Tag: Spawn

There’s so much more to it than I ever thought possible.

Happy Australia Day

I’ve scheduled this post, because we are up the coast celebrating Dad’s birthday.

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Squish in his new swimmers. I couldn’t resist the irony. Swimming lessons could be going better…

P.S. He does actually enjoy swimming. Today we spent over three hours in the water, and he had to be talked out of staying for another three hours by the promise of a trip to ikea and a big boy chair. No more high chair!

My Squishy boy

I took the boy to an eye test last week, though i am not worried about his vision now, I do expect that at some point he will need glasses. And I’d prefer that he was used to eye tests before he needs to get glasses. The conclusion was that his vision is slightly off 20/20, but since he can still identify the difference between a helicopter speck in the sky, and an aeroplane speck in the sky, I am not yet worried.

He’s been coming along well with his swimming lessons, and is gaining confidence in the water. I am so proud of his bravery and willingness to try new things, and his ability to bounce back when things get a bit scary.

On Tuesday the family is gathering to celebrate dad’s birthday up at Pearl Beach. And on Saturday the 29th we’ll be collecting the boys ashes, and having a picnic at the grave site. The 29th of January was their due date. I should be hugely pregnant and waiting to meet my precious babies. I should be worrying about the birth, and how I am going to cope without sleep. Wondering what they would be like, their little faces, their personalities, the feel of their breath on my cheek.

The date is just a number on a page, it has no power. And for the rest of my life, I’ll be reminding myself of that.

Chinese parenting for success?

Squish is now three years old, way older than I thought he would ever be, and way more curious, and perceptive, and witty, and switched on than I ever anticipated. He knows all his numbers and letters, can do simple addition and subtraction, understands the concept of zero, can do a 30 piece puzzle without assistance, can read a little bit (names mostly), and his language skills leave a lot of five year olds in the dust. So my thoughts have been turning to school, and what will be the best options for him.

I believe in the public school system, except when the school is a poor fit for the child, and I am trying to learn as much as possible about the local schools while I am learning about him, and what sort of learning environment would suit him.

We have two locals schools nearby. The one that is closest is a little bigger, and apparently has a relatively new principal with good ideas. The smaller school is a little further away, but it has a garden, and no tuckshop, and we are already familiar with it because we go to playgroup there – so we have a good case for an out of area application.

We could also diddle our address and try to get him into a school near either lot of grandparents. Both Marsfield and Pennant Hills have high “ranking” public schools, and an expectation of academic excellence that is not reflected in the local schools. They also both have a lot of kids who are in coaching college in primary school, in the hopes of getting into a selective high school, and I am profoundly uncomfortable with sticking an eight year old in coaching in preference to outdoor play or swimming, or music, or just hanging out in a tree reading a novel.

Or we could try Steiner, if we can handle the fees, and the driving to get him there and home every day. Or homeschooling, or unschooling.

But it all comes down to what we want for Inigo. Do we want achievement at all cost? Do we want his happiness to be the primary goal? Or do we want him to be a useful and contributing member of society as the highest aim of his life?

I have the feeling that his natural instinct might be towards academia, but with a strong interest in one or two areas of study, and not much interest in other areas. Much like both of his parents, who could barely stay awake during classes that we weren’t interested in, coasted through most of our subjects, and did really well in a few areas. When we could be bothered to do the work.

Which brings me to my point. Recently the web has been in a flurry about an article written by a mother who claims that driving children to success is the best way to parent, and she advocates some pretty strict rules to control her children. It made me pretty uncomfortable, I’ve seen the “Joy Luck Club” to many times not to know that it won’t end well. So I stumbled across an article that discusses a different path to excellence – via authoritative parenting, not authoritarian parenting.

Like everything else, it’s a hard balance to get right, but the idea of forcing my kid to do something that he isn’t naturally inclined to want to do doesn’t seem right to me. Unless we’re talking about making sure he doesn’t pee on the toilet seat.

Another bit of history bites the dust

My friend David used to have a thing for Standard cars. He and his brother Andrew (my boyfriend for a while) shared a massive Standard Vanguard painted with Hammertone Grey that we all called Chubb. It was a fabulous way to arrive at a nightclub, but leaving could be difficult, what with having to crank the beast in the pouring rain, etc…

So anyway…

David and Andrew, but mainly David, used to work on cars a lot. It was David that taught me how to change the oil on my Ford Escort Panel Van, and gave me the confidence to know my way around a combustion engine so that no mechanic could ever baffle me with bullshit. And one day, David was pulling apart an airconditioning pump, and on his workbench I found a gorgeous captured bearing, or “thrust race”, covered in motor oil, which I proceeded to work over my hand and onto my wrist. I was a lot thinner then, and luckily David didn’t need to put the pump back together, so I kept wearing it.

Over the years I got fatter, and the bracelet became a permanent reminder of those days, one I wouldn’t dream of removing, even if I could.

Unfortunately, when Inigo was about 6 months old, the metal strip joining the two halves finally wore away, and the bearings all fell out, and my gorgeous bracelet was reduced to a torture device that cut into the flesh of my wrist and ached off and on.

On Saturday night, thanks to Richard, I finally had the means, the opportunity and the temporary fortitude provided by gin to remove it.

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Before.

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In the vice.

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First attempt with the angle grinder.

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The hacksaw wasn’t much use.

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Finally free!

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The aftermath. You can’t see it here, but I have an injury on the inside of my wrist, I am not sure if it is a cut from the vibrations, or a burn from the steel heating up, but it will heal soon, and my wrist feels so much better. FOr the first time ever I have been able to cuddle my boy without worrying about putting an eye out or hurting him.

The shrink

I saw the counsellor from Sids & Kids yesterday. Apparently, an important part of this whole “grief” thing, is actually crying. Who’d a thunk it.

I’ve been working hard at keeping it all together, and worrying more about how other people feel (and protecting them from the horror of my grief), so the tears get quashed, I put on a brave face, and get on with life.

So, my new years resolution (which I don’t believe in, and I am nonetheless doing, and doing early this year), is to fall apart a little bit. If I feel sad, I will cry, and I will try not to worry about protecting other people (except Inigo of course). I spent years training myself not to cry, to protect myself from bullies, so allowing myself to cry is a steep learning curve.

We’re going up to Pearl Beach after Christmas until after New Years, and I am going to take that time for me, for healing, and for saying “get stuffed” to feelings of obligation and concern for others.

If you’re a friend, please don’t ask me how I am. The answer will be “shithouse”. If you’re not a friend, I will lie, and tell you that I am looking forward to Christmas, that I had a good day, that things are fine, that I am getting “better”. But what is “better”? A slight improvement? Or is it just a word to make you feel better about my disaster of a life?

If I don’t know you, if you ask me how many children I have, I’ll say, “one, he’s three”. But if you’re a friend, or if I want to be real with you, I’ll say, “Three, but only one living. I lost twin babies this year”. It’s horrible saying it out loud, but it’s even worse denying their existence.