Some days you just have to dance it out

Some days after school are easy. 

Everyone piles in the front door, bags are unpacked, food is devoured & homework is finished. Then more food is devoured before they all scatter off to fill the time void between snack two & dinner time. Minimal bickering & maximum amusement. Will & Blake scamper off outside to ride their bikes or jump around like lunatics all over the back yard. Ben, Rianan & Jack pull out the UNO cards & see how many rounds they can each win before it's discovered that Rianan has been cheating by sliding a few extra cards under the couch so she can declare "uno!" first.

Other days are not so easy. 

When everyone pushes their way through the front door like a herd of stampeding elephants, bags are dumped in bedroom doorways or along the hallway. The kitchen is filled with too many kids all vying to find the best after school snack, then stomping away when there is only the usual's on offer still. When getting their homework started, let alone finished is harder than trying to devour a bar of chocolate undetected in this house filled with minions. What would normally take ten minutes to complete, will instead span over an hour painfully filled with moans, complaints, messy & spaced out writing or staring at the same pages in the same chapter of their book. And that is just the older three.

Then there's Blake, Will & Clay, who will spend their time either a) running, screaming, jumping their way through the house until someone gets knocked over & trampled on the unforgiving floor tiles. Proceeding to burst my ear drums with their screams, before turning to retaliate against whoever they think is guilty of sending them sprawling to the floor.

Or b) Blake & Will spend the next hour or so annoying each other until I can't stand it any longer. While Blake & Will have me distracted with their arguing, Clay will quietly walk through each bedroom, opening drawers & pulling out every shred of nicely folded clothes he can reach. 

Before I know it, 5pm has ticked over, dinner isn't even thought of yet let alone cooking away. The house looks like an abandoned clothes warehouse after a cyclone has torn through & we've all given up on any legitimate attempt on the homework front. Forget about baths, at this stage the kids will be lucky to get anything more than spaghetti on toast before being shipped off to bed at my soonest possible convenience...after tidying from the storm that wiped me out flat.

Half an hour into yesterday's after school gauntlet & I could see the sides beginning to crumble. While the bags were put away, empty stomachs were filled & homework was done (because there was hardly any required) the disagreements & arguments were starting to come thick & fast. Add in several emails & phone calls that demanded my attention & could not wait, meant that everything going on out of my little bubble had to wait. By the time I put the phone down & decided the rest could be done after the crazy had passed, there were shoes everywhere, clean & dirty clothes littered the house mimicking behind the scenes of a fashion runway show, Clay was cranky, Ben, Jack & Blake were filthy from the waist down after playing soccer together & a lone empty fry pan was still waiting on the cold stove top.

I issued orders like a drill sergeant - "pick up those shoes"

"dirty clothes in the laundry now"

"put the clean clothes on the couch with the rest of the washing"

"bags in rooms"
"balls outside!"
The minions responded like a class of hyped four year old's coming down from an intense sugar rush.   

There was only one way to rescue what was shaping up to be an evening from hell & the breaker to demolish the last whispers of sanity that were stopping me from going all exorcist mummy.

Ignore the time & turn the music up.

You can't hear the petty little arguments, whinging & dobbing if they are drowned out with only the best playlist selections from the iPod on a volume level just bordering too loud.

It was the best decision made all day. It didn't take long before the boys turned the Xbox off, Rianan came out of her room (after escaping in there for some peace & quiet) & the younger three channeled their destructive energy into dancing like maniacs. While I was chopping up chicken, dancing & singing my heart out to Clay who had joined me in the kitchen, the other five had set up the coloring in gear on the table & were all happily getting along, talking, encouraging & laughing together, with the occasion dance off thrown in for good laughs.

Before we were even a quarter of the way through the playlist, dinner was cooked & the table was swiftly cleared & then set, on my first request, ready for the plates & bowls to be distributed. Knock knock jokes were told & the best things about our days were shared as we slowly finished eating. The tension & frustration that was flooding us all not forty minutes earlier had completely evaporated. Baths & showers were done, with the older minions doing a quick but thorough {enough} tidy around the house while the younger three were bathed & prepared for bed, not that much later than their usual bedtime either.

