Boy vs Girl

I am so super lucky. I have a boy AND a girl. And my boy is older which means she will have lots of his nice older friends to go out with when she reaches going out age (about 30) and vice versa. If I had planned it, I couldn't have planned it better.

Of course, hand me down clothes are a bit difficult - she absolutely point blank refuses to wear anything he has worn, and she's only two. And he's so rough on his toys that by the time she is capable of playing with them, they usually have one wheel sadly dangling and a gasping 'wheesh' where there used to be a cheery 'parp! parp!' But apart from that, having one of each gender is a beautiful thing. Lucky, lucky.

Pre-baby I had sometimes given the 'Nature, Nurture' debate a mild think or two, and had decided that if you bring your boys up to be a bit girly, they will have soft hands and wear pink shirts. And if you bring your girls up to be a bit boysey, they will have short hair and play hockey.  Now I've had the evidence placed in front of me (or rather, yanked out of me) I can say fairly definitely that my boy is most definitely a bloke, and my girl is extremely girly, and I don't think my ham-handed parenting has had much to do with it at all.

My boy is loud and rough. He likes being naked and farting. He can tell the difference between all major types of machinery and he picks his scabs. Right now he is watching Bob the Builder with the air of someone who is about to be examined on it.
Whereas my daughter, who has just toddled into the room, has made straight for my Mango Bodybutter, taking a fingerful and inhaling the sweet scent with pleasure before smearing it carefully into her little hands and arms. She then demanded to play with my bangles and told me she was feeling pretty today.

I don't think I am overtly encouraging them to play out gender specific roles although no doubt I am giving off unconscious signals. But then again, when they're teenytiny babies the only real difference between them is the wiping technique required when changing nappies (the boys rule this one hands down). So which then, came first - my nurture, or their nature?

I think I'm going to wonder about this for the rest of their lives. Lucky.

Eat, Drink and Be... Elsewhere

Before I had children, I thought Burnt Chop Syndrome was something that happened at parties when everyone was having too good a time to keep an eye on the barbie. Now I know only too well what Burnt Chop Syndrome is and it's as hard to swallow as it sounds.

In the olden days, dinner meant a casual meal in with one or twenty mates or a cheap and choice night out at a Thai restaurant or a fancy two course meal (first course - a main, second course - wine) at an exclusive candlelit grotto where the chef was always in the paper and sometimes on the telly. Dinner always meant 'sitting down'. Nobody shouted and screamed or threw food on the floor and walls unless they'd had one too many and by then it was time to go anyway. And no matter where it was or how many people were there, dinner was always fun.

I haven't had a fun dinner in years. You don't with little children. There is breastfeeding which can be soothing and lovely and bonding but which is mostly annoying, sore and boring. There is first foods, a much awaited milestone in which the novelty of hovering over child to ensure food makes it into their ridiculously inexpert mouths and that they don't choke on it once it gets there - not to mention wasting half the day chiselling hardened sludge off walls, floor, highchair and baby, wears off all too bloody quickly.

Later, there is sitting up at the table with the family and spending most of the meal grabbing forks before they are stabbed into eyes, tabletop or siblings, and swiping food and sauce bottles away from opportunistic, sticky fingers. No convivial dinner conversation either - just the constant nagging refrain of, 'Don't spit on the table, get your hands off my plate, vegetables are nice' and 'for the last time, will you stop pouring milk on the cat.'

There is giving the children a separate, earlier dinner which although very sensible also involves twice as much cooking and cleaning up, and behind all these different meal options for children there's the ever present Burnt Chop Syndrome - where everyone else gets the nicest bits of everything and Mum makes do with the leftovers, which she bolts while standing at the kitchen bench, cloth in hand ready to swoop on faces, hands, floor and table, as small people scream and wail, hit and spit.

I'm coming for dinner at yours tomorrow, alright?

Which Is Your Favourite Child?

I was at the park with my two toddlers the other day. The sun was shining after two days of rain and the children were almost salivatingly feral from being cooped up indoors. I parked the double pram, untangled them from their seat straps, blinked... and they were gone.

Wildly I looked around and immediately saw two little clouds of Pigpen dust marking their progress as their feet, blurry with speed, flew across the ground. One little cloud of dust was heading toward the lake - the other toward the busy road.

