“Can you just not be here?” were the words launched out of my almost 15 year old daughter’s mouth as she requested a “friend” come over in the school holidays. (And when I write “friend”, yes the boy variety friend).
“Don’t talk rot” I said. “I’m not embarrassing, and I promise I will never do anything to embarrass you.”
The 18 year old, who has only just got his keys back on a part time basis due to being, well, an 18 year old, chimes in with “YOU… not embarrassing? YEAH RIGHT! You have a blog and now a podcast. My friends torture me with it and play it to me. They’ve single handedly upped your listener ratings.”
Thanks Fellas. We’ll be sure to give you a special mention on the next episode. 😜
It seems that it doesn’t matter what you do, what you wear or say, what car you drive, what job you have or how much money you have in the bank, it’s a right of passage that you embarrass your children just by sharing the same air as them, their peers, or anyone they are trying to impress. Even the coolest Hollywood stars have cringing teens at home.
I get where they are coming from because I have vivid memories of pretending that I didn’t have parents because “everyone else’s parents were cool and my parents were cringey”. Ugh, why did my mother wear peach coloured pants and dad wore long socks with shorts. Why was my dad so loud and talked too much. Why couldn’t mum just, I dunno, not be so mumsy. These were all questions whirling around in my head as a young girl, longing to be like my hair twin, orphan Annie. I gotta say, who doesn’t want their own millionaire Daddy Warbucks and Punjab?
One day, I have no doubt that the kids won’t find me so embarrassing. They might even look back and smile as they read these words or listen to the recordings of The 40’s Project . It’ll happen. But in the mean time, I’ll keep being the most embarrassing mother in the entire world, because that’s how much I love them.
Today is Cystic Fibrosis awareness day and I just can’t seem to let it pass without writing or sharing or giving it some recognition because for years I thought this stupid disease would change our family forever. I thought it would take our son away. I thought that he might not reach adulthood. Crazy thoughts? In hindsight yes, but at the time it was very real.
18 years ago, life for kids with CF looked a lot different than it does now. Being born in 2005 with CF certainly held more hope than previous years, and the prognosis was definitely getting better and better as time went on, but for new parents it was hard to see any light at the end of the tunnel.
I vividly remember carting my precious baby around the Women’s and Children’s Hospital, side-eyeing the skinny young teenagers I’d see who were muffling coughs with hunched shoulders. During those early years, there were some familiar teenage faces who would be strolling the hallways and riding the elevators. I never knew them by name, but I knew that these were “CF’ers” and I was staring at my baby’s future.
We continually hoped that he would be one of the “lucky ones”, the ones who hardly went to hospital and barely caught a cold. There doesn’t seem to be much rhyme or reason as to who gets chosen to be a “lucky one”. It’s pot luck in a pretty shitty competition.
As I clutched my son, literally and figuratively, through the early months, I honestly thought that our life, especially my son’s life would be dictated by this disease in the most horrible ways. I also thought that I would never be able to leave him or be away from him, that I could never go back to work, have a hobby, an anything. So overwhelming was the prospect of what this disease could do, I was crippled with fear of the future.
But as it does, time marched on, and my deluded thoughts and anxiety for the future settled, while we rode the roller coaster of CF. We navigated our way through some pretty hectic kid juggling phases and at times, some worrying moments but amongst that, life trotted along beautifully. In the background though, there was a cloud – a cloud that hovered without us ever knowing when it was going to rain. It was unpredictable – sometimes it was a brief sprinking shower and other times a lightning storm. A lot of the time it caught us by surprise.
Fast forward to 2022 – A magic little pill called Trikafta finally became available for people living with CF in Australia. I was cautious in my excitement and didn’t want to pin all of my hopes on it, while I simultaneously pinned all of my hopes on it.
Luckily for us, this little pill turned out to be pretty magic. It’s been just over 12 months since Mac started Trikafta and it’s been just over 12 months since he’s needed antibiotics. The cloud seems to have lifted a bit. It’s still there, but it seems to be a fair weather cloud these days and the future looks very different than it did before.
In saying all of this, Trikafta isn’t a cure for CF. Mac has definitely drawn the long straw when it comes to having such a fabulous improvement taking this medication. Some people with CF don’t have the right genotype to take Trikafta and some can’t take it due to rare side effects. For others, it’s simply a case of it just not working as well for them.
