Wondrously Other: Working Mama

Showing posts with label Working Mama. Show all posts

When your crazy ends up on TV

Sometimes, when life gives you lemons, it's time to roll up your sleeves and Google "unusual lemon recipes" because, frankly, homemade lemonade tastes like ass.

Most of the time, the metaphorical lemons don't relate to housing yourself and your three children on a tight budget, but when they do, the usual options share a similar appeal to me as homemade lemonade.

So it was time to Google "unusual housing options" and hope that the reply wouldn't be "Showing results for Homemade lemonade recipes".

What appeared in the results was a long list of tiny house builders who claimed to build family-sized tiny homes. One, in particular, stood out like a beacon of sanity as the only ones who seemed to understand the need for storage. Hand to God, Build Tiny, if it weren't for you I would never have gone through with this crazy scheme.

"You and three kids in one of our houses?", they said, "hold our motherfucking drinks". Except they didn't quite put it like that because, y' know, they're professionals.

Enthusiasm wise though? Totally holding their drinks.

It took them four months from the time I ordered the house until the day it was delivered. The longest four months of my life.

More importantly, because Build Tiny was so chill about the whole deal, it didn't occur to me that what I was planning was quite odd. Enter TV3 stage left to ask if they could film us for a show.

It was tactfully pitched as a show about people making "big life changes" but you know, oh you KNOW that was code for "look at these idiots thinking they can get all up in a houseboat when they've come from a five-bed penthouse in the city".

I wanted to do it though. If I'm going to call my blog Wondrously Other, you know I'm no stranger to the side-eye of strangers over my life choices. I figured maybe some other family might see it and be inspired. Or maybe less depressed about the weirdness of their own life choices. "Oh, you think THIS is bad? Check out the lady who lives in a shoe"

Which is maybe the briefing they should have given the film crew because I have yet to see a face as crestfallen as the cameraman trying to get TV quality shots in a tiny house. No word of a lie, the first words that came out of his mouth when he saw the interior was "I'm gonna need a wider lense".

It took all my self-control not to darken his day further by bringing up his oblique Jaws reference.

Fortunately, my children took care of that particular dilemma by demonstrating why there is a saying in the film industry that should never work with children or animals.

"Tash, can we just get a shot of the kitchen? Without the children? No without the ... we can still see a leg. Further back. Further. Outside?"

"Tash, can you just sit on the sofa and do a quick interview with the host? Why is house rocking? Are they jumping on their beds?"

"Children, can you take Kanoa up to your room and tell her a bit about what you like about living here?" .............. (insert crickets here)

Not that I was any better. I derp hard in front of cameras. It's a life long burden that my father, the family photographer, has carried with barely concealed frustration. The only photo of me and my sisters ever to make the walls at home is the one where I accidentally cracked up laughing. Hey, it's that or I look like a snake, take the damn crackup, dad.

Every time I had to talk to the camera my mouth moved like I'd had a stroke. I lost the ability to open and close drawers. I forgot how to put logs on the fire. I'm gonna be blunt here, I am not waiting for a phone call to become TV's next hot talent.

But for all that, our family's little 15 minutes of fame came out pretty well. I'm not sure whether I fell more on the side of "shoe dweller" or "inspirational free thinker" but who cares, we love La Sombra, our teeny tiny home in the country, and that's what counts.

Tuesday, 28 January 2020 Comments: 0

The hardest words to say

Over the past year, life, as I knew and wrote about, has changed beyond recognition. There is no part of my former life left, except a few treasured items and, of course, the children.

So to put it bluntly, I tried and I failed.

I've said that a lot over the last year. I tried and I failed to be a wife. I tried and I failed to homeschool the children. I tried and I failed to hold down a high flying career without a partner. I tried and I failed to look after my mental health. I tried and I failed, more times than I will ever be able to count.

So what do you do with that? How do you take failure after failure and put yourself back together? How do you drag yourself back out of the mud after each gut punch to hold your head high?

