The dangers of television avoidance - Part One

Television and I go way back.  Although, not as far back as the average person, believe it or not.  In fact, thanks to the anti-television movement that was rife in my household during the early years of my upbringing, I was forced to attend school each day with absolutely no knowledge of what had gone on the previous night in Summer Bay or Ramsay Street (something that most of my friends and acquaintances during my school years would spend a great number of hours each day discussing).  So with that being said, and perhaps because I wasn’t able to discuss the various programs that were being aired throughout the country each night during my younger years, I now have quite a bit to say about the good old idiot box.  Which is why I’ve been required to break this rant post up into more than one part. 

  

Now don’t get me wrong.  I’m an avid television watcher.  In fact, most nights – once little madam and little man have eventually (and usually reluctantly) been sent away for a (hopefully) lengthy visit to the land of nod – if you’re looking for me, all you need to do is find the television in  my house and I can personally guarantee I won’t be far.  Most nights, in fact, I can quite happily allow whatever crappy rubbish that’s being aired on the idiot box to turn me into a zombie-like being, who enjoys letting anything and everything on the television drain away any cares and worries that have arisen throughout the day.  Yes.  The television and I have a relatively good relationship these days.  Which is something I’m sad (or perhaps I’m not sad, just torn) to say little madam and little man don’t yet have. 

This is me...once the kids are in bed, of course!

 So, let’s get down to the reason for this; the reason little madam and little man don’t share the same (or have an even remotely similar) relationship to the television as me.  I think the reason is largely due to my own upbringing where, when I was a wee lass (up until my tumultuous teenage years, at least, when no-one or no-thing – not even good-old mum and dad – could control my outrageous and rebellious behaviour) the television was not favoured in our household at all.  Now don’t get me wrong.  I can’t remember the television being treated as a poisonous demon or anything – my family aren’t fanatical religious people or anything – but I do remember that it was only allowed to be on at certain times (certainly not every day, and absolutely not for morning cartoons, or even for background noise etc).  And I also recall that we were mainly only allowed to watch programs shown on the good-old non-commercial ABC.  And, eventually, when I was well and truly much older than little madam’s current age of four, the odd movie; but only if it was considered appropriate. 

Devil be GONE! 

 

Now, although I don’t exactly remember my mum being neurotic about the television, I’m fairly convinced she must have been.  After all, I most certainly am.  Not neurotic about the television itself; just neurotic (and rather excessively controlling) about little madam and little man’s exposure to it.  For example, despite the fact that there is an array of terrific, and no-doubt educational child-friendly material being aired on a daily basis – even an entire channel dedicated to children – I will generally refuse to allow the sound of the television to echo through our humble abode before the Play School afternoon time-slot of 4:30pm.  And even then, I’ll only allow it to remain on for half an hour (or long enough to see the end of Giggle & Hoot’s brief five-pm sing-along). 


Believe me, this is not the upbringing I had envisaged for my own children during my very own television-deprived childhood existence.  After all, I have distinct memories of visiting friend’s houses, and being truly green with envy as the sights and sounds of commercial television banter echoed constantly around living rooms and, not to mention, in kitchens.  Oh how I longed for my mum to become one of those mums who had a television (that was constantly on, mind you) in the kitchen, to allow them to enjoy the late-afternoon game-shows that were being aired while they chopped vegetables for dinner.  After all, my mum would certainly never hear of such a thing.  And I longed to be able to wake up, like so many of my friends, at the crack of dawn, and sit in front of the television still warm and snug in my pyjamas watching the daily cartoons. 

This is what I wished I was doing Saturday mornings as a kid!