By the end of the night everyone went to bed in a good mood & I didn't feel like crap for spending the last three hours nagging & yelling while serving up a less than substantial dinner. I'm fairly certain that I'm not alone when I say I would much rather listen to the likes of Paramore, The Smiths, Ed Sheeran & Pink {to name a few}, than give myself a headache & everyone else immunity towards the nagging tones in my voice, topping off with foul moods all round.  

Next time our evening - or morning, is beginning to morph into a train wreck I'm going straight to that magic button, play.

Don't mind the mess...

"Come in" she said, "don't mind the mess", as I step over the threshold to her home, drawing my attention to the suggestingly unkempt surroundings. My eyes flick over every surface as we proceed deeper into the house.

Though I'm not exactly sure what mess she is pertaining too. The haphazardly arranged toys that are within the confines of the baby mat, or the two mugs on the bench next to the kettle - clean & ready for expected company. Even the beds were made in the bedrooms we drifted past.

No piles of washing all over the couch with not-so-fifty-shades underwear & holey socks flauntingly visible, forgotten to be tucked deep into the mountain. Kitchen sink empty of breakfast bowls, no dried weet-bix or puffed up rice bubbles lingering on the table - or under the chairs. Either her children slept in their clothes the night before, or it is their pyjama's I can hear in the washing machine quietly swishing away.

The floors look clean enough to follow the three second rule {for dropped food}, curtains open & windows barely visible - not a smeared hand print or dried up cascading dribble to be seen. 

I think to myself, if this is classed as messy then my house belongs on 'Hoarding - Buried Alive'. Knowing that as I closed the front door to take the minions to school, I was closing the door on pyjama's left on bedroom floors, breakfast bowls un-rinsed & stacked next to the sink, with the dishwasher clean but not yet emptied from the night before. Wet bed sheets & quilts stripped & fermenting in the dirty laundry basket, the washing machine silent. The evidence of packing lunches on the kitchen bench remains & while the dining table is wiped of any solid food matter, cloudy streaks are easily seen & rice bubbles litter Will & Blake's chairs. Our floors, not fit for the three second rule, but clean enough for Clay to escape my hip on.

With that one careless statement, perhaps meant to clear her of any responsibility for a missed mirror streak or mote of dust I may see, but not notice - evaporating from my mind faster than a shopping list. The standard is set. The precedent of expectation which goes both ways.

Weeks later I open our front door to welcome her into our home. With a smile I say "Hi! Come in, don't mind the mess, we've been so busy the last few days I've not had a chance to clean properly." A partial truth. 

We walk down the hallway, past bedrooms & lounge rooms - doors wide open to welcome inspection. Small talk is made while we make our way to the kitchen, where two mugs await next to the kettle & a plate of {store bought} goodies already set out.

What she doesn't know is that I ran around like a blue arsed fly the night before - cleaning toilets, wiping toothpaste off mirrors & polishing windows until I could see my reflection. Washing piles thrown hastily into cupboards, floors swept & quickly mopped. That morning the kids were dropped off at school looking irritated & harassed - because I spent the previous two hours acting like a Drill Sargent. Make your bed! Put your pyjamas in the wash! Whose breakfast bowl is on the table still? Put it in the sink! Rooms tidy! Brush your teeth, make sure you rinse the bathroom sink after! 

Instead of walking each minion to their class, I kiss them good bye & head back to the car before the morning bell has even rung. Eager to gain an extra ten minutes to ensure everything is looking as clean & display home'esque as possible. Not a rice bubble in sight. Super House Wife badge on. 

This became the norm. Doug always knew when I had plans to catch up with someone the next day because the night before instead of sitting next to him on the couch, I would be mopping & folding as much of our Mount Washmore as I could before tiredness set in. 

Then a few months ago I called enough. Our house is our home, not an open door display house. I was sick of the falseness, the illusion, the expectation. I wanted to look forward to catching up with friends, not feeling annoyed that I had to sacrifice my quiet evening to make sure every surface was free of minion prints & milk spots. If a friend knocked unexpectedly on our door I didn't want to chat at the front door to hide the lunch dishes in the sink, the unfolded washing dominating the couch, unmade beds & the dozens of shoes almost certainly to be scattered through various rooms.

