Hoochiemumma

Personal Blog

Month: November 2019

Operation Secret iPod Confiscation – The jig is up.

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For the punters playing along at home….

The cat  is out of the bag.

The can of worms has popped.

The beans have been spilled.

The game has been given away.

Mr. Hooch couldn’t help himself. Damn him.

Let’s just say there’ll be some more literary pursuits occurring in the top bedroom.

Operation Secret iPod Confiscation has officially concluded.

The results are hazy.

(If you have no idea what I’m talking about.. head on back to the last post “Liar Liar Pant on Fire”).

I’m sure when she is 25 years old and I give her the iPod back, she will appreciate the life lessons I am trying to instill. Yeah, that’s right, TWENTY-FIVE YEARS OLD…. I actually said that. It’s OK though because, by the time I got to that part of my monologue, I’m pretty sure her eyes were rolled so far back into her head it had turned off her ability to hear.

While I was imparting my wisdom upon the pony-tail wearer, there was a little 7 year old loving the absolute shit out of seeing his sister getting ripped a new butt-hole. It wasn’t ripping actually….more like a carefully planned surgical incision. He had a surgical butt-hole procedure only last week, so he was simultaneously tender and gleeful as he watched on with eyes as big as saucers.

As our daughter made her way back to her room, with her new butt-hole, to spend some time “reflecting”, or possibly making a voodoo doll with red curly hair, I wondered if my stealth operation had any more value than pure entertainment for myself. This parenting gig is hard, and I’m lucky because my kids are pretty awesome kids. I have probably made Miss iPod sound like a right little turd, but she’s not. She is the bees knees and despite my rant, I, of course, adore her. She is kind, smart, clever and reliable. She is thoughtful and caring. But she’s also a kid, learning her way through childhood at the same time we are learning our way through parenthood. How’s that for twisted irony? I am the first one to stick my hand up and recognise that I stuff this job up all the time. If I had a boss, I’d be on a permanent Performance Management Plan, mainly for inappropriate language I suspect.

I hope something gets through to them when I launch my monologues of wisdom. I hope some kind of lesson was learned, or re-learned. I hope for so many things for our children.

Mainly, I hope they don’t turn out to be raging morons.

I hope they turn out to be good eggs – honest, kind and thoughtful.

I hope they know their worth.

I hope they live a life of purpose and meaning.

I hope they have back-bones and speak their truth.

I hope they find happiness.

The list is endless.

But mostly, I hope they know they are loved, because, without that, nothing else matters.

M

 

 

 

Liar Liar Pants on Fire

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Here’s the dish…

We have a ‘no-screens-in-bedrooms-overnight’ rule.

Except for me, ’cause I’m allowed to do whatever I want, ’cause I’m the mum, so shut up.

I poked my head into the pony-tail wearer’s bedroom to do the “check-she’s-still-alive-before-I-go-to-bed” thing. I’ve done this forever…I can’t sleep if I haven’t done my nightly offspring checks. Anyway, there she was, my darling girl who should be sleeping, but instead, was sneakily (but obvious to the trained mother eye) watching something on her iPod.

“Hope you’re not on a screen? Where’s your iPod?” I ask.

“Oh, I dunno… “ she replied, “down there somewhere”, indicating that it was in the living area.

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Look, all kids fib. They lie by omission, they sugar coat, deny, delete and sneak. The stupid ones even lie to your face. I get it. It’s a road I’ve travelled with this one a few times.

I stood in the doorway and mulled over my options. I had a couple of choices. I could have, once again, the same discussion about telling fibs. I could, once again, explain that if I’m asking a question, most of the time I already know the answer, so it’s a good idea to answer honestly. I could then confiscate the iPod, like I have done many times in the past, give an epic lengthy lecture about fibbing, breaking trust, blah blah blah OR I could up my parenting game.

Screw it, I thought. Clearly talking doesn’t work with this one. This one needs a practical demonstration. Plus, I don’t like being played by an 11-year-old.

GAME ON.

So when Miss “I can pull one over my mum” fell asleep, I went back into her room, slipped my hand under her pillow and voila!…. What do you know? There was her iPod.

“Operation Secret iPod Confiscation” had now been activated.

The next morning, I noticed that Miss IPod (yes she has many names in this story) had made her bed and her room was unusually tidy. Mmm. Looking for something maybe?

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I’m probably breaking some cardinal parenting rule and Mr. Hooch thinks I am slightly twisted and sadistic. But bugger it, I’m equally amused and intrigued as to how this will pan out.

