It staggers me that when you leave the hospital with your second child, they don’t issue you with a whistle and a T-shirt with the word “umpire” emblazoned across the front.
It should be a standard procedure, along with the heel prick test and the follow up house call from the community nurse that are currently provided by the NSW Health Department. Because, let’s face it, sorting out the microscopic disputes between your children will be your role for the foreseeable future. (A rulebook would be useful too, but I acknowledge that there are no rules in this game and we all have to make it up as we go along.)
Human beings are good at developing tools and technology to solve problems (or complicate our lives, depending on how you look at it), so I can imagine a future where houses are equipped with CCTV cameras in every room, feeding directly into your computer. As umpires we will be able to look back at the replay (in slow motion and from all angles) to see just who did have the thing first, who did the snatching and who did the pushing. The players will acknowledge the infallibility of the eye in the sky, accept the decision and get on with the game. Play on.
However, in these digital dark ages, a parent has to go in blind and comfort the crying child whilst gathering verbal evidence from both sides.
“I was playing with it first.”
“But I got it for my birthday.”
These are tricky issues. A magistrate with 15 years experience on the bench listening to property disputes may be able to cite some relevant precedent for sorting out cases like this. But the rest of us just have to wing it and hope for the best. (There is the old adage that “possession is nine tenths of the law”, but our little one has form for theft, so that’s not really a reliable guideline in our house.)
Generally I have to micromanage a conversation between them. Fault will usually be found on both sides, apologies will be offered and hopefully I can impart some wisdom about better ways of communicating and interacting with each other. The players shake hands and the game can continue. New balls please.
But sometimes you need to send them back to their corners. If a player refuses to accept the umpire’s decision and responds by dropping to the floor kicking, screaming and crying, it might be time to pull out the red card. Once they have been sent from the field (to their bedroom) it may be necessary to make an appointment with the tribunal (mum).
But I’m just taking it one game at a time.
Saturday 4 June 2011
Tuesday 31 May 2011
Contentment
I never thought I could find so much satisfaction in washing the dishes, so much peace in vacuuming.
It was a beautiful sunny Saturday morning. My gorgeous wife had taken my equally gorgeous children to town and I was left to my own devices at home. This is a rare thing in itself, having time when I am neither working nor looking after children, but to actually derive some kind of enjoyment from domestic chores is unheard of!
But with the sun streaming in and The Audreys playing their bitter-sweet folk rock on the stereo, I discovered the joys of pottering around my own house.
We spend so much time at home that is chaotic; the mad morning rushes to get children fed and dressed and off to school or care. The mad evening rushes to get them fed and bathed and off to bed. And sure there are moments of great joy in amongst it all, but so often I find myself slipping into a state of grumpiness as I bark instructions that I’ve barked a thousand times before. “Eat your vegetables, clean your room, brush your teeth.”
A wise older friend (a psychiatrist who has raised three boys) recently told me the secret to a happy life is practising the art of contentment.
But I’m not very good at it.
I’ve tried counting my blessings, but it’s not the same thing. I just ended up with a list. (Loving partner? Check. Healthy kids? Check. Roof over our heads? Check.) But then I get frustrated with myself that I’m not living in a permanent state of nirvana.
But on that Saturday morning as I pottered around the house and the garden, I found it.
Contentment.
It was in the banana trees as I harvested a bunch of bananas. It was in the kitchen as I looked out the window at the mountains, up to my elbows in soapy dish water.
They say a man’s house is his castle. (How’s the serenity?) It is also where the soul comes home to rest from the hurly burly of the outside world.
We’ve made a big commitment to this place. (Me, my wife and the bank signed up for a threesome for 25 years.) We are putting deep roots down, connecting with the community around us while we watch the trees and the children grow up.
As I pottered around doing odd jobs, I had a sense that I was making this place my own, just how I’d like it to be. Enjoying my surroundings.
I felt grounded, connected, earthed to my home and my community.
I was expressing this feeling to a friend at a party later that night.
He asked jokingly, did I feel “rooted”?
No (although the description would certainly fit sometimes).
Every now and then you find that place where the serenity really is wonderful.
It was a beautiful sunny Saturday morning. My gorgeous wife had taken my equally gorgeous children to town and I was left to my own devices at home. This is a rare thing in itself, having time when I am neither working nor looking after children, but to actually derive some kind of enjoyment from domestic chores is unheard of!
But with the sun streaming in and The Audreys playing their bitter-sweet folk rock on the stereo, I discovered the joys of pottering around my own house.