I also do not want other women to feel the same way. 

Now I'll still say "come in, don't mind the mess." But you will know see exactly what mess I am excusing. Whether it be the crumbs on the bench, the dining table I'm wiping down before we sit, the glass door opaque with hundreds of hand prints or the baby toys & action figurines that lay abandoned on the floor. The real mess. 

Pop over for a cuppa, come for the company. You're welcome any time, just mind the washing.

The mother of all tantrums

{Don't let his cheeky face lead you into 

a false sense of security.

Even if he is a little bit cute.}

Once again brought to you by Murphy's law. Does he even spy & eavesdrop on anyone else, or am I just lucky?

I was mentally composing a post on how my mothering skills are so brilliant, that without even trying Clay no longer sleeps swaddled up*. He simply holds a corner of his wrap in one hand & sucks the fingers of his other hand, soothed by the sounds of his siblings screams & the front door right next to his room crashing closed every two minutes, he peacefully drifts off to the land of Zzz. There was no forethought, no plan or decision made to stop swaddling Clay. Just a natural progression that evolved from Clay turning into a little houdini & me not re-wrapping every thirty seconds.

In this post there may have been sentences how my awesomeness is so awesome that we have even managed to stop swaddling when some of the other minions were babies without any major disruptions to their (or our) normal sleeping patterns, setting a new pb record for three babies in a row now. I know, right? I hate me a little too.

The un-swaddling process with Rianan & Jack was such a production that was fraught with anxiety & scouring outdated parenting magazines by torchlight at 3am for that one miracle tip that would make all our dreams finally happen. Literally...Please. With Ben it was a non-issue - he just didn't sleep to require any elaborate ten step process to ditch the muslin wrap. Then along came the fourth child who just raises himself. My skillz are so stinkingly sparkly that I don't even have to try anymore. As if my maternal ego needed to get any bigger, Will & Clay come along breezing their way through our family dynamics, cementing the theory that after three children status level Effortless Expert is applied.

When really I should have just shut the hell up & been eternally grateful for Clay's placid & easy going nature.

Not thirty minutes later from declaring {in written draft form} we're acing this baby raising gig & feeling a little clever, the tantrum of all hell breaking lose tantrums occurred. You can put the voodoo doll & pins away, karma found me swift & proper. 

Venturing to the shops with four of the minions, we enter into the first of two shops. A knick-knack el cheapo store, to buy a present for Rianan's five dollar secret santa classroom exchange. The standard disclosure was uttered to Blake & Will as we entered the store - do not touch anything, stay with me. Will was adamant he was not going to hold my hand, squirming away the minute there was any skin to skin contact. 

Always under-estimate a three year old. When you think they will listen, never expect them too. When you think they will follow the examples of their older siblings, do not presume they will. 

That was my first mistake, having faith where none should be. Will touched, he picked up, he knocked boxes off shelves in an effort to put the one in his hand back on the shelf. He wandered up & down the aisles, around the corners blocking the path of other customers, spinning sticker stands, & presenting me with cards we didn't need. As quick as possible our secret santa purchases were made & I took my little hot handed boy out of there. 

Stepping away from the store entrance & in an open aired environment to help dis-spell the intensity of any imminent world ending cries, I tell Will I am now holding his hand while we walk around the car-park to the next store. Cue EPDPT {Epic Public Display of Preschooler Tantrum}. Instant psycho killer attacking me screaming, beetroot purple face, spaghetti legs & twisty, verge of dislocating the shoulder body drops. This continued on for twenty minutes. I kid you not. 

We were a sight to shame even the most sympathetic grandparent & been-there-done-that-glad-it's-you-not-me fellow mums. 

Nothing but the freedom to walk to his own beat was going to mollify Will. Shame that the only choices I was willing to concede to were hold my hand or go in a trolley. Only I got to suffer the consequences. Putting on the I'm-ignoring-my-screeching-child mask, not daring to make eye contact with anyone over 4 foot tall & not a genetic link to me, I dashed around the store scooping items off the shelves, throwing them haphazardly into the trolley in between attempts to calm Will down - who was having none of it. Calming words were met with Will screaming louder & kicking his little legs back & forth against the trolley harder. Thank god the trolley we chose had a fully functioning seat belt with all three prongs intact...& that Will hasn't grasped the fine motor skills yet to get that sucker undone. 

