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 Domestic Goddess
Hair-raising and heart-rending tales from that doyen of domestic bliss, Betty Doran, the fearless but frazzled mother of four.
(These are archived rants, you can also read Betty's current musings here.)
Playgroup Pariah
November 9, 2006
I put on a brave face recently and took my two young sons to playgroup. I'm still somewhat traumatized, mind you, from my last experience some 13 years ago. But, I knew it was time to move on. And the only way I could do that was to confront my demons.
The last time I ventured into a playgroup was when my oldest daughter was a toddler. We were living in a small rural town where my contractually obligated marital partner had been posted as a teacher. I found it quite isolated and lonely, knowing absolutely no one. I thought the local playgroup would be a good place to make some new connections, but alas, it wasn't to be. I just felt so awkward and out of place, like a man at a book club, I was the proverbial fish out of water. All the other mothers seemed to have their own clique going on. I felt that I may as well have had a big flashing sign on my head saying INTRUDER.
After several futile attempts at conversation, I decided to make myself useful in the kitchen. There was a mother there who was obviously preparing a birthday cake for her child. "Oh, I see your child is having a birthday, that's exciting," I enthused in what I thought was a cracking good conversation starter. "And how old is your... umm, boy, or girl," I earnestly enquired.
She made no attempt to hide the fact that she thought I was the biggest moron that ever walked the face of the earth. And she may well be right. As my eyes followed her gaze down to the cake she was now holding just inches from my face, I realized - with my amazing powers of observation – the cake was in the shape of the numeral 3. What's more, it had THREE candles stuck in it.
With all the diplomacy she could muster, the cake lady politely excused herself from my company. Needless to say, I left with my tail tucked between my legs, never to return. I don't think I'll ever get over the disappointment of that particular parental faux pas (not to mention missing out on a free piece of cake). So, imagine how gingerly I approached the doors of my local toddler playgroup some 13 years later.
But all that angst was for nothing. They couldn't have been friendlier or more welcoming. I'm a regular "player" now and any Tuesday morning you can find me tinkering with a toy train set. Of course, I have to create an exclusion zone to keep the toddlers at bay, but with a bit of skillful elbow work I can usually manage to dominate the whole train set.
Cake Not Included
November 2, 2006
I never met a sweet I didn't eat and I doubt my desire for dessert can ever be satiated. Even my own daughter refers to me as "the cake sniffer." And yes, I can sniff out a morsel of cake at fifty paces, and I never say no to a social invitation where there is likely to be a sticky sweet treat involved.
Being the experienced sniffer that I am, I can usually find a way to feed my addiction without a great deal of effort or (god forbid) physical exertion. Birthdays, weddings, funerals, bar mitzvahs, school functions - any church, crematorium or educational facility will do. And I still remember the day I discovered the free morning tea at the ceremony when my contractually obligated marital partner obtained his citizenship. These ceremonies are open to the public, and take my word for it; they never fail to put on a superb spread of cakes. But there are dark clouds threatening the cake-landscape.
Lately, I've attended no fewer than three birthday parties and at least one wedding where there was NO CAKE! What gives?
The situation is getting so bad that nowadays I make a point of getting assurances whilst RSVP'ing. "Now, there will be cake, won't there?" I enquired of one birthday girl with an aggravatingly trim figure.
"Oh, sure," she replied with skinny-girl assuredness; "don't worry; there'll be plenty of cake."
Now, I've never trusted a woman whose legs don't rub together at the top, and my worst suspicions were confirmed at the party. I was busy working the room (looking for cake) and becoming increasingly pessimistic about finding any. The party girl was busy with endless cheek kissing and gift receiving, but when I finally caught her attention; her stricken face said it all. "Oh my god," she stammered; "there's no cake. I just said there would be 'cos I knew you wouldn't come..." I didn't get to hear the rest of her insipid explanation as I was already in my car, reversing away at break neck speed, stopping only to rush back inside to retrieve my gift. No cake indeed...
Talking Toddlers And Donkey Legs
October 26, 2006
When you bring your beautiful bundle of babbling baby into the world, you can't help but speculate about their future. Will they be pretty? Will they be rich? Will they talk the hind legs off a donkey?
