Alphabet Soup Page 5

  And haven’t we all heard phrases thrown back at us with a remarkably familiar ring. The expressions my kids use often leave me wondering where they come from, until I hear my husband use the exact same words.

  ‘Just so you know . . .’ or ‘We’ll see’; the latter came to me from my grandmother, now that I think about it.

  It makes you realise how much children mirror their parents, particularly when you don’t even know it’s happening.

  My son hates peas because his dad does. I don’t think he’s even tried them. And John hates them because his mother does.

  My son will follow his dad around the house with his tool kit, and watch the same sports on TV.

  My daughter talks too much, chats to anyone and won’t take no for an answer. I’ll let you work that one out . . .

  But it’s not all bad. I always greet our school lollypop lady and I’m proud to see my kids do now too.

  And I know in turn I’ve picked up habits from my parents. My mum’s fantastic deal-with-anything attitude and my dad’s gift of the gab.

  So hopefully our children will adopt some of our good habits and not just the bad.

  Cracking It

  Sometimes the stars are aligned . . . for disaster.

  For me it’s usually when I haven’t had enough sleep, or I’ve taken on too much, or I have to ask my children to do something one too many times, and then that’s it . . . BOOM!

  It’s usually a slow burn. I always know when I’m starting to wear down and tensions are starting to build up. Then it happens: three globes blow in the one night, two of the sort I don’t have in the cupboard; the cat pees on the laundry floor and I accidentally step in it, propelling myself into a skid across the kitchen floor; while using the step ladder I’m carrying to change the globes to break my fall, it drives into my foot. Cue tears.

  At other times, the mess in the house finally pushes me to breaking point. The books/footballs/shoes/projects just suddenly seem to take over and, once I’m done with my futile nagging, I just lose it. In a frightening tsunami of screaming motherhood, I let rip. But I tell you, the place is cleaned up in an instant and the memory of my temper lingers long enough for the kids to keep the place tidy for at least a few days.

  Please tell me I’m not the only one who has moments when I seriously question what on earth I am doing and why I am trying to do so much?

  Or weeks when I start at one end of the house to maintain order but by the time I get back to where I started, I’m due to go again?

  It’s usually when I’m tired or rushed that things go wrong. Like the night I was trying to make my nails look respectable before an event but dropped the bottle of dark nail polish on the bathroom floor moments before I was to due to leave the house. The glass smashed and the polish spilled all over my white tiles, grout and cupboard doors. There I was on my hands and knees in my party frock scrubbing the floor, and myself, as the taxi tooted outside.

  Like all households, we’ve had windows broken from the odd cricket ball, timber floors scratched, skirting boards dented from a remote controlled car, and the couch smeared in chocolate. For some reason these aren’t the things that set me off. Maybe it’s because I expect them.

  And I can remain in control when there’s an injury. Nick once broke his arm at an indoor gym party. It was at one of those YMCA venues padded to within an inch of its life, and yet he still managed to hit the one spot that could do damage.

  These are the times I can remain in control and focused on what needs to be done.

  Three times Talia slammed her fingers in the door, enough to warrant a visit to the hospital each time. On one visit we all sat together watching the AFL Grand Final in Emergency.

  Maybe I started the ball rolling when I fell down the back steps while pregnant with Nick, or fell and broke my arm while pregnant with Talia.

  These are episodes when, surprisingly, I can keep my composure. But stupid mistakes on my part are not. I once ruined my car’s black seats when I sat down wearing a yellow raincoat that proceeded to transfer the sunny rubber coating straight from my coat to the black leather. I cursed every night as I scrubbed at it with a toothbrush for weeks to get it clean.

  It’s often the silly little things that tick us off. The vacuum cleaner getting stuck on the door jamb, the grocery bag splitting on the way up from the car, not finding a single pen that works or dropping a tub of yogurt in the middle of the kitchen floor.

  Some weeks the mountain simply feels too big to climb.

  That’s when I know I need more sleep, a little glass of wine and a few quiet moments with my kids to remind them, and me, I’m not always a screaming dragon.

  Cricket

  It’s pretty embarrassing the moment your son’s hand-eye coordination outperforms your own . . . and that was when he was still in nappies.

  Nick is a great little sportsman. He’s been obsessed by pretty much all sport from the moment he could clutch a ball in his tiny toddler hands.

  He clearly takes after his dad in this area. Thank God.

  So there can be little else more humiliating for a mum than being thrust into the position of wicket keeper and trying to catch a cricket ball in front of about 50 under nine year olds—only to fumble and drop the damn thing in front of them all.

  Poor Nick . . . I always assumed my time to embarrass him was years away.

  I was hopeless at school sport, and it’s now coming back to haunt me. When John is away, it’s up to me to partner Nick at cricket training. His lovely old weather-beaten coach smiles at me with that ‘at least you are trying’ look, then steps in and takes over.

  Lucky I can be the taxi driver and take him to training and games, cut the oranges, or stand in line with him for hours in the men’s underwear section of Kmart to get an autograph from his idol, Brett Lee.

  And lucky John doesn’t travel as much anymore.