So far, we are heading into day THREE of the iPod hostage situation, and she still hasn’t mentioned a SINGLE WORD.

I’m not sure what my next move will be. I didn’t think that far ahead when I launched “Operation Secret iPod Confiscation”. I’m dedicated to the cause though, so I’m not about to let the team down. “The Team” is me and Mr. Hooch of course.

Team Hooch vs Liar Liar pants on fire.

We will be victorious, goddammit. A lesson will be learned. The lesson may end up with Miss iPod improving her sneaky Netflix watching skills…but whatever…I’m gonna take that as a win.

M

Trophy Wife Life

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When I had fantasies about stapling my boss’s hair to her desk, I figured I needed to re-evaluate my professional life.

So I quit.

It doesn’t escape me that I was lucky to be in a position where I could just make that decision. The impact wasn’t huge to our lifestyle. My income contribution was icing on the cake. I only worked part-time and I’ve always worked in human services. The most underpaid work in the whole world. A female-dominated, disastrously undervalued and underpaid industry #genderpaygap. Let’s just say you don’t stick around in human services for the pay packet.

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With my new-found freedom, I derived the most fabulous plans about the mammoth achievements I would accomplish as I turned my focus to our family, the farm, study and general awesomeness. No daytime telly, three-hour phone calls, or mindless scrolling of the interwebs for me. No siree Bob. I was going to tick off my long list of those goals and not waste a second. I’d be self-motivated and action-packed. I’d have a plan. I’d stick to it. I would be some kind of super version of myself.

 

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Photo by Juhasz Imre on Pexels.com

Oh puh-lease. Who was I kidding?

All I’ve really done is clean out a cupboard, filed paperwork and started a blog. Well, I’ve done a bit more than that, but not to the epic proportions I had conjured up in my head.

I think I was trying to compensate for the fact that it was the first time in my whole life that when people asked me “what I did”, also known as “how do you earn money?” that I didn’t have an easy answer. I found myself spewing out a convoluted story to justify my existence in the world. I’d find myself explaining how I do the book work for the farm now and how that has been a learning curve for me and that I volunteer more and I have good intentions of finishing a course and blah blah blah fucking blah.

So one day, I decided that if I was ever confronted with that question again I’d simply say “I’m a trophy wife”. I thought it was hilarious. Mr. Hooch looked at me like he often does… with utter bewilderment, and we both agreed that yes, I probably came in at the “participation ribbon” level of the trophy wife stakes, (thanks darling 🖕🏻), but none the less that was my go-to slogan. Trophy wife…Hilarious…Completely opposing my feminist views…Perfect! I even bought a new dress for the occasion.

 

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I forgot, however, that not everyone understands my sense of humour. I need to gauge that a little better because not that long ago I was asked if I was “on a day off” or if I had to “get back to work”. I proudly blurted out that “I quit work about 18months ago. I’m a trophy wife now!”

A weird kind of silence sat in the room. Kinda like a fart no one claims.

Oh shit…. ‘should’ve worn my dress’, I thought.

So, I launched the old routine.

It was reciprocated with a “oh… good on you”.

I think it was genuine, but I also felt a slight vibe of “what are you doing? Who the hell doesn’t work these days?”

Or maybe it was me, reading too much into it. Maybe it’s me that doesn’t value my role enough in the world. Why is that? Why do women feel pressure to be everything? “I am woman… hear me roar and then hear me have a mental breakdown as I try and do it all, juggling my life to be the woman we read about”.

According to the world, we should be fit, slim, gluten-free, vegan yogi’s with a Master’s degree, climbing the professional ladder while simultaneously raising well balanced, high achieving children. We must do this whilst displaying the patience and understanding of the Dali Lama, as we gleefully serve up nutritious meals equalling the culinary skills of Nigella. And don’t forget to make time for your partner…have date nights; make time for friends; nurture family connections; donate; volunteer, and for god’s-sake walk the dog.

Nope. Fuck that. Not happening.

It’s a trophy wife’s life for me. At least for a little while longer, or until I want to staple my children’s hair to their desks. So far so good!

M

A homage to friends.

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I love this picture. Not the caption so much, but the sentiment. And let’s be honest, if there’s a bubble or two involved, I’m your girl.

