Tag Archives: children

Aug 09 2016
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Life

Kids Parties. Why Do We Do It To Ourselves….?

Batman party inviteAnd the birthday train rolls around for another year.

It’s the time of year that parents mothers reach peak sentimentality. Facebook feeds start to fill with Mother’s Group friends wishing their offspring happy birthday – gushing over favourite activities or personality traits, and posting fresh newborn pics alongside a cheery recent snap.  It’s early as you write (too bloody early… probably in the 5’s), and your nostalgia is untainted by the irrational meltdown to come over a jumper that’s suddenly too small, or the book you don’t own that they insist they want to take to daycare.

You track key moments of your labour in the day(s) leading up to your child’s birthday. “Oh… it was about this time my waters broke all over your shoes. Do you remember?” Fond memories.

And because your child is of an age where birthdays are now A BIG DEAL to be celebrated, you’re probably neck-deep in party bag planning, chasing bloody RSVP’s, and trying to figure out just how much food 26 adults and 14 kids will eat.

How on earth did this “small party” end up being 40 people anyway?

You Pinterest like a demon. More than half of the inspired menu you ambitiously created from fellow amateur party planners will be culled in the days leading up to the party.

That cute bat-signal fruit platter? Not with blueberries at six bucks a punnet. The individual cups of popcorn with a cute POP printable will become a plain old bowl of popcorn. Maybe you can squeeze out a POP printable if the ink in the printer holds out long enough (unlikely).  Cute little super-hero masks for the kids to wear? Meh… ain’t nobody got time for that after stuffing those damn party bags.

This year we I have the joy of planning two parties in a month. The Threenager is graduating to Fournado and the twins are turning one, so we have no opportunity to sidestep party planning.  We checked out playcentre party plans and balked at the price. Ironic, considering we will probably end up spending that and more by the time the last balloon is popped and we’ve packed the overcatered remnants of the party into the car to go home.

We have put ourselves at the mercy of the August weather gods by hosting The Fournado’s party at a nearby park. The hubby will be dispatched to secure one of the two sheltered picnic tables available well in advance of any guests arriving. I hope he has the forethought to grab a coffee on the way. We’ve already discussed whether Euro beach holiday rules apply and we can bags a table with a tablecloth and a few token balloons and return later to reclaim it. I’ve been checking the weather forecast for the past 10 days hoping that the “fine with some cloud, 20 degrees” prediction holds so I don’t need to figure out a way to host 40 bodies in my house. But mostly so I don’t have to clean up after them.

I have paper cuts of my fingers from wrapping gifts in cheap dollar store paper I picked up as I was stocking up on party bag tat. I’ve already baked a cake – the birth-DAY cake – and I’m already dreading having to bake again for the party. Less about the baking, and more about the damn Pinterest decorations I’ll be attempting to recreate on four-hours sleep with three kids baying in my ear and half a dozen party food items banked up on the bench awaiting attention.

Remind me again why we do this to ourselves? Because I’m pretty sure after our last big party (1), I said I was never doing it myself again.

Except in four weeks for the girls’ first birthday….

Best stock up on wine. I see a party in my future – and the kids aren’t invited.

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Jun 30 2016
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Life

Why I’m Taking a Family Timeout (and you should too)

Family

Love ya, but I just don’t want to see any of you for a day.

This weekend I’ve booked a night away at a hotel. Husband-free. Child-free.  20 glorious hours without anything to do other than sleep, read, watch movies and eat room service.

Can’t.Freaking.Wait.

Will I miss them? Maybe a bit. But this is all about ME, and finding a bit of my “self” again.

I’ve had a grand total of four nights away from my family in the past four years. That’s a lot more than some people, but after an intense twin pregnancy and a hectic nine months of Threenager and raising babies, I need a family timeout.

When my husband told me he would be heading to Singapore for two, six-day work trips in July and August, I knew the time had come. I needed to start the chaos with some calm… and a steaming hotel room bath, red wine, book and an enormous bed to myself is just the way to do it.

I have to laugh though. The husband keeps telling me that his work trips won’t be relaxing, or fun (no, honey). That he will have to fly economy because the work budget won’t allow business any more (oh the humanity!) But anything that involves a plane trip to another country, a cushy hotel, no kids in your ear and the option to eat/sleep and use the bathroom at will sounds like a bloody amazing holiday to me.