  Sport is a major part of my kids’ lives, and one I’m keen to encourage. I’m so glad they love being active. And the best advice I was given was to keep them busy—that way, they have no time to get into trouble.

  But there is busy and then there is busy.

  Rather than choosing what to play, we’ve had to eliminate a few things. There is simply not enough time for a boy who spends his days dreaming of playing for the Socceroos, the Giants or the Australian cricket team to train, play and still fit in his homework.

  It’s been really hard to draw the line in the sand and say no to a few things. We’ve been keen for Nick to try as much as possible before he hits high school and is forced by time constraints to narrow his options even further. But there are only so many days in the week and only so much equipment we can afford.

  Like most men—sorry, boys—Nick wants all the gear so he can look the part. He sees Rebel Sport as the Holy Grail and studies their catalogues with the sort of enthusiasm I wish he’d apply to his schoolbooks.

  Talia also plays soccer, but not with the fervour of her brother. She’s much happier in the ballet studio. But that still involves after-school lessons and a tutu, not to mention a hair-sprayed end-of-year extravaganza.

  But how active is too active, for both them and me? It’s nice to keep a few afternoons free for chilling out together at home, or having a friend over for a play. And I certainly don’t want to wear them out. But I also know it’s the perfect time in their young lives when they can have a go at anything and everything, before friends and study rule the timetable and the fear of failure curbs their enthusiasm.

  So as we begin another year of ballet, soccer, cricket and homework, at least I know there are some balls I’m able to throw in the air and catch.

  Damn the Clock

  My perfect weekend is to simply ignore the clock, to not have to be anywhere at any particular time.

  It’s even better if I can also ignore the phone, not leave the house and not hear the sound of my own voice for two days, but I realise that could be highly unsocial and a little impractical.

&nbs
p; But the clock I can ignore. I can stay in my PJ’s long after I’ve got out of bed and not run to any routine at all.

  Every other day, time management rules my life. I spent fourteen long years getting up at 3 a.m. to get to work by 4 a.m. I knew exactly how long I had if I hit the snooze button, where I could pick up time and what I had to skip by spending those extra nine minutes in bed. I could be even more streamlined if I hit it twice.

  I prepared dinner at 4.30 p.m. to make way for the nightly 5 p.m. Sunrise conference call to discuss the next day’s show and we ate as a family soon after. My relief was palpable when John came home early enough to bathe the kids while I read research briefs. If it all ran smoothly I could get to bed on time, which meant one less hit of the snooze button the next morning.

  Being a working parent has taught me to prioritise my time in a way I never had to before. There are certain things I need to do each day and certain things I want to do. During my time on Sunrise, being at the school gate every afternoon was paramount, so I made sure I crammed everything into my mornings in order to make that happen.

  Moments are no longer wasted. What I can fit into 24 hours surprises even me. Every minute counts. I used to be the world’s biggest procrastinator. School reports always said I spent too much time talking and setting up my desk. Ok, I still talk a lot but I can do other things at the same time now.

  Our nightly conference would fall smack-bang in the middle of the witching hour. The kids would be as tired, hungry and worn out as I was. Not the best time to be on the phone, and alert.

  But bless that mute button . . . I have wiped bottoms, cooked and served spaghetti, scraped ice-cream off the floor, built Lego and dressed Barbie, all the while discussing global warming and footy tips. It’s multi-tasking at its best.

  Mind you, a few mornings I did arrive at work to see a surprise guest on the rundown. They must have discussed that segment when I was a little distracted.

  Working and mothering has also taught me how to find ways to cut corners. There’s the butcher who marinates the meat that makes basic meals more appetising; when I cook lasagna I always make two and freeze one.

  I’d hang out a load of washing before I went to bed so it was dry by the time I got home the next day, or leave the shopping list for John to do after the kids and I were asleep.

  Now I work evenings, reading an afternoon and early evening bulletin on Channel Seven, and given I spent so long peaking before lunch, I can get up, have the house sorted, lunches made and a load of washing out all before the kids have wiped the sleep from their eyes.

  Even at work, I live by the clock—on air to the second and keeping interviews to time.

  Hollywood interviews are so precise: usually four minutes and not a second more. Just like that scene out of Notting Hill, you walk in, sit down, hide your nerves and fire off as many questions as you can before you’re kicked out and the next journalist is ushered in. There’s no time to break the ice with small talk or chitchat at the end, and if you want a ‘Thanks, Tom, for your time’ on camera, then don’t go a second over or they simply cut the tape.

  So I have learnt the more I keep to time, the easier it is to manage. But please don’t think I run our lives like an army major! We have days when it all goes to the dogs, and either I have a meltdown or the kids do.

  Or, we throw our usual routines to the wind and spend the whole glorious sunny afternoon in the backyard. Then we simply play catch-up and eat two-minute noodles.

  And hit the snooze button.

  Diamonds Aren’t a Girl’s Only Best Friend

  I got dumped by our teenage babysitter.

  After asking her to mind our kids and having her say no four times in a row, I finally got the hint. She was breaking up with me.

