What frogs eat

I have learned many things since becoming a parent. I have learned how to feed, swaddle and burp a newborn. I have learned that self-settling is a vital skill to impart upon an infant no matter how painstaking it is for the parents. I have learned that if there are plans in the afternoon, a child will invariably sleep longer than usual. I have learned that just as reliably the same children will cut their naps short if the diary is empty. I have learned how to collapse multiple models of prams with one hand and how to assemble, and disassemble, a travel cot in under a minute. I’ve also come to learn just how much I don’t know. Actually it’s something of a recurring lesson at the moment as I attempt to answer Miss I’s endless stream of questions.

Some, of course, are easy to answer.

“What I having my dinner Mummy?” Ravioli. (At least that’s the answer often enough.) 

“Why you stop driving Mummy?” Because it’s a red light and cars have to stop at red lights.

“Why?” Because that’s the rule.

“Why rules?” Well the rules keep everyone safe. (Best not get bogged down in detail?)

“Why you driving now Mummy?” Because it’s a green light and cars have to drive at green lights.

“Why?” Rules.  

“Why rules?” Are you getting bored now???

Then there are questions which I’m quite comfortable not knowing the answer to.

“Where the postman live?” I’m not sure exactly where his home is but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want us to know. (Although, come to think of it, he quite clearly knows where we live. Again best to avoid details?)

“Where my teacher Anna live?” Same as above.

“Why Daddy a boy Mummy? He just is.

“What you having dinner Mummy?” Whatever our butler prepares.

“Who our butler?” A happy figment of Mummy’s imagination.

“What magination Mummy?” (Schoolgirl error. I walked right into that.) Would you like ravioli for dinner?    

The questions that trouble me though are the ones I think I ought reasonably know the answers to.

“Why the sky blue?” Errr, something to do with light and reflection.

“What frogs eat?” Errrr, lillipads?? (I’m really not sure).

 

“Where the butterflies sleep?” In the trees. (At least I think so??)

“What’s that?” Your shadow.

"What a shadow?" Errr, light and reflection again. Would you like ravioli for dinner?

“Why Lulu crying Mummy? Hmmm...

“Why the trees no leaves?” Well it’s winter and some trees lose their leaves during winter.

“Why?” Well, you see, when it gets cold...would you like a cupcake?

The problem, as I currently see it, is that her questions, and eventually Miss L’s, are only going to get harder. I'm not going to know the answers and ravioli might not always distract them effectively. (Though I imagine cupcakes always will.) I will be able to easily guide them through reading and basic maths. I will be able to talk them through government policy on childcare, explain why their father is a feminist, why I think sport matters and why keeping windows open does not let the heat in. I might never be able to explain why I wasn’t invited to the Royal wedding but I will be able to describe the wedding in fantastic detail. Should they accept it I have plenty of knowledge to impart; from my parenting philosophies to dealing with the dishwasher to massive generalisations on the basis of gender. So there’s a bit I think I can add. But. Notwithstanding my profound wisdom sound knowledge base I fear there is much more that I cannot explain than I can.

My grasp on the intricacies of the animal kingdom is tenuous. At best. I’m not particularly well informed about basic biology or weather patterns. I don’t know how planes fly or cars drive or how electricity works. I know nothing about plumbing or drains or town planning. I can’t build or renovate or even paint. There’s heaps of stuff I just don’t know. So I’m curious; how will our girls overcome the limits of my knowledge?

Of course there are other people who can teach them. Their dad, Mr G, for example is particularly practical and well versed in subjects I am not. Between us we cover some ground but Mr G isn’t always here. So when the questions come through about the Boer war or why towns were settled at the base of hills or why the tv isn’t working, chances are they’ll be stuck with me. And I won’t know the answer. And if it's the tv question Mr G won't know either.

School, of course, will help but that’s at least two years away. I can only imagine how many questions I will field before then and, knowing Miss I, I’m doubtful “Why don’t you wait til you get to school?” will cut it. It’s another reason I think children need as much exposure to a village of people (preferably with differing areas of expertise) as possible. Broaden the net and just hope that when the tricky questions come they’re posed to the right person. On that note does anyone want to volunteer to be a friend on the phone? Just nominate a category of knowledge and I’ll keep you on file. By all means put me on your own file. I'm available for questions on: royalty, childcare and rocky road. 

The fraud of Facebook

I love Facebook. I love that it keeps me updated with family and friends and I love that it lets family and friends stay updated with me. It might not replace real-life interactions but I love that it makes small connections possible when lengthy catch-ups aren’t. I can’t easily fly to America or Hong Kong or England but I can easily ‘like’ a picture or comment on a status and let a friend know they’re in my thoughts if not my diary. And vice versa. That might sound anti-social but it’s also life and that’s the reason I’d say Facebook enhances mine; it facilitates friendships when distance or time might otherwise not. While I have no hesitation in saying that I enjoy it I also recognise it as a fraud.

