whybother?

When I came home from work last night, we had a pizza and movie night. It has been a very long week, and it was all I was really capable of. That was followed by a couple of glasses of wine. When everyone was certain that I was nice and relaxed, Darren suggested to Mollie that she show me what was in the fish tank.

Now, the fish tank has been devoid of fish for quite some time. It has been gathering dust in the spare room. Why would anything be in the fish tank, I wondered. I followed Mollie into her bedroom. She opened her wardrobe door. Why would the fish tank be in the wardrobe, I wondered. Just before she took it out, she made me promise not to kill or otherwise harm her. There was a sinking feeling within. I promised not to inflict physical harm, but reserved the right to throw a tantrum.

She had the good grace to look sheepish as she revealed the tank and its contents.

Some of you may remember that I have recently been having issues with mouses. Not mice, mouses. Apparently one of the fucktard cats caught a mouse last night. Mollie ‘rescued’ it, as she does, and decided to keep it as a pet. Not what I had in mind. I really wasn’t in the mood to argue, so I let it go.

This morning, she opened the fish tank to feed the little darling, and guess what? It ran away! 

That must be a world record, for shortest length of time a pet has been owned. I might go and ring the good people at Guinness. 

Mother’s Day, 2008. I’d already been warned not to get out of bed, and sure enough, breakfast arrived on a tray, with a chrysanthemum,  a glass of juice and a cup of tea. French toast and bacon…mmm, yum. Then it was time for the presents. A bottle of bubble bath, a bottle of body lotion, facial mask, a box of chocolates, a cute little book of motherly quotes, a journal and a special pen that lights up. Last, but not least, the home-made present: vouchers for various special treats.

Voucher 1: breakfast in bed.

Voucher 2: a relaxing bubble bath.

Voucher 3: a facial.

Voucher 4: a hair wash and head massage.

Voucher 5: a back massage.

Voucher 6: a foot massage.

Voucher 7: a manicure. 

Voucher 8: a free hug and kiss with the redemption of each voucher.

The morning was spent in total indulgence. Mollie filled the bathroom with candles and incense. She ran the bath, poured in the bubbles, topped it all off with rose-scented bath confetti. She applied the facial mask, washed my hair, gave my head a massage (mmm, heaven). When I was finished in the bath, she gave me a lovely back rub, followed by a foot rub and a manicure. Then she picked out my clothes and did my hair (???), smothering me in hugs and kisses at every stage.

Was I spoilt rotten? Yes. Did I deserve every second of it? You better believe it! I have never felt so relaxed, or so totally adored and valued. I highly recommend it to everyone!

Thanks Mollie, you’re a treasure. You really made me feel special today. I love you.

Wishing all the mothers out there a day filled with love and devotion.

PS: even Daz jumped on board: I believe he ‘helped’ with the shopping and cooking. He also provided me with an extra box of chocolates. We all know one is never enough!  Thanks, Daz. Love you.

When she went to bed last night, she promised to wake me up early so we could do presents before Dad left for work. True to her promise, the wake up call went something like this:

Me: snoring

Mollie: *roars from another room* Mummy! Time to get up!

It was still dark.

Have a great day, kiddo! Love ya! 

On this night, all those years ago, I was lying in the spare bedroom of the Evil Mother-In-Law’s (EMIL), 40 weeks pregnant and full of trepidation. All our goods and chattels had been packed up by Grace Removals, and were on their way to Western Australia. Except the pram, the car seat, the port-a-cot and the nappy bag. And the nappies. And the suitcase full of baby clothes. First thing in the morning, Daz would drive me to the hospital, where they would start the drip, which would induce the birth, which would result in the greatest miracle of all. My very own. My precious. (Gratuitously thieves lines from ‘Lord of the Rings’).

It was stinking hot, and I lay beside my husband with the ceiling fan barely stirring the heavy air. The baby was kicking and somersaulting. I knew that within 24 hours, I would hold my newborn. I would feel his or her tiny fingers grasping mine, I would look into his or her Blue? Brown? Green? eyes. I would feel his or her breath on my face as I smelled his or her glorious baby smell. Would s/he have hair? What colour would it be? How much was it going to hurt? This time tomorrow, I thought, I will be a mother. We will be a family. I will never be the same again.