So until a cure for CF is found, I’ll continue to do my annual awareness shout-outs. I’ll keep wishing for the same thing each year as I blow out my birthday candles as well as cross my fingers that CF will one day mean Cure Found.
I’m sitting on our couch on Sunday night, which is now the early hours of Monday morning. I’m watching my little boy sleep, in between hurling his ringer up and wriggling around with the pain that comes with gastro. I’m poised with a bucket, tissues, Powerade, Spray & Wipe and hand gel. I’m contemplating a hazmat suit.
It’s gonna be a long night.
I apologise in advance for the fact that Mr Spewmanti was at basketball, two birthday parties and bingo over the weekend. He likes to get around. 🥴
I read a quote once that said having a child means you now watch your heart walk around outside of your body.
It’s corny but true.
In between wiping up spew and rubbing Elliot’s forehead, I’m reminded of all the women I know who are riding or have ridden the wave of motherhood when mothering is brutal, and I’m not talking about a sleepless night with a case of gastro.
Brutal is when your heart can be tearing apart and you wonder how the hell you’re going to get through what lies ahead. Somehow we muster up a kind of “super mother power”. We’re like Wonder Woman spinning into all of her glory while we chant “we ain’t got no time for that shit.”
Tonight I’m thinking of my beautiful friend who is currently sitting a bedside vigil in ICU with her son who was in a horrific car accident.
Tonight I’m thinking of a local mum who is preparing a memorial service for her son who was tragically taken in an accident on the way home from school.
Tonight I’m thinking of the mums I know whose children have been diagnosed with chronic illness.
Tonight I’m thinking of a friend whose teenager is trying to find himself and his identity.
Tonight I’m thinking of the mums I know who have lost children to cancer and the mum who has only recently found out.
Tonight I’m thinking of a friend who helped her child navigate his way through addiction.
Tonight I’m thinking of another whose child has been diagnosed with Autism.
Tonight I’m thinking of the mum whose daughter cries herself to sleep because she doesn’t think her body is the right shape.
I’m also thinking of the mums who are just having a crappy time for no other reason than that life can just suck giant turds sometimes.
Motherhood isn’t for the faint hearted. It also takes a tribe to keep us sane.
I’m lucky to have a circle of amazing women in my world. They’re the ones who have lifted me up when things in my world get a little sketchy. They check in, send a message, call for a quick chat that turns into hours of world problem solving. They lend a hand, make me laugh and have my back. They’re real, they’re raw and they don’t pretend to be anything but who they are. They’re all fabulous for many different reasons. They accept me and my foibles and teach me a lot.
So to all of the mums out there who are catching spew in buckets, researching teen behaviour, driving kids to appointments, wiping away tears, sitting by a hospital bed praying or simply managing to get the kids off to school on time without losing your mind….
You’re amazing.
Mums are incredible.
Don’t let anyone tell you anything else.
Disclaimer *Yes, dads are incredible too, but this blog is called Hoochiemumma not Hoochiepapa 😉.
Tomorrow is D DAY. Its a fundraiser for the Cure4CF Foundation. Yes, I’m at it again…. Yes, it’s probably annoying. I know how I feel when I see people over share the same thing. I eye-roll a bit and think “yeah yeah we get it”.
When you’re on the other side though, and there is a cause that you’re passionate about, especially one that involves your child, there seems to be motivation to be annoying and speak out.
Sometimes sharing too much can come across as attention-seeking perhaps? I have always struggled with this balance. There are plenty of people out there branding their existence with having a child with an illness. Usually, these people are giant pains in the arses and sometimes their kids are too.
I would give anything to not have this as a topic to write about. But here are.
We all have struggles through, a hurdle, or some kind of challenge that life throws at us. Every one of us. I’m sure you’re thinking of yours right now. When I think of my family and friends I can easily identify something going on in their lives that is, or has been stressful, hard, or sad. It’s called life I suppose.
Most often, struggles have some kind of silver lining. One of the positive things that having a child with a chronic illness has brought me, is being able to put things into perspective. It’s really easy to get hung up on the small stuff and I certainly do my fair share of that at times. Like this afternoon when Scarlett dobbed on Elliot for being a bit of a dick on the bus.