For mum’s sake, though, I don’t really think a huge injustice was done by depriving me of these small things.  I mean I had a lot of things many children didn’t.  In fact, in fairness to her (and dad, too, of course) I truly had the most wonderful upbringing and wasn’t really deprived of anything; of course, the television perhaps being the exception.  I mean our experiences as a family counted for more than a regular Saturday morning cartoon session.   And I’ve spoken at great length to my cousin – whose mum is my mum’s sister – and he, who also experienced similar restrictions during his upbringing when it came to the television, confirmed that this anti-television trait (or whatever you like to call it) definitely runs in my family.

I’ve also raised the topic of the television with my mum, and tried to get her to shed a little light on the matter at hand.  She actually admitted that, while she was a young child herself, she used to wag school just so she could stay home and watch it (sorry mum).  So I guess I can kind of see why she was more uptight than most mothers about the television; I suppose she didn’t want me (or my brother and sister) following her square-eyed path. 

It’s interesting, though, how (depending on which stage of your life you’re in) your opinions on various things can change.  I mean as a young child, the television restrictions didn’t really have any bearing on my outlook.  But as a teenager, as I sat through (and was unable to contribute to) various gossip sessions with my friends about the various happenings in Ramsay Street or Summer Bay, I began to feel as though mum and dad had wronged me in some way.  Wronged me so much, in fact, that I recall making a very firm decision I would not allow my children to suffer the same television-deprived upbringing as I.  Which brings me to my next point.  When did I unknowingly become an almost exact replica of my parents (with young children) and feel the need to restrict/control the television in my own household?     

Well.  As I ponder the answer to this point – and whether, by the end of my series of television posts, I’m likely to apologise to little madam and little man for preventing them from ever being witness to Saturday morning bugs bunny and daffy duck toons (or is something else clogging up the airwaves on Saturday mornings these days?) - I’d like to ask whether any of you are, like me, slightly neurotic about the idiot box?  Am I the only one with a family who avoided the television like one would avoid the plague during their upbringing?  Please, for the sake of my own sanity, tell me I’m not alone! 

A cow-reffying experience

Well it’s official.  Little man has had his first, and last, cow encounter.  Why’s that, you ask?  Well.  It began on a day like any other.  Actually.  It wasn’t just any day.  It was the day of little madam’s fourth birthday.  The same day we decided to take little madam and little man to a nice friendly animal farm just on the outskirts of Melbourne.  After all, what better thing to do to celebrate a four year olds birthday.  Not to mention a great outing for little man, who’s similar to his older sister in that he shares a real love and fascination for all creatures great and small.  Well.  That was before he had a close encounter with a rather large and hungry cow.

We were having a ball to begin with.  Little madam patted a range of friendly animals, had her first pony ride and even got to handle a couple of rabbits and a guinea pig.  And little man had a terrific time throwing around – then rolling around in – a heap of hay and sawdust in the animal pens.  He even took the opportunity to dip his hand and have a splash in a few of the animal’s drinking water buckets.  But the real fun began when we decided to take the so-called “feed trail” armed with a loaf of wholemeal bread that we were given on the way in to the farm.  And, although the signs ensured we understood that feeding the kangaroos was forbidden, apparently feeding the cows was not. 



Hello down there...do you have some food for me?

Admittedly, I’ve never in my life come close enough to a cow to actually feed it.  And it’s amazing how their long and warm – yet rather slimy - tongues literally leave their mouths to grab hold of the bread.  And it’s even more amazing – and perhaps a little gross too – how much slobber gets on your hand in the process.  I suppose, if you think about, the slobber could be the cow’s way of saying “thank you” for the food.  But the grossness of the slobber, or the larger than life tongues, didn’t deter little madam or little man from getting in and having a go at this fascinating feeding exercise. 

Yum yum...slobber slobber

Thankfully, little madam managed a couple of slices without a problem, and little man had no trouble on his first go.  But second time round, little man caught sight of the massive tongue making its way towards him and panicked slightly.  Or so it seemed.  I assumed the tears, which erupted after the cow had snatched the second slice of bread from little man’s hand, had been brought on by the fright he’d gotten from realising that the cow’s tongue was nearly bigger than he was.  And, naturally, I giggled a little at his over-the-top reaction.  I regretted laughing later though when I noticed a small graze on little man’s hand, and realised the cow had actually taken an unintentional nibble only seconds before the tears began.  Whoops! 

