Alphabet Soup Page 9

  I may want to take to that sweepy fringe with a pair of scissors, but I’m assured it’s just as much in fashion as my ‘Rachel’ cut was in the nineties. And besides, we have a cracker of a school photo to remind him of this era in years to come!

  My fashion credentials are also being called into question as both kids reject the vast majority of my choices in favour of their own.

  Already I’m getting that ‘really, Mum?’ look. I didn’t think I was that old or daggy, but apparently it comes earlier than I thought. It seems it’s not just kissing them at the school gate that’s embarrassing.

  I have a son who loves his skinny jeans, rock-star look and sports teams, and a daughter who wants to grow up faster than her mother is comfortable with. We’re trying to span the gap between dressing as a little girl and teenage fashion without fast-forwarding before the time comes. It’s tricky territory.

  But you know what, I couldn’t be prouder. I love that they are becoming their own little people, recognising what they like, making and living with some of their own decisions.

  Red walls can be repainted, posters changed and hair grown.

  All this is inevitable, and as long as it’s within some limits I’m happy to start relaxing the apron strings.

  But I do draw the line at door-slamming and not kissing me goodbye.

  Heroes and Role Models

  Never in my wildest teenage dreams could I have imagined that one day I would meet some of the people whom I admired as a kid.

  I spent my afternoons after school in the seventies squeezing Vegemite through the little holes in my Vita-Weats and giggling at IDream of Jeannie. Fast-forward 25 years and there I am interviewing the entire cast, grinning like a Cheshire cat and so relieved to find them as warm and friendly as I had hoped—and Barbara Eden just as gorgeous.

  I’m incredibly lucky in my job to meet famous and interesting people. Some have been people I’ve admired from afar for many years, and behind the professional veneer I’m reduced to a starstruck girl.

  I once sat in the make-up chair at 5 a.m. with Jane Fonda in the seat beside me and we chatted like two girls over coffee. She couldn’t have been friendlier. I grew up admiring her drive, her bravery and her courage to apologise when she knew she had made a mistake.

  I interviewed the gorgeous Florence Henderson, who, as Mrs Brady, was the matriarch of my favourite TV family for such a large chunk of my childhood. Off camera she was beautiful, sweet and generous to talk to. For a girl who grew up in a blended family, Mrs Brady was my benchmark for kindness and unbiased love.

  I’ve laughed with Jerry Lewis, who, as a child, taught me that almost anything could be funny. We dropped three other Sunrise segments that morning to enjoy his bountiful humour and larger than life personality.

  I interviewed Kylie Minogue, who spent longer chatting to the crew and me after our interview than she did in front of the camera. I remember once dancing to ‘Locomotion’ and, years later, there she was before me—an international superstar who had taken her talents and well and truly run with them.

  One day I finally met Jana Wendt, the poised but steely, legendary journalist, who probably inspired a generation of women like myself to attempt to follow in her path.

  We all have heroes and role models, people we admire for different reasons. Some of them are closer to home. One of the most influential women in my life was my grandmother. She taught me to be a lady. She abhorred laddered stockings, tatty nails and bad table manners. She always dressed in her finest for church, including hat and gloves. She taught me to make an effort. She taught me to respect myself and those around me.

  My mum spent years urging me to push myself, saying, ‘See what you can do when you try?’ It annoyed the daylights out of me as a kid but, like most wise words, I finally learnt and appreciated their meaning, and even went so far as to eventually repeat them to myself. The irony is I now say it to my children.

  My dad always told me I could do anything I wanted with my life. He never, ever implied that being a woman would hold me back in any way. The only thing he said I couldn’t do was pee standing up. (He did admit my wimpy chicken arms might also rule out a few other options, but at least that was something I could fix if I chose.) He gave me confidence—not arrogance, just the required amount of self-belief.

  He also told me to work hard and dream big.

  And so my children now dream big as they both adorn their walls with posters of their heroes. Football players, singers, basketball stars . . . the choices are theirs but some I certainly encourage more than others.

  I am happy my daughter adores Taylor Swift. Swift is a young woman who certainly seems mature beyond her years, takes her profile seriously and, most importantly, found fame on the back of her considerable talent and hard work.

  My son has a poster of Tim Cahill on his wall, an international soccer superstar but also all-round good guy. He places as much importance on visiting the young kids at his former Sydney primary school as he does mixing with the elite of his sport.

  Cahill’s but one of a wider range of sportsmen Nick thinks highly of. There are stars of cricket, premier league soccer and the motor racing track. Thankfully, they all appear sensible, polite and worthy of an impressionable boy’s admiration.

  Not every person in the public eye is suitable for role-model status. Maybe we are expecting too much of our footy players—and pretty much everyone else who has ever sung, danced, kicked a ball or acted—to take the moral high ground. Just because our children know who these people are, why do we expect them to live up to standards we determine?

  I think that’s unrealistic. Of course, it’s a shame when a child’s hero falls off the wagon or combusts in a cloud of public scandal, but that gives me the chance as a parent to use the incident as an example of what not to do. As important as it is to teach my children hard work and talent equals rewards, they also need to recognise that it’s just as easily ruined or wasted.