I’ve thought this many times but a few weekends ago it hit me once again. We had just celebrated Miss I’s third birthday. It was the happiest birthday party imaginable. The sun shined and Miss I was beside herself to spend a few hours at the park with a handful of her lovely little friends with unlimited access to chocolate crackles, cupcakes and a Peppa Pig birthday cake. (And, as requested, Balloons, bubbles and ballet shoes.) That night a friend sent through a photo she’d taken of our little family during the cake-cutting. The four of us are smiling away and there is real joy in our eyes. I posted it on Facebook as a memento of the day and then a day or so later, the fraud, hit me.     

The lovely smiley family picture itself isn’t contrived and doesn’t, on its own, tell a lie. It captured a moment of joy as it happened. It wasn’t airbrushed and it wasn’t even posed. The fraud though is that it only tells part of the story; the happiest part. I’ll tell you what it didn’t capture.

It didn’t show that we’d been up all night with Miss L. That we were in the midst of a bitter week-long battle to wean her off her night-time feeds. And, off the back of seven months of broken sleep, a week-long battle, hosted in the wee hours of the night or morning or whatever you call it, is shattering. It is not remotely enjoyable. It is a breeding ground for irrational marital disputes. (Come to think of it any dispute, marital or otherwise, that occurs between the hours of 11pm and 5am is probably not steeped in reason is it?)

It was a hellish week. Friday effectively started at 4.30am which was bad enough without an unpleasant encounter with our otherwise kind neighbour who at 7am expressed her, quite legitimate, disapproval with Miss L and myself. I was so far from loving life in that moment it wasn’t funny. Throw in trying to organise a party, waiting for job news, a hectic week at work for Mr G, a small insurance issue and the rest… So for a variety of, mostly sleep-deprived, reasons we’d had a pretty tense old week.

But if you only saw that smiley happy birthday picture, and had escaped the misfortune of actually talking to me that day, you might not know that. You might look at that photo and think family life looks pretty terrific. Which is fine because, as that photo shows, there are lots of times when family life is pretty terrific. But it’s only part of the picture. The good bit. 

And that is Facebook to a tee: just the good bits of the picture. Which is fine when it’s taken that way; when you realise the happy smiley photos are the happy smiley moments. The fraud begins if you start to think it is the whole picture. That the absence of photos of couples bickering or babies crying through the night or a frustrated mother stuck at home with a temperamental toddler or a person battling with a bullying boss or feeling sick or just going through the motions, is because those things aren’t happening. They’re happening. They’re just not on Facebook.

There is never a time when I think the discrepancy between real life and Facebook is more obvious than when someone has a baby. If you had never met someone with a baby and just peered through albums of new mothers and fathers with their tiny babies on Facebook it’s entirely possible you’d get yours home and think there’d been a huge mistake. Crying??? They don’t cry on Facebook! They just lie there, swaddled, looking completely serene and blissful. Un-showered??? But those mums on Facebook always look completely serene and blissful and showered!!! Bored??? No-one told me that lying on the floor doing tummy time would occasionally make me so bored I’m batty. Fighting??? What on earth would we argue about? We’ve got a beautiful baby!! Isn’t that all we ever need???

The point is not that anyone sets out to be misleading. It’s just that the irritating and tricky parts of life don’t photograph particularly well. The result is Facebook is life airbrushed. It’s the happiest moments captured in the most flattering photos devoid of drudgery. Over at FB I’m as guilty of that as anyone else but here, in words, I can shatter that illusion. Not that you'd be under any such illusion if you read this but the truth is my life is sometimes boring and tricky. How could I take a picture of that??

What are your thoughts on the book of face?  

A new agenda

This blog is obviously quite personal. I do, when factors conspire in my favour, write about things that are much bigger and more interesting than my little life. On occasion I have written about topics including equality, shameful conduct in the Catholic Church and the importance of feminism. But, most of the time, regular readers will attest, I write about my little life. Sometimes in great detail and sometimes from afar. It always depends on what strikes me when the time to write presents itself and then again when the time to publish, and fiddle about with the backend of a blog, arises. (Those two things rarely happen in the same sitting.)

I don’t ever think too much about what I should or shouldn’t write about. The only definite limitations on allowable subject matter are Mr G’s single stipulation, that I do not identify him by name, and not wanting this to be a forum to offend or embarrass anyone. Other than myself obviously. But, week to week, I guess I do make little subconscious judgement calls about what I share and what I don’t. To be honest there’s not a huge amount I don’t share. If you were to read this blog regularly you would have a pretty accurate understanding of what’s happening in this particular part of the world at any given time. Albeit with a two week time lag (and devoid of any highly offensive thoughts that may have crossed my mind in the given period).

