The ‘C’ word

Parenting brings out the best in us most days. But then there are always days when you just have to give into frustration and swearing and, yes, ‘the C Word’. Don’t be scared dear parenting compadres. C-Words are your friend.

Well most of them.

My twin girls hate ‘the C word’. No, not that one. The other one – “consequences”. They’ve learnt there are consequences to their
actions. And while there are good consequences for good choices, they tend to remember the
consequences for poor choices a bit more intensely.

My wife doesn’t like the word either but hates ‘the other C word’ even more. No, not that one. The other, other one – “consistency”.

Most parents know that consistency is incredibly important with kids. Whether it be setting rules and enforcing them consistently or making sure your lessons and messages are consistent. But it’s the constant application of these two words that helps set boundaries and encourage positive behaviours.

Like most primary carers I struggle a little occasionally with my other half and her failure to be consistent. However this is not your typical rant about how the working partner often comes home and acts like the fun parent with a cavalier attitude that hurts both boundaries and your sanity. No, because I kind of get it. Working 9-5 (or 8am-9pm in my wife’s case) is stressful
and intense and carries with it a lot of pressure. Coming home to cuddles and enthusiastic smiles would lift your burden and it would be easy to give into that. Kid cuddles are like crack to the stressed. But those of us who are pretty much
on kid duty 24-7 know that we need to be consistent and, in particular, with consequences.

So how do we get the other half to buy into that? And, in some cases, keep them up to date with the fact “We no longer use THAT word” got added to the rulebook only today after an embarrassing supermarket incident? Well it’s another C word I’m afraid (still not that one): “communication”.

You need to keep your working partner (bless them) up to date on not only the boundaries but the whys. Yes, sometimes we have to teach them the same way we teach our kids. Spell out the – you guessed it – consequences.

It boils my blood when my wife gives into the girls’ demands easily therefore creating an environment where they feel they can ignore what they then see as ‘requests’. I’m convinced I will one day have to say, “Seriously girls, this is the fifth time I’ve had to tell you to exit the burning building!” But I need to show my wife why. Because if you don’t do it together (grandparents included too, though they are subject to a sugar exemption whether I like it or not) then there’s little point. You need the other, other, other, other C word: commitment.

In summary, you need to be committed to communicating your consistency over consequences. Do you C what I mean?

May the force be with you

MY TWINS HAVE ENDED UP IN A POLICE CAR AGAIN. I EVEN HAVE PHOTOGRAPHIC PROOF. AND I’M NOT WORRIED. IN FACT, QUITE THE OPPOSITE.

You see, this isn’t a reflection of an already poorly spent youth catching up with them, but the continuation of a rather odd family tradition. A few years ago, I spied a police car at our local shopping centre. The police officers were walking back to it with their coffees and I asked if the girls could look at it. I was surprised by the enthusiasm the officers responded with. They happily talked to them, even allowing them to sit in the car. They actually took some time to actively engage with these two little girls. They might have even flashed the lights for a few seconds (unless you’re a police supervisor reading this, in which case they totally didn’t). They laughed with the twins and told them stories.

When I thanked one of the officers for their time she said, “No, no. Thank YOU for bringing them over. You don’t know how scared of us most kids are”. Somewhat surprised, I queried her about it and she said most parents use police as the boogeyman.

“So many parents tell their kids that the police will come and take them away if they’re not good,” she said. Her partner agreed, saying it was the opposite of what they stand for but extremely prevalent.

“It’s so frustrating because it’s against the spirit of what we do and why we do it.” I checked in with one of my best friends who used to be a federal police officer and he confirmed a lot of kids shied away from them when in uniform and that some parents even loudly scared their kids in front of the officers.

“We’d hear people saying ‘Look – there are the police. They’ll take you away if you don’t start behaving’ and we’d want to go over and say ‘We should take you away if you keep scaring kids that way without cause’ but of course you can’t.”