That's not rhetorical, and I'm not asking for a friend, I'm saying these are the questions that go round my head day after day, punch after punch.

I want to spend some time going into each of the many cluster fucks of the last year, but there's time for that, and we've all just spent the festive season overeating, so I'm gonna keep the popcorn and schadenfreude quotient low on this return post. That said, I'm all about the spoilers, so here's my answer to my not so rhetorical question.

You just do.

You find that one thing that makes you smile today. You forgive yourself for the unending fuck ups as you learn how to be a new you. You lean on the people around you. You imagine new adventures.

Yesterday I changed my necklace from the one I have been wearing for years. That old necklace was one I bought during the worst parenting experience of my life and it reminded me that nothing would ever be that bad again.

Today I am wearing a pounamu that the children gave me last Christmas. It symbolises new beginnings. Give me some time and I'll share each of those new beginnings. I'll get brave again with my words. I'll feel safe in sharing my chaos.

I started writing this blog because I was going nuts trying to have a baby. I carried on writing because I was going nuts when I had three of them. Now I need to write because I have a crazy-ass life, no idea how I got here, and if I don't laugh about it with someone, years from now, none of you will get my epitaph even close to accurate.

Monday, 30 December 2019 Comments: 0

Attachment Parenting Esme Working Mama

Your values are not my values ... and that's OK

One day I will look back at how challenging I find parenting my daughter and laugh: That's a rhetorical statement by the way, in case anyone feels the need to tell me I'm delusional.

My latest internal struggle has been with Esme's three-month campaign to get some makeup of her very own. My struggles are twofold;

Struggle The First - Is it Appropriate for a Five Year Old to Wear Makeup?

I'm a product of society, just like everyone else. For every conscious thought, I have my share of programmed reactions that say that makeup on young children is wrong: Why are you in such a hurry to look older? Why pick makeup as your form of expression with its connotations of sexuality?

And while I'm normally someone who respects my gut reactions, in this case, they were wrong. They were wrong because they weren't my own, they were a subtle learned misogyny.

I've always said that I would defend the rights of women to wear to wear revealing clothes and not be assaulted. I've spoken out about fat shaming, and slut shaming, and mansplaining, and yet ... and yet. Somehow when it was my five-year-old daughter wanting to wear makeup, it was different.

How hypocritical of me to find some of her expression positive, and to judge this one. When she wanted a skateboard, I cheered her on. When she begged me for a ride on my bike, I was excited. When she got excited about something that leaves me cold, it took me months to get behind her.

I could hide behind the fact that it was a simple case of not having that shared passion to spark my enthusiasm, but it was more than that. It disappointed me to have Esme excited by something so stereotypical, and worse, a symbol of other people's expectations of female beauty.

But the subversion of a tradition can be an exciting thing, and while I'm sure Esme was blissfully unaware of my motives as we picked out her first items of war paint, there was a small part of me that enjoyed sticking two fingers at the traditional ideals of what makeup means and who should be allowed to use it.

Unfortunately, once the thrill of subversion had worn off, I was left with another issue.

Struggle The Second - She Looks Like a Clown

I know that everyone has to start somewhere, and I fully accept that I'm no makeup expert, but even I don't strut around looking like a drag queen coming off a three-day binge. Despite me finding Esme several videos on how to apply her new makeup, she continues to ¨experiment¨.

I'm not against experimenting, as a concept.

Some of the finest musicians have created new and exciting genres of music by experimenting. But if you look at the greats of jazz, for example, they always mastered the rules before they started bending them. If they hadn't, they would have sounded like a rhino sitting on a keyboard in much the same way that Esme currently looks like she's lost a stand-up row with a glitterball.

On one hand who cares? She's having fun and if nothing else she's got her ¨zombie face" nailed should the likes of Walking Dead ever need to cast the role of Small Antipodean Rage Zombie.