He’s never been solo with all three kids longer than four hours. Each of those times my outing (a haircut) has been timed for while the girls are napping. Of course they ALWAYS do their full two-hour nap for Daddy, so he only really has to deal with Toby. Too easy! So part of me is hoping he gets the intensive three kids experience – the grizzly, clingy non-sleeping babies; the whinging Threenager who suddenly needs an escort for every toilet trip and someone to dry his hands; the joy of cooking two dinners and having neither of them eaten. Just so he can understand why I don’t answer sometimes when he asks how my day was. I can’t. After 14 hours attending to every need of our three tiny dictators I’m too drained to do anything but close my eyes and meditate on my eyelids for a while.

I’m not expecting any chores to get done. I’m not expecting the house to be tidy when I get home. But I am hoping for some empathy, and the understanding that this break I’m taking from my life to raise our children isn’t long days visiting cafes and taking leisurely walks around the neighbourhood.

It’s bloody hard work this full-time parenting shit, and I have so much respect for women who choose to continue it over returning to work. For me, work gives me a mini-timeout to reset and recharge enough to be a happier, more balanced wife and mother.

Now if you need me, I’ll be planning which PJ’s and book to pack for my night away.

 

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Jun 09 2016
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Life

Note to Self: Where Are You?

Yesterday I blogged about owning your Supermum. Today is a post that’s been sitting in drafts for a while, and is a little more raw…

When I found out I was pregnant with the twins I got a lot of advice. Advice from people with singletons, twins, and 3+ children. The overwhelming consensus was to accept the chaos and mess for a year and just concentrate on getting through each day with some semblance of sanity intact.

But here I am, 8 months later, with what feels like more tidying and “things in their place” hangups than I did before kids. Stupid stuff like the kitchen table chairs needing to be pushed in and even; beds made; breakfast stuff put away, feeding the bunny… all of this before I’ve even had a shower or eaten my own breakfast. Those precious 30-90 minutes of morning sleep are the very time I should be prioritising myself over housework.

When did I become less important than tidying? Why does mess come before me?

I don’t know if it’s because I’m home all the time and want a bit of control in the chaos. Is my husband messier? Am I just suddenly noticing what was always there?

I resent the morning cleanup – even more so if I’m cleaning up from the night before. Recycling bottles, table mess from the Threenager’s dinner, dishes that haven’t made it to the dishwasher, random splashes and mess on the bathroom vanity. AN UNFLUSHED TOILET.

fun, friends

Smiles and laughs with amazing friends.

I don’t even feel like I can begin to change things. To prioritise myself. When almost my entire being is devoted to my children’s needs.

Part of me is tempted to return to work early, just to get back some of those simple things that so many people take for granted. Time to eat your lunch when you want to, not at 4pm when you’re ravenous but still have children crying to be picked up as you try in vain to reach for your sandwich on the table which is just…out…of…reach. Thirty quiet, uninterrupted minutes on the train to read a book. I can’t remember the last time I read something other than a supermarket catalogue…. and I love reading. Time spent doing something stimulating that doesn’t involve Lego or playing shops underneath a pile of sofa cushions.

We worked so hard to become parents – the infertility, IVF, miscarriages – and now I just want a break. Something longer than the four hours every 8 weeks I get to have my hair done. I fantasise about an entire day to myself but have no idea what I would do. I still feel utterly bound to the twins despite the fact they take a bottle and the husband says he handle all three for the day if I want to do something.

Why should I feel guilt about wanting some time to myself? It’s a cruel roundabout we sometimes put ourselves on.

So where do I start? Any advice?

 

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Jun 09 2016
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Life

Supermum

I get the “Supermum” thing a lot. It always makes me feel awkward and a bit silly because I’m really not. I’m just a mum who has moments of “super” in an otherwise fairly normal family life.

As parents (especially mums), we don’t tend to recognise or own the “super” in our everyday lives. When you’re a mother, you just get shit done. You don’t have the luxury of any time to yourself. No solo pees, no food when you actually want to eat it, no time to pluck your feral eyebrows or blowdry your hair. You have a 5 minute shower once the baby monitor goes quiet, then race to put the washing out, feed the animals, make breakfast, tidy up after the hurricane of mess your husband and child created in the six waking hours between arriving home and leaving again the next day….

I’m preaching to the choir here I know.

But last week I had a Supermum moment and dammit, I OWNED it.