I began to cry. Darren held me, soothing me, laughing gently at his ‘little wife’. Not so little at that point, I can assure you! ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘I’m scared!’ I sobbed. ‘What if I can’t do it? What if something goes wrong? Look at this pram, this car seat, what if we never need them?’ He laughed again, but not in a mocking way. ‘You’ll be fine. I believe in you.’ 

I cried myself to sleep. I doubt if Darren slept at all, as he kept watch over us. Our last ever night of ‘coupledom’, the eve of discovering the joys and wonders of parenthood. I remember.

Mollie is musical. She sings. In the Australian Youth Choir. She plays the violin. Has done since she was 4. Her choice. When I was 4, I didn’t even know what a violin was. Even when she began playing, I didn’t know you could buy kid-sized ones!

She has never been a dancer. This is because I have dance phobia. I think I went to a tap lesson when I was about 6, and it scarred me for life. I did take her to enrol when she started school, but when we went to buy the leotard and the shoes, I chickened out and pulled the plug. Last year, a friend’s children were performing in a dance eisteddfod. I went along to watch. I was traumatised. All she has ever wanted has been to dance, and thanks to me, it’s been out of reach.

Last year, she tried out for dance for Star Struck (see image below). She just missed out, but was accepted into the choir. Today, she tried out for dance and made it! Happy is our little performer! Proud is her non-musical, two-left-feet mother. Go Mol!

Cheers. My 10 year old daughter has a blog. We all know how much we love people to read our crap and leave comments, so could you please visit her site for me? Pretty, pretty please? There is a link in my sidebar, called Blonde Chick, or you can just click here.

My (rather large) baby went off to day one of Year 6 today. The king (queen?) of the hill, the top of the heap. The big fish in the little pond. *sobs* WHERE DID THE LAST 6 FUCKING YEARS GO?

I distinctly remember this day in 2002 when she first went off to big school. The new uniform, the bag that was too big to fit comfortably on her little back. The huge, floppy hat. The shiny shoes. The little bunch of freshly picked flowers clutched tightly in the little fist to give to the new teacher. The "I’m a big girl now, I want to make my own sandwich". *sigh*

A couple of days ago we went into battle over the school shoe issue.

Mol: I’m not wearing school shoes. I refuse. They are ugly. They are uncomfortable. I will get bashed. I need those $50 skate shoes. It must be that particular brand, and they must be white with pink checks.

Me: They’re sold out. I’ve rung EVERY SINGLE BRANCH of that shoe store and THEY DON’T HAVE ANY. None.

Mol: Well I’ll go without. I’ll wear last year’s pair.

Me: No, you won’t. They’re manky. They smell. What about these nice black school shoes, you know, the kind that ARE REQUIRED?

Mol: Absolutely not. You can buy them if you like, but I won’t wear them. Do you WANT me to get bashed?

Me: These ones are funky! They have high heels! They’d look really cute with a pair of knee high socks!

Mol: *withering stare*

Me: *sigh* What do you want me to do?

Mol: Well if I can’t have those ones (the sold out ones), I suppose these ones will do.

We have a new addition to our family. Oh Happy Day. Let me tell you the story, because I know you’ll be fascinated.

Mollie was visiting her Nan at the farm. My nature loving girl, who at the age of 2, declared to all and sundry that she was going to be a farmer when she grew up. Nan did not live on a farm at that stage, so who knows where that came from? So any chance she gets, she hits the farm. She quad bikes, she gets on the ride on mower, she rakes grass, she feeds chooks, she collects leaves…whatever can be done on a farm, she’s there. A couple of months ago one of the cows gave birth: Mollie witnessed this amazing event and the calf was named ‘Mollie’ in her honour.

So, this afternoon, Mollie noticed Ben (the dog) was up to no good. On closer inspection, he was trying to eat a baby bird. Mollie rescued the poor little thing from the very jaws of death. She shooed the dog away, lovingly cradled the bird to her chest and willed it to live. It did. Unlucky for me. She’s just arrived home, birdcage in hand, seed and water trays overflowing everywhere, begging me to let her keep it.

Me: why can’t the bird live at the farm? That’s what farms are for.

Mollie: *in great theatrical style* because Ben will murder it!

Me: and that’s my problem because?

Mollie: Mum, it’s part of nature, it deserves to live. I rescued it, it’s my responsibility.

Me: *sighs* What’s its name?

(wait for it)

Mollie: Miracle

What could I say to that?