But then there's the other hand. The one where I have no poker face to speak of, and where Esme comes bounding up to me with lipstick smeared all up her nose and eye shadow all down her cheeks and asks me with the hope-filled eyes how her makeup looks. The one where I have to find that razor thin line between honesty and kindness, between integrity and encouragement. The one where I rue the day I ever gave her access to YouTube.

P.S. I just wanted to preserve for posterity that Esme is not standing against that part of the wall by accident. Nothing ruins an ¨edgy urban photo¨ like your daughter being photobombed by an enormous graffiti penis!

Friday, 5 May 2017 Comments: 0

Attachment Parenting Learning Stay At Home Dad Travel Working Mama

A week of my own

Life is starting to return to normal now, but for a while there, things were looking hairy. The family left Harry and I home alone for eight days, and I think we have collectively agreed that was about 5 days too long for all our mental health. For some, the learning was that banking on kiwi summer weather is a bad thing. For Harry, it was a reminder of why I am not his favourite human. I'm not sure what my learning was, if anyone can figure it out, feel free to let me know.

Day 1 – Departure

Everyone is awake and racing around the house like a scene from any given Home Alone film. Harry the dog knows that any time the suitcases appear, his world is going to become a lot more lonely, so he lies in the middle of the floor. We are in a hurry to get to the airport so that I can still get to work at a reasonable time, and the excitement carries me along, even though I know I will have to leave the better part of me behind before long. I’m not great with goodbyes so when the time comes I’m full of “catch you later”s and “have fun”s as I run to work. I decide that being busy will be my antidote to this goodbye; busy at work, and busy when I get home. I spend the evening cleaning and tidying the house until I’m sweating and exhausted before taking a long bath and collapsing into bed for a Skype call with home.

Day 2 – Ride Night

I’ve done the maths; the only way I can get to work on time and still walk Harry is if we run. I’m not entirely sure this is a good plan, but right now, it’s all I’ve got. The dog is even less convinced and spends the entire 1.6 miles trying to throw himself under my feet or drag my down the road. I start to doubt that tying his lead to my waist with a belt was a good move. I’m excited for my evening because it’s Lita meet up night and, thanks to the “Summer weather”, we are planning to meet up for drinks and pool instead. I’m also excited for my weekly chip dinner and wonder whether I should start making notes about where to get the best curly fries Vs Kumara wedges. The beer is good, and the banter is better and by the time I get home, I’m ready for my bed. I have a maudlin moment as I walk into a dark house that immediately vanishes when I turn on the lights. It’s been 24 hours and the novelty of walking into a clean and tidy house has definitely not worn off yet.

Day 3 – Painting

My busy work for this evening is naked ceiling painting, red wine and adventure riding videos on YouTube: The first made possible by the others. But first I have a small problem to deal with in the shape of a mouse infestation. I’m not entirely sure whether we have one very brave mouse, whether I am caught in a Matrix-like glitch, or whether a family of grey mice have moved in for the winter. All I do know is that I am spending altogether too much time looking up to see a mouse crossing the floor which the hound does precisely nothing about it. OK, maybe that’s not entirely fair. He caught and killed one of them at breakfast, and he spends most of the evening eyeballing one he has trapped in the Singer unit. I am left in something of a moral crisis over the correct vegan response to the prospect of mice shitting all through my kitchen until spring, which is why I don’t notice that I’m low on paint until it is too late. I run out with one small finger of ceiling left to paint, and I know that it will bug the crap out of me for the rest of the week.

Day 4 – Work Drinks

I have to be in Palmeston North for meetings today, so I build Harry a little den on the front deck and wish him well against the weather. He regards me with utter disgust before turning his back on me and walking away. I get back into town and head straight out for work drinks, with that feeling of a reward well-earned that you get after an especially hard week. There’s a really good vibe about the group this evening, and I find a beer that is way more drinkable than is healthy. Eager to blow off some steam, I end up leaving the work drinks and going to some house parties, one of which makes me feel unbelievable old and sober, the other which is exactly the chilled end to the week I was looking for. Harry won’t even look at me when I get back home to him, and stalks past me to his bed. Just as I shut his door, a mouse runs across the floor and into the kitchen. I’ll give them credit for a good sense of comic timing.