This is one of those nightmarish moments that wakes me gasping and sweaty in the middle of the night, a moment that sends me scuttling into their room to check that they're still happily asleep, inhaling that sweet scent of contented child guaranteed to bring a racing heartbeat down to normality. But in the bright light of panicked day there was no time to gasp. There was only time to take action. But which way was I going to go? WHICH ONE WAS I GOING TO SAVE?

Out of sheer mischief I often ask my friends which of their children is their favourite. Invariably the reaction is the same. A vigorous shaking of the head, and an adamant, "Oh no, we love them the same."

This, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is utter bullshit.

It is impossible to love your children the same as it is impossible to love oranges and apples the same. One is juicy, one is crunchy. One has to be peeled, the other has a core. Advantages, disadvantages. We love them for different reasons but not in the same way.

For example, I love my son because he is my firstborn. Because it took 29 hours of excruciatingly labour to bring him into the world and that makes it worth it. Because he is smart and loving, has big hair and can sleep through the night. I love my daughter because she is a girl and I understand her. I love her because she is easygoing, funny, devastatingly cute, and eats whatever I put in front of her.

I don't love my son when he refuses to get dressed and cries and screams and kicks me. I don't love my daughter when she has awakened me ten times in the same night for a different reason (thirsty, monsters, nightlight on, nightlight off, pillowcase needs changing, bed needs to be turned around, where's the moon, etc). Sometimes my son is my favourite, other times my daughter is.

On this particular occasion at the park, I was facing a dilemma - right now they were both my favourites. So which one? WHICH ONE?

Thankfully (and a special shout out goes to the angels for helping), my little girl's feet, unreliable at the best of times, chose that moment to perform an erratic acrobatic tumble. I was able to get to my boy before he flung himself headlong into the lake, and trot back to her still flailing and wailing, safe in the dust.

Before I packed them back into the pram, indignant, dirty and snotty, I hugged each one as tightly as I could. For I love them both so much. Just - not the same.

The Origins of Style - What Not To Buy

If you're one of those types who likes clothes shopping, you will adore having children. Voila - not only have you doubled your weight, you've also doubled your shopping opportunities (even if your capacity to pay for it has considerably diminished).

Before my baby was born, I'd coo over teeny, ickle, delicate things at designer baby stores. I actually bought a rectangle baby wrap for 30 bucks (plain stretch cotton with an overlocked hem) because there was no way I wanted my teeny, ickle, delicate, designer baby to be wrapped in the same thing from Philp Wrights at 2 bucks a metre. What a wanker I was.

Then he was out into the world and I belatedly realised that babies grow FAST. What fitted perfectly yesterday barely slid over pudgy arms today. Domes popped eye-wateringly at the crotch and terrified screeching became our regular morning chorus as his enormous alien-like head was wedged inside a too small collar.

Before I knew it, the designer babystores were traded in for T&T and Farmers, and then it was Savemart and a world of hilarity. There's nothing funnier than dressing your kids in original 70's baby clothing. Our parents had a great time doing it and I can see why. Orange corduroy! Ba ha ha ha.

There's the joy of Playgroups and their boxes of free clothing (sometimes known as the Lost and Found but whatevs), and the awesomeness of a friend who drops by with a bag of clothes out of the blue. Love, LOVE that.

I was especially lucky to have a boy and a girl. Boy's clothes are lame. Tops and pants in a variety of leg and arm lengths. Yawn. But girls! Dresses, skirts, pants, leggings, skorts, tunics, tights... so many opportunities to satisfy the shopaholic - if only they weren't all in various shades of bloody pink. Which brings me to the point of this ode to shopping:

What Not to Buy

1: If your baby can't sit up, don't buy anything that does up at the back. Babies do not lie obediently still with their faces mashed into the bed while you stuff around with fiddly buttons. There's also that whole breathing thing.

2: Pyjama Onesies. The legs are never the right size and the domes are smaller than ants. Use nightgowns for easier night time changes. (Boys can wear nightgowns too - Wee Willie Winkie wore his with pride).

3: Overalls without domes at the crotch are the stupidest invention ever because you have to strip the whole damn thing off to change the nappy. Life is too short for that kind of crap.