Did I speak to him about it.. yes.
Did he deny that he did anything wrong…of course.
Did he run away to his room while I was mid sentence, yelling “you just don’t get it mum, stop going on about it”… yes.
Did I see red and turn into psycho Sally and tell him that I will ban him from the bus myself and also used the “f” word twice in one sentence. Also yes.
So OK, sometimes I do sweat the small stuff.
Anyway… I digress.
I have often wondered what kind of parent I would have been if not for the experience of having Macauley. I have also wondered how different he would be too. Those early years were tough and I was fairly intense and controlling when it came to trying to keep him well. It was the only coping mechanism I had to make it feel like I had some kind of handle over something so uncontrollable. I was pretty much kidding myself, but it made me feel better at the time. Because his health was my number one priority, everything else kind of took a back seat and priorities shifted a little. I think I definitely had it in me to be competitive and compare. What a joy sucker that is. (Just a tip for new mums too….you soon forget the age they start crawling, or if they walked before they were one. Plus, once you have more than two kids you get them all mixed up and refer to those early years as “well one of you stated walking a bit late… I dunno which one of you it was now?”)
So by the time he turned 5 and started school, I didn’t really care that he couldn’t hold a pencil and write his name yet. Was he meant to? Besides sending me bat shit crazy, I didn’t worry too much that he was stuck on level 3 reader for what seemed a 100 months of Sunday’s. And who knew that being able to tie a shoelace by a certain age was a milestone to be aiming for? Just buy the velcro shoes people. They’ll get it one day. All of these things are important to a certain degree, but I kept thinking how lucky we were that he was at school, that he was born in the new millennium. If he were living in the 60’s I could have well been preparing his funeral, not his first day of school.
Which brings me to my point of being an over sharer. It’s due to people making more noise and fighting for funding and raising awareness that has led to some amazing medicines and research being done in science land. Sure, big pharma is probably all the horrible things that people say it is….to what degree I wouldn’t know. All I know is that without “Big Pharma” my big kid wouldn’t be here. As evil and horrible as people make them out to be, big pharma develop and provide my child with medication he literally cannot live without.
Organisations like Cure4CF Foundation raise money to provide funds for exciting developments and research focused on a CURE. I see it like a giant jigsaw puzzle where all of the new bits of research from around the world get tacked onto the older bits and are pieced together to solve the puzzle. I am hopeful that the puzzle of CF will be solved so that Macauley and many others can breathe a little easier.
Literally.
M
PS….As always, if you can give, please do or simply share to make aware. 🌹
I was stuck in a room with my 15 year old son for 4 days. He was beyond thrilled to say the least.
CF has landed him back in hospital for a bit. Topped off nicely, was the fact he developed a cold so a Covid test was needed….Then lockdown hit so we weren’t going anywhere. Mr Lucky had me within arms reach for a longer stint than we planned.
During our iso situation, he made a comment after I hung the phone up from speaking with the ward clerk.
“You’re weird” he said.
After he got told to get stuffed, I dug a bit deeper…
“Weird how?… like scary weird or quirky weird or what?” I asked.
“Or is it just because I’m your mum and every kid thinks their parents are weird.” I added.
“Na… you ask any of my friends and they all rekon you’re a bit weird”.
This was also confirmed by my almost teen daughter when she looked at me, screwed her nose up a little and sympathetically replied to my inquisition with “well… yeah, you kinda are”.
Excellent. That’s what everyone wants to hear.
I would have happily settled for any other description than weird.
Clearly I’m not the cool mum, the laid back mum, the strict mum, the mum with the best pantry snacks mum, the handy mum, the smart mum, the chatty mum, the quiet mum, the funny mum, the friendly mum, the kind mum, the cranky mum, the “insert any other adjective you can think of” mum. Nope….I’m the WEIRD mum.
But look, if teenagers think I’m weird then I’m pretty ok with that because there’s some seriously weird shit going on in the land of the teen.
Weird is taking photos of a quarter of your head, writing “streaks” across it then sending it to all of your friends on Snapchat as a form of entertainment and connection.
Weird is not using a phone to TALK. Alexander Graham Bell would be quite miffed.
