Let the Sunshine In

Recently friends and I have become increasingly intolerant of a fellow Grade 3 mother who a fellow blogger has aptly named 'Helicopter Mum'. Now, as a teacher I have certainly encountered my fair share of insane parentals. There was the couple who elected to throw an A-Grade tantrum complete with threats to my personal physical safety if their beloved little boy did not achieve a specific score in the subject I was lucky enough to teach their equally insane offspring. On the other side of the spectrum was the mother who decided that the best way to communicate her passion for her son to achieve a perfect score was to hold my hand through an entire Parent Teacher Interview - just a tad awkward. There was also the mother who looked deep into my eyes and declared, "My son tells me EVERYTHING..." – a little creepy considering she was referring to a seventeen year-old.

So, while I have witnessed bouts of over-protectiveness from a range of parents in my professional life, I am now coming face-to-face with them in my personal life as well. And let me just say these sort of people drive me nuts. I firmly believe they have much to answer for – raising a generation of insipid, mollycoddled, scared of their own shadow, where's my mummy, tantrum throwing, overgrown babies being the first charge. I am a big believer that in 99% of cases kids will bounce back from whatever is thrown at them as long as they have a strong and stable foundation. Most of the time our children are a hell of a lot more resilient than we are and certainly a lot more resilient than many give them credit for being. This particular Grade 3 mother would disagree vehemently. She sees protecting her children from this big, scary world as her most holy of missions and in the process of fulfilling her destiny, she has been driving me (and many others) progressively insane.

Now, perhaps this is my own fault to a certain extent. I was warned. Many attempted to tell me that this well-meaning, non-aggressive and incredibly vague woman was in fact completely and utterly intolerable. Let me be clear – Helicopter Mum is not a bad person. I do believe that she really does want the best for her children and for those around her. She is very vague – so vague that for years I assumed she was constantly stoned. I now realise she is just really slow. But while I find this frustrating, I cannot condemn her for this flaw alone. I can however condemn her for being the most depressing human being on the planet. For a hippie, she lets in very little sunshine. Helicopter Mum focuses constantly on the negatives – the school we send our children to is "very ordinary", the art teacher isn't creative enough, the classroom teacher in Grade 2 was too lenient and the Grade 3 teacher is too harsh, blah, blah, blah. Her daughter is interested in going to summer camp and she's trying to work out a way to stay at the campsite over the course of the week because Precious "won't cope on her own". Precious will cope fine. Precious is actually an awesome kid, surprisingly well-adjusted despite the insane smothering. Helicopter Mum is the one who wouldn't cope.

However what I am beginning to realise is the helicopter phenomenon begins long before the child enters the school gate. Recently friends have had their first child. Well, they say they have. I cannot confirm this fact because neither I, my husband, nor most of our friends have as yet laid eyes on the baby in question. A lovely mutual friend was recently blessed with "a window of between five and ten minutes" with which to come and visit the newborn. Translation: Drop by and hand over the pressie. Now leave. I would like to officially christen this particular new mother Vapid Princess. Apparently, she has found the stress of moving into her new McMansion so overwhelming that she finds basic hospitality simply beyond her. Is it the fear someone will breathe on Vapid Princess II? Break her? Or might a visitor mistakenly drop crumbs on her custom made shabby chic white linen couch? Has, Vapid Princess in fact had her little bundle of joy without reading the fine print of the parenting manual – you know the bit that says having children is a messy business, filled with vomit and shit and lots of crumbs on your all white-interior. If, at the age of less than one month VPII is being shielded from the horrors of the real world what hope does she have?

But I really do wonder, who are these helicopter parents protecting with all their hovering? Is it really their children? Or is it themselves? By claiming to be 'protecting' their young ones are they really just attempting to legitimise wanting to keep their own heads in the clouds? Is it in fact these parents who are terrified of the real world?

