a reality check.

How do they expect their child to assimilate in the real world, when the time comes to emerge from the prison cocoon they’ve for so long called home?  The older we get, the harder it is to make friends – this is a skill we need to nurture in our childhood, and for most of us, some of the very best friends we’ll ever be lucky enough to have harkens back to the days of the old school yard.  How then, will these “tiger cubs” survive on their thrifty exposure to the world that is friendship?  Awkwardness all round, I’d say.  They’ll be living alone in a house full of cats before the biological clock ticks over to 30.

And what of the wondrous world of imagination, and letting it flourish?  Not so in Tiger Mom-land.  Participation in the dramatic arts appears to be frowned upon in favour of the more “cultural” pursuits such as classical piano recitals.

Whether or not Ms Chua eventually regrets enforcing her strict regime (most likely when one of the girls, potentially starved of affection throws herself at the first man to shower her with a glimmer of unbridled affection) remains to be seen.   And OH, how we will be ALL watching for that slip up…

I know I am far away from the years from which grades are made, but I want to put it in print that the happiness of Harrison is going to be what I value the most.  Not to say I’ll be particularly pleased if he doesn’t TRY, but that is all a parent can ask, right?  You do your best, and be damned with the rest.

In my humble opinion, financial and intellectual success should not necessarily equate to the pinnacle of achievement where our kids are concerned.   All the exceptional academic accomplishments in the world cannot compare to the one thing all parents should strive for the most - the contentment of the child.  For what is the good of all this success if it’s at the expense of your son or daughter’s happiness?

Elephant in the Room...

Here is a simple statement that almost sums me up in one sentence.  I don’t remember a time that I simply don’t remember.  

We all have long term memory (well, those of us not officially ailing from dementia!) and we can all reflect on special moments from years gone by with a fuzzy outline of the events that unfurled.  Yes, I can do that too, but I also, for reasons unbeknownst to me, retain all the useless and mundane trivialities that should have been caught in the “not necessary” filter part of my memory.  Like the fact I first slept in my brand new 1000count Egyptian Cotton Sheets exactly one year ago yesterday, or that two years on this date today my mum had come to stay for a weekend…  And it is all stored in picture perfect clarity and replayed at a moment’s notice in my mind. 

While this peculiarity of my personality does at times serve me extremely well (in my previous life playing PA my boss found it a combination of amusing and informative, especially when it came to recalling dates and events) the fact that it NEVER switches itself into off mode can also be a little tiring.  Like the heady scent of Jasmine in the summer, happy recollections from far ago can swirl around and send you flying back into that treasured moment, but there is also the paradox of the more painful recalls.  They can leave you feeling raw, exposed and anxious; my emotions are so intricately interwoven with this constant state of remembrance that one little memory can trigger a full range of feelings, from happiness to heartbreak and everything in between.  Not to mention being so easily propelled into the past makes it pretty darn hard to live in the present moment…

And after being surprised that not everyone could recount their exact events this time last week, last year, 5 or 15 years ago, imagine my relief when I discovered I am not the only one who lives (and re-lives!) their life through a vivid mind’s eye, as if a show reel of my life was on constant repeat

Freak show? Maybe.  But at least I am no longer alone!

Enter Jill Price, via the Oprah Winfrey Show, who suffers from the same “unforgettable” affliction as me!  After being greeted with sarcasm for sporting this odd gift, it was comforting to know someone else understood this same idiosyncrasy I’d been shackled with.  And reassured too, to hear it even has an official fancy-pants medical term: hypothyemezia

The constant feeling of vulnerability overwhelmed her at times, as it would also do to me. Having every memory at the fore of your mind, and the fact that each carries with it an immediate emotional response, can mean you run the risk of walking in a constant state of alarm.  And while I do feel like I can mostly control mine, it only takes a particular, sometimes completely ordinary occurrence, for the trigger of this loaded gun to fire with a vengeance.  Such as the other day when I was in the supermarket and a song came on the radio that I identified with as a “break-up” song from when I was 16.  Suddenly I was thrust back to that the days following that upsetting event, to the exact moment I heard this sad song for the first time.  The image of me standing near the counter in a Just Jeans shop on a Saturday, killing time I was to start my weekend job at Video Ezy, my heart swollen with teenage angst engulfed me.  Yes, almost two decades on those emotional demons still hovered in the far corner of my mind, and I had to physically shake them from my consciousness. 

It can be a heavy curse that weighs upon you, as blissful relief from the permanent reminiscent ramblings of my mind seems to be hard to come by when your mind has morphed into a gymnast, leaping from one recollection to the next EVERY MINUTE OF THE DAY.

And no doubt explains while it’s taken almost two and a half years for me to get over the distressing childbirth experience.  Because people, I am not like those who say labour is “just one day and you forget it the minute it’s all over.”  Not, it would seem, if you have an Elephant memory like mine!!  

I think Harrison is in danger of inheriting this trait too - you only have to make passing reference to something once and he'll suddenly remind you of it at some stage, even up to a month on.    Pity his poor friends in the playground – any slight is bound to be trotted out of his little memory bank for months to come!

I guess the real irony of it all is that while I can recount to you such useful details as I what was happening in the world 5, 10 or 20 years ago to the day (and usually throw in what I was wearing for good measure), send me to the shops with a Grocery List and I am bound to fail to buy something that is on it.  Hell, sometimes I even forget the actual list!  So yes, while my long term memory is that to rival my ivory tusked large friends, my short term memory is shite – something I am bound to unfortunately never forget.. :-)