Check out the chompers on this one!!  OUCH!!

Thankfully, I'm pleased to say that no real harm was done.  But I’m pretty sure little man will think twice before he decides to offer food to a hungry cow.  Although given I’m almost thirty-five and this is the first time I’ve fed a cow, little man might forget the bad experience before he gets the chance to do it again.  With any luck, anyway!

Thanks, little man, for being brave in the face of such a large and sharp-toothed beast.  Sorry I wasn’t more sympathetic with you at the time.  Love you!

The cute car-ride comment

I want to share a rather funny comment my almost four-year-old little madam came out with in the car a couple of days ago.  Well.  The actual thing that led to the comment happened about a week ago when little madam, little man and I were on our way home from our weekly supermarket shopping expedition.  There we were, driving along, trying to get home before the ice-cream melted, when we turned into a street (where the speed limit was fifty kilometres per hour) only to find ourselves stuck behind a loony learner driver who, in his/her quest to pick up the rather difficult skill of driving a car, was doing less than thirty kilometres-per-hour.  Well.  Although I’d consider myself to be a responsible mother driver, who drives a responsible motherish car (a Subaru Forester...and not a turbo-charged one either) - and someone who’s given up their hooning ways and tends to stick to the speed limit more often than not - come on people!  I’m sorry, but even my car (which is far from being the super-speedy sports mobile I dream of owning) almost stalls if it’s forced to travel at a ridiculous thirty-kilometres per hour!  So, naturally, my first instinct was to mutter a few words of disgust at the fact that I was now forced to slow the car to a speed that I could almost walk faster than. 

Now little madam - who was sitting quietly in the back at the time and doesn’t normally go a single moment without questioning everything that goes on around her (she’s going through the “what” and “why” stage at the moment) - was no way going to let my muttering pass without asking, “What’s wrong mummy?”  After realising that my muttering had drawn the attention of little madam, and suddenly becoming aware of the horrible and impatient behaviour I was displaying, I sighed and then explained to little madam that the person driving the car in front of us – the one with the big yellow “L” sign attached to the back – was learning to drive.  Then I went on to explain, while reminding myself at the same time, that I also drove slowly, like the person who was driving the car in front of us, while I was learning to drive many years ago.   

And after a much slower journey than I’m used to, I’m pleased to report that we eventually reached home before the ice-cream melted all over the boot of the car; only just anyway.

Then a couple of days ago, as I pulled out of our street, with little madam and little man in the back again, I found myself repeating my behaviour from the previous week, and muttering disgustedly as I was, once again, forced (in a fifty-kilometre zone) to drop my speed down to around thirty-kilometres-per-hour.  And, despite the fact the car in front did not have a big yellow “L” sign displayed on the back of it, a very astute little madam leaned across from her seat, peered out the front window, and asked, “Mummy, is that person learning to drive?”   Naturally, as you can imagine, I forgot my annoyance quicker than I could put my foot down and increase my speed as soon as the slow-coach in front turned off. 

Hmmm.  This sign might have been well-placed on the back of the car I was behind a couple of days ago.

Or perhaps this one might have been more appropriate!

Thanks, little madam, for giving me something to cackle at in the car.  I guess I should try and take this as a lesson to be a little more patient and tolerant.  Love you! 

Whoops.  Perhaps I should wear a sign like this myself sometimes.  After all, a lesson in patience and tolerance probably wouldn't go astray... 

When, “Where was I?” became a very difficult-to-answer question

I never anticipated that the fun task of showing little madam (who’s now three-and-three-quarters) through some of my old photograph albums, could end up in a tearful and extremely difficult Q&A session.  I mean who would have thought that, as a mother, such a fun experience could have ended so....um...well - thanks to my complete and utter inability to know how to respond to little madam’s rather difficult question -awkwardly. 