  Perhaps my children are horrors and I don’t know; we don’t pay her sufficiently or leave good enough chocolate; she simply doesn’t like us anymore; or she just has a rollicking good social life.

  It’s hard enough to cope with the rejection, but it’s even harder to replace her.

  Every woman has a list of essential contacts she needs to keep everything ticking along.

  I have Ken, the butcher. He always flirts, gives the kids a lolly and guarantees me top quality meat. Sometimes when it’s marinated or stuffed I even take credit for all his hard work.

  There’s Richi, my hairdresser. Only he knows how many greys there really are fighting for supremacy.

  There’s Norma, our cleaner. What she can do in two hours once a fortnight makes coming home on that wonderful Tuesday an absolute pleasure.

  Lois is our neighbour. She pops over for a cup of tea and brings my washing in if it starts raining before I get home. She’s also an emergency port of call for my kids should they ever need help.

  Sonya, my make-up fairy, welcomes a bleary, blotchy 40-something woman into her chair every day and transforms her into a confident, TV-ready talking machine.

  These are the essential members of every woman’s team. Finding them is hard enough, but keeping them is vital.

  We made contact with our babysitter after she left a flyer in our letterbox. It was a gamble on an unknown, but I admired her initiative and trusted her sweet smile. It seems that wasn’t enough, so now we’re on the hunt for a new one.

  I once committed the cardinal sin of taking a number from a girlfriend and borrowing her babysitter . . . then proceeded to steal her. It wasn’t intentional. It was just that every time I booked her, my girlfriend would coincidentally call her the following day and find her committed to us. It’s up there with perving on another’s husband or dissing her homemade biscuits. You just don’t do it.

  So we are starting again. It’s preferable they have a licence. There’s no point getting a cab to and from dinner when you then have to turn around at midnight and drive the babysitter home.

  And you don’t want anyone too young, in case you have a late night (which is rare, in my case) and feel awful that some poor teenager is struggling to stay awake on your couch.

  They also have to be fun, for the kids’ sake, but not too fun because you do need your children to go to bed eventually.

  But, hey, beggars can’t be choosers.

  I’ll keep asking around, and when I do get a new one I promise to stock the pantry better this time, and when I pay, I’ll always round up.

  Oh, and I’ll send flowers to Sonya, Richi, Norma and Lois—and keep flirting with Ken.

  Because some things in your life are very very valuable.

  Dishy Dads

  We had a dishy dad in our mothers’ group. He was known as the ‘Fox in the Henhouse’, a lovely guy with a gorgeous little baby. Well, at least I think he was lovely. We were all so enamoured with the new dad cuddling his tiny baby we didn’t really notice.

  I’m sure I’m not alone here, but is there anything more appealing than a man with his child?

  What woman doesn’t smile when she sees pictures of Brad Pitt with a child or two on his hip, David Beckham with his look-alike sons trailing behind him, or the dishy dad who picks up his kids from school in the afternoon or drops them off in the morning . . . his tie a little askew and his darling little daughter clutching his hand?

  Seeing my husband become a father made me love him even more. And seeing a man nurturing his kids makes me positively swoon.

  I know it’s a generalisation, but dads nowadays seem so much more hands-on. Gone is the era when Dad would walk in the door after work, take off his hat and be greeted by freshly washed children and a wife in a clean apron holding his scotch.

  When I returned to work after having our second child, John took a month off. I’m ashamed to admit that the house was tidier and far more organised than it’s ever been under my captaincy. Our then two-year-old son loved every moment of having his dad at home, and I know John did too. (Although I did chuckle that his hopes for a midday game of golf with baby in tow didn’t quite pan out.)

  Even now when I travel for work, I always return to
a clean home and sometimes one that’s been slightly reorganised. When he’s completely in charge, John makes the most of it. The lounge room gets a makeover and the laundry once had a fresh lick of paint.

  And while I’m singing his praises, John has mostly been the one to get up to the children at night. He always says it matters less how he looks in the morning—and don’t I love him for it.

  US President Barack Obama even talked about the importance of fatherhood in his bid for the White House: ‘We need [fathers] to realise that what makes you a man is not the ability to have a child, it’s the courage to raise one. So many of our children are growing up in front of the television set, in front of video games. As fathers and as parents, we’ve got to spend more time with them, and help them with their homework, and turn off the TV set once in a while.’

  I am acutely aware of the bond between my children and their dad, particularly because I still share that to this day with my own dad. While there’s nothing John does with them that I can’t, I realise it often takes on different significance. I have slipped into the role of chief cook, washing lady, homework nagger and dental check-up supervisor. And while I can kick a football and throw a cricket ball, I’m told my skills are a little lacking . . . I’m good for practice, but dad is better for coaching.

  The other thing I’ve learnt is how differently men parent. We need to let them dress the baby, hook the nappy and set the table their way. Just because it’s different to ours doesn’t make it wrong. I have a girlfriend whose husband never put his kids to bed when they were little. He never attempted to and she never insisted. Not only did she create a rod for her own back but he missed out on some pretty special times.

  Parents all do things differently to one another and that’s the appeal. It means our children learn to be flexible and adaptable.