When my husband was around 8-years-old, his older cousins - as older cousins do - decided to burst his Christmas bubble in the nastiest, most venomous way they could think of. A way in which guaranteed the little tyke would be scarred for life (well, for his childhood at least).
They told him Santa died. If that was not devastating enough, their tale continued to unravel, saying Santa died on his way, or soon after he arrived in Australia. To rub salt in the wound, they added that poor old St Nick's demise was brought upon by heatstroke.
Cruel, don't you think?
Yesterday, at the pre-school Christmas concert, the man in red made an appearance. All the little kiddies squealed in delight as he handed out gifts and lollies.
Except for Tara.
She covered her mouth, in an effort to conceal her whisper from her sisters, and said to me,
"He's not real."
I anticipated this and replied,
"Yes, I know. It is one of Santa's helpers. The real Santa is too busy in the North Pole."
"No mum, Santa is not real."
Putting on my best actor face, I asked her who she thought put all the presents under our tree last year.
"You did mum. You bought them all last year. I know this because Daddy knew how much my video camera cost."
I didn't know what to say, but shrugged my shoulders and told her that she was wrong. I said Daddy saw the camera at the shops, and we most certainly didn't buy it.
She didn't buy my answer.
I've tried to keep the Santa fable alive for my girls, knowing all too well they will eventually grow out of it, but I'm not ready. They're still too young.
I did however know it was a matter of time, especially since every year my mum dresses in her Santa suit on Christmas Eve. The kids aren't that clueless.
Picture this. We've come home from Midnight Mass, all 8 grandchildren are bouncing off the wall from a candy-cane induced high. Mum dons the suit - complete with full beard - escapes through the back door. Scales the side fence (she's 63 so this takes much effort) and runs up to the top of our street, in the dark. Armed with a big sack and pocketfuls of lollies, she starts, "Ho, Ho, Ho-ing" waking up our lovely neighbours throwing fistfuls of toffees into their yards.
By the time she reaches her house, the older grandkids (and us adults) are in fits of laughter. The younger ones are agog in amazement that Santa has a very woggy accent and sounds a little like grandma. She greets them all by name and hands them gifts. She also hands out a few slaps to the back of the heads of the older kids who proceed to exclaim, "You aren't Santa, you are TATA (grandma in Arabic)."
By this stage, she's dripping sweat, her beard is askew and her pockets are empty. Despite this, bless her, she continues with the charade and, now panting, trudges down to the end of the street to be enveloped by the darkness.
Sometime later, Mum miraculously appears back in the kitchen. I still don't know exactly how she gets back in without us seeing her. I think she has a ladder positioned somewhere in one of the neighbours' yard.
And so, as the years tick on, inevitably my girls are going to stop believing in Santa. But, I'll do my best to keep the magic alive for a little longer.
Friday 16 December 2011
Hope's pre-school graduation
This song was played at my baby's pre-school graduation yesterday.
I blubbered.
My girls laughed at me. Hope actually rolled her eyes. My husband took two steps away as my sobs increased from an inaudible sniff to a fully-fledged wail.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dsk5Qz5oEWo
Let's see how many dry eyes there are after you watch it.
I blubbered.
My girls laughed at me. Hope actually rolled her eyes. My husband took two steps away as my sobs increased from an inaudible sniff to a fully-fledged wail.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dsk5Qz5oEWo
Let's see how many dry eyes there are after you watch it.
Thursday 15 December 2011
Sleep - what's that?
And now for my weekly whinge.
Last night was a shocker. And when I say shocker, I mean a three hour battle to get the girls to sleep.
If you have read early posts from when Tara was a baby, you'd see this pattern of bad-sleeping behaviour started from infancy. Hope is even worse. Every night, she crawls into my bed after disrupting Eden for hours.
I can't remember a night since the kids were born when it was an easy transition to bed.
In an effort to try a different tack, last night I used reverse psychology instead of the usual broken-down record, "go to bed, you've had a drink, you don't need to go to the toilet again. GET to BED. Stop swapping beds, stop talking, STOP fighting. GET TO F*&%ING BED."
And so, I told my eldest and youngest after an hour of bickering with my poor middle child, who just wanted to sleep, that they weren't allowed to go to bed.
I proceeded to plonk them both in the loungeroom and told them they were not allowed to sleep. I really thought this might work.
How wrong could I be.
What eventuated was a further two hour screaming match, crying, bellowing (my poor neighbours) and a draining, exhausting, emotionally painful battle.
At around 11pm, they both fell asleep on the floor of the hallway. Daddy transferred them both to their beds soon after. By this stage, I'd retreated to my bed, closed my door and cried myself to sleep.
I honestly thought I would have some small victory. The reality was that even though I had stuck to my guns and refused them to go back to their beds, it was one of the worst nights I'd had in a long time.
There is no solution. I've resigned myself to this fact. I've tried everything. Yelling doesn't work, compromise doesn't work, reverse psychology also was a flop, reward charts, blackmail, begging, NOTHING HAS WORKED. I've tried it all and I feel like a failure.
And, the biggest loser in this situation is me. They woke up this morning with no recollection of the torment they put me through last night. The guilt I feel for being angry at them, the feelings of incompetence - these feelings will haunt me all day.
The only hope I'm clinging to is that when we move to a bigger place, (hopefully soon) the kids will be more settled. I have nothing to base this one, but I'm totally spent.
The "un-joys' of motherhood!