We spend so much time at home that is chaotic; the mad morning rushes to get children fed and dressed and off to school or care. The mad evening rushes to get them fed and bathed and off to bed. And sure there are moments of great joy in amongst it all, but so often I find myself slipping into a state of grumpiness as I bark instructions that I’ve barked a thousand times before. “Eat your vegetables, clean your room, brush your teeth.”
A wise older friend (a psychiatrist who has raised three boys) recently told me the secret to a happy life is practising the art of contentment.
But I’m not very good at it.
I’ve tried counting my blessings, but it’s not the same thing. I just ended up with a list. (Loving partner? Check. Healthy kids? Check. Roof over our heads? Check.) But then I get frustrated with myself that I’m not living in a permanent state of nirvana.
But on that Saturday morning as I pottered around the house and the garden, I found it.
Contentment.
It was in the banana trees as I harvested a bunch of bananas. It was in the kitchen as I looked out the window at the mountains, up to my elbows in soapy dish water.
They say a man’s house is his castle. (How’s the serenity?) It is also where the soul comes home to rest from the hurly burly of the outside world.
We’ve made a big commitment to this place. (Me, my wife and the bank signed up for a threesome for 25 years.) We are putting deep roots down, connecting with the community around us while we watch the trees and the children grow up.
As I pottered around doing odd jobs, I had a sense that I was making this place my own, just how I’d like it to be. Enjoying my surroundings.
I felt grounded, connected, earthed to my home and my community.
I was expressing this feeling to a friend at a party later that night.
He asked jokingly, did I feel “rooted”?
No (although the description would certainly fit sometimes).
Every now and then you find that place where the serenity really is wonderful.
Monday 23 May 2011
Too Many Toys
A friend of mine used to have a keyring that said, He who dies with the most toys wins. I thought this was just an amusing (yet accurate) summation of modern capitalism: that the accumulation of wealth is the yardstick by which a person is measured. But judging by the evidence accumulating in my kids’ bedrooms, there actually is some sort of competition going on to see how many toys someone can collect in a lifetime.
What they don’t know is that I am actively working against them in their quest to be regional toy magnates. Before Christmas or a birthday rolls around, I have a cathartic clean up of the shelves and toy boxes in our house. Anything that requires batteries, has parts that can’t be accounted for or hasn’t been played with in the past six months is moved on so somebody else can have a turn. (Op shop ladies all over Lismore light up when they see me coming with my armload of goodies.)
Of course getting stuff out of the house has to be done without the kids’ knowledge, otherwise they will claim each and every forgotten item is “too special”. Taking toys away from children when they’re not looking sounds cruel, but it’s the only way to keep on top of it. Otherwise I’d have to keep building shelves, and there just isn’t enough room in our house to accommodate everything that has ever spewed forth from brightly coloured wrapping paper.
Our eldest is eight. Let’s say she’s had 10 friends to each of her birthday parties. There’s 80 presents right there. Throw in eight Christmases, three birthdays for her little sister and numerous visits from the grandparents (who insist on showering them in gifts every time they come up for a visit) and we’ve got some serious storage issues.
And the more they have, the less they appreciate what they’ve got. (The thrill really seems to be in the getting and the unwrapping.)
I have never been a hoarder. Life seemed so much simpler when I could get all of my possessions into the back of a panel van.
The clutter of modern life annoys me (which is understandable given the amount of time I spend moving plastic ponies and wooden vegetables out of the living room), but I really can’t relax when it is in my face like that.
I blame the cheap globalised labour and throwaway culture that are symptoms of the rampant consumerism destroying our planet. So here’s a new slogan I’m thinking about getting put onto my key-ring: He who teaches their child to live with less wins.
What they don’t know is that I am actively working against them in their quest to be regional toy magnates. Before Christmas or a birthday rolls around, I have a cathartic clean up of the shelves and toy boxes in our house. Anything that requires batteries, has parts that can’t be accounted for or hasn’t been played with in the past six months is moved on so somebody else can have a turn. (Op shop ladies all over Lismore light up when they see me coming with my armload of goodies.)
Of course getting stuff out of the house has to be done without the kids’ knowledge, otherwise they will claim each and every forgotten item is “too special”. Taking toys away from children when they’re not looking sounds cruel, but it’s the only way to keep on top of it. Otherwise I’d have to keep building shelves, and there just isn’t enough room in our house to accommodate everything that has ever spewed forth from brightly coloured wrapping paper.