Day 5 – Mooching

It’s the weekend. I open my eyes and get a small reminder of how fabulous life was back when I was able to have a lie in. Immediately feel guilty for having a lie in and get up to Make Most Of Day. Decide that my first call will be The Beach Kiosk for brunch with my book. Run down to the car only to remember that the car hasn’t been started in several days and that Keith had grumbled about needing a new battery before he left. Utter prayer to the God of Small Pleasures as I turn the key and the car chunters into life. Decide day will involve a decent drive to get some charge back into the battery and that while I’m there, I may as well pop into a bike shop to see if they have anything I want to test ride. I order brunch, and, as I open my book surrounded by a wall of human chatter, I am suddenly overcome with an unbearable sadness that spears my heart and makes my head ache. I miss them. Luckily my food arrives fast and I am distracted by a great story and even better food and walk out ready to go another round with the truculent car. After an abortive trip to the bike shops, I find myself in the centre of town with nothing to do, and the rain coming in sideways. So I do something I have promised myself for the longest time and go to Te Papa to walk slowly and reverently around the Gallipoli exhibition. Seems like everyone else has had a similar idea and the place is slammed, but I wait, before blubbering the whole way around the exhibition. I leave feeling raw and duck into a few favourite shops to buy myself something yummy for dinner. It does the trick.

Day 6 – Spanner Day

I’m excited about the idea of getting all up and greasy with my friends and their motorbikes today right up until the point I open the curtains and survey Armageddon in weather form. Meh. I treat myself to hot “buttered” toast and my biggest mug to tea and contemplate what to do with my day. I decide that weather this bleak is the perfect excuse for comfort food and put a slow cook chickpea curry on for later. Somewhere around lunchtime, the rain stops long enough for one of The Litas to paddle her way over to mine. We spend the rest of the afternoon abusing both her bike (and the Haynes manual) while streams of oil run up our arms and we fish lost bolts out of the frame with flexible magnets. I can’t remember the last time I was so happy. I hadn’t even realised how much I enjoyed working on cars and bikes until now. I make a silent vow to spend more time in the garages henceforth. Around dinner time, we are joined by another awesome Lita and spend the evening chilling with curry. Harry decides that his life has taken a distinct turn for the better when one of the Litas takes a shine to him.

Day 7 – Exhaustion

Today was not a good day. As always happens with me, I feel like I have to push myself to fill my time in a useful way, and completely forget to chill the fuck out and take care of myself in the process. My limbs are full of lead, but somehow I manage to muster the energy to order some pizza. I decide that the only remedy is to forget the To Do list that I have dutifully stuck to the fridge, forget the mouse problem, forget everything in favour of a super long soak in the bath with a beer and my book. I don’t get very far with the book because having been quiet for most of the week, Keith decides to make this The Evening of Much Communication. I’m glad of the company even if it is text based and full of longing. It’s small comfort that we have some exciting stuff planned for when the fam get home because there are still two long days to wait. Two days; it might as well be two years.

Day 8 – Malaise

I’m done. The dog is done. We have taken to lying forlornly in the lounge allowing the mice to run around the house and claim it as their own. The weather is amazing, and we are treated to a glorious sunset that we both regard with a jaded side eye. Life has no meaning without the family, food has no taste, sunsets no beauty. Where is our noise, our chaotic meals, our trail of discarded dirty clothes? How can it be that I haven’t had to repeat myself in over a week? Harry and I trudge down the road for one last evening walk together. When another dog passes us, Harry doesn’t even have sufficient fucks left to bark at him. We both get an early night.