Last night, I suddenly became aware that the soundtrack of my dream was in fact the ceaseless chit-chat of my four-year-old son. Good grief. My sleep-mode brain was compensating for the lack of background noise (apart from the odd emergency vehicle or drunken street fight) by inserting its own soundtrack. Unfortunately, it chose the same soundtrack as the one I listen to all day, every day. I'd give my brain a piece of my mind - if I could just get a word in edgewise. If I'm going to have background noise in my dreams, at least it could be something a bit fresh or funky. Heck, I wouldn't even mind some ambient sounds (just to fill in the gaps between the ambulance sounds), but please, enough already with the talkative toddler.
My two-year-old, by comparison, is still relatively speechless, although he's pretty keen on many of the expressions he's picked up from his favorite TV shows (ok, I admit, I'm one of those mothers who use TV as a daycare facility). Maybe I should be taking him to a speech therapist but his little impediments are sooo adorable and endearing that I just want him to go on baby babbling for the rest of his natural life. Is that wrong? He does have the necessities all worked out. He lets me know if he's hungry or thirsty. He says "cheese" a lot, which is very photogenic of him. When he's tired he says "nigh nigh" and when I say "I love you," he always replies "I bub boo."
I suppose I am worried that his slow speech development may impact on his learning life, but so far, it hasn't stopped him from asserting himself in other areas, so I guess we'll just wait and see. In any case, I'm perfectly happy hearing "I bub boo" for as long as possible.
Birthday Party Bankruptcy
October 19, 2006
What's with kids' birthday parties these days? Is there a fiendish criminal mastermind somewhere bent on sending every family bankrupt, or has everyone just gone insane?
These days it's all about one-upwomanship. You can't have the same party theme that someone else has already used before you, making it really difficult for those of us whose kids were born later in the year. "Not a disco theme - that's been done to death," my soon-to-be 12 year old daughter laments when I offer up suggestions for her party.
"I want to have a big party, and I want to invite some boys as well as girls this year. Maybe a murder mystery party?" she innocently enquires. And why wouldn't she? After all, we've worked our way through the Halloween, the disco scene, the beauty queen AND the karaoke theme.
Whatever happened to a few balloons and streamers, a bowl of jelly beans, a plate of cup-cakes, some sandwiches and a game of pass the parcel?
Good grief, by the time my young boys are old enough to realize they're being ripped-off when their frazzled mother tells them; "All the children will LOVE to 'play pass the parcel' - here have a jelly bean," I'll have to hire a charter boat to take them and their pals out for a spot of big game fishing.
I do have fond memories of my own 12th birthday. Boys had suddenly appeared on my radar and two of them actually turned up, clutching a gift between them. The box of chocolates was eaten straight away, but I kept the card for many years. It had a picture of a dappled grey horse wearing a decorative straw hat and the inscription thoughtfully read; "the old grey mare, she ain't what she used to be." It's the thought that counts, as they say.
Meanwhile, with TWO ("but you promised...") adolescent birthday parties looming large on the horizon, it looks like we'll be taking out a second mortgage on the house. Maybe we could fly U2 in by helicopter and they could perform on the roof? Actually, I think that's already been done.
Quest For The Catalog Home
October 12, 2006
After years of my house resembling Baghdad, I suddenly had a revelation of amazing clarity. Thanks to a browse through the IKEA catalog, I now know that I want, more than anything, a catalog home.
I want a picture perfect life, home and family. It can't be that hard. I just need to organize every aspect of my life in what IKEA call; "a simple and stylish manner with modern minimalist undertones." Iggy Pop was spot-on when he sang; "I wish life could be Swedish magazines..." He must have been reading the IKEA catalog too.
Starting with a less-is-more approach, I set about clearing some space with the intention of creating some positive feng shui energy. But by the time I'd finished reading De-Cluttering Fun with Feng Shui, Modern Decorating on an Out-Dated Budget and Fifty Nifty Storage Ideas, I'd run out of time. So I grabbed everything not nailed down and shoved it into the nearest available cupboard. Then I scrubbed every surface to a gleaming finish (our 1960s bathroom hadn't been this clean since, well, the 1960s). Then I vacuumed everything in sight, including the kids. With a touch of inspiration I plopped a single fern frond into a tall vase and filled a-stylish-yet-surprisingly-affordable glass cookie jar with Danish Delights and placed it, just so, on the gleaming AND vacant kitchen bench. Perfect.