So since that day we’ve regularly said hi to police officers in the street and even in the local station. I want the girls to recognise that our emergency services are populated by good people doing a difficult job. Whether it be the police force, the fire service or our ambos, these men and women risk their safety and lives to do what’s right for all of us. They deserve respect. And if my girls ever need help in the future (heaven forbid), I don’t want them second-guessing whether these brave souls are the people to call. Because even if you’re a Star Wars fan or just a member of society, you need to remember the Force is with you. Always.

Travelling with Kids

TRAVEL BROADENS THE MIND. IT ENRICHES YOUR SOUL. IT TEACHES YOU PERSPECTIVE. AND IF YOU DO IT WITH KIDS IT DRIVES YOU INSANE.

As ‘good’ parents (and by good parents I mean “we have survived so far and so have they”) we have sought to expose our twins to the wonders of other cultures. To marvel at the sights. So it will come as no surprise to any parent that during our recent trip to Fiji – an island paradise full of activities and exotic scenery – the most excited our kids got was when they saw the Golden Arches of McDonalds.

True story. During our time there we went to mud pools, tribal dancing, watched walking on coals, visited an amazing garden, petted animals, went out on a boat and even spent a day in the world’s largest inflatable water park. So what were their favourite parts of the trip? Swimming in the pool and playing mini-golf respectively. And yes, we live on the Gold Coast – the mini-golf capital of Australia where you can swim nearly any day of the year.

Much like when they were smaller and the box was more fascinating than the present, sometimes the scenic spectacle is lost on children.

Me: “Behold the stunning Grand Canyon!” Twin 1: “Daddy, can we have an ice cream?” Me: “Maybe later, honey – look at this incredible place. Did you know that tiny river down there eroded all this and made this huge canyon?” Twin 1: “Can I have a chocolate chip ice cream this time?” Twin 2: “How far away is that McDonalds?”

Last cruise we signed up for all these adventures – zorbing, glass-bottom boat coral tour, water music, dancing, and a kids’ tour. And they didn’t want to do any of them. Unlike the previous cruise they wanted to stay in Kids Club (don’t even start me on the consistency of children). All the time. They resented me picking them up “early” at 8.30pm. They would have slept there if they could have.

But it’s not all bad. Even though they’re not always seeing things the way we do or even appreciating what is, to our eyes, an exciting adventure, they are learning important lessons even if it’s just osmotically. When we were at Pentecost Island recently a lady made a rather poor comment that focused on the colour of an islander’s skin.

Gypsy very loudly asked, “What difference does the skin colour make, Daddy?” I proudly – and just as loudly – replied, “Absolutely nothing, honey”. At the end of the day that’s a more important lesson than the fact the tuatara has three eyes.

But I still believe travel is important and now we have a globe so they’re building up a mental map of the places they’ve been. They know the locations of the eleven countries they’ve visited so far.

And, of course, where all the McDonalds are in those countries.

‘Bro-time’

I RECENTLY RETURNED FROM A FAMILY HOLIDAY A DAY EARLY. BY ITSELF THIS WOULDN’T BE A DRAMA EXCEPT FOR THE FACT THAT THE REST OF THE FAMILY STAYED ON.

Yes, that’s right. My wife has to look after the twins for approximately 27 hours by herself.

As I write this I’m on a plane flying away from my babies who to me feel like they’re all alone in a strange land. They have their mother of course, who is not a stranger to them but who is in fact a stranger to hands-on parenting.

In a perfect world I pick up my family tomorrow at the airport and my wife has a newfound respect for parenting. More likely she will have a newfound craving for alcohol.

I’m joking of course (mostly) but I have to admit to trepidation whenever I manage to have some ‘me time’. Grandma is awesome but not always available and while the lovely wife loves the kids she struggles somewhat when it comes to the little things of parenting.

Like cooking. Or supervision. Answering questions. Or being patient for more than five minutes.