The experience began rather well.  After all, it was terrific to see little madam’s rather astonished face when I pointed out photos of people she knows - including her Oma and Opa (that’s Grandma and Grandpa to those who aren’t familiar with the German language) - in some rather old photos.  And it was amazing to watch her excitedly point out people she recognised as we turned the pages of each album, despite the fact that many of the faces have changed over time.     

But the fun didn’t last, I’m afraid.  As we made it through the albums, and eventually stumbled upon our old – well, not that old really – wedding album (an album in which she once again recognised the faces of friends and family) this difficult-to-answer-question came about: “Where was I?”  Well, of course, at first it didn’t seem like that difficult-a-question to answer.  But unfortunately my simple, yet rather blunt, reply of, “You weren’t around then”, wasn’t the right (or perhaps “best” is a better word) answer.  As although immediately, after a short moment of confusion, little madam stopped frowning and looked as though she understood, when she came back at me with, “Oh! Was I at Oma and Opa’s?” I realised that little madam "understood" as well as little man understands the word "No!"     

"Mummy...where was I?"

Now, given that a couple of pages earlier she’d actually seen Oma and Opa in a photo at the wedding, I decided I’d better not beat around the bush (in case it caused more confusion) and answered – a little less confidently, this time - with, “No.  Oma and Opa were at our wedding.  You hadn’t been born yet.”  Well.  Talk about a bad reaction.  I mean it was obvious a second later, when tears filled little madam’s eyes, and she shouted out a rather distressed, “But...but...I need a mum!” that the whole matter of a world without her (and life before her arrival) is way beyond the scope of a three-and-three-quarter year old's understanding.    

"How dare a world exist without ME in it!"

Thankfully, though - after I laughed (unintentionally) at little madam’s distress, along with the apparent difficulty she faced with having to comprehend a world without her in it (it’s ironic, after all, as even I have a huge amount of difficulty remembering what life was like without her around – she and little man are my world, after all) – little madam was distracted away from the photo albums and she forgot her little conundrum.  And I, at the same time, was able to avoid any more difficult-to-answer questions for the time being. 

To mummy's relief, little madam busies herself with another task...PHEW!

   

Could I have done a better job answering little madam’s question?  Was I wrong to feel extremely relieved when little madam was distracted away from the photos and forgot her worries altogether.  Absolutely!  I’m sure of it!  But if you ask me how I could have done a better job at dealing with the situation, I honestly wouldn’t be able to tell you (which I guess this means this would be an equally as difficult-to-answer question).  For now though, until someone can tell me how to better respond to such a difficult-to-answer-question, I think I’ll keep the photo albums out of sight.

Thanks, little madam, for giving me another amazing thing to ponder.  Love you! 

The BOO BOO that became a BIG BOO!



Whoops!  I've made a boo boo!

 
This story isn’t quite like my other posts.  I mean it isn’t actually about parenting as such.  It’s about the potential to parent; the potential to parent not just two, but three children.  Yes.  That’s right.  THREE!  As this, for a very long week-or-so (for some unexplained reason), was what I thought I was going to have to do.  Yes.  Although I am in my thirties (and not some careless teenager...no offence to teenagers), I honestly thought (for that very long week-or-so) I (with the help of my lovely other half, of course) had made one very large and terrifying boo boo.

Towards the end of this very long week-or-so, when the panic really started to set it, I don’t know what was worse.  Knowing that I’d have to explain to my shocked (and possibly somewhat horrified) family and friends, that the shop (the same shop that I’d said after little man was born nineteen months ago...the shop that is also known as my own “baby making shop”) was well and truly closed for business.  This is also the same shop that I swore black and blue would NEVER again reopen.  And, on top of this, knowing that I’d have to explain to these same family and friends, that although this could be described as an accident, my own view on the situation put it in an entirely different category.  The category of stupidity. 