Being a parent is scary. There are so many variables out there that one cannot control, things that can potentially hurt and harm those little people we love so much. But hovering doesn't cause those potential dangers to evaporate. The world can be scary. But it can also be an amazing, exciting place full of infinite possibilities. Helicopter parents need to think about what their hovering is really shielding their child from. Often, all that hovering simply prevents young people from seeing that bright blue sky above their own heads.

Chanel Bikini

Today I met a woman who taught me what I probably already knew – that I'm a judgemental bitch who more often than not doesn't appreciate what she has.

The fam and I went to a nearby beach for the day. It hadn't been an easy morning. Hubby and I had been fighting over something incredibly stupid – I'd tell you what it was if it had been significant enough to remember. It was more one of those fights that are the result of the stress of just being an adult who is not a gazillionaire. The stress of going back to work and coming to face to face with the very real fact that you are "just a teacher". Recognising that the mortgage is eating up so much of your combined income that the much coveted en suite is looking more out of reach than ever. Understanding in some vague way that you are really only a couple of steps away from what used to be called "poverty" (now referred to as "living on credit") but nonetheless spending money you don't have in a pathetic attempt to make you feel better – even for a moment. The stress of knowing that your eldest son is probably not attending the best school for him, but the decision to actually remove him is just too hard. The stress of mother-in-laws and sisters and their endless capacity for pissing people off.

So, by the time we actually got to the beach I was already emotionally worn out. And there they were. The three of them. The thin, leggy blonde with skin that revealed a life of endless beachside holidays (or a really good solarium) in her black Chanel bikini (do people actually buy those?), her dark, muscled, handsome hubby who clearly has the time and the inclination to wake up early to meet his personal trainer, and their four-year-old little princess with her golden curls. I just knew there was a Range Rover with tinted windows parked in the car park. In short the perfect, gorgeous, magazine proof family. Total pukeville.

Princess Golden Curls quickly befriends my little princess, despite my little girl's very unprincess-like peanut butter smeared face, a head full of sand and a pair of little swimmers we all know are filled with more than just the clear blue water of the ocean. And so I am forced to come face to face with Mrs Chanel Bikini. The diamond ring on her wedding finger is bigger than my right butt cheek and worth more than my house. She is sporting the newest Gucci sunglasses and the gusts of wind which were blowing my hair into a freakish "do" seemed to be passing directly over her, not touching even a single blonde strand.

I admit, I assumed Mrs Chanel Bikini would be obnoxious. I assumed she would look down on me in my tatty cheesecloth skirt and old singlet. But the truth is, she was none of that. She was, despite the perfect packaging, a friendly and genuine person. She was incredibly open and forthcoming, so forthcoming that she revealed that she and Mr Muscle had been trying to conceive a second child for the past two years and were now becoming quite desperate. She wistfully told me of her desire to give Princess Golden Curls a little brother or sister as my younger son ran screaming into the waves. She looked on as my eldest son held his younger sister's hand and helped her navigate the shells and seaweed that littered the sand. For the first time I looked at a woman dressed in Chanel and felt nothing but shame for all I had.

I hope Mrs Chanel Bikini is able to give Princess Golden Curls an equally beautiful sibling. I really do hope that she and Mr Muscle are able to expand their perfect family and that they raise those gorgeous children to be as honest and genuine as their mother. And I hope that one day I wear a diamond as big as my right butt cheek.

Auld Lang Syne

I love New Year's Eve. There are very few worldwide events that I enjoy. As a Jew, Easter and Christmas have never really done much for me (other than the whole decorating aspect - I could so get into that aspect of Christ's little bday party!). After marrying a nice Christian boy, I discovered Christmas actually means painful get-togethers with people I would rather drown than drink with, which made it even worse. It's not only religious based events that repel me. Hubby always works on Cup Day and thus 'the race that stops the nation' just means babysitting duty for me. I loathe the Olympics and resent the bad television we miss in order to watch some eleven year old girl jumping around with a ribbon. How is that sport? I have thus far avoided planting trees on a specific day allocated by some committee, and refuse to help clean-up Australia. After all, where is everyone when it's time to clean-up my house? As a self-confessed shopaholic the one day of the year I abstain from this holiest of ventures is Boxing Day. As the flocks are bussed in to rifle through crap from fourteen years ago that has been ceremoniously dumped on the most convenient trestle table, I maintain my distance from Melbourne's shopping meccas and give my Visa a well-deserved rest.