Day 9 - Homecoming

I’m obnoxiously excited, almost giddy. Harry senses my mood and bounces down the road on his morning walk, causing me to call him a cow bag when he trips me up for the umpteenth time. I head out to work in a new outfit but before I close the door, I take one last look at the clean and orderly house. Next time I see this place it will be trailing in the wake of three walking mess bombs, but somehow, I can’t bring myself to care. I have come to the realisation that having a tidy house is a poor substitute for having the family around. I leave work early to go to the airport and I’m so full of nervous energy, I’m crackling. I stand at the gate eager to see my babies and desperate to kiss my husband. The moment is only slightly tarnished when they bundle through the gate arguing at full volume. All those quips about missing the peace and quiet come flooding back as they walk towards me and I wonder whether there is such a thing as a timeshare for families.

Tuesday, 21 March 2017 Comments: 1

Attachment Parenting Learning Working Mama

Teach Your Monster To Read

I’m a worrier by nature. I don’t know whether being responsible for Alfie’s education make that better or worse, but I worry.

Mainly I worry about the subjects that he doesn’t enjoy, like reading and writing.

And yeah, I have faith in the process, but what if he's the exception to the rule? Writing isn’t one of those things that you can get very far in life without, it kinda limits your options when you don’t have at least a basic grasp of your mother tongue.

I once did work as a PA and reviewed a CV of someone who couldn’t spell their own address (they wrote Bowmantlees instead of Beaumont Leys) which sort of blows my mind because this was someone who claimed to have a driving license in the days before Sat Nav was even a thing. How the hell did they find their way home?!? Did they drive aimlessly around the Midlands until they found something they recognised? What happened at night? Did they just park up until it was light enough to identify local landmarks? Or did they drive along with their head out of the window navigating by the stars?

Travel issues aside, people are going to judge you for that kind of thing … and not in a good way. Nobody looks at someone who can’t spell their own address with admiration. It’s sort of an unspoken rule of society that you should be able to write at least well enough for Google to have a crack at understanding you.

So yeah, I worry about Alfie becoming the kid that Google forgot.

It’s not that I think he lacks ability, he just flat out gives no fucks about writing and reading for himself. He’ll write things like shopping lists when he wants to cook dinner, but his heart just isn’t in it, you can tell. Mainly because he tells you. Repeatedly.

One day, probably while I was worrying about something else, I got an email from a company telling me about their application called Teach your Monster to Read

I must have been having an angry day because I misunderstood the reference to monsters. I thought it was some “funny” play on children being little monsters and filed the email under “what fuckery is THIS?!?!” only to realise some time later that I had made a big mistake and they were being entirely literal.

As in, the game is about your child designing a monster and then teaching it to read. Which is entirely logical when you think about and/or you’re not a chronic over-reactor who shouldn’t judge children’s software so harshly just because you’re having a bad day, NaTAsha.

I opened the application and set up a profile for Alfie: I did it as quickly as I could and then backed out of the site with unholy speed before the bright colours and annoying sounds made me regret giving this monster lark a second chance.

That night, I unveiled the site to the children.

The next day I had to set up a profile for both Esme and Olive. Their own profiles, with their own monsters, wearing skirts and bows pleasethankyou.

The day after that I had to set up better security on my laptop to stop the children from logging onto the internet by themselves at 3am.

Two days after that, I had to develop a rota system to save my laptop from being drawn and quartered.

The day after that I had to start confiscating my laptop between monster teaching sessions.

Now, I have resigned myself to coming home every night to smeary fingerprints on my screen and jam on my keyboard. Because monsters.

At least the children are learning. Between the fighting over who gets to learn. You hear that? My children are fighting over who's turn it is to learn. Even the one who previously had no fucks to give.

I've read blog posts like this before and rolled my eyes half way to my brain because please, do I look gullible enough to believe that a simple website is capable of making a reluctant child have some sort of learning epiphany?

No, I am not.

I am the lifelong sceptic who laughs at the very idea until she is forced to choke on the bittersweet taste of her own words as she's torn between celebrating a newly found passion in reading and mourning the rapid destruction of her laptop.

Saturday, 4 March 2017 Comments: 2

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