4: Scratch mittens. Your baby has just spent months in the dark touching, sucking and feeling her way with her fingers. It's an important part of learning and helps her feel secure. Don't stuff it up because you're too scared to keep her nails short.

5: Knitted booties with ties. What are you - a shepherd? You don't live in the Middle Ages. Get socks.

6: Button up collared shirts. Who irons? Nobody irons. Who loves wasting time using their giant fingers to fumble around with miniscule buttons? NOBODY. But hey - if you want your baby to look like a crumpled, misbuttoned sales exec after a boozy night out, go for it.

7: Denim is hard and unyielding like concrete. Your baby is soft like a marshmallow. Why are you putting marshmallows in concrete? Jeans on babies are just plain wrong.

8: Babies don't walk. THEY DON'T NEED FUCKING SHOES.

9: Onesies for older babies. Try snapping crotch and leg domes together when your baby is mobile. Just try it. Then throw out all your onesies and admit I was right.

10: Dresses look best when they're sashaying. Flouncing. Twirling. Dancing. They do not look at their best lying in a crumpled heap on a flaccid baby. And if your baby is crawling she will only get her knees stuck in the fabric and start crying. Dresses on babies equals pointless.


I hope this helps. If I have managed to save you five bucks then my work here is done. Happy shopping!

3 Reasons to Hit a Child

Heard of Colin Craig? He's that weasel faced cretin whom the New Zealand Conservative Party is proud to call Leader. He says a lot of really dumb stuff in the hope that the media will pay lots of attention to him and he'll get into Parliament.

He has just admitted to using violence to discipline his children and says that two thirds of parents want to abolish the anti-smacking law. Two thirds! I asked around and nobody I know was actually asked to be in this survey. I wasn't either - which is why I shall share my anti-smacking views now.

In my mind there is never any excuse to hit children for disciplinary reasons no matter how annoying they are. It's a punishment that is derived from rage, not reason. It hurts, it's demeaning and it teaches children that it's okay to hit. There is a wealth of research proving that smacking damages children both physically and psychologically. And for all those who say, 'I got hit and I turned out fine', well no, you didn't, because you think hitting is okay and you will pass that message on to another generation and the world will become a crappier place in which to live.

So yes, hitting to discipline is not okay. But in other circumstances such as outlined below, hitting your child is necessary and awesome.

When Your Child is on Fire

If your child somehow manages to set himself alight it is perfectly acceptable to hit at his flaming limbs with your hands in an attempt to put out the fire. Other methods include fire extinguishers, water, and the classic 'Stop, Drop and Roll' - brilliantly performed by Mareko/Deceptikonz.

When Your Child is Being Savaged by Mosquitoes

Mosquitoes are similar to Colin Craig. They both suck. If you see a sneaky mosquito on your child's arm, chin deep in pudgy flesh, swelling gently as it guzzles your sweet baby's blood, it is helpful to slap at the arm in order to kill the mosquito. If you do not, the mosquito will call its mates for an easy meal. Your child will itch and scratch all night and if they receive too many bites they will feel sick, (and there's also the whole malaria thing which is another reason to be thankful we live in barely tropical New Zealand).

When your Child is Not Breathing

Every parent should know how to do CPR. Do a course or at the very least, check out the St John CPR 'How To' guide here. (To be fair, chest compressions aren't exactly 'hitting', it's more 'pushing' - but it's a very fine line from pushing and shoving to hitting and bashing, am I right?)


Hitting to make your child obey is stupid. The anti-smacking law may be clumsy but it sends a message that New Zealand does not tolerate violence towards our children. Why we tolerate weasel faced cretins is another matter entirely.

The Resolutions I Will Not Make

A brand new year - and it's resolution time! Time to feel good about becoming a better, thinner, stress-free, more fun, more balanced you. Which means six weeks of self-righteous gym sweating, a few days of counting kjs and measuring palm-sized helpings of pasta, one hardcore meditation session, and maybe a couple of hours without chocolate. (No need to restrict wine. That would just be over the top stupid.)

The promises you make to yourself are so easy to break! Give yourself an excuse, justify it with flawed reasoning, and then you can forget about it and move on. Making promises to someone else is a bit harder when you have to face up to that look of crushing disappointment in their eyes.

So here are three resolutions I would like to make to my children this year which I am never going to tell them about.

1: I will stop shouting at you.