Weird is wearing socks and slides.
Weird is the ability to text at 300 wpm but the inability to get clothes INTO the laundry basket.
Weird is the resurgence of the 80’s mullet and somehow making it even uglier. Just stop it.
Weird is knowing every AFL player trade but not knowing how long to heat something up in the microwave. Like ever.
Weird is doing the SAME ANNOYING CRAP EVERY SINGLE DAY and then acting completely shocked when I lose my ever loving mind.
Weird is having a tanty after being asked to empty the dishwasher after a hard morning of sleeping until lunch time.
Weird is not being able to see something that is straight in front of your face.
Puh-lease. Spare me the lecture.
So me and my weirdness will just be over here living my best weird life being Mrs Weird of Weirdsville.
I would really love to hear what word your teens use to describe you as a mum? And if it’s “loving and kind” you can quietly go and live on Liar Island with the pizza guy.
Come at me fellow Weird mums. I can’t be living in Weirdsville alone?
Omg. I got sucked into a tiktok vortex and dragged one of my friends along for the ride.
I was stalking children, but not in the way that sounds.
Here’s an idea. If you have a kid with a tik-tok account or even if you don’t think they have a tik-tok account, log yourself on and take a squiz. You might be surprised at what little Johnny or Mary is doing and/or watching. Just giving you the heads up that in TikTok land Johnny may be known as “dixi_normus” and Mary could be “sassyqueen482❤️”. It’s a free-for-all. God knows what our generation’s grandchildren will be named. I draw the line at underscores (pun intended) and silent letters.
Second idea. If you find out your kid has a tik-tok account make sure it’s private. I can see all sorts of stuff. I can see inside people’s houses, parents in the background, school and sports club logos and what they ate for tea last night. I now know what school your kid goes to, who they play sport for, what you look like, what car you drive, what their siblings look like and if I was a sick a perverted idiot I could spend a bit of time and find your house aswell.
Am I over-reacting? Probably. Am I being hypocritical because I use social media, with a public page and I blog about my family? Possibly. Am I a 10 year old child who doesn’t know a lot about online safety, potentially being exposed to strangers who see me as an easy target? No. Am I being followed by hundreds of people. No 😏. Am I a pre-pubescent boy following a tiktok account called Sexxyyyy Ladieeessss being exposed to a bit of soft porn while I scroll through my Tiktok feed. Also NO. Plus I’d be more inclined to be following Sexxyyy Mennnn thanks.
Like many parents I grapple with social media. I love it in many ways and hate it equally as much. It’s definitely here to stay, so there’s no point fighting it. I personally use it quite a bit. It’s a source of entertainment, news and connection. I do most of my news reading online. I collect a lot of recipes to cook for my family to whinge about. I follow my favourite artists, comedians, actors and social commentators online and also follow leaders and organisations who I have learnt a lot from. It’s a big wide world out there and it’s all accessible through the click of a few buttons. All great stuff, until suddenly it’s not so great.
Much to the disgust of our teen I’ve had the “porn on the internet is not what sex is really like” conversation aswell. Someone told me once the average age that a child is exposed to online porn is 8. What in all fuckery is that? I also added details about the fact that “most women don’t look like that in real life and no, you probably won’t be doing THAT the first time you explore the world of sexy-time. It will probably be exciting but awkward and weird as well as possibly being over before it begins”… (I think he’d left the room at this point yelling “we learn this at school… please stop talking mum, you’re weird”). But it’s our job to talk about this stuff isn’t it? It’s our job to launch into their world a bit and keep a “watchful eye” (totally not spying.. 🧐)….They’re gonna stuff up for sure, and that ok. That’s what kids do. I just want mine to be safe and informed. I need to have a bit of confidence that I’m sending kids into this online world armed with a bit of knowledge.
Kids can be savvy and smart and sneaky though. If my kids wanted to have private accounts and hide or block me, so they can watch sexyyy ladiesss or someone busting out some bad dance moves accompanied by some totally inappropriate swearing, that’s understandable. Come to think of it, they can get all of that from me on any given night in the kitchen… why the hell do they need Tik-tok? Anyway, who wants their parents watching everything you do? I sure as hell didn’t, so I don’t expect mine would either. I like to remind them though that I’m honing my investigation skills. Some of my favourite books to read and podcasts to listen to are based on true crime investigative journalism and I’m starting to think I could change my name to Cagney or maybe Lacey? Who was the one that always seemed tired and had the annoying kids?