Now I won’t go into details, in case there are youngsters reading, but my other half and I have been using the same method of contraception for years (many, many, many years before the arrival of little madam and little man, anyway).  And on top of that, this method of contraception had to be well and truly put on hold (no pun intended), in order for us to be able to finally announce the imminent arrival of both little madam and little man.  So call me naive, but it was only after I Googled our particular choice of contraception that I discovered (with a large and impossible to swallow lump in my throat) that 6% of women still fall pregnant using the very method of contraception that’s been keeping me “safe” for years!  Surely not!  Well.  As they say, “You learn something new every day!”  I mean, is the only real way to avoid falling pregnant to avoid doing the deed altogether?  Goodness me!  What has the world come to? 

But perhaps, worse than this – worse than having to reveal to my family and friends my stupidity - was coming to terms with the very real realisation that my house – the one currently occupied by myself, my other half, little madam and little man – was already far too small for its four occupants.  And that the two solutions to this very small (well three-bedroom, anyway) problem – being either 1.  Buy a bigger house, or 2.  Put on an extension - were going to be well and truly unattainable thanks to our current financial situation; which is thanks, by the way, largely due to the fact that the shop (you know, the baby making one) has been opened for the last few years.



Now this is a bit of a worry!

Now I admit after sobbing on the couch at five-am, in front of my early-rising husband while he hurriedly dressed for work, and muttering something along the lines of, “This isn’t what I had planned for my life” – as though adding another little someone-or-other into our current mix was going to be the worst thing in the world – and then having to deal with my own thoughts after he bolted, with a rather worried look on his face, out the door (he did call me later, by the way, to say “Whatever happens, don’t worry, everything’s going to be fine”), I did come to terms slightly with the idea.  And believe it or not, by the time my rather late signal (the monthly signal that confirms a pregnancy is definitely NOT on the cards) I had even begun to think that having a third might be actually something great.  I mean, my mum did it.  And I love the fact that I have not one, but two terrific siblings.  And I know a couple of people that have three – and a couple that even have more than this -and they’re not so badly off.  They actually are (or seem, at least) really happy.   AIso.  Believe it or not I really love kids (especially my two little treasures who I adore to death) and babies are the bees knees.  So, I guess I think I might even have been a tad disappointed when I finally received confirmation that the above scenario wasn’t actually to be.  Despite my initial dread-filled reaction.

Oh.  But don’t worry.  To those reading this and thinking, “She can’t be seriously considering another”, rest assured, I’m not!  I’m actually planning an overdue trip to the doc’s in the next couple of weeks to make damn sure I don’t have to go through any drastic steps (such as avoiding the deed altogether) to ensure my shop (yep, the baby making one) remains closed; for now anyway.               

Thanks...um...to Google I guess.  For teaching me something new today!  

Phew!  What a relief!

Parenting lesson number 1567...

Here's a brief lesson for all you parents:  Never give your nineteen month old son the car keys (then close the door) to distract him while you attempt to load the shopping, pram and a hundred other things, into the boot.  Would you like to know the reason this lesson became obvious to me only yesterday?  Because yesterday, I did this exact thing (ie. gave my nineteen-month old little man the car keys to distract him, then closed the door, while I attempted to tend to the job of loading a pile of stuff into the boot of the car) and the clever little sod managed - only a second after the thud of the car door closing echoed into my ears - to push the lock button on the car key.  I know what you're thinking?  How stupid is this woman?  But honestly - and I dread to think of the consequences of such an action in the middle of a sweltering summer day - I've done this heaps of times before.  Given little man the keys, that is.  And, I'm pleased to report, he's never managed to press the lock button.  Until now that is.  Well.  You can imagine the state I was suddenly in.  All of a sudden, my nineteen-month old son has locked me out of the car...and locked himself and his sister in.  The latter, being my three-and-a-half year old little madam, is the reason I can now laugh at this scenario and put it behind me.  Because, it didn't seem to matter how clear my instructions were (given the pressure I was suddenly under), little man was not going to be able to (no matter how clever or nimble his fingers are) find the much smaller button on the key that would have unlocked the door. 