Yawn.......
Last night was a shocker. And when I say shocker, I mean a three hour battle to get the girls to sleep.
If you have read early posts from when Tara was a baby, you'd see this pattern of bad-sleeping behaviour started from infancy. Hope is even worse. Every night, she crawls into my bed after disrupting Eden for hours.
I can't remember a night since the kids were born when it was an easy transition to bed.
In an effort to try a different tack, last night I used reverse psychology instead of the usual broken-down record, "go to bed, you've had a drink, you don't need to go to the toilet again. GET to BED. Stop swapping beds, stop talking, STOP fighting. GET TO F*&%ING BED."
And so, I told my eldest and youngest after an hour of bickering with my poor middle child, who just wanted to sleep, that they weren't allowed to go to bed.
I proceeded to plonk them both in the loungeroom and told them they were not allowed to sleep. I really thought this might work.
How wrong could I be.
What eventuated was a further two hour screaming match, crying, bellowing (my poor neighbours) and a draining, exhausting, emotionally painful battle.
At around 11pm, they both fell asleep on the floor of the hallway. Daddy transferred them both to their beds soon after. By this stage, I'd retreated to my bed, closed my door and cried myself to sleep.
I honestly thought I would have some small victory. The reality was that even though I had stuck to my guns and refused them to go back to their beds, it was one of the worst nights I'd had in a long time.
There is no solution. I've resigned myself to this fact. I've tried everything. Yelling doesn't work, compromise doesn't work, reverse psychology also was a flop, reward charts, blackmail, begging, NOTHING HAS WORKED. I've tried it all and I feel like a failure.
And, the biggest loser in this situation is me. They woke up this morning with no recollection of the torment they put me through last night. The guilt I feel for being angry at them, the feelings of incompetence - these feelings will haunt me all day.
The only hope I'm clinging to is that when we move to a bigger place, (hopefully soon) the kids will be more settled. I have nothing to base this one, but I'm totally spent.
The "un-joys' of motherhood!
Yawn.......
Wednesday 14 December 2011
Stale bread
As I was walking to work this morning feeling utterly sorry for myself due to a sore throat, I looked up to see a sight which broke my heart.
A sight I would have missed if I hadn't looked up from my begrudging stomp - mumbling to myself about having to leave my cosy bed.
An old man, quite possibly not all that old, but worn weary from a hard life, was scratching at a piece of stale bread he'd found discarded on the footpath. The way he was scratching at it with the vigour of determination could not have been interpreted in any other way - this man was starving.
Obviously he was trying to scrape off any filth, mould or rotten food on the stale bread and salvage whatever edible part he could, shovelling the crumbs into his mouth with lightening speed.
I hesitated, but did not stop. Looked at him, but did not gawk. The pity in my eyes would have embarrassed this man. Every person deserves to reserve some dignity.
What would it have taken me to offer this man a hot breakfast? McDonalds was just around the corner and a McMuffin meal surely wouldn't break the bank. But, 'I was due at work', I rationalised to myself. "He'd be embarassed', I thought.
I walked on.
100 meters away, I saw a gaggle of pigeons, scratching at some breadcrumbs. Just like that old man.
Surely, a man is worth than a pigeon.
I was consumed with guilt, but continued on my way.
A sight I would have missed if I hadn't looked up from my begrudging stomp - mumbling to myself about having to leave my cosy bed.
An old man, quite possibly not all that old, but worn weary from a hard life, was scratching at a piece of stale bread he'd found discarded on the footpath. The way he was scratching at it with the vigour of determination could not have been interpreted in any other way - this man was starving.
Obviously he was trying to scrape off any filth, mould or rotten food on the stale bread and salvage whatever edible part he could, shovelling the crumbs into his mouth with lightening speed.
I hesitated, but did not stop. Looked at him, but did not gawk. The pity in my eyes would have embarrassed this man. Every person deserves to reserve some dignity.
What would it have taken me to offer this man a hot breakfast? McDonalds was just around the corner and a McMuffin meal surely wouldn't break the bank. But, 'I was due at work', I rationalised to myself. "He'd be embarassed', I thought.
I walked on.
100 meters away, I saw a gaggle of pigeons, scratching at some breadcrumbs. Just like that old man.
Surely, a man is worth than a pigeon.
I was consumed with guilt, but continued on my way.
Tuesday 13 December 2011
Do I need to change the name of my blog?
But, it's not that I love Tara more than my two other children, Eden and Hope, it's just that in 2004 when she was born, I had transitioned. No longer was I just a girl, a journalist, and (recently) a wife, but I had a child. A child who made me look at myself in a completely different way, a new classification one might say.
Now, don't misunderstand me. I didn't become an all-knowing mother overnight. Hell, I've been a mum for nearly 8 years now, and I'd say, almost on a daily basis I'm confused, frustrated and struggling to know the right thing to say, the right way to react.
And, in no way is my experience unique to any other mother.
When I started this blog, I was Tara's mum.
7 years and 9 months on, I still am.
Facebook sux - I'm back
Yes, Facebook has consumed my life. Since August 2008, (aka my last blog), I have ignored my followers and succumbed to the alluring beauty of Zuckerburg's rip-off of someone else's social platform.
I now think I need an outlet for my creative juices which is not limited to the 150 character limit of status updates.
Henceforth, I have reinstated my blog and hope you will dive into my literary foray once more.
I'll keep you all posted!
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