A few times a year I have a boys’ long weekend with mates who go way back. Who know all my dirty secrets and hang out with me anyway. Or because of them – it’s all a bit a fuzzy.

Anyway these ‘bro-breaks’ are wonderful chances to kick back, catch up, play cards, enjoy a few drinks, lambast politicians and review quantum theory. In theory it’s 72-86 hours of quality time away. In practice it’s 24 hours of missing the girls and worrying about how they’re doing, followed by a few drinks, a sleep and ‘oh look it’s time to pack’.

Don’t get me wrong, I have a great time but I can’t help but spare a few thoughts about the kids’ diet, their bedtime and my wife’s mental state. Perhaps I’m being unduly paranoid. Just because she has burnt microwave meals before (yes, it is possible as it turns out) doesn’t mean she can’t put something in front of them. Baked beans and two-minute noodles are easy enough.

And maybe a day of just the three girls will bring them closer together. Let them bond. Turn out to be quality mother-daughters time.

But just in case I might pack that bottle of wine for the airport pickup.

Like a Girl

AS I SAT DOWN TO WRITE THIS MONTH’S COLUMN I HEARD ON THE RADIO THAT THIS YEAR’S AUSTRALIAN SCIENCE OLYMPIAD TEAM ACTUALLY HAS A 50-50 SPLIT OF MALES AND FEMALES. THIS IS A BIG THING. LAST YEAR THE TEAM HAD A SINGLE GIRL AND IN 2015 THEY HAVE EIGHT!

Giving girls the opportunity to do what they want is easy in theory but getting them to believe they can is often another thing altogether.

A few years back I was being given a delightful lecture by the then-three-year-old Gypsy about her turtle and its “natchel habitat”. It included what they eat, what they like to do (swim, eat and surf currents apparently) and even how they got their shell.

It was a lovely way to start the day and through my smiles and laughter I called her a clever girl. I was shocked at her answer: “I’m not clever Daddy.”

“What? Honey you’re VERY clever.” She hung her head sadly and said “I’m not clever. I not a boy.”

Heart smashed. I was horrified. Then mortified. Then angry but with no one to be angry at. Then incredibly sad. All these emotions raced through me in two seconds.

I picked her up and forced a laugh and told her that anyone could be clever and it didn’t matter whether you were a girl or a boy. And tickled her to reinforce the point.

And while she soon ran off laughing to jump on her twin sister, my queasy stomach tormented my addled brain for the rest of the day. I had a few stupid moments of “how could I have prevented this” and “should I have started on equality earlier” before taking a few deep breaths.

I want my girls to grow up knowing they can do anything and not be limited by archaic ideas of gender and it’s something I’ve always planned to instil in them. It’s one of the few things I have in the MUST LEARN column which is why it cut so deeply.

But at the end of the day she IS clever and I’m not being a biased father when I say that. This is a girl who built a ladder to climb onto the couch before she could walk. Then not long after she started walking she stared intently at a doorknob before constructing an intricate and huge ramp so she could open the door.

She wants to know how things work. Unlike her twin, she’s often quiet and contemplative. She remembers things in detail from years ago (bear in mind she’s only five). She knows more about turtles, platypii and Wonder Woman than kids twice her age.

My point is that she is parsecs away from being “not clever”. And incidentally Gypsy will tell you a parsec is “a long, long way”.

Anyway I spent an entire day of worry stressing about why this had happened and how I must be a bad parent. I’d worked out it probably came from daycare and it might be as blunt as a little boy telling her the ‘fact’ or that she simply misunderstood the application of the word. And that’s what I was forgetting in all this. She was not even four. I couldn’t treat her like an adult with adult comprehension. She could have declared “only a platypus can be clever”. All I can do is to calmly correct her when she’s wrong and hope she learns the lesson somehow.

So perhaps next time I need to try and bite down my horror and not over-react. That’s probably the real lesson here. Even if they learn osmotically, they still spend more time with me than the little boys of the world, clever or not.