But New Year's Eve is different. It is the one time you feel like the whole world has permission to PARTY. I like to think that even the most uptight, buttoned down, repressed individuals on the planet are gettin' down and filling their cars with cartons of their favourite beer. Good cheer? Christmas dinners with Great Aunt Fay complaining about "kids these days" and then falling asleep on the couch as cousin Tiffany accuses everyone at the table of conspiring to make her fat, simply can't compare with the chance New Year's Eve provides for us all, at least in some small way, to start again. This year, to celebrate what I believe is the world's greatest annual event, Hubby and I have decided to host a kid-friendly bash - complete with mirror balls (I can't resist party kitsch!), kids treasure hunt, ice-cream sundae bar and a resolution tree.

Now, Hubby and I differ enormously on the whole resolution thing. I see it as a potentially sacred event. He sees it as an opportunity to make incredibly humorous remarks like, "I promise to drink more beer in 2007". I truly believe the contemplation needed to decide on one's New Year's resolution promotes the kind of self-analysis everyone needs occasionally. New Year's Eve allows individuals to face their weaknesses and attempt to overcome them. It is an opportunity for self-reflection and momentary honesty about the person we are and the person we wish to become.

I have many weaknesses - many, many, many weaknesses. And to say I will address them all in this New Year would be unrealistic. There is however one aspect of my nature that I would like to, ahem, 'work on'. I'm not a great friend. I try to be, but the bottom line is, I'm not. I get easily sidetracked by other aspects of my life, as I think many of us do. Family, work, the house and let's not forget me, me and me. Now, up until recently this has never been a huge problem because until recently I was blessed (or cursed - not sure which) with rather average friends who pretty much operated the same way I do. I'll call you when I need you, which may or may not coincide with when you need me. They were, and too a large extent, still are, individuals who place themselves and their interests on a plane high above anybody else's and thus you feel comfortable and quite frankly, completely entitled to do likewise.

But over the last few years I have come to know a number of women who deserve far better than what I have been giving. They are honest and generous and I truly know I could call them at any time for any reason. I have shed many of my old friends, making room for those who accept me even without make-up. I can be honest with them when things aren't perfect, when the bank-balance isn't as healthy as I would like it to be. I can tell them when I feel down, or tired or when I'm just not coping with everything that life throws at us. I can go to them when I doubt myself for some much needed bolstering. Around them I don't always have to be confident and on top of it all. They see the fraying edges and love me despite them. They are who I now refer to as "Friends I Don't Have To Clean For".

So in 2010 I say to hell with Auld Lang Syne. In 2010 I resolve to be a better friend to those who I know and love now. I resolve to text less and call more, to resist the urge to lie and say all is great. I resolve to gossip less and be truthful more, to recognise that friends are of far greater value than what the boss thinks of you. I resolve to stop worrying about those who have proven time and time again that they are not good friends and instead focus on being a better friend myself.

Happy New Year.

The Look?

So here I am, minding my own business, enjoying a mid-morning cup of coffee and flicking through today's Sunday Life magazine. Since its revamp the Sunday Life has been a bit touch-and-go. It's having a little bit of trouble deciding on its new identity. Is it, as it proclaims to be The Sunday Age Magazine? Or is it perhaps The Sunday Age Magazine for Women Between the Ages of 25-40 Who Have an Enormous Disposable Income and Enjoy Being Patronised? Alternatively, it has crossed my mind that it is simply a 45 page advertising feature. Nonetheless, solid mindless fodder when your two-year-old has scribbled all over the Good Weekend's Samurai Sudoku.