Good luck and stay strong out there. 2020 parenting is a far stretch from the days of spokey dokes and cabbage patch kids with the most controversial topic of debate being whether Boy George was a boy and if so how did he get such great eyebrows?
For those who live under the rock next to mine, there has been a 10-day challenge doing the rounds on the Book of Faces. It was a challenge to post a picture every day for 10 days representing a day in the life of being a mum. The photos were to be posted without a single explanation and then you had to nominate somebody to take the challenge with you.
It has been a lovely little stroll down memory lane seeing what some of my Facebook friends shared of their life as a mum. What I noticed though, was that my visual representation of being a mum conjured up something else besides those I was viewing. Sure, I visualised the little squishy baby shots and the family moments, happy holiday snaps, along with the youthful selfies I took with my babies when I was wrinkle-free and had a lot less Hooch in my Mumma.
But because I’m a notorious whinger and like to share an alternative viewpoint, I’ve been trawling the archives and I’ve also collected a few recent images that represent my experience of motherhood.
I can’t stick to the “no explanation” either. There will be commentary.
There may also be poo.
You have been warned…
Here are my top 10 pictures of a day in the life of being a mum.
Ah.. this is where it all begins. A most treasured photo. Also a treasured time when they didn’t answer back or complain about what I gave them for dinner.
Then this happened…. a LOT.
*photo cred – Catherine Leo Photography*
Then it would stop by doing this. I did nine years of this. NINE. I deserve some kind of boob medal surely?
WARNING… POO SHOT.
Dealing with your offspring’s poo doesn’t stop once they are out of nappies.
Laundry. Always odd socks. Boring. Never ending. Enough said.
This is the time our 8 year old rises in the morning to sneak out to the lounge room and watch Netflix. He used to sing and play the piano, so things are looking up.
Total disregard for toothpaste extraction techniques.
It wouldn’t be motherhood without witnessing some WWE action. These are still shots from a video I took. I like to make them re-watch their fights and workshop some ideas for the next round. Good times.
These three spunk rats made me a mum. They have also made me equally bonkers and happy. I’ve cried with pride and cried with frustration. They’ve worried me, worn me out, made me laugh and feel ecstatic all within the same day.
I think I got talked about by the nursing staff at hand-over. I rekon theres a high chance I may have been referred to as a “Karen”.
Well, buckle up. I’m a Melissa.
Here’s a bit of a back story and update:
We’re heading into week 3 with number one son in hospital. Usually it’s a stock standard 2 weeks of IV’s… bug dead.. see ya later. Didn’t quite happen this time. Anyway… he has an inhaled med he does with his chest physio, and because it can cause a bit of lung irritation, it’s being diluted to half strength… all within the orders written up by the Dr etc etc blah blah.
Time comes to have this medication. I remind the nurse that he’s having it half strength. Nurse returns telling me he’s been having it full strength, because that’s what’s been signed off on the drug chart so that’s what she’s brought in.
She told me this THREE times, because each time I corrected her, her ears must have imploded and she couldn’t hear what I said.
I reiterated my point AGAIN and politely but assertively suggested that it may have been signed off incorrectly on the drug chart by the physios and can we just have it mixed the way I’ve asked….please and thankyou very much, for fucks sake, Amen.
Now this is where I shall intervene and just hit up anyone who is embarking upon a career in the health or caring industry.
LISTEN TO YOUR PATIENT’S. For the love of god, even if you think they’re complete cretins and dumb as a bricks….listen to them.
They’re not always going to be right, but the chances are that when you question those who live with chronic illness, they probably know what they’re talking about. I might even be so brave as to say that the PARENTS of children with chronic illness know more about their disease than you, and sure as hell know what the fuck is going on in the room of which you weren’t present when the bloody mediation had been given.
Gah.
I don’t think in anyway that my exchange was aggressive or rude, I just had to repeat myself until she actually listened, and by the third time, I may have had a tone in my voice that resembled “Karen wanting to see the manager”.