Nothing left to do but stand contentedly at my kitchen window watching my two angelic little boys playing happily on the lawn outside. YES!
Fast-forward fifteen seconds and my sons were engaged in a furious tussle resulting in a bloodied nose and a great deal of indignant grief. Then my girls returned from school, leaving in their wake a trail of bags, books, instruments, smelly shoes and socks, wet swimming and sports gear etc. All the cupboard doors spontaneously broke free of their hinges, the washing machine over-flowed and last, but certainly not least, daughter number one projectile vomited all over the bathroom.
I sat, sobbed and ate my way through an industrial quantity of Danish Delights. At least for one glorious quarter-minute I'd had a catalog home.
Seven Freakin' Odd Socks
October 4, 2006
Does this sound reasonable to you? I'm sorting through the clean washing and I find not one, not two, but seven odd socks. All from one load of washing, I might add. That's dysfunctional with a capital FUNC. But luckily, I think I may be on the verge of finding an outlet for my petty domestic frustrations.
The other day I read a rather inspiring article about the latest fad/phenomenon/folly to sweep the Western world, namely, "Moms Who Rock." My excitement grew (like my pile of odd socks) as I learnt about ordinary mothers who've been gathering in garages and basements with amps, drums, electric guitars, microphones and tambourines and ROCKING OUT. They're wearing leopard spot Lycra, they're mad and they're bad. They're on a highway to rock 'n' roll hell in a seven seat sports utility vehicle and they don't goddamn care who's strapped into the baby seat.
There are already weekend festivals especially for these rockin' moms. Of course, they can't actually start playing until the kid's soccer games are out of the way. And sometimes, at intervals, the hard rockin' moms have to dash backstage and pop another load of washing on, but who cares? These sisters have access-all-areas passes for their domestic drudgery.
Which has given me a great idea. I'm planning on starting the first chapter of the Good Rockin' And No Darnin' Mothers Association (G.R.A.N.D.M.A, cool or what?). And I've already thought up a name for my band. You've heard of Meatloaf - well, meet his maternal equivalent... MOTHERLOAD!
Now all I need is a garage, some instruments, an industrial sized quantity of leopard spot Lycra and some like-minded aggrieved moms. And I've already written our first song: "Seven Freakin' Odd Socks". So, lock up your husbands, MOTHERLOAD are coming to a suburban shopping mall near you.
Cuisine From The Floor, With Love
September 27, 2006
Not only am I a second-rate wife and mother, when I really put my mind to it, I can be quite a crappy cook as well. I must have been excessively wicked in a past life - I seem to have spent at least half of this one performing acts of penance in the "kitchen of doom".
My unlucky clan regularly contends with the consequences of my culinary calamities. Just between you and me, last night, I scraped salad off the kitchen floor (carefully picking out the splinters of broken crockery), tossed it into a replacement bowl and served it up for dinner. Together with the lamb skewers that had been likewise rescued from their soggy floor puddle of marinade (seasoned with broken cookware) and given a quick rinse off under the kitchen tap before cooking. Mmm, another tasty treat, from the frying pan to the family, with love.
I suppose you could say that my recipe repertoire leaves a lot to be desired, even though I'm forever cutting the wretched things out of newspapers, magazines, other peoples' coffee-table books etc. But the art of putting any of them successfully into practice continues to elude me. Some people, like Colonel Sanders, for example, just seem to have an unfathomable knack of throwing together the perfect combination of ingredients and exotic herbs and spices.
I hate KFC with every fiber of my inferior being. Sometimes, I catch my kids salivating lustfully over the TV before dinnertime. I know they're mentally tasting every mouth watering morsel that's presented so appealingly on the screen. They ask me what we're having for dinner with wistful anticipation, although they're seldom satisfied with my response (in more ways than one...).