According to one Ms Thelma McQuillan on page 35 of this week's Sunday Life, "one of summer's hottest trend is the new playsuit". Let me state this once and let me be VERY clear - unless you happen to be over six feet tall and a size 2-4 there is NOTHING remotely "hot" about a playsuit. As its very name suggest, a playsuit is appropriate for one thing and one thing only - playing. When you're three years old. If you ask me, the very idea of suggesting that grown-up women don clothing appropriate for toddlers playing in the sandpit is a little creepy.

I don't care of Ms McQuillan claims that this one-piece wonder is "super-versatile". For all of you out there contemplating the $395 Ginger & Smart disaster pictured, ask yourself is this is honestly what your life needs right now. McQuillan suggests adding "heels and jewels" to turn the "super-versatile" playsuit into instant evening wear. Is she serious? No item heralded as the fashion of tomorrow should require a woman to totally undress in order to sit on the toilet.

"The Look"? I think not.

Lights and Peanut Butter Crusts

I need to know.
I simply must know what makes men so incredibly and unbelievably stupid. Before my male readers take an oath never to read this blog again, you should be aware that this is a genuine attempt to help my very female self understand why it is that what seems so very basic to those of us born sans penis, our male counterparts struggle to comprehend.

Hubby is what I would consider to be an intelligent man. He can explain the minutia of Cold War relations and actually understands – as much as anyone can - Obama's plan for health care reform. However, despite having the intellect to be able to tell a good Brezhnev joke and know why it's funny, he cannot understand why leaving fourteen lights on when you leave the house is a bad thing. Nor can he get his head around the fact that, for the most part, if you want your two year-old daughter to put her peanut-butter sandwich crusts into the bin, you will have to TELL her to do so. Hubby also struggles to grasp the concept that Little Princess will often neglect to inform you that she has mashed those lovely sandwich crusts into the dining room carpet. He believes the highly complex excuse "I didn't see it" is sufficient to acquit him of all charges. Further, he truly believes it is I who am being unreasonable. Expecting him to look either up or down is clearly a mark of my always too high demands.

But Hubby truly excels himself every time his mother is in town. For some reason men who are for the most part, able to function on a normal (albeit male) level are thrown into a spin the moment a ditzy (dyed) blonde who happened to have given birth to them comes into the picture. Now it wouldn't be nice to refer to his mother as Useless-WASP-Who-Has-Never-Contributed-Anything-To-Society-Other-Than-Keeping-Her-Home-Dust-Free, so instead she shall be named Mommy Dearest. Mommy Dearest has never worked. In fact, she believes working is "demeaning" – her words. Mommy Dearest had two children 5 years apart because she couldn't possibly have coped with having more than one at home at a time. Hubby's memories of his childhood include washing his hands and watching Mommy Dearest vacuum – a lot. When our eldest son was born Hubby was astounded to discover that it was okay for children and their mothers to be seen in public and they in fact did not have to always be at home in the throws of domestic bliss. Mommy Dearest washes all the towels and linen in her home every day. In my honest opinion Mommy Dearest has some serious issues.

Mommy Dearest can also be a bit of a bitch. After two days in a car listening to endless rounds of Wiggles music, punctuated by the always loved "Are we there yet?", to visit MD and her new husband, who shall henceforth be known as Sleazoid Nazi (a whole other story), Mommy Dearest enquired what our plans were for dinner. Hubby was off to a Bucks Night to catch up with old school buddies and so it was just me and the kids (in a hotel room, because we couldn't possibly stay in her three bedroom, two bathroom, three living areas home – "Simply not enough room" she claimed, with a straight-face). When I said I had no plans as yet, MD helpfully informed me that there was a supermarket just down the road from where we were staying. Thanks. You're awesome.

But the part that really pisses me off is that MD has zero interest in seeing her grandchildren. She does of course, for precisely 90 minutes every time she comes to Melbourne. At some stage she must have been told that 90 minutes is the minimum amount of time you can visit family and then leave without seeming rude. But I know even these visits are not so much to see the kids, but more so she can report back to her parochial, gossiping friends that yes, she too has seen her grandchildren. All her friends are doing it, and the only thing worse that having to spend time with noisy, sticky children, would be not doing what all your friends are doing. Although she still can't for the life of her understand why my five year old human hurricane doesn't want to sit and have a cup of tea and a nice chat with his nanna. Go figure.