Also, I was tired, so I wasn’t my usual delightful self. After all, I’d been sleeping on a bed the devil himself designed and quite frankly, since I’ve hit my 4th decade, the idea of making others a bit uncomfortable doesn’t destroy my thoughts or conscience as it once did. I’m over pleasing people who aren’t pleasant. It’s exhausting.
What was interesting was that the next morning the day staff mentioned something about the conversation slash exchange I’d had with the nurse the day before. This nurse was older, more experienced and appeared supportive. She empathised about how she is aware that parents know what’s going on with their children’s health blah blah blah…but during our chat she used words and phrases like “argument”, “good for you”, “tiger mum” and “speaking out”.
Ummmm….What!?
And what exactly is a tiger mum..?
I asked the Google machine and this is what it said.
I’m confused because I’m obviously not Chinese and I don’t know Amy Chau so I think she meant being a mum “like a tiger”.
This is much more accurate, plus the father reference is much more relatable too…
Please bare with me while I pull up my feminist knickers here as I ask…
What is the male equivalent of a “tiger mum”? Who is the male equivalent of “Karen”? And why are women seen as difficult, argumentative or speaking out of turn when they make others uncomfortable or question something or god forbid….disagree?
I may be wrong, but think I can pretty safely say that if I had a dangly thing between my legs and was in the same situation, I wouldn’t be seen or described in the same way. I’d probably be seen as confident, strong, knowledgeable and interested. We don’t use these words for women enough. We assert them to be difficult, bitchy, sassy, opinionated and up-themselves.
Plus our names get changed to Karen.
Well I love Karen’s. I know a few awesome ones too.
I think we should all find our inner Karen, and I mean that in the most wonderful way possible. We should demand more than the bull shit we’ve been dished up over the generations.
Question the nurse. Speak to the manager. Ask for more information. Disagree. Speak up without fear of how is “looks” or “sounds”. Assert your point when you’re not being listened to. Don’t be afraid to cause someone just a little bit of discomfort.
It’s taken me over 40 years to be okay with the idea that I may offend someone or cause an eyebrow raise by just asking a question and that it’s NOT MY PROBLEM.
Fair chance the people we make uncomfortable are under 25 years old who think they know everything there is to know, can’t differentiate between you’re and your and lack the ability to count back change without a calculator. How’s that for stereotyping?
Their time will come though. They’ll hit their 40’s and feel the freedom of age and wisdom. They’ll want to talk to the manager and ruffle a few feathers because they’re old and sick of everyone’s shit. They’ll do this and look back remembering the Karen’s of yesteryear. They may even smile, shake their head with a knowledge that they have now become the Karens they eye rolled in their twenties. They will embrace this change and their new found title.
Without further adieu, I present to you the “Jessica’s”
And in 20 years time, they’d like to see the manager.
M
*disclaimer.. I adore nurses. They do one of the hardest job in the world and don’t get paid nearly enough for what they do. I was a nurse for a while too, and this is definitely #notallnurses
Recently I’ve had my memory launched back to my Primary School days when I was 7 or 8 and things were a bit bumpy in the friend department.
One particular name pops up…
Vanessa Fucking Pickard. I don’t think her parents gave her that middle name.. it was probably Jane or Louise like most girls born in the ’70s.
Vanessa was the unelected leader to the cohort of girls in our class. All the girls seemed to follow her and do what she said. They loved her and I couldn’t figure out why because she scared the beejeebers out of me.
Maybe the other girls in my class were a bit scared of Vanessa too? She seemed to have some kind of magical power. It was a power I was envious of. How’d she get everyone to like her? How’d she become the boss of our little world of girls? I don’t know how or why but one day she decided that she didn’t like me, and that was it…I was “outed”.
I think my gatekeeper friend was in another classroom perhaps? She was a year older than me and hey, maybe she was just sick of the shy new kid that she got lumped looking after because her dad was the principal. I don’t blame her. I was almost mute in my younger years. (I’m sure that wasn’t the case Cath..ha!)