Call me old fashioned, but I prefer the KFC ads from years ago. They were much more entertaining, not to mention honest. The jolly Colonel himself would often pop-up to animatedly remind us about his tasty finger lickin' southern fried chicken. And what about those two loveable little cartoon KFC kids, chubby little Hugo and his tubby lil' sister? Their rumbling tummies hankering for their daily fix of the Colonels' secret recipe. Those kids were fat! But these days it seems all KFC customers are fit, healthy, attractive young people having an ongoing intimate relationship with a reduced fat chicken wrap. Truth in advertsing, yeah right...
Freaky Fry-day
September 20, 2006
Last Friday something really freaky happened. I had the house to myself for several consecutive hours. No noisy girls, no smelly boys, no clambering toddlers pulling at my apron strings. Free. I felt the weight lifted from my shoulders. In fact, I felt so much lighter I had to immediately consume a half-dozen chocolate chip cookies just to restore my equilibrium.
So how did I spend the rest of my day? First, I had a swim and a good work out at the gym followed by a leisurely, luxurious spa bath. Next, I had my hair tamed at an exclusive salon. Then I did lunch with Dr Phil, Oprah and Ellen Degeneres (she really is hilarious), followed by a spot of intensive retail therapy. And lastly, I put my freshly pedicured feet up and enjoyed a romantic comedy whilst snogging George Clooney... NOT.
In fact, what I DID do was clean, clean, clean. I was like Hurricane Katrina, only in reverse. I mopped and I vacuumed and I scrubbed and I scoured. And after that I swept and I dusted and I sprayed and I wiped. With all the debris gone, I was shocked to discover that my home actually had surfaces.
My bathroom smelled of freshly cut flowers instead of freshly done 'doo'. The floors were so clean you could eat off them (it was perhaps ironic that they were unusually bereft of foodstuffs). The reassuring scent of disinfectant filled the air, the cushions were plumped and the beds were made up to at least a two star standard. That's when it happened.
You see, ordinarily, in the odd blue moon when I manage to get my house into a half-way decent state, not a soul comes near. Usually, my doorstep remains completely unmolested by visitors for at least 24 hours, or until my home once more resembles the aftermath of World War III, whichever comes first. But, last Friday was different. I finished my chores and was just giving myself a self-satisfied pat on the back when, incredibly, the door bell rang. Even better, it wasn't the meter man. An old school friend was in the neighborhood and decided to drop by on the off-chance I'd be home (not off somewhere snogging George Clooney). Funny that, she seems to be under the mistaken impression that I have a life; and even funnier, now she thinks I'm a neat freak.
Yes Fat Chicks!
September 13, 2006
What is this invisible force that has me pinned motionless to the sofa night after night? Is it the same unseen poltergeist that is responsible for the daily removal of all clean, dry, folded towels from the linen closet and the systematic dispersion of those towels in wet crumpled heaps throughout the house?
Every day I tell myself; "Tonight will be different. Tonight, I will haul my big butt off the sofa and move it around a bit." I'll finally tap into that hidden reserve of energy that I've somehow managed to misplace; and tonight, that thin person inside me will break free! Yet night after night I seem to use up my entire energy quota scraping my unsightly body off my unsightly sofa and collapsing in my unsightly bed.
And then my Groundhog Day begins again, with me awoken by my fuzzy brain contemplating the dreadfulness of the day ahead. I am so not ready to make the breakfasts, pack the lunches, find the socks/shoes/diary/library book/hat/sunglasses/cell phone. I'm so not ready to hear the word "momma" 24,000 times during the next 14 hours. I'm so not ready for the dirty diapers, the spilled drinks, the senseless childish temper tantrums.
I'd book myself in for therapy except that my husband refuses to even discuss it, quoting Homer Simpson instead. "Therapy? It's too expensive. Whatever bad thing you're doing - just stop!"
Self motivation, that's obviously the key. I just need to find the, er, right person to self motivate me. Otherwise, I may as well go ahead and get that T-shirt printed in 7 different colors - YES FAT CHICKS! I'll embrace my rotundity once and for all and get on with my life!