  A few years back, an on-field punch by Sydney Swans’ player Barry Hall was all Nick and his team mates were talking about.

  Seeing their hero in red and white suspended was a big lesson in what not to do. Action and consequence can be an intangible thing to get your head around when you’re a little kid and waiting for dinner seems a lifetime away . . . but seeing a bloke as important as Hall suspended for doing the wrong thing sends a pretty clear message to anyone, whether you’re seven or 27.

  Why the star forward was sent home opened up a conversation with my son about why we don’t hit, the significance of being a good sport and how no one is too important to escape punishment.

  Amid the posters, I also hope my children look a little closer to home for their role models: parents, siblings, cousins and grandparents. Admire the stars, but leave it up to us to teach them values, responsibilities and consequences—not a singer in her underwear or a Ferrari-driving football player.

  Home Sweet Home

  Our home is my most precious place on earth. The sound of my front door closing gives me such comfort. I know every noise and what it means . . . the thud of the heater kicking in on a cold evening, the rumble of my husband’s car coming down the driveway, the kids clanging the front gate and running inside, the cat meowing at our back door.

  My home is where I feel safe, relaxed and happy. We lock the gate, ignore the phone and invite friends to come to us. Nothing shows love more than a meal you have put thought and effort into.

  Our house is nothing particularly fancy. It’s decked out in my favourite colours of chocolate brown, cream and blue. It’s a photo album of our life. Kids’ paintings are framed and hanging on the wall. We have a whole wall of family photos, including black-and-white wedding portraits of our grandparents and cute but meaningful happy snaps.

  Trinkets from our travels are on shelves or framed, each one reminding us of a special place we’ve been, and the emotions associated with those experiences.

  Ok, so our decor doesn’t look carefully styl
ed or immaculately coordinated . . . it’s more an eclectic mix of pieces I’ve fallen in love with. But I can tell you where each and every item has come from and why I love it so much.

  I am also prone to a little rearranging. My husband has been known to come home from the odd business trip to find a wall painted a different colour or a room subtly reorganised. I rotate knick-knacks and pictures, and much of the time no one even notices.

  Home is where I take off my shoes, put on the kettle and crank up the music, depending on my mood. We love nothing more than to cook up a feast then deal with the mess the next morning, to bring out the good linen or enjoy a very long and late barbecue on a hot summer night.

  Our deck is where the cat sleeps in the afternoon sun, or I do. Where our kids can bring their friends or just hang out with us. I know I am lucky to have such a sweet piece of paradise.

  And I hope it will provide my kids with a happy sanctuary now, but also a sweet place in their hearts forever. I can remember every home I grew up in. My favourite hidden places in the garden, the number of steps leading to the front door, my guinea pig hutch, the colours of my bedroom and the exact path I took to walk to school.

  Now it’s my turn to create that story for my kids.

  Housework

  Every time John travels I seem to forget to put out the bins. That job is on his to-do list, and unless he sends me a gentle little SMS reminder early enough, then I’m usually outside, after dark, cursing as I struggle to manoeuvre the massive things into position on the kerb.

  Like most working couples, we share the chores, although how exactly I can’t tell you. There was never a specific discussion to decide who does what, but more a natural evolution.

  I take care of groceries, cooking, immunisations and birthday presents. John is in charge of lawns, bins, bill-paying and the weekend sport roster. I pick up Talia’s multiple little piles of books and paper; John picks up mine. I do more vacuuming, but he’s always got up to the kids during the night (a trade I’m more than happy with).

  And there are degrees. When I clean it’s a mad dash around the house at the end of the day picking up toys and putting away the laundry. When John cleans it’s a full-on spring clean. He’ll actually wash the inside of the cutlery drawer and vacuum under the cushions on the couch.

  It’s a bit like our cooking. I do the weeknight ‘what can I slap together this evening in under twenty minutes’ meals, while John does the weekend, all-day extravaganzas. What I call the ‘Glory Meals’.

  He takes the time to select the fish, grind the curry paste, nurture the soufflé and match the courses. Our guests are blown away by his culinary skills, while I grumble something about frequency and envy. I’m just happy if my meals get eaten.

  There are times I wish he did more, and times when he wishes I did. Like most couples, we both think we do above our fair share. But I like that our children see us working as a team.

  And now that they are getting older we can recruit them as well. They have their regular tasks such as setting and clearing the table, tidying up toys and keeping their rooms clean. Anything above this comes with the promise of pocket money. Monetary incentive obviously works at any age.

  I just can’t wait till Nick’s strong enough to put the bins out.

  Identity

  The tears (mine) dried up and the new shoes (Talia’s) were scuffed and my then five-year-old daughter was off and running in the big wide world of the schoolyard.

  It’s a pretty emotional time when your youngest heads off to school. At the same time, my then seven-year-old son started Year Two. I tried so hard to keep it together for Talia’s sake . . . but there’s something a little sad about saying goodbye to your baby.