It’s a Dad Thing

I RECENTLY TOOK THE TWINS TO A LARGE PUBLIC PARK WHEN WE WERE ON HOLIDAY IN NEW ZEALAND. IT FEATURED A GIGANTIC FLYING FOX THAT LOOKED TOO HIGH AND FAST FOR MY GIRLS BUT OF COURSE THAT DIDN’T STOP THEM.

What did stop them was when they got off, not being able to pull the zipline back because of the steepness of the hill section. You would have to be almost six foot tall to do so.

So of course I jumped up and pulled the saddle up the incline to a waiting line of eight or nine where the next child was also quite small. So I jogged after her and carted it back along the entire run and then up the hill. And again. And again. For the next twenty minutes I went back and forth. For the children. Then on about my 50th journey another father appeared at the base of the hill.

With just a nod he took the rope from me and went up the hill. I did the long flat and he did the hill. Not long after a third father appeared and, once again with just a nod, made himself part of the support crew for the children.

Ten minutes later another father relieved me and for the next hour or so we swapped in and out of the production line. All without a single spoken word. It was just a responsibility. Something to be done so we simply did it. A lot of women complain about their husbands not talking but sometimes you don’t need to talk but just to understand.

It’s a dad thing.

They mightn’t be engaging the same way you do, but most dads are bonding with their child almost osmotically. It’s not about words: it’s just about presence (not to be confused with presents although sometimes that’s part of the equation too). It’s just being there when they want to show him they can now stand on the roundabout. And for a possible ensuing trip to the emergency room. It’s even more pronounced with daughters where men sometimes struggle to understand the situation but persevere regardless. Like when her heart is broken and he doesn’t know what to say so he just holds her.

It’s grumbling about her wearing make-up then beaming about how beautiful she is even if she looks like the Joker. It’s letting go of the two-wheel bike despite saying they wouldn’t. It’s about suffering silently under a pretty hat at the tea party. About not showing the hurt the first time she declares she no longer wants to do that activity with her dad anymore because it’s for babies and/or boys.

Men don’t use words like women do or how women want. But don’t mistake a silence for indifference. Most men – real men – would do anything for their children. It mightn’t come with a running commentary or outward emotion but when their child is laughing there’s nowhere else they’d rather be.

And if their kid needs help, he’ll be there. Maybe not always with words but there regardless.

It truly is a dad thing.

‘Eggsellent’ Easter

AS PARENTS WE WANT OUR KIDS TO BE HAPPY AND HEALTHY.  TO ACHIEVE THIS SEEMINGLY SIMPLE GOAL WE ENSURE OUR CHILDREN EXERCISE REGULARLY AND EAT FRUIT AND VEGETABLES.

No, really we do. Well some of us do. Sometimes.

Ok, maybe it’s more that I heard of a tribe living in remote Guinea where they eat nothing but green vegetables. And they like it. But that’s only because they’ve never heard of marketing. So they’ve never been subjected to the barrage of images that hypnotises us into eating rubbish that thirty years ago our parents would not have even fed to the dog.

At no time is this more prevalent than Easter. For our Guinea readers, Easter is a time of celebration where we gorge ourselves on as many chocolate eggs as our stomachs can handle (sometime more). And by celebrating I mean taunting diabetics with our disregard for their feelings and our own health and waistlines.

No wait that’s not right either… it’s a time where families come together and recognise the beauty of new life. We do this by eating enough sugar to put the children of our personal trainers through private school. And really Easter is about the children. And not just of our personal trainers and dentists. It’s about the ability of our kids to develop the analytical capacity to choose from an endless ocean of chocolate options. It’s about their negotiation skills – the ability to utilise pester power on parents.

And ultimately it’s about learning the lesson that too much chocolate will make you run around like a banshee before collapsing in a heap. A lot of children have problems with this last lesson so they may wish to repeat the exercise a few times.