I'm also not entirely sure that I'd like to be motivated by my self. I'm so not the person I think I am inside my head and it gives me such a shock to catch sight of myself in those sudden unexpected places; like window panes, photos (that I tried so hard to avoid being in) and especially on the evening news being pushed out to sea by a bunch of well-meaning Greenpeace volunteers. Maybe my teenage daughter is right and I need to build a (really big) bridge to get over myself.
Otherwise, I'll just go ahead and get those T-shirts printed.
Chick Lit
September 6, 2006
I was lying on my bed the other day, having a rare moment of self-indulgent enjoyment. You know what I mean? That's right; I was satisfying myself with a great big enormous hot and heavy MARIAN KEYES NOVEL!
Suddenly, the bedroom door burst open and my contractually obligated marital partner stood there (looking all manly and masterful, I might add) glowering at me. He'd been reading one of my columns and gotten himself in a huff. "I've told you a million times to stop exaggerating!" He said in his manly way; "And all these embellishments are an embarrassment," he masterfully added.
"It's poetic license," I offered up, in a meek and feminine tone, fluttering my eyelashes. "It's poetic NONSENSE, that's what it is; and what's that rubbish you're reading?" he demanded, as he masterfully snatched the book from my hand.
"CHICK LIT!" he spat. "Why do you waste your time with that crap? It's not going to broaden your mind you know."
I fluttered my eyelashes some more which shut him up and my hair loosely tousled around my neck in a provocative manner - combined with the fact that one of my ample breasts had become exposed from its sheath (a wardrobe malfunction, I swear) - did the rest.
Suddenly, we were engaged in a furious embrace! His masterful hands were everywhere, caressing every inch of my willing flesh (that took quite a while). We were making mad, passionate love, but suddenly, disaster struck! My left calf muscle caused me to cry out; cries of pain my lover mistook for pure, unbridled pleasure, spurring him on to ever increasing feats of masterfulness until I started beating him about the head and shoulders screaming; "Ouch! Get off me you idiot - I've got a cramp!"
After a bit of a rub we sorted out our respective issues and I resumed my previous prone position and took up where I left off - with Marian. And my masterful man wandered off to his comfy chair for an intellectual interlude with a mind-broadening episode of Star Trek. Now, would I embellish to you?
Corn F*cking Patties
August 30, 2006
Driven by my new good health regime, I thought I'd get my voLUMPtuous body down to the beach to inhale some healthy sea air. My contractually obligated marital partner likes to swim there, so he came along as well. I'm not so keen on swimming there - too much reef equals too much grief for me - but I was naively happy that we were at least "out together."
I suggested he could have his swim and I'd take a brisk walk along the shore and meet him down near the shops and the clock tower. "I'll see you at the big clock," I shouted at him, through the sound of the crashing surf. "It's not THAT big!" he replied with an inexplicably bashful expression on his reddened face.
I set off up the beach at a cracking pace. The surf was wild, erratic, angry and dramatic (like a frazzled mother-of-four at meal time). I triumphantly arrived at the appointed destination, reduced to a triumphant panting puddle of sweat on the ground. Fortunately my husband was able to recognize me by my distinctive hat (it has the words "HELP ME" thoughtfully printed across the front). He scooped me up, poured me into the car and took me home.
As soon as I'm through the door, my young son complains he's hungry and he wants to make corn patties. He's not a good eater at the best of times, so when he makes a special request of this nature I usually oblige; despite my exhaustion from my beachfront labors. So, we get all the "stuff" ready; ingredients, bowl, wooden spoon etc. He's not a bad little chef for a three year old. Perhaps a little temperamental at times but what truly great chef/toddler isn't? If I can manage to keep him from sneezing into the mixing bowl the results are usually quite edible. Everything's going well till we get to the bit where WE ADD THE GRATED CHEESE (the culinary equivalent of uranium enrichment in the Middle East).
Younger son pipes up that he wants to cook too! Next, I'm turning the patties in the hot pan when CRASH - a bowl of cheese has come to grief, flying everywhere. So, there I am, on my hands and knees, doing my best to scoop the cheese/hair/sand back into the bowl while a boisterous two year old plays "horsey ride" on my back. Suddenly, I realize the corn patties are on the verge of being extremely well done. I rush to the stove only to turn around just in time to see toddler two's grasping hands tip the entire contents of the salvaged cheese etc. all over himself.