Through the entire time Will did not fail in his pledge to set the bar higher for the next tantrum to end all tantrums. Meanwhile Clay just took in the front row experience from his familiar perch in a sling across my chest, with Rianan & Blake walking & chatting as if this was an everyday occurance. Thank god it's not, my nerve endings couldn't take it if it was. 

Consider this post my formal written apology for having gotten too big for my $8 Kmart ballet flats. Even if the intended post prior to Will's cutting me back down to size was tongue in cheek & highly over exaggerated. What I should have simply written is that Clay is sleeping really well at the moment though this is sure to change in the immediate future & Will, what can I say? He is three years old. 'Nuff said.

But that would be boring.

*Swaddling : to bind an infant with long narrow strips of cloth to prevent free movement of their arms or disturbance from the startle reflex.

{Image source}

Defining the perfect mother

There is a woman that exists, though no one has ever found her or met her. Mothers everywhere strive to be her. They follow her examples, strive to achieve all this woman accomplishes. We measure our own successes & failures against the precedent of this infamous idol of perfection.

The Perfect Mum.

Last week I wrote a post My foray with postnatal depression & one common thread kept repeating itself from almost everyone who messaged, commented or spoke with me. 

I wanted to be the perfect mum.

So I pose the question here, what makes a perfect mum?

Is it the mum who stays home to raise her children - or is it the mum who returns to work to build a better future for her children?

Is it the mum who spends hours in the kitchen cooking every meal from bare scratch, with organic everything - or is it the mum who cooks quick nutritious meals in fifteen minutes flat?

Is it the mum who home schools her children - or the mum who drops her children off to school every weekday?

Is it the mum who bounced back to her former pre-baby svelte self - or is it the mum who still has her pregnancy weight five years on?

Is it the mum who breastfeeds her toddler - or the mum who lovingly gazes at her baby while he drinks formula from a bottle?  

Is it the mum who puts her own dreams & aspirations on hold as she dedicates her whole self to raising her children - or the mum who regularly takes time away from her children to do things by herself that make her happy?

Is it the mum who keeps her house clean & tidy what seems every minute of every day - or the mum who has a sink full of dishes & a thick layer of dust coating most surfaces?

Is it the mum with the perfect hair style & immaculately applied make up - or the mum with a hastily tied pony tail & baby vomit on her shoulder. In public.

Is it the mum who regularly sits down to do craft time with her children - or the mum who has an aversion to all things glitter & paint?

Is it the mum who always looks calm & serene - or the mum with the deep frown lines & stressed look upon her face?

Is it the mum who feeds & rocks her eleven month old baby to sleep - or the mum who follows a controlled crying routine?

I could go on. The helicopter parent, the attached parent, the free range parent, the authoritarian parent. All these labels confirm there is no perfect, ideal way to parent. At the end of the day every child, every baby, every tweenager & teenager need the same bone deep conviction - they are loved without reserve. Everything always comes back to that - a soul deep, universe wide love. 

So this perfect mum, this mythical creature that debilitates us, as she inspires us to reach further. I've never met her. 

I see her though. I recognise her, in every mum I know. 

Every mum I see holding her back straight as she pushes her screaming, tantrum throwing toddler through the shop.

I see her as she puts jars of baby food & cans of formula in her trolley. 

I see her in the mum who home schools her children. 

I see her on my way to school when she's driving to work. 

I see her in the mums taking their child to playgroup. 

I recognise her in the lone woman sitting quietly in a cafe.

I see her when she's pushing her child on the swings, kicking the ball at the park, building sandcastles at the beach. 

I see her when she's trying to reason with a defiant three year old, creating boundaries with a freedom seeking twelve year old, grasping for more patience with a sulky eight year old.

I spot her in waiting rooms when she is trying to stop her children from jumping on the chairs.

I see her doing the best she can, as she can, in that moment.

My definition a perfect mum - it's every one of us.