And by a few times I mean thirty years.

Some traditionalists claim Easter is seven-weeks long. These people are way out of touch.  In the modern world Easter begins December 27 and is marked by the appearance of hot cross buns and the aforementioned eggs on supermarket shelves.

It lasts until the shops no longer have stock. So about May/June. Now some will try to tell you that Easter is about the resurrection of Jesus. That it’s a time of reflection. A time to be spent with family to recognise a major religious event where the Son of God died for our sins. But marketing tells me these people are what scientists call ‘kooks’ and/or dinosaurs. These scientists may or may not be on the payroll of marketing but they wear lab coats and produce ‘studies’ about how nine out of 10 dentists love Easter, so I must believe them.

And after all, these ‘kooks’ also believe Christmas is about goodwill and peace on earth. And – most shockingly – that Christmas is a single day! That’s right. One solitary day. Not a four-month long festival of commercialism and inciting toddlers to nag us for Elsa’s new green dress. Can you imagine?

Daddy Diaries // Fun Times Ahead

daddy diariesSometimes I’m a little jealous of the girls’ teachers. This first year of schooling was a little tough at times with separation issues (mostly for me).

 

As I write this my twins only have two weeks of pre-prep left. The year has flown by in a flurry of activity, curiosity and endless birthday parties.

 

And it’s been wonderful for the most part. I’ve certainly learnt a few lessons myself but this transition phase where the girls went from spending most of their time with me to where they spent a large part of their week with a teacher has been hard but really good for them.

 

Having said that I’m looking forward to holidays and being able to spend more fun time with my girls again. It’s nothing against their amazing teachers, but I kind of want them to myself again for a bit. Does that sound strange?

 

I mentioned this to a parent of an older child and they certainly looked at me as if I was deranged.

 

But it’s true. Maybe it will change later in life but I can’t wait to go back to days of fun with my two little ones. Yes, it will be exhausting and draining but playing with them makes life worth everything.

 

However as I look at all the activities, camps and clubs available over the holidays I can’t help but wonder if you can be too active?

 

Throughout the year we had the opportunity to try an array of sports and join a long list of clubs. And some kids have so very much on, such as dancing, soccer, gymnastics, tennis, swimming – and all top of on school. It doesn’t leave much time.

 

Seriously some children have more clubs than my golf bag. Which remains unused for the past five years incidentally…

 

It’s true – while my kids are exercising non-stop, my physical activity has dried up and my pre-pregnancy weight is a thing of the past.

 

‘My life’ is merely acting as chauffeur and bill-payer for the kids who are having a super active life.

 

And with December upon us it’s an active life that will once more have me in the centre of it. And the Queensland summer means I’ll spend my days balancing outdoor activities with an hour of screen time, indoor games and lots and lots of glorious books.

 

Play dates interspersed with trips to the beach, the library, the cinemas and parks. Painting, pottery, cards, colouring, dancing and dominoes.

 

Man, with so much to do I almost need an assistant to help me coordinate and supervise. Someone good with kids.

 

Hmmmm, I wonder what the teachers are doing during holidays…

Tattle Tales

THERE ARE SOME THINGS THAT ARE GUARANTEED TO PUT A PARENT’S NERVES ON EDGE. ONE OF THOSE IS HEARING FROM ANOTHER ROOM THE WORDS “I’M TELLING ON YOU!”

Your heart sinks, your blood pressure rises and sometimes the frustration level brings tears to your eyes.

Now, I want open communication with my children. I want my kids to be able to come to me with problems.

I just don’t want it every three minutes. And not because they can’t work out between themselves whose turn it is to play with that specific toy (despite there being an identical version of that toy laying two metres away neglected).

Or because someone refused to play a certain game. Or won’t play at all. Or – my personal favourite – because “she looked at me funny”. It drives me crazy. My girls are five now and I tend to think they should be able to sort out the vast majority of these earth-shattering ‘problems’ without parental intervention. But how do you get the balance between being there for them and making them fend for themselves?