But finally; "they're ready," I triumphantly announce. "What's ready?" number one son asks. "Your corn patties," I inform him. "Oh," he nonchalantly replies, "I don't want any."
Hair Wrangling
August 22, 2006
My hair has always been unruly, wild and decidedly indecisive. When I was a kid it never knew if it wanted to be curly or straight so it usually just did a bit of both - neither very satisfactorily. It couldn't even work out whether it was "dirty" blonde or "mousey" brown, but at least back then I only had to worry about the hair on my head. Sadly, it's been all downhill since the day I hit the ripe old age of twelve.
The eyebrows were the first to break ranks. Suddenly, all the girls at school started turning up, like Stepford wives, looking oddly bereft in the brow area. It was as if some strange unspoken pact had been formed; they had all plucked away at their brows until they were nothing but the thinnest slivers, delicately hovering over their eye sockets and giving them all a permanent countenance of surprise. My rigid devotion to peer group pressure drove me to the mirror at the first available opportunity, but it was sooo plucking painful! My eyes streamed with tears making it impossible to even see what I was plucking out. The end result looked more like a pair of post-apocalyptic polecats straddling my face than delicate slivers.
I finally gave up on the whole sorry eyebrow experience to concentrate all my resources on the hairy leg dilemma. My mother had told me I was to wait until I was thirteen before I started shaving my legs. Instead, I waited twenty minutes until she had gone shopping. My only experience with shaving was watching my Dad deftly remove the whiskers from his chin, but I thought I knew exactly what to do. After using up the entire contents of the shaving foam can, I managed to open an artery with the first stroke of the razor. The blood loss was astonishing. The only thing that stopped me from dropping dead on the spot was the knowledge that my mother was going to kill me when she got home, and I didn't want to deprive her. Then I fell face-first into puberty and things got even more hairy.
Pimples, boobs, underarms like shag pile carpet and of course, let's not forget the old bikini line. Sure keeps us gals busy don't it? How many products have been aimed at our desperate desire to deplete the pubic area of its follicular forestation? Depilatory crèmes, electronic tweezers, hot wax, cold wax, electrolysis, laser treatment; what's next? Why don't we just NUKE the BASTARDS! Our grannies never had to worry about this sort of thing. They were a sensible lot. Memo to swimwear designers: bring back the neck-to-knee bathing suit. Please!
But lately my hirsute harassments have taken a mysterious turn. My hair is now falling out! I've developed two equally disturbing theories: 1) only the colored stuff is falling out, thus making room for more grey to appear; or 2) I'm suffering from a terminal illness.
Actually, I've just looked up my symptoms in a medical journal and it turns out that I am suffering from a terminal disease. It's a terrible affliction that causes blurry vision, embarrassing bouts of flatulence, forgetfulness and a whole bunch of other unsexy stuff. Worse still, this silent killer can strike any adult. Apparently it's called AGING, and I think I've got it bad.
The Flaw In My Floor
August 16, 2006
After four full-term pregnancies, I'm pleased to say my pelvic floor has bounced back with all the elasticity of a trampoline. Unfortunately, the particular trampoline I have in mind is the forlorn looking broken thing that sits in our backyard. Half the springs are missing and it sags like a wet sack in the middle.
Thanks to my flawed floor, I have to sustain a focused Zen-like state just to stop myself from peeing every time I cough. And don't mention the sudden sneeze in the supermarket ("mop and bucket to aisle three please...").
I'm dwelling on this somewhat unsavory topic because I'm currently suffering from the mother of all influenzas. Mucus production is in full-swing with my eyes, nose and throat streaming; and if that wasn't bad enough, I have to be leaky at the other end as well.
Lucky for me I have my wonderfully sympathetic, caring and infinitely compassionate husband to nurse me back to health. His bedside manner is certainly unique, consisting of ultimatums like: "Make up your mind. Get well or die!" Hmm. I suppose a nice cup of chamomile tea is out of the question then?