 (Miracle is sleeping at the moment. I will take a photo tomorrow, if he lives that long, and post it for your viewing pleasure. He is actually quite a sweet little thing). 

So, she’s had a couple of detentions lately. So, she didn’t win any prizes at Presentation Day. MY baby just performed at her violin recital. Show of hands, please. How many of YOU or YOUR children can play the violin to performance standard, hmmmm? That’s right, not many!! And I can gloat, because her talent does not come from me!!! Mollie, you go girl! Love from your bursting-with-pride mother xo.

When I was a child, I was well behaved. I didn’t back chat my parents, because I wasn’t game. I didn’t back chat my teachers, because they were in charge, and they knew better. In 13 years of schooling, I received one (well-deserved) detention. Other children clowned around, I laughed but did not join in. I did my homework. I did my assignments. By myself. My mother did not do them for me. I won academic prizes. I had perfect attendance. Ok, so I was a complete nerd, but a happy, well behaved nerd.

Darren was a bastard as a child. He thought his name was Jesus Christ, because that was what he heard. As in, "Jesus Christ! What have you done?" He had a motor mouth, and could not resist any opportunity to share his wit with others. At school, and at home, he was flogged every day of his life. He spent more time outside the classroom than inside, because he COULD NOT CONTROL HIMSELF. Or, should I say, WOULD not control himself.

Mollie is Darren’s child in every way. She will argue black is white. She is never wrong, she knows everything and she will not back down. She is lucky the cane has been banned, because she would definitely be in company with her father: flogged every day of her life.

Discipline has changed a lot over the years. Whether you agree or disagree with corporal punishment, and there are many strong arguments for and against it, it is now a thing of the past. Being threatened with the stick was no deterrent for Darren, and I doubt if it would deter his daughter. The modern equivalent of the stick, is ‘the card’. At Mollie’s school, the colour of the card denotes the seriousness of the offence. It’s taken me a couple of years to understand the system, because I was innocent of the fact that my child had ever received ‘a card’. Personally, I would have been mortified had I received a card. To Mollie, it’s a badge of honour. A recent conversation went something like this:

Child: Miss H has a new method of disciplining us

Mother: What’s that?

Child: The Purple Card

M: And how does that work?

C: Well, if you’re naughty or annoy her, she gives you a purple card. If you get three purple cards, she writes a letter to your parents.

M: God help you if you bring a letter home!

C: Some kids already have three purple cards, and it only started on Monday! I’ve only got one!

M: *death stare*

C: Um, oops, didn’t mean to say that!

M: What did you do?

C: Can’t remember!

Yeah, right.

Anyhoo, the report card came home tonight. No mention of coloured cards, no unpleasant surprises, generally speaking, a reasonably good result. This led to a conversation about behaviour, discipline, etc. Have I ever mentioned the fact that Mollie can’t help dobbing herself in? It may be a symptom of being an only child, where she has no one else to blame, but she inevitably drops herself in it every time. So, we’re chatting, and she says "X was about to throw a whiteboard duster at the ceiling fan today, but the teacher saw him and reminded him that he was going to be school captain next year, so when she turned her back I told him to pass it to me! I threw it at the fan and it bounced off the wall and hit a computer monitor". Guess who HASN’T been elected school captain? I asked her if she got a purple card, and she replied that she hadn’t been caught. The following conversation ensued:

Child: I got a yellow card the other day though.

Mother: What’s a yellow card?

C: It’s badder (sic) than a purple card.

M: Badder? You mean worse. What did you do?

C: Whatever. I got caught spraying water.

M: Who did you spray water at?

C: The ground.

M: And that led to a yellow card?

C: Yeah.

M: Well what does a yellow card mean?

C: Detention.

M: *choking sound* You had a detention? You got a detention for spraying water at the ground?

C: *eye roll* I was SUPPOSED to have a detention. I didn’t go.

M: *splutters* What do you mean you didn’t go? How does anyone not go to detention?

C: Easy, I stayed away from the detention room and the teacher who gave me the yellow card.

M: They don’t have a list of who is supposed to be in detention?

C: Apparently not.

Oh my God. What is the point of a punishment that doesn’t punish? Why give a child a detention and not follow it up? And why does spraying water at the ground constitute an offence punishable by detention? What a stupid thing to give a detention for. These people are educating our children! Does anyone else find that terrifying?