Our beloved nanny (a must-have for twin families) is on holiday for a month, so I have the Threenager and bambinos solo two days a week until she gets back. I dread solo days. My anxiety starts building on Monday and by Wednesday morning I’m starting the day already on a knife-edge. My (best intentions) mantra is to just let everything go – expectations, plans, housework, mess-tolerance levels…  Some days all of the planets align and the kids are (mostly) awesome. Other days are pure hell and I start message-bombing the husband at 1pm asking when he’ll be home.

I started the day by deciding that I would just go with the flow and just roll with how things panned out… within reason obviously. I’d take a deep breath before yelling at the Threenager, and if the girls decided that catnaps were the way to go then I wasn’t going to waste 40 minutes trying to get them back down again.

And so it began. The girls’ breakfast was my usual failed attempt at trying to trick Ele into opening her mouth long enough to get a spoon in, while Soph took a few mouthfuls before starting to retch. Meanwhile, the Threenager is in the living room glued to Paw Patrol and refusing to eat his toast. Whatever… I know he’ll eat half the pantry before days end. I spend an hour getting him excited about a trip to the park which is actually just a trip to get me coffee with the bonus of a fenced playground next door.

The girls sleep…. for 30 minutes. Our new routine says 1.5 hours. FFFFAAARRRKKK.  I decide to attempt a resettle but their eyes are bugging out in their heads so I give up and start the dressing battle. Now the girls are crawling, it’s a bit like dressing an angry octopus… Times two… That insist on crawling all over each other at the same time. Five minutes later everyone is dressed. Supermum points on the board.

Getting everyone out the door probably looks like a slapstick comedy to the neighbours. It mostly is. I usually end up going back inside at least twice to grab drink bottles or jumpers or sunglasses. More than once I’ve gone out without my wallet. Most of the time I do manage to get out of the house within 10 minutes of my estimated go-time.  (We’ll just ignore the fact I don’t actually leave the driveway for another 10 minutes because the Threenager is playing hide n seek in the back seat, and one or more dummies is missing so the babies are losing their shit.)

We arrive at the cafe. Everyone is playing nice happy family. The Threenager grabs some books to read, we order, and the girls are happily chattering in their pram. I get to eat almost all of my banana bread by MYSELF!  Then it happens…

A woman and her elderly father were sitting at the next table. She leaned over and said, “I hope you don’t mind, but we’ve been watching you and your wonderfully behaved children. You are a Supermum. I couldn’t imagine getting out of the house with twins let alone three children!”  I thanked her and admitted that a lot of days didn’t go very well, but today we were rolling with whatever was thrown at us and so far it was going pretty well and I was feeling pretty “super” about it.

BOOM – Supermum-ness owned!

Sure, everything turned into a giant pile of crap at 4:30pm like it usually does, but at least I spared the husband a constantly beeping phone during his busy meeting day.

Next time you ace an outing or just get all the kids to sleep at the same time – OWN IT. Revel in your Supermum-ness. Share it on Facebook or with a cute, cuddly child pic on Instagram. Because the moment is always gone too bloody soon!

P.S: Sabrina Rogers-Anderson wrote a great post the other week about mindfulness when doing everyday tasks. She’s a fellow twin-mama and her advice to “Rock the Baby to Rock the Baby” has been added to my list of  baby-coping mantras. Worth a read if it hasn’t popped up on your Facebook feed already!

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Apr 04 2016
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Life

A Day in the Life

It’s Monday! Which actually doesn’t really mean anything in a world where the week is divided into “Reinforcement Days” (aka The Weekend), “Non-Daycare Days” (3 under 3 vs me) and just plain old “Days”.

Mondays are about the only real structured day we have in the Casa at the moment. Mr 3 is at daycare, the supermarket delivery comes, sheets and towels get changed and there are usually some errands to run. Today however, is wet. Two babies plus rain = sofa day.

7:26am: I’m awake. I’m sure you’re thinking I have it pretty sweet getting to sleep till then with three kids. It’s a nice little arrangement the Mr and I have fallen into. I get up in the night and he gets up in the morning. Sometimes it works out really well for him because Mr 3 stays put all night and then wakes up at 6:30am. Other days I’ve needed help overnight settling and Mr 3 has been in and out 6 times and we’re all walking zombies going through the motions of breakfast at 6am.  By the time I wake, the Mr is almost out the door to work and daycare drop-off so I get the baby update (time they got up, nappy status) and they’re gone.

Silence reigns. The living room is chaos. I vow to declutter Mr 3’s toys for the 17th week in a row.