It's alright for him and his infuriating wellness. The only allergy he's ever suffered is a chronic intolerance of sick people. He can't comprehend that I might be vulnerable to the odd virus. He thinks I'm being flagrantly willful if I succumb to any ailment. "It's all in the mind!" He helpfully diagnoses. Well, it's not all in my mind; its also escaping by the bucketful from my nose.
I suppose there is a bright side to my south-of-the-border incontinence though. After spending a good chunk of my life changing my kids' diapers, I can look forward to my dotage when my kids will be changing mine! Ah, sweet revenge.
The Utter Futility Of The Birthing Plan
August 9, 2006
If giving birth was considered an academic pursuit, I'd have a PhD by now. I've sprung offspring every which way possible; drugs, no drugs, naturally, unnaturally; and one with the works. I've been in and out of my local family birth clinic so many times they've allocated me a personal parking bay. And with every visit there's another barrage of questions to answer. But the one I enjoy the most is when the mid-wife looks me earnestly in the eye and asks; "Have you thought about a birthing plan yet?"
That one always cracks me up! No birthing plan EVER survives contact with contractions and labor. Is there any correlation between a birth plan and an actual birth experience? Scented candles? Check. A deep warm bath? Check. Calming meditative music? Check. And of course, let's not forget the most important part of the plan; staggering into the street, soaking wet from the waist down screaming "Get me to a hospital - NOW!"
My own notions on sound birthing technique are somewhat simplistic: get to a medical facility and be greeted by someone with a modicum of experience in the field of obstetrics. But even so, my second daughter was very nearly delivered in the hospital car park. And no plan would have prepared me for the emergency Caesar section delivery of my 3rd child - unless it read; "I plan to endure twenty pointless hours of agonizing induced labor followed by an eternity of waiting for an anesthetist to show up and administer the epidural I will require to facilitate the surgical procedure that will finally result in the unceremonious but timely plucking of my firstborn son from my worn-out womb!"
My husband is also fond of passing on the wisdom gleaned from his extensive experience in the delivery suite to prospective first-time fathers. The most critical part of his birthing plan is "staying awake." A gripping novel can help, particularly if he's expected to endure twenty pointless hours of agonizing induced labor. But his single most important piece of advice would be; "Stay up the head-end at ALL times, no matter what - even if she bites - and she probably will!" Evidently some gruesome stuff goes on at the other end.
Anyway, it's not the birth they should be obsessively preparing us for. It's the twenty years it will take for our newborn offspring to spring-off on their own. Some high schools help out in this regard, sending students home with life-like baby dolls as a learning tool for future parental responsibilities. But why not scrap the dolls and replace them with badly behaved chimpanzees? It would certainly be a more realistic experience; especially on the nose.
100 Nanoseconds of Solitude
August 2, 2006
It's sooo frustrating; the raging conflict between being a glamorous column-writer and a full-time doyen of domestic bliss. There are times when all I want to do is sit and allow my creative juices to flow - natural and free, baby (actually, forget that) - but the thing that I have to do is make four rounds of grilled cheese sandwiches and hang the washing out.
Is it too much to want some space and time without being interrupted? In the process of producing this outlandish paragraph, for example, I will also have washed the dishes, swept the floor, prepared and served meals and snacks, washed 3 loads of laundry, led an expedition to the local playground, solved 6 or 7 science quiz questions and dealt with a dozen diaper dilemmas! Multi-tasking, that's me. But why always the goddamn tasks? Why can't I multi-relax or multi-enjoy for a change?
The truth is, one of the first things you discover about being a mother is - YOU ARE NEVER ALONE! No space is sacred in my home. Not even the "smallest" room in the house provides sanctuary from clambering, demanding offspring. My youngest, who's still too small to reach door handles, has designed his own "access all areas" pass in the form of a coat-hanger that he dexterously uses to reach and open every darn door in our domicile!
There are some up-sides to family life. It can be socially stimulating being part of a large family. And often quite political. It's a bit like Big Brother, only not as civilized. Like BB, various factions tend to break out and rise-up from time to time. My two older girls are often vying for the affections of their younger brothers. And the boys are not above playing favorites. In fact, they shamelessly exploit it for all its worth.
