I'm a 3536 37 38 year old mother of 3 who needs a break - physical, mental, spiritual or financial - I'll take what I can get. My husband says I work too much and I should chill more. Whether he's right or wrong, my life is what it is. I'd love some more "me time" to read, write and shop, but I never have the time to take it. So this blog is my "me time" and it's ALL ABOUT ME.
Does your child’s school also have Baker’s Days? You know: a
day when you’re scheduled to provide cupcakes or other such homemade fare for
each child in the class and your child gets to “sell” them to raise funds for
the school.
No? Well, my daughter has now managed to attend two schools
where Baker’s Days happen weekly. Thankfully, she’s only on the list up to twice
a year, but still. The stress! The pressure! The trauma!
I’ve never learned to bake terribly well. Ask me to throw
together your most basic muffin recipe and I’ll find some way of messing it up.
Royally. They’ll either be too dense, too moist, uncooked or burnt. My history
with cakes is as spectacular. My cake repertoire, such as it is, is markedly
miniscule. Most recipes call for creaming of the damned sugar and butter and
since I’ve never invested in an electric mixer, I tend to avoid recipes that
include that part. I can do pudding-y cakes – ones where you chuck all the
ingredients in the bowl and mix them together a bit and ones that you can throw
hot sauce over and pretend they’re supposed to be moist- and that’s about the extent of it. Any
others come out flat, lopsided and not terribly fun to eat.
Which is why when I happened on a message from the teacher
last week that said that Hannah’s Baker’s Day was coming up, I froze in horror.
What to do? I knew I had to bake, but then I remembered that I can’t bake. So I
did what any non-baker would do: I decided to provide 26 bags of popcorn.
Simple, no mess, no fuss. Minimal chance of royally screwing it up.
Right?
Um, not so much.
I bought a packet of popcorn kernels and a container of oil.
That evening, I fired up the stove top and before I knew it, we had 5 bags of
popcorn. I was just beginning to feel all smug and domesticated when…
Did you know it’s really easy to burn popcorn? No, really. And
that it can almost completely ruin a pot? And that one bag of kernels isn’t
enough for 26 bags of popcorn?
Sigh. Scott took over from me and about 45 minutes later and
we had 26 neat little popcorn bags all lined up at the door ready for the next
day.
What kind of a mother can’t make popcorn for Baker’s Day?
Apparently this one.
Having kept you in suspense for almost a week (all two of
you), I should probably reveal why I polled you on “me” time.
It arose out of a conversation I had on Sunday about home
schooling. Let me say up front that I have fairly strong views on home
schooling. Not about it being good or bad, but about the evangelistic nature
with which its proponents, or at least some of those I know, talk about it.
My conversations with some of the home schoolers I know
always leave me feeling
a)inadequate
– because they’ve managed to imply that I’m not doing what God wants me to do
by sending my children to school;
b)frustrated
– because I’ve once again given in to complaining about the schools my kids
attend, arming them with yet more evidence that home schooling is clearly the
right thing because our schools are so appalling. Also because I like these
women and I want to be friends with them, but the home vs public school divide
just seems so huge, and
c)angry
– because I’ve made a choice to send my children to public schools and it’s
none of their business.
My conversation on Sunday went the usual way, with them
talking about their curriculum and how wonderful home schooling is and me
listening politely. At some point in the conversation, I foolishly asked one of
the women whether she ever gets tired of being with her kids all the time. She seemed to take
offense at my question and directed the question back at me, “Aren’t you?” she
said. My question was an innocent one – I just wanted to find out whether she
ever took some time on her own. Her answer? “I don’t need to.”
Seriously? I find it very hard to believe that a busy mom,
one who is home schooling to boot, wouldn’t need just a little time now and
then to gather her thoughts, go see a movie, read a novel, write a letter, something other than looking after her
children. I’m not saying she was lying, because I’ve known this about her for a
long time. But I still find it hard to believe that she never, ever needs time
alone.
The results of my poll, in all its unscientific splendour,
prove my hypothesis:
35% of you enjoy taking occasional time off. 28% of you take all the time off you can get. 22% of you would love more time off, but you don’t have the
time to take it. And 17% of you answered “Other”, which I foolishly added
without asking you to specify.
And no one, not one of you, said that you don’t need any
time off at all.
Organise a completely random school concert – not to celebrate anything, not because it's the beginning or the end of term. No, just BECAUSE.
Ask parents to assemble costumes. Make it clear that they are NOT to buy costumes, but to use their "creativity".
Schedule it for a Thursday: the night I reserve for compiling our staff newsletter.