Our eldest is eight. Let’s say she’s had 10 friends to each of her birthday parties. There’s 80 presents right there. Throw in eight Christmases, three birthdays for her little sister and numerous visits from the grandparents (who insist on showering them in gifts every time they come up for a visit) and we’ve got some serious storage issues.
And the more they have, the less they appreciate what they’ve got. (The thrill really seems to be in the getting and the unwrapping.)
I have never been a hoarder. Life seemed so much simpler when I could get all of my possessions into the back of a panel van.
The clutter of modern life annoys me (which is understandable given the amount of time I spend moving plastic ponies and wooden vegetables out of the living room), but I really can’t relax when it is in my face like that.
I blame the cheap globalised labour and throwaway culture that are symptoms of the rampant consumerism destroying our planet. So here’s a new slogan I’m thinking about getting put onto my key-ring: He who teaches their child to live with less wins.
A Right Royal Response
A girl called Kate kissed a boy called William and when she said “I do” she became a princess. It is the stuff of fairytales, but whether they live happily ever after remains to be seen.
Our house was a royal wedding free zone, but my girls still managed to find out about it. Eight year old Ruby tracked down a youtube clip of Kate arriving at Westminster Abbey and, like girls and women all over the world, checked out her wedding dress. (Is there a chromosome they have that attracts them to shoes and wedding dresses?)
“I wish I could be a princess,” she sighed.
At which point I had to point out that Harry was too old for her and any future offspring of Kate and William would be too young for her. There may be some more obscure princes lurking out there somewhere who would sweep a North Coast country girl off her feet, but the odds are against her.
The charming prince who rescues the girl from a perilous predicament is a recurring theme in children’s literature, so it’s not surprising she has bought into the whole princess fantasy. I tried to explain to her that the life of a princess may not be all it’s cracked up to be and told her “the sad story of Princess Diana” who, unlike the all the other princesses she knew, lived her life under the constant spotlight of the paparazzi’s cameras and died in a tragic car crash.
One good thing about the royal wedding is that it has re-ignited some reassessment of Australia’s relationship with the monarchy and the perennial question about whether we should become a republic raised its sleepy head again. Ever since I was old enough to understand the concepts involved I have been a strong supporter of the idea that Australia should throw off the final shackles of British colonialism and appoint our own head of state. But as we don’t seem to be able to agree on a model, I would like to suggest a radical new idea: our own monarchy.
Democracy is over-rated. The modern two party system is so fundamentally flawed that it needs to be assassinated in a carefully planned attack and have its body dumped at sea. Essentially it has been reduced to a popularity contest where figureheads representing various vested interests try to convince an apathetic population that the other mob can’t be trusted.
What we need is a benevolent dictator with a long term vision for the country. He or she would be able to pick and choose the best person for the job to head up a ministry, unrestricted by factional party politics or the fear that someone will knife them in the back and steal their job.
I would like to nominate Bob Brown (Green King Brown?) as our inaugural monarch. That fact that he is unlikely to produce an heir should not be a restriction. When Bob is ready to abdicate he can nominate his own successor or he can run his own reality TV show (So you think you can rule?)
So maybe my North Coast country girl won’t be a princess, but in this brave new world she could aspire to be Queen.
Our house was a royal wedding free zone, but my girls still managed to find out about it. Eight year old Ruby tracked down a youtube clip of Kate arriving at Westminster Abbey and, like girls and women all over the world, checked out her wedding dress. (Is there a chromosome they have that attracts them to shoes and wedding dresses?)
“I wish I could be a princess,” she sighed.
At which point I had to point out that Harry was too old for her and any future offspring of Kate and William would be too young for her. There may be some more obscure princes lurking out there somewhere who would sweep a North Coast country girl off her feet, but the odds are against her.
The charming prince who rescues the girl from a perilous predicament is a recurring theme in children’s literature, so it’s not surprising she has bought into the whole princess fantasy. I tried to explain to her that the life of a princess may not be all it’s cracked up to be and told her “the sad story of Princess Diana” who, unlike the all the other princesses she knew, lived her life under the constant spotlight of the paparazzi’s cameras and died in a tragic car crash.
One good thing about the royal wedding is that it has re-ignited some reassessment of Australia’s relationship with the monarchy and the perennial question about whether we should become a republic raised its sleepy head again. Ever since I was old enough to understand the concepts involved I have been a strong supporter of the idea that Australia should throw off the final shackles of British colonialism and appoint our own head of state. But as we don’t seem to be able to agree on a model, I would like to suggest a radical new idea: our own monarchy.