And yet, despite acknowledging that he doesn't like his mother, doesn't respect her, hates spending time with her and has to drink a double scotch just to get through a ten minute phone conversation with her, Hubby will still attempt to move heaven and earth to make sure Mommy Dearest gets what Mommy Dearest wants when she wants it. I, who have stood by him when we had nothing, ate two-minute noodles for months on end because that's all we could afford, carried and birthed him three beautiful children am declared unreasonable for suggesting that MD can simply go fuck herself.

So, I ask, what makes men think so differently to women? Why do they so fear telling the truth? They can start world wars from the safety of an office desk, but they seem unable to say, "Mum, why are you so selfish and self-absorbed? Would it be so hard to boil up some pasta for your daughter-in-law and grandkids?"

I know males aren't born that way – my eldest boy is, at the tender age of 8, far wiser than I am on a number of levels. So, what happens? Is it hormones? Is it societal roles that we just adapt to without even knowing it? Or is it the mothers themselves? Do mothers raise boys somehow differently, expecting more on some levels and infinitely less in regards to others? Or is it about the way some mothers represent themselves? Has Mommy Dearest knowingly raised a boy who has turned into a man who will never tell her the truth because she has marketed herself as fragile and unable to cope?

Whatever the reason I encourage male readers to make two solemn promises today. Promise the woman who continues to share your bed despite your flaws that you will always look up to see if the lights are on and look down to check for peanut-butter crusts.

Plastic Fantastic

I've got a friend. Actually, I had a friend. I now have someone who calls me asking to throw parties so she can sell her wares. This young woman - let's call her Plastic Fantastic, used to be a really good friend. We spent many a night watching bad movies, eating bowls of cookies n' cream ice-cream smothered in hot chocolate fudge and Baileys, drinking goblets of cheap red wine and gossiping and commiserating over one guy or another. She knew my husband and I before we were my husband and I, she has been auntie to my children. Then she met Mr You-Got-To-Spend-Money-To-Make-Money.

Mr You-Got-To-Spend-Money-To-Make-Money is constantly investing thousands of dollars, which by the way he does not have, in an attempt to make his fortune. He does not have the brains to realise that he has in fact already spent that fortune investing in the incredibly dodgy Fashion Slick who is taking him for all he's got - and a bit of what he doesn't have. Fashion Slick has convinced Mr YGTSMTMM to pay all his expenses while he lives overseas "designing" and "promoting" a range of the world's crappiest t-shirts - you know, the ones with skulls and graffiti font which Target sold in the late 1990s. Watching Mr YGTSMTMM around Fashion Slick is like watching the fat dork in the fourth grade who has been tossed a bone by the cool kids. "Oh my god! I'm sitting with the cool kids! This is soooo great. Okay, so I have to do their homework and give them my lunch money. But who cares? By sheer osmosis I will become cool by being near them, right?" Wrong.

Plastic Fantastic has changed considerably since meeting and marrying Mr YGTSMTMM. Mostly, she's become less financially secure as her beloved spends all her money. And her parents' money. And his own parents' money. She has decided that like her entrepreneurial hubby she doesn't want to work in the conventional sense. She's got a two year-old she believes would be irreparably harmed if he had to suffer through childcare with the rest of our pleb children. She doesn't want to rely on her mother-in-law to babysit while she's at work - although she seems happy to rely on her when she wants to shop, go out with friends, or when she just needs a break. In short - she's lazy. So, in lieu of the hum drum life of getting your arse to work to earn a buck, she's decided the best way to make up for the financial hole her husband is digging for them is to sell stuff.