  On the plus side, I could look at a week stretched out before me with five days all to myself. The hours between the end of my workday and school pick-up were suddenly mine again. Hot on the heels of my sadness was a sense of liberation!

  It was time to have a bit of ‘me’ time. I could see a movie, catch up with the girls for lunch or simply come home and do the chores with a bit of daggy music blaring, no one to tell me to turn it down or be embarrassed by my dancing around the house.

  All parents know that once you have kids your time is never quite your own. You can’t sleep in after a late Saturday night; you can’t sit on the couch and watch TV all day; and you can’t walk out the door whenever it pleases you.

  Of course, I don’t mind, and having a little body creep into bed for a Sunday morning cuddle always beats the sleep-in, but after nearly eight years of having someone smaller than me dictate my hours, daily patterns and free time, I looked forward to having some of that back.

  This is the moment mums can once again do something for themselves. If you have always wanted to play tennis, learn Japanese or get the garden under control, now is the time. Or maybe it’s returning to the workforce or even studying.

  But when so much of our focus has been on children for so long, it can be as daunting as it is exciting. It’s all too easy to find yourself at a bit of a loose end and in danger of an identity crisis. Suddenly we are back to having conversations that don’t mention nappies or sleep times. When every moment of your day has been about someone else, it’s time to prioritise yourself.

  I have a girlfriend who has just sent child number four off to school. She hasn’t worked for thirteen years and is rather nervous about what she should do next. She wants to work but feels so out of touch. She laughs that she wouldn’t even know what to wear into the office!

  She’s also faced with the tough task of finding a job that will fit in with her family and leave her free both before and after school. While she’s keen to do something for herself she also wants to stay involved with her children’s education. And then there are the reading rosters, cupcake stalls and days of canteen duty.

  It doesn’t have to be a job that becomes your focus. Now could be the chance to get fit, finish off the backyard, or maybe take the odd day out and simply do nothing.

  The irony is, though, just as you feel you’re reclaiming your time you gain a new identity. From now on at school you’ll be someone’s mum. That’s the badge you wear when you’re the parent of a school child. Who you’re the parent of is all that matters.

  But at least now you have a few precious hours before the bell rings at 3 p.m. to be yourself.

  Immortality

  Having children changes many things, from your social life to your hip size, but for me the biggest realisation was the value of my life—no longer for my own sake but for that of my children. To be needed so much is both an honour and a frightening responsibility.

  I keep a diary for each of my kids, recording all those embarrassing moments and funny things they say and do. I tuck into it every card their grandparents send them, and I write how much I love them and how proud I am of them. It’s something from me to them for when I am no longer here.

  It’s a parent’s worst fear, no longer being around for your children. I say a little prayer each time I get on a plane. Their future always crosses my mind if John and I go somewhere together without our kids.

  Remember when Angelina Jolie made international headlines for her decision to have a double mastectomy to reduce her risk of breast cancer from 87 per cent to five per cent? I wouldn’t hesitate to do the same. If there is anything I can do to buy some more time in this world as a mother then I will gladly do whatever is required.

  And when we read about tragedies, or hear of another friend battling illness, it makes us think about the time we spend with our kids. Is it quality or quantity, is there really any difference and does it matter?

  Life isn’t full of cheesy moments around the dinner table like in some contrived sitcom. Meals in our place are usually a negotiation: ‘Finish your dinner and then you can have dessert’ or ‘There’ll be no sport/ballet unless you eat up.’

  While these moments don’t seem precious at the time (in fact, most nights they are agony) they are still
moments together. I try and extract information from my son about his day; I try to get my daughter to stop talking and start eating. Battles aside, we are sitting together and sharing. I sit on the edge of their bath and chat. I involve them in cooking the dinner and setting the table. Sometimes I’m nagging them to do so, other times I even use bribes, but I figure it’s still time together. It’s not what you’d call quality . . . I’m just trying to pack in as much as I can. And every moment counts.

  When I am home with the kids I try hard to focus on them. No more long conversations on the phone to girlfriends or afternoons in the sun with a good book. When my daughter was in her final year at preschool I would always schedule things like a haircut on the days I didn’t have her with me so as not to miss precious time together. If I did have work to do at home she would sit beside me at my desk colouring in. The deal was after every paragraph written or phone call made I would stop and colour a flower in Dora the Explorer’s garden.

  While working on Sunrise, I crammed the household chores into the hours before school pick-up and took exercise around the oval during Nick’s soccer training—all so I could make the most of the time I had with them each day. I spent so many years not being there in the mornings, so I made sure I was there every afternoon.

  Now it’s reversed. I make breakfast and lunch before I wake them up. I take them to school, do any chores that need doing, head to work and make it home to spend time together at night.

  It’s all about making every moment count while I can. I figure in a few years they probably won’t want me around as much as they do now, but as long as I am still around that’s ok.

  Independence

  How do I know when the time is right to let my children walk home from school alone? At what point is my son old enough to ride his bike around the neighbourhood without me going with him? Or meet his friends at the park without me there?