Democracy is over-rated. The modern two party system is so fundamentally flawed that it needs to be assassinated in a carefully planned attack and have its body dumped at sea. Essentially it has been reduced to a popularity contest where figureheads representing various vested interests try to convince an apathetic population that the other mob can’t be trusted.
What we need is a benevolent dictator with a long term vision for the country. He or she would be able to pick and choose the best person for the job to head up a ministry, unrestricted by factional party politics or the fear that someone will knife them in the back and steal their job.
I would like to nominate Bob Brown (Green King Brown?) as our inaugural monarch. That fact that he is unlikely to produce an heir should not be a restriction. When Bob is ready to abdicate he can nominate his own successor or he can run his own reality TV show (So you think you can rule?)
So maybe my North Coast country girl won’t be a princess, but in this brave new world she could aspire to be Queen.
The Sound of Music
It was a beautiful moment for both of us. My three-year-old daughter Jemma came up to me and said, “Dad, can we play that Ring of Fire one again?” We had just been dancing madly around the room to Johnny Cash and she wanted to do it again.
Music has always been a big part of my life and the ability to share it with my kids is a whole new joy.
One of my favourite albums last year was by a Brisbane singer/ songwriter called Jackie Marshall. The title track Ladies Luck is Jemma’s favourite song and it still cracks me up every time she sings along:
I’m eating cherries and I’m drinking whisky,
We don’t have kids and there’s no man listening…
She has also developed an appreciation for The Beatles and will often request Baby You Can Drive My Car as soon as we are strapped in. And I’m developing an appreciation of her music too. (The piano player on Play School can really play!)
There is no doubt that there are some truly awful kids’ albums out there, but we have found a few gems amongst the rubble. Discerning parents should check out a couple of local albums: The Jambu Tree by Rochelle Wright and Rob Shannon, and My Backyard by Spikey and Friends. Also on high rotation at our place was the album by Kasey Chambers and her extended clan called The Little Hillbillies. (In the same way that Pixar and DreamWorx make kids flicks that appeal to adults, Kasey and Bill Chambers nailed it on this album with a bunch of songs that the kids can sing along to, but the parents can appreciate on a different level.)
Now eight-year-old Ruby is right into Kasey Chambers. She’s got three albums on the iPod and is developing a taste for strong and interesting female singers including Aretha Franklin and Emily Lubitz from Tinpan Orange. She doesn’t mind a bit of 70s disco either.
In choosing her own music she is developing her own taste and style and starting to define herself through those choices. And I know at some stage in the not-too-distant future I will probably hate her music and she will hate mine, but there is a brief moment in time, right now, where we can share our discoveries and enjoy them together.
Sometimes (usually when mum’s not home) I will crank the stereo and thrash about the lounge room with the girls to Jesus Built My Hotrod by Ministry, an awesome piece of speed metal from the early 90s. (Now there’s a way to let off some steam before bathtime!)
Music has always been a big part of my life and the ability to share it with my kids is a whole new joy.
One of my favourite albums last year was by a Brisbane singer/ songwriter called Jackie Marshall. The title track Ladies Luck is Jemma’s favourite song and it still cracks me up every time she sings along:
I’m eating cherries and I’m drinking whisky,
We don’t have kids and there’s no man listening…
She has also developed an appreciation for The Beatles and will often request Baby You Can Drive My Car as soon as we are strapped in. And I’m developing an appreciation of her music too. (The piano player on Play School can really play!)
There is no doubt that there are some truly awful kids’ albums out there, but we have found a few gems amongst the rubble. Discerning parents should check out a couple of local albums: The Jambu Tree by Rochelle Wright and Rob Shannon, and My Backyard by Spikey and Friends. Also on high rotation at our place was the album by Kasey Chambers and her extended clan called The Little Hillbillies. (In the same way that Pixar and DreamWorx make kids flicks that appeal to adults, Kasey and Bill Chambers nailed it on this album with a bunch of songs that the kids can sing along to, but the parents can appreciate on a different level.)
Now eight-year-old Ruby is right into Kasey Chambers. She’s got three albums on the iPod and is developing a taste for strong and interesting female singers including Aretha Franklin and Emily Lubitz from Tinpan Orange. She doesn’t mind a bit of 70s disco either.
In choosing her own music she is developing her own taste and style and starting to define herself through those choices. And I know at some stage in the not-too-distant future I will probably hate her music and she will hate mine, but there is a brief moment in time, right now, where we can share our discoveries and enjoy them together.