8-8:30am: Skim the news headlines (aka Facebook feed) while the babies complete their morning rolling circuit around the living room. I get up several times to retrieve Explorer Soph from half-under the coffee table where she is intently inspecting the table leg.

8:45am: Message husband to ask what time the babies got up. This happens every single morning. He could tell me 10 times and I would still forget. Brain is fried. Look at floor to see The Explorer has fallen asleep on the mat. I take that to mean they’ve been up for 2 hours and it’s time for a nap.

8:50am: Where the hell is the supermarket order? We are now outside the selected three-hour delivery window and inside my 30-minute shower/washing/breakfast. Thanks Woolies! I change the sheets and make the beds. It’s Cleaner Eve, so I spend 20 more precious baby nap minutes vacuuming, wiping crusted pasta sauce from Mr 3’s place at the table, tidying up 356 pieces of Kinder Surprise toy and hunting for stray bunny poo.

9:20am: The baby monitor lights up. Dammit! Go in and see Ele with eyes wide open. We have the pep talk: “No no no no no. It’s not awake time yet. Mummy needs a shower. And food.” I plug her dummy back in, give her a few pats and back out slowly. There’s a 70-30 chance this won’t work.

9:30am: Soggy, harassed looking delivery driver arrives.  The rustle of the bags sounds like a maraca festival. Sleep babies, sleep.

9:35am: I race to the bathroom for my patented 2-minute shower. The babies are still asleep. I clearly earned some good karma over the weekend.

10am: Breakfast. And it’s not Easter Eggs. There are mental high-fives. Surely there is a badge for this shit. I look around for my orange juice, but it’s fallen victim to the baby brain. Maybe I didn’t even pour it.  I’ll never know.

I come across the story of baby Edison McLean, whose final day was captured by Sydney photographer James Day.  I cry a bucketload of tears. The photos and video are so raw and powerful. I smile at baby Eddy’s dad Charlie as he gives his precious son Kiss Attacks, just as we do our girls. It takes every ounce of strength not to go in and wake the girls and hold them. As if on cue, Ele wakes up.

10:30am: After ravenously attacking my neck as I carried them to the living room, I settle in to feed the baby vamps. I used to do this tandem, but it’s kinda nice to have the one-on-one time feeding. Plus having your chest scraped to pieces is more manageable when you’re only batting away one baby claw. I finish and start making a coffee.

12:30pm: I have no idea where the last two hours went. There are toys everywhere and amongst the mess, two babies. They’ve started interacting in the last few days, which is mainly stealing toys from each other and some pretty gnarly skin grabs. Still, it’s cute. We read a book – Guess What Colours – the babies are riveted. It ends with both babies chewing on the cover.

Babies reading

Rare vision of the babies sharing the same thing at the same time without tears.

12:45pm: Babies in bed. Finally drinking coffee. Spend my lunch break watching Part 2 of the Insight Twins special.

1:30pm: Soph’s awake. I leave her to free range the living room while I finish watching my doco. Ele wakes 15 minutes later. Ravenous. We feed then it’s back to the floor for some play time. Hit on an activity that combines their love of playing together and love of destruction by making various towers using Fisher Price roller blocks. Ele decides it’s the perfect time to commando crawl for the first time. I AM SO NOT READY FOR THIS.

3:45pm: Nap time. I should probably also put on at least one load of washing.  I open the machine to discover the Mr has put a load on already. The lights and darks are mixed and a tissue has gone through the wash but YOLO. (Can you even YOLO washing?)

4:30pm: Quick feed before heading off to get big brother from daycare. Since I haven’t been outside today and it’s dry, we head up in the mega-pram. This doubles as my exercise for the day so I change into my activewear. Ha! I bet you thought I’d been wearing it all day.

5:45pm: Daycare days are easy dinner days, so today’s creation is a guaranteed-to-be-eaten-without-a-tantrum snack plate of apple, grapes, ham, cheese and Mummy’s Special Meatballs (felafels). The next hour is a blur of feeding, changing, more changing (today is a “high poo count” day), settling babies and monitoring Mr 3’s food intake. This is my absolute least favourite part of the day and ranges from mildly tolerable to excruciating. Thankfully reinforcements – aka Daddy – arrive at 6:30pm.

7pm: Babies in bed. Wine glass filled. Annnnnd relaaaxxx… for five minutes before starting dinner and the goodnight ritual with Mr 3.

 

If you watched and were as moved by baby Edison’s story as I was, you can donate to the Royal Women’s Hospital Midwives Group Practice and NICU in Eddy’s honour. 

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