I’m lucky to have collected some special people along the way as I’ve meandered through life, but there are two women, in particular, that I think of when I see a trio of women together.
I belong to an unlikely trio. We don’t live in the same area, we don’t belong to the same place. We aren’t members of the same club or share mutual friends. We don’t talk on the phone or catch up for coffee. We don’t work together, or see each other for months on end. We can go for weeks or even months without a single text message. But the connection I have with these women is irreplaceable.
There’s not many people you can send a random message to at any time of the day or night ranting about the perils of your reality. There’s not many people who reply with “rant away… that’s what we’re here for”. With no explanation or apology, we each spew our fears and frustrations to each other and it’s heard with understanding, love, and empathy. It’s only these women that I can really let loose with the whole spectrum of feelings that come with the commonality of having a child living with the same chronic illness.
I don’t even remember when we met. Well, that’s not quite true. I remember sharing the waiting room, exchanging a look and smile of recognisance as we attempted to shield our children’s faces away from the coughing onslaught. I also remember the first aid course for parents doing home IV’s, sharing belly laughs with my hilariously funny CPR partner.
As much as my close friends and family are fabulously supportive and understanding, it’s these two women who really “get it”. I don’t have to explain the backstory of CF, the science or the words I use. I never feel like I should shut up, or that I’m boring them. I don’t feel melodramatic or stupid or a burden. The whole reason we connected was because we could hear each other. We all have a similar attitude towards CF and the way we help our children, families and ourselves navigate a way through this predictably unpredictable disease.
I cannot express how beneficial peer support can be. When you find your people, those who resonate, it’s magical. There are plenty of families who have children with CF. Some I’ve met, most I haven’t. I am just so grateful that I found these two beautiful women. I cannot imagine walking along this path without them. A path filled with empathy, understanding, humour and the odd glass or two of bubbles downed with the perfect amount of friendship.
Cheers fuckers.
Disclaimer… Fuckers is our warped term of endearment. Whoever happens to read this…You’re not a fucker. Well, I hope you’re not, in the traditional sense. Our definition is much much better. 🤗
M

A letter to my baby.

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Dear Elliot,

I snuck into your bedroom and carefully carried the glass of water with your ninth baby tooth sitting at the bottom. I would have never known that it was the ninth tooth you had lost, but you knew.

You love numbers and weirdly count everything. It’s your funny quirk, this whole number thing. We are all in awe of how you can never find your shoes and forget to shut the car door EVERY SINGLE TIME you get out, but somehow in that brain of yours, you can tell us everyone’s birthday and ages, including the age of your dead grandfather if he were still here.

As I tipped the glass upside down and watched your ninth tooth slide down the drain of the bathroom sink, I wondered if this would be the last time I was going to play the tooth fairy. I sensed a difference in your reaction that night as I tucked you in, excitedly telling you how the tooth fairy would be visiting. Maybe you had twigged? “Did you know the secret?”, I wondered.

I’ve been the tooth fairy over 40 times. I can’t remember tipping out 40 teeth, or hunting for coins to fill the glass where those precious teeth sat… but I must have. You will eventually find out that I’m the one who filled the glass with coins, and just like your older sister and brother, you will stop putting your lost teeth in a glass of water and just hit me up for some cold harsh cash instead.

I was told by one of my dearest friends that motherhood was a process of letting go. It starts with your children leaving your body and from then on it is incremental steps of release.
I now understand why I have heard fellow mums trying to convince their children that Santa was real and “if you don’t believe you won’t receive”. I never understood that until now. I never knew the bittersweetness. I never knew it until it was my last. Until it was you. My last one. My baby boy. My funny little man who we took a huge gamble to have. No wonder the baby of the family gets spoilt. It has nothing to do with you but has everything to do with me, as I stand at the bathroom sink, playing the tooth fairy for possibly the last time, letting go of yet another piece of you and your childhood magic. Letting go of a piece of me and motherhood. No books or advice can prepare you for the ride of sweet agony you feel when your children grow out of childish things.

I groan when people say that “time goes by so quickly” and you need to “enjoy every moment”. Like most mums, there have been times where motherhood hasn’t been enjoyable. A lot of it can be a hard slog. So much if it is exhausting and relentless. Hanging in the back of my mind though is that one day, I will tip that last tooth down the drain. I will pick you up and tuck you into bed for the very last time. You will no longer slide next to me, in the middle of the night needing comfort from a bad dream. Before I know it, you will be standing taller than me while I ask you how to use my smartphone.

I wish I could freeze time for a while… not forever, but just long enough so that I can catch my breath and soak you in just a little bit longer….my baby boy, with nine teeth down the drain.

Mum