Sometimes (usually when mum’s not home) I will crank the stereo and thrash about the lounge room with the girls to Jesus Built My Hotrod by Ministry, an awesome piece of speed metal from the early 90s. (Now there’s a way to let off some steam before bathtime!)
Compassion Fatigue
We used to sponsor a little girl in Indonesia called Rani. Through a registered and reputable charity we would send money that was designed to assist with her education and general well-being. Sometimes we would exchange letters, cards and photos, which allowed our daughter Ruby to develop a rapport with Rani (they are about the same age) and hopefully it also gave Ruby some kind of perspective that the life she is living here in Australia is pretty damn good.
Then out of the blue one day we got a letter from the charity saying Rani’s family no longer wished to be a part of the program. The charity had selected a new recipient for us, but it didn’t feel right. We had invested more than money in Rani; we had established some kind of relationship, and in a world where there are so many people in need, she was somebody we could help in a practical, tangible way.
I’m sure the new kid was equally deserving (although he was a boy and therefore less likely to get letters from Ruby) but I couldn’t seem to transfer my compassion from one kid to another that easily. Instead we decided to channel our monthly contribution into a general community fund rather than start the process of getting to know a new child.
It was easier, but the whole incident has highlighted for me a modern phenomenon known as ‘compassion fatigue’ – a feeling of being overwhelmed by the suffering in the world and powerless to do anything about it.
As someone who has worked in the media off-and-on for 15 years, sometimes I just have to tune it out because it makes me depressed. News media thrives on adversity and every day we are bombarded with images and stories of people struggling against natural and man-made disasters. The cumulative effect is that our emotional response is becoming increasingly dulled.
The 24-hour news cycle has a voracious appetite; survivors of today’s disaster are soon forgotten, superseded by others in more dire circumstances.
I remember as a young Media Studies student learning about the ‘news hierarchy’ whereby those closest to us, both geographically and culturally, matter more in terms of their newsworthiness. (This is why coverage of floods in Queensland and earthquakes in Christchurch will far outweigh something like the earthquake in Haiti a year earlier which killed 300,000 and left a million people homeless – Haitians are “not like us”.)
In some news organisations there is a culture where tragedy is celebrated. A journo who was working at The Daily Telegraph when Martin Bryant went on his killing spree at Port Arthur once told me there was a cheer every time the body count went up (and therefore the size and significance of the story).
It’s not quite like that at The Echo, where we do try and celebrate the good things that people are doing in our local community, but I wish I could do more and care more and just help a little girl in Indonesia called Rani.
Then out of the blue one day we got a letter from the charity saying Rani’s family no longer wished to be a part of the program. The charity had selected a new recipient for us, but it didn’t feel right. We had invested more than money in Rani; we had established some kind of relationship, and in a world where there are so many people in need, she was somebody we could help in a practical, tangible way.
I’m sure the new kid was equally deserving (although he was a boy and therefore less likely to get letters from Ruby) but I couldn’t seem to transfer my compassion from one kid to another that easily. Instead we decided to channel our monthly contribution into a general community fund rather than start the process of getting to know a new child.
It was easier, but the whole incident has highlighted for me a modern phenomenon known as ‘compassion fatigue’ – a feeling of being overwhelmed by the suffering in the world and powerless to do anything about it.
As someone who has worked in the media off-and-on for 15 years, sometimes I just have to tune it out because it makes me depressed. News media thrives on adversity and every day we are bombarded with images and stories of people struggling against natural and man-made disasters. The cumulative effect is that our emotional response is becoming increasingly dulled.
The 24-hour news cycle has a voracious appetite; survivors of today’s disaster are soon forgotten, superseded by others in more dire circumstances.
I remember as a young Media Studies student learning about the ‘news hierarchy’ whereby those closest to us, both geographically and culturally, matter more in terms of their newsworthiness. (This is why coverage of floods in Queensland and earthquakes in Christchurch will far outweigh something like the earthquake in Haiti a year earlier which killed 300,000 and left a million people homeless – Haitians are “not like us”.)
In some news organisations there is a culture where tragedy is celebrated. A journo who was working at The Daily Telegraph when Martin Bryant went on his killing spree at Port Arthur once told me there was a cheer every time the body count went up (and therefore the size and significance of the story).
It’s not quite like that at The Echo, where we do try and celebrate the good things that people are doing in our local community, but I wish I could do more and care more and just help a little girl in Indonesia called Rani.
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