My friend Courtney got fed up with the constant barrage of dobbing and declared, “Unless someone is bleeding or dead, don’t bother telling me. Sort it out yourselves”. Shortly afterwards her three year old (against the house rules) made himself a Milo, sneaked it into his bedroom and promptly spilled it all over the plush carpet. With the help of his six year old sister – and co-conspirator – the kids tried to clean it themselves (one square of paper towel, some vigorous scrubbing and a lot of whispered, “You’re in so much trouble!”) but, as no one was bleeding or dead, they didn’t tell Mum. It was quite a while before she discovered the mess and the error of her hardcore approach.

But telling is not all bad. It’s proof that our kids know the difference between right and wrong.  The trick is to teach them they don’t need to prove it over and over again.

How? Well for starters we have to teach them there’s a difference between tattling (to get someone in trouble) or telling (to get help). Between an incident done on purpose and one by accident.

I wish I could give you a magic formula (oh, how I wish there was one) but like so many things with children it’s a matter of communication and consistent messages. Plus, maybe a little less screaming. And while it won’t be easy and will require a lot of deep breaths on our part, instilling positive communication skills in our kids will last a long, long time.

Even longer than it took Courtney to get the smell out of the carpet.

Weddings, Parties, Anything

Not many people know this but I organised our wedding. My bride, Sandra, wanted to elope because it was all too much hassle but I wanted a celebration of the moment with friends and family.

She declared that if I wanted it then I could organise it. So I did. Everything except the bridal dress. And while it wasn’t perfect and I certainly made some errors, the night was wonderful.

I’m proud that I managed to scale the Mount Everest of planning and survived. Why then is planning a birthday party for kids so stressful? When the girls were younger birthdays weren’t a huge thing but now they have the date marked on their calendar (literally) and on any given day can tell you how many sleeps until their special day.

They have constantly changing ideas about the cakes they want, what sort of theme it will be, what they’ll wear, what lollies they’ll eat. Just about everything is on the Power Toddler’s birthday agenda.

Except presents, oddly. I don’t know if this is normal or not but my girls don’t talk about what presents they want. They’ve hardly asked for anything, ever.

But colours of ribbons and streamers? Rhapsody and Gypsy are a walking colour chart of opinions and ideas. They’re like party planners themselves at times. Little dictators planning the perfect event.

I’m exaggerating of course but that’s just because they can’t quite read and this might be my last chance to mock them without retribution.

Even though my battles with wedding people were legendary (I didn’t bother telling half of them it was for a wedding so I got normal prices which they later tried to inflate when they discovered what it was for), it pales into comparison with turbo toddlers.

Disagreeing with the caterer that snail would be great and should be complimented with a lemon vinegar is nothing on Rhapsody’s demands of “all food must be green and sweet”. And let me tell you, they have vastly different ideas on bubbly drinks.

The florist tried to push orchids that looked like man-eating triffids on me but that was better than Gypsy’s ever-changing decoration palette which went from “fifty million rainbow streamers” to “Make it like Frozen! Let’s get real snow Daddy!”

Wedding seating plans can be a juggle but factoring in siblings and parents who may or may not stay and who may or may not have screaming babies adds a whole other level of logistic hell. And will it be one parent or two? Do we need beer for the dads?

Even if Sandra had been a controlling Bridezilla I would only have one cake to worry about. But I have twins who each want a different cake of their own. And I’m refusing to talk about party bags other than to acknowledge they’re a pain in the banquet.

In fact, looking back the wedding was a walk in the park (or in our case a dance on the island) compared to the trials and tribulations of the toddler birthday hordes. If the girls had their way it would be a riot of colour and a kaleidoscope of constant activity. Budget and my sanity be damned.

You know what? I think next year we’ll just renew our vows instead.