But this week there is no such lag. I have some news, and whilst on the one hand I can’t shake the sense that it might be completely self-absorbed to share it, on the other hand I can’t really not. Because aside from anything else there’s quite a bit I need to workshop with you and it’s going to have some repercussions here. I have got a new job!!! In a bit over a month I will become the acting editor of a fantastic website that I hope you will start frequenting soon, if you don’t already.

None of my excitement about this new job stems from not loving my old job. Au contraire. The day I finished work before having Miss L I thought, and later wrote, how lucky I was to be leaving a job I enjoyed so much. To me the fact I felt sad to be bidding my role and my workmates a temporary farewell spoke volumes about my affection for that job. Having experienced both career dissonance and a period of brutal unemployment (save for a few soul destroying temporary roles) I sincerely appreciate the incredible fortune in having a job that provides enjoyment and fulfilment. (In addition to the other more obvious benefits of steady employment: regular income and, every working parent’s favourite pleasure, the opportunity to drink a coffee uninterrupted.) It is a lottery that I was lucky to win.

I realise I’m possibly tempting fate by giving something else a go but nothing ventured nothing gained. At least I hope so!! It is a little bit scary but also a big bit exciting. It means, once I start, I will be writing less about my little life here but I’ll be writing more about the bigger stuff over there. In the meantime I am getting myself closely acquainted with the finer details of the childcare shortage. I REALLY should have spoken to Mr Abbott when I had the chance!!

A practical philosophy

I always think it’s funny the little things my mind holds on to. Sometimes I struggle to remember what I said, or did, even a week ago but then there are things, often quite incidental things, that I can still clearly recall ten years on. One random tidbit that falls into the latter category is a theory I remember hearing about at uni. For reasons that baffle me I have always remembered one chap’s philosophy on the law. I’m hazy on the whom and the when and whether anyone else agreed but I know that one prominent philosopher concluded that the difference between anarchy and civilisation is the rule of law. Now to be perfectly honest, since the time I learned of that theory, roughly a decade ago, I haven’t had the cause or inclination to give it any further thought. That is, until Friday a few weeks ago.

You see on that particular Friday I was reminded of it as I undertook a little philosophising of my own. My conclusion is slightly different. You see in the life of a stay at home parent, doing a long solo shift, the difference between anarchy and civilisation is a little more tangible than the rule of law. It boils down to this simple formula.

Civilisation

=

5 minutes at the start of day, ideally before 9am, for a shower during which time there are only happy background noises audible. These include Playschool, Peppa Pig, a chatty toddler or a cooing baby. Shrieking, crying and yelling are not happy background noises. 

+

20 minutes, at a bare minimum, in the middle of day where all minors are asleep at the same time or, at the very least, quiet in their places of rest

+

 5 minutes, at a bare minimum, between 5.30pm and 6pm where the carer has both* hands free (which is only achievable when no minor is demanding to be held) to assemble dinner.

Profound work isn’t it? Now when critiquing my theory, which I know you will, please keep a few things in mind. As I said this applies to a parent doing a long solo shift; for example where between the hours of 6.30am and 7pm there is no chance, whatsoever, of another adult responsible for the same children by blood, being present. Please also keep in mind that this is the baseline. The absolute bare minimum required to ensure a parent’s mental health is not too badly compromised come bedtime. 

Obviously I could throw in variables like “Toddler plays happily for 40 minutes with her blocks whilst baby sleeps allowing parent to attend to the sadly neglected housekeeping and feel a semblance of practical achievement before lunchtime” or “Both baby and toddler sleep for 2 hours simultaneously” or “No offspring engage in particularly maddening conduct”. Of course those variables do happen and, naturally, are the stuff that parenting dreams are made of. But we’re not talking dreams today. My theory centres on the borderline. When a solo parent is teetering on the edge, just one small tantrum away from insanity. Or, civilisation and anarchy as that unknown philosopher put it. 

Helpfully, after much philosophising, I can say with certainty that the difference between staying perched on the edge of sanity and crashing right over into more treacherous terrain, is when those three elements don’t come together. Because when each of those things fail to occur in a single day, well, it’s a little bit catastrophic.

By way of contrast, when they do occur, regardless of the day’s trials and tribulations, the results are fantastic. By ‘fantastic’ I mean you will have a parent who, at the end of the day, might sip a glass of wine with some satisfaction rather than being completely overwhelmed with a primal urge to down a bottle of scotch, despite disliking scotch, in a single hit and then rock quietly in the foetal position in the corner. Of course it’s just a theory. Feel free to pick it to pieces or give it a whirl.                                                       

Do you have any practical philosophies to share? They need not relate to parenting. I’m rather interested in theories that make any aspect of life easier.

*I am continually astonished at the number of tasks that can, when push comes to shove, be completed with one hand. But. I do find the assembling of even the most basic dinner requires both hands for at least a few moments.