Obviously this is not going to happen. If their stubby little legs are heading for a busy road, I will move my stubby little legs faster whilst shouting like a banshee. If they are about to drink bleach, I will shout that water is a far better choice. And if they do what I have asked them not to do for the third time, I will shout, if only to be heard over their indignant wailing. I do not want to be a shouter, but I am. Sorry kids, but since the anti-smacking law came in, that's all I've got.

2: I will stop giving you junk food.

This is an easy one. They hardly ever get junk food anyway. On my son's third birthday we indulgently let him eat as much crap as he wanted including a huge piece of double chocolate mud cake for dessert. That night in bed he was scratching and twitching like a junkie on crack and neither of us got to sleep until after midnight. It was horrible and I felt like the worst mother in the world. Needless to say Christmas, the traditional time for overindulgence in scorched almonds, candy-canes and Roses chocolates, was a very quiet affair. But boy, did they enjoy their carob covered carrots.

3: I will play more.

The point of having extra babies is so they have someone to play with when Mum can't be arsed. But when they're little they don't really have that 'playing together' skill set yet. They have, 'I'll play with this and you play with that and then you take my stuff and I hit you.' I need to play with them more - a) to teach them how to do it, and b) because it's more fun than housework (and then maybe they'll like me more than that cradle-snatching bitch, the TV).

The best resolutions are those made to yourself and not shared with anyone, least of all with your children. All it takes is three little words from a quivering, cherubic lip, "But you promised..." to guilt you into keeping whatever ridiculous declarations you made in January.

So, Mums the word... and roll on February.

Everyone's a Critic

My son was running around the house, butt naked and carefree, having flung his dirty nappy into an (upsidedown) heap on the carpet, leaving the fulsome fug of fresh poo wafting on the breeze behind him. I was in full chase, roaring at him to get into the shower NOW! when my partner said quietly, "You're always shouting at them."

His comment literally stopped me in my tracks. Of COURSE I was always shouting at them. They don't bloody listen. But his comment made me feel bad. REALLY bad. I suddenly found myself wondering if I was a good parent - because good parents don't shout at their children.

Having your parenting choices criticised starts as soon as their head is clear of your vagina. There's always someone around who is happy to tell you how to do it better. With my daughter, it started when she was about seven weeks and in the full throes of colic. Colic is beastly. The baby screams and writhes for no apparent reason for hours and hours every evening until that sweet blessed day when they don't (again, for no apparent reason).

My daughter suffered terribly from colic. Nothing Plunket recommended worked. Massage, warm baths, tilted cot, rocking, diet changes, nothing. One evening she screamed for eight hours straight. It was awful. Eventually at around 2am I stripped off her and myself and covered up with a soft blanket, belly to belly, skin on skin. And we both slept deeply and sweetly for around five hours. It was great.

The next day I happened to mention to a Plunket person my brilliant technique for settling my daughter. There was a disapproving silence and she said, very stiffly, "You shouldn't do that." That same feeling of badness washed over me but this time it was tinged with a little indignation. Where was she all those weeks when my baby girl could be heard over three provinces, face resembling a squashed tomato, back arched in a pose that would make a Yogi proud?  I never called her again.

(I did have marvellous success with Bowen Therapy. If you can get hold of a practitioner, do it, do it, do it. If you're living in Whanganui there's a practitioner who does Bowen free for babies because her own babies suffered terribly from colic and she feels sorry for mums. How nice is that? Click here to check out this awesome woman of goodness).

Then there was the time a mad old lady at the park told me I shouldn't put my girl on a backless swing because she was too little and she would flip off backwards and kill herself. I, who had been pushing my daughter on a big girl's swing for some weeks, was at a loss. Who was this person, this complete stranger (who was wearing Crocs and a tea-cosy hat for f's sake), to tell me how to play with my own child?  As I stomped her interfering face into the mud, I didn't feel bad at all.

In conclusion, I can only surmise that if someone you know and love criticises your parenting, it cuts deep. If a so-called expert tells you you're doing it wrong, you'll feel slightly less bad - after all, they may know a better way. But if someone you wouldn't be able to pick in a line up of random assholes criticises your methods, it's your god-given right to tell them to bollock off.

Now, where did my children get to? Excuse me. I think I may have to raise my voice.