Now, this in itself is not a bad thing. I have plenty of friends who have gone into business for themselves and I support all of them with my heart and soul. In fact, I am faintly jealous of those who have a marketable talent. However, none of these friends have ever asked me to sell stuff for them. Plastic Fantastic has gone from being a close friend who I could talk to for hours to the woman whose phone calls I now dread because they are always bound in what she wants me to do for her. She never calls to see how I am, to arrange to catch up for a drink or a coffee, she never wants to see a movie or go for a walk, she now wants to explain how she's calling on everyone she knows to support her during "challenge week".

I don't claim to be the world's greatest gal pal. I know I could be better at the whole "just calling to say..." thing. I recognise that often I become self-absorbed and forget about those around me - those who I love and cherish even if I'm unable to say it (but that's a whole other issue). However, I would like to think that I don't actively set out to take advantage of those who once relied on me for friendship. I would like to think that if I ever decided to abandon the classroom in favour of a new and not so exciting business venture I would seek my friends' emotional and mental support NOT their ability to sell my product of choice to their friends for me. I would like to think that I could attend a dinner party without talking non-stop about my new life as a plastic fantastic rep. I would like to think that I could call my friends and knowing it was me, they would still pick up the phone.

Parent Teacher Nightmare

Certainly one of the most dreaded evenings on any teacher's calendar is Parent Teacher Interview evenings. Well last night was that night, and what a night it was. Most of the interviews went quite smoothly, as I must admit they normally do. Sure you always get your crazies. Towards the top of my list was Anxious Mother #457 who spent 12 minutes telling me how her daughter is not fulfilling her potential, not doing enough work and is getting fat, but she can't understand why her daughter is experiencing so much pressure that she is developing insomnia. It's a mystery, really...

However, in terms of firsts for me, last night was a big one. Never before in my teaching career have I uttered the words, "I'm really sorry, there's absolutely nothing I can do for your son". And yet, here I was in front of a student I shall call Meathead (I think the name pretty much explains a large part of the problem), his parents, Meathead Snr and Disempowered Mum, blatantly dashing all hopes for any academic success. Now let me be clear. I teach many bright kids and, like most teachers I also teach my share of idiots, but Meathead is a special sort of idiot. Meathead can't understand why it might be inappropriate to cut up his coke can with a pair of scissors in the middle of my lesson. Equally, he finds it incomprehensible as to why he can't take phone calls in the middle of class, after all, what are mobiles for? In fact, he believes I should attempt to ensure less noise in the classroom if he is compelled to answer his iphone. Meathead felt personally taken aback by my suggestion that he actually do some homework. He feels this would adversely impact on his (and I quote) "right to enjoy my childhood". Is he fucking kidding? His right to enjoy his childhood? He's eighteen for Christ sake! Granted, intellectually he is probably more suited to the comedic genius of programs such as "Australia's Funniest Home Videos" rather than our current study of "Citizen Kane", but nonetheless - "childhood"?! I almost choked on my lukewarm coffee and stale shortbread biscuit left over from the last Parent Teacher Evening. Meathead feels that once he's at Uni he will then begin any academic endeavours that may appeal to his pint sized brain. The question of how he's going to get to Uni has not, at this stage, even occurred to this little Einstein.

Meathead Snr appeared close to punching the fruit of his loins in the head. Disempowered Mum had tears in her eye. The maths teacher they had seen before me had to explain how Meathead had recently drawn an enormous penis on the classroom floor. She expressed how offended she was by the image and I'm pretty sure it wasn't because of its poor artistic quality. Meathead couldn't understand why she was offended, as he so eloquently put it, "What's your problem? You didn't have to touch it."

The way I see it I currently have three available options.

Option 1 - I rely on Meathead self-reflecting and searching his soul, beginning to feel guilty about the hell he's putting his parents through and experiencing a change of heart and mind. But I think we all know what my chances are of that happening.

Option 2 - I keep Meathead after school every day until he starts to do some work. But the work is half-arsed at best, he hates me for what he perceives to be punishing him and he purposely fucks up the exam to get back at me.

Option 3 - Leave Meathead to enjoy his "childhood" and pray to god I never have to each the fruit of his loins.

Option 3 it is.