But a family is a learning environment for dealing with the crap life throws at you. When one of us is in a thunderous mood - and with six people under one small roof, the chances are pretty high there will be at least one disgruntled inhabitant at any given time - the others have to put up with it. It's a great learning tool for life. After all, you're not always going to get along with everyone you have to deal with in your life. Some people just annoy the socks off you. But if you come from a large and disorderly family you'll have had plenty of practice at "letting it go" - at least until you have a good opportunity to get even.
Baby For Breakfast
July 26, 2006
It's a funny thing, but in my teenage years when I didn't look "half-bad" in a bikini, I was paradoxically paranoid about being seen in a bathing suit of any description. I'd go through hell and (usually) high-water to avoid exposing myself; which is not so easily done when you live in a balmy coastal town. I even carried a meticulously forged parental note throughout my high school years to worm my way out of having any contact with water. At the beach, I'd walk as far away from the crowds as possible before getting my gear off.
Don't get me wrong, I did plenty of swimming (I even trained with a squad for a few years), it was just the getting out of my clothes and into the water and vice-versa that was the problem for me. For a girl who "developed early", the thought of being scrutinized by a guffawing gaggle of high school boys was too much to, er, bare.
What in the hell was all that teenage modesty about? Twenty years and fifty pounds later, I'm a regular at my local public pool - letting it all hang out. My swimming costume has to work pretty damn hard these days to keep everything from "hanging out" too much, and to be honest with you, sometimes it fails. "Is that a baby in your tummy," asked a sweet faced innocent young child at the pool the other day. "Well, I don't think so," I replied thoughtfully, "not unless I ate one for breakfast without noticing."
Her little jaw slowly dropped and the last I saw of this horrified, hapless child, she was racing full-throttle back to her mother. "No running by the pool," I shouted helpfully after her, not wanting to see her tumble over. In retrospect, it may have been more helpful if I'd offered to pay for the years of counseling sessions she'll require in order to prevent permanent psychological damage.
Architect Of My Own Destiny
July 19, 2006
I think it might have been God (or possibly Oprah - I get those two mixed up) who said: "Life is what happens to you while you're busy with your head in the sand." Reflecting on my teenage years, I recall spending many an hour with my head deep in the sand, daydreaming about all the possible future trajectories my life might follow.
I never quite knew for sure what I wanted to do, but I do recall that my aspirations were never anything but majestic. I was absolutely sure of one thing. At the very least, I would definitely be a tall, thin, glamorous blonde. The remainder of my plans were, ahem, sketchy, but would probably involve a fabulous lifestyle, giving fabulous cocktail parties in my fabulous home with a fabulous husband. And of course I'd have a happening career as well (Jazz singer? Journalist? Inventor of reality TV?). Kids? Are you kidding ? They weren't even a blip on my dream-o-scope.
But in all my dreams, never once did I imagine I'd end up as a tall, thin, glamorous blonde - trapped in the body of a short, fat, frumpy, middle aged mother-of-four! It's not just a bad hair day, it's a bad hair life. I'm not so much your taut, terrific trophy wife, I'm more your fat, frazzled fish wife.
Yet despite the fact that I'm oxymoronically happily married, I have to confess I occasionally fantasize about another man. Let's call him Dr Phil. And my fantasies about Dr Phil are hot and heavy. Hot, thanks to the darn television lighting (it plays havoc with my imaginary stage make-up, let me tell you), and heavy because we're often discussing weight management issues.
Anyway, Dr Phil holds me in his piercing gaze and tells me earnestly in his most forthright tone that I must take control and be "the architect of my own destiny." Much as I hate to disappoint the Doc, sadly, I suck at architecture. "Badly constructed" is the phrase that leaps to mind in describing my life. Even my kids arrived thanks to serendipity-doo-dah. I'm quite sure I haven't had any hand in engineering the collection of calamities that passes itself off as my life. Yet, here I am, casually careering towards my inevitable mid-life crisis and quite enjoying the ride. Maybe it's not so bad to suck at architecture after all.
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