Eventually though, after shouting "Press the unlock button!" a number of times (and realising this was getting me no closer to solving my conundrum) I went around to the other side of the car and shouted a different instruction to a rather shocked and confused looking little madam.  And, thankfully (despite the fact that she's never in her life had to unlock a car), after only a few attempts, she managed to push the unlock button and I was able to promptly open the door.  And, naturally, reach over little madam and yank the set of keys clutched firmly in the very nimble fingers of little man, so they were once again in my possession.  Phew! 

Thanks, little man, for teaching me this very valuable parenting lesson.  I can't believe, in hindsight, how easily the mistake was made!  Love you!

Regression; or was it just a case of deliberate defiance?

Sorry.  I know it's been a while since you’ve heard from me.  Believe me, my absence from blogging has not been by choice.  I've just been flat out. And, on top of being just regularly flat-out running around taking the kids to their various activities, running around to try to get things done myself, and running around the house to try and keep on top of the mess (and the operative word here is “ try” because I’m not all that successful at this), I recently found myself at the local Maternal & Child Health Centre for little man’s eighteen-month check-up, and little madam’s three-and-a-half year check-up.  And, despite the fact little madam’s check-up was a couple of months overdue, in an effort to reduce the strain on my already chaotic schedule, I decided I’d delay little madam’s check-up slightly so I could take little man and little madam together. 

Well.  I realised almost as soon as the appointment began, that organising an hour long appointment for little man and little madam to have their particulars checked, was most definitely not my best move.  In fact it was apparent as soon as I sat down to begin my brief chat with the lovely Maternal Child Health Nurse (MCHN), when little madam began to crawl around the floor in an effort to imitate little man (the little man before he started walking, at least), I should have found a separate time in my busy schedule for each of their appointments. 

Perhaps the MCHN sensed my dismay because, in an effort to get little madam off the floor, the MCHN - who had strategically placed a few coloured pencils and a piece of paper on the small table in the centre of the room - asked little madam to draw a picture.  Well.  Not only did little madam refuse with a rather defiant “No.  I don’t want to!” she did so in a tone of voice that I could only describe as babyish. 

The drama continued when little madam decided to again raise the eyebrows of the MCHN by throwing the small plastic tea-set, that the MCHN had pulled out for her to play with, around the room.  And, despite my gentle request of, “Why don’t you make me a cup of tea...”, she, again, exercised her defiance by refusing, and continued to toss the plastic cups and plates around the room.  Well, I’m pretty sure by the time we finished with little man’s check-up, the MCHN had more than one concern about little madam’s behaviour; perhaps she even felt that I’d booked her in for her three-and-a-half year check-up prematurely.  

Never-the-less, the appointment continued and little madam’s assessment began.  As expected, it didn’t begin all that well.  First, little madam refused to participate in the eye-test.  Well.  Actually.  Her initial protests of, “I can’t do it!” had me a little worried.  Perhaps she really was struggling to see the cards the MCHN was holding up from the other side of the room.  Thankfully, though, it turned out that little madam was, in fact, just demonstrating her defiance once again.  As, after a few protests on her behalf, she eventually complied and was able to complete the test successfully.  Phew!

I was so relieved at the end of the hour long ordeal – as little man wasn’t exactly fantastically well-behaved either, and I found myself, towards the end, having to wrestle one of the small wooden chairs off him after he threatened to tip it over rather forcefully – that I’ve made a vow never to attempt a double appointment with the MCHN again; unless, of course, I can go alone.   Not likely though is it? 

Thanks little madam for showing your true colours to the MCHN.  I really was hoping you’d leave your defiant side at home that day!  Love you!