Schedule it for the 3rd day of one of my continuous headaches.
Have a dress rehearsal at 6pm, an hour before the play is due to start.
Insist that no one is allowed in the hall before 6.50, thereby ensuring that younger siblings are climbing the car windows by the time the play starts.
Make us queue outside the school until exactly 18h50 and not a second before.
Don't put some of the acts on the stage. Seat everyone on the same level, and put 8 year old children in front of the hall to show off their talent on the guitar/violin/recorder, ensuring no one can see said children.
Put James on last when Jonah is at the height of his past-bedtime-hysteria and Hannah is beside herself with exhaustion.
And finally, don't announce how to find your child when the concert is over and he comes down from the stage. Just tell everyone the concert is over and then cause us to mill around for 20 minutes, trying to locate him.
Two years ago today, I
didn’t know I was in labour until about 5 hours into it. I drifted in and out
of sleep wondering what those sharp pains were. It was only when I woke up properly
at around 6am that I realised what was happening.
Two years ago today, I
stared at a tiny version of my own face and fell in love.
We shouldn’t really
have had him. He’s our “one more” baby, the one that you long for, but shouldn’t
really give in to having, because you can’t afford him, or fit him into your
house, or your car.
Fortunately, sense was
overtaken by emotion. If he hadn’t arrived, we would never have seen his dark
brown eyes, heard his deep, boy voice, or seen his lurching, cartoon-like walk.
We’d never have seen his thick, unruly hair, or reveled in his velvety skin.
Happy Birthday
Joe-Joe. It’s a crowded house now with you around, but we wouldn’t have it any
other way.
I've finally made it: I'm an editor. Ok, mainly of my own essays so far, but still. Ok, so maybe I haven't quite made it...
Anyway, I'm excited, because I've found another place to write.
One of Cecily's posts pointed to a fabulous site called Type-A Mom. If you haven't visited yet, do yourself a favour. "Type-A Mom is a site designed to be created and maintained by the real
know-it-alls in parenting, the moms." Which sounds like an excellent goal to me.
Cecily was recently appointed Mommy Blogging editor. When I went and checked it out, I discovered they were looking for other topic editors. I chose Bed Rest - because we all know how experienced I am in that regard - and I got the job.
My first post is up and I'll be writing weekly. So far, I have about 10 ideas for essays. If there's something you'd like to read about on the topic of bed rest, let me know and I'll try to include it.
Would you tolerate a teacher swearing at your child?
I can almost see you jumping out of your chair yelling "NO!", right?
Me either, which is why I climbed onto my soapbox and fired off a letter to James's school principal this morning in reaction to something he told me last night.
His soccer coach had been using the words "crap" and "shit" to describe his team's efforts on the field yesterday. Sterling, no?
I.Was.Livid.
I don't speak like that to my children and I'd be hard-pressed not to hurt someone else if I heard them speaking like that to them. James is 8. He doesn't hear language like that in our home and he doesn't need to be told he's "crap" or "shit" at anything, thanks very much. This is one of his first experiences of team sports. He needs to hear encouragement, not some idiot shouting at him and his team mates about how much they suck.
Moron.
To the school's credit: I personally handed the letter over this morning just before 8. I was phoned by the sports coordinator at 9.30. He apologised on behalf of the coach, said he'd been given a warning and that if it happened again, he'd be relieved of his duties.
I celebrated by delivering a cake to the nurses at Vincent Pallotti Hospital's Willow (paediatric) Ward.
Right, you're thinking. Because that's so incredibly relevant on a mommy-blog.
Actually it's more relevant than you think. All three of my children have been hospitalised at VP at some point or another in the past 8 years. For James, it's more times than I can actually remember. In fact, let's try:
James at 5 days old: admitted for newborn jaundice
James at 7 months: admitted for rotavirus and pneumonia (yes, at the same time)
James at various ages, 6 times: admitted for insertion of grommets (ear tubes).
Hannah at 8 months: admitted for RSV and severe ear infection.
Hannah at 1: admitted for insertion of grommets
Jonah at 1: admitted for RSV
Jonah at 1.something: admitted for insertion of grommets
Jonah at 1.something: admitted for tonsillectomy, adenoidectomy and re-insertion of grommets.
I know, reads like your average Munchausen's by proxy brag list, right? There's something about my family and germs. If they're out there, they'll find their way to my children. Without fail.
Each time we were admitted to hospital, the nurses at Vincent Pallotti were there to make us feel comfortable, chat to us, play with the children, hold them when I had to be somewhere else and generally be a surrogate mom. I appreciate them more than they'll ever know.