I remember wishing for recess and lunch to never come. I felt so safe in the classroom…I didn’t know what to do at recess and lunch. I had no one to play with. When the girls would see me, they’d shoot off in another direction. I remember the look on a couple of their faces. It was guilt mixed with “if we don’t follow her, I might be you next week”. With nowhere to go, I would seek out my older sister who was in year 7. Popular, pretty with lots of friends, she was nice enough to let me hang around a bit until one day she pointed out that I had a GIANT BOOGER hanging from my nose in front of all of her year 7 friends. I think she was trying to be discreet but my reaction to the devastation of “CODE BOOGER” alerted everyone else to the fact of my unfortunate situation. Tears ensued, which made code booger a giant boogery mess of a situation.
My lonely days came once more. There was no way I was going anywhere near all of the big kids. “Rogue booger” may strike again and I couldn’t risk another humiliation. Around this time, I remember our Principal talking to our class, or maybe it was the whole school…. there weren’t many of us. He spoke of inclusion and kindness and friendship. At that moment I knew he was talking about me. I knew he was talking to Vanessa. I also knew that my dad with his big fat giant mouth was the reason this was happening. I was 7 or 8, but I wasn’t stupid. I can’t remember how long this friendship outage lasted. It may have been a week or months. It’s all a blur now. But I’m 45 years old now and I can’t recall where I put my phone most days, but I remember this. I remember the feeling. I remember the sadness and the sick feeling in my belly. I remember not wanting to go to school. I remember hiding behind the classroom so no one could see me..the pasty quiet kid with no friends.
God, school years can be so hard.
Vanessa Pickard moved away that year and I never ever again experienced that kind of ‘outage’ for the rest of my school days. I think I was one of the lucky ones.
But in turn, I’m sure I was no angel either. None of us are. We all slip up on the pathway of learning how to live in the world. I’m certain I have been cast as a villain in at least a couple of people’s stories. Most of us are at some point in our lives.
The 8-year-old Melissa hopes that Vanessa stepped in a few dog turds on her path to adulthood but the older and wiser Melissa wonders about what happened to Vanessa. I wonder if she learned what it meant to be a good friend? Or did she grow up to be an older version, changed her name to Karen, and makes demands to see the manager. I wonder if she ever had a turn at being “outed” during her school life? I wonder if she was even aware of her actions and the impact they had on others?
This child-ing business is tough. And parenting our children through these times is tough too. I’m sure Vanessa Fucking Pickard never knew how many tears I cried about being left out. She may have had a whole bunch of stuff to deal with herself. Who knows? She probably wouldn’t even remember her years at our little school, as she was shipped off to yet another place to live, like all of the other Army kids.
So to all of the Vanessa’s out there, please try your hardest at not being mean bitches. There are good bits to everyone, even the bitchiest of bitches have goodness buried in there somewhere. Let that shit shine! You never know…maybe one day it will be your turn to be crying behind the classroom.
And to all of the Melissa’s, for the love of God, carry a hanky. Code booger is never far away.
Learning from home, homeschooling, home learning….what ever you call it, that’s what’s been happening in the Hooch House this week.
We did a half arsed version of this late last term when the world turned to shit and we decided to pull the kids out and tuck them under our protective safety wing. Anxiety levels were high for a lot of people, especially those of us with family members who fall into the high risk bracket. My energy was taken up by simply processing our new world and trying to keep up with the daily changes we were seeing sprawled across the news. I filled my brain with an endless information stream and then wondered why I wasn’t sleeping so well…? Needless to say, the school work took a back seat and a hit and miss attitude it was.
By the time term 2 kicked in at the beginning of the week, so had all the amazing prep work done by the schools. They had us sorted. School packs and online learning were ready to roll! We were on. Here we go. Term 2 come at us. Mrs Mum was up for it.
Unfortunately it started off slightly rocky on Monday morning. It appears that some better “teacher” prep by Mrs Mum on Sunday night might have helped a little bit. We had schedules and papers all mixed up; apps downloading, login pass words flying, breakfast crumbs in library books; systems crashing and not enough coffee. We had tears before 10am, a teenager sneaking in some Netflix and a cat shit in a shower.
What. The. Actual. F*#k.
I’m not ashamed to say that on Monday night I was a bit knackered and if I had heard “muuuuum” one more time, I think I would have cracked. Also, why do they do it at the same time?
BUT….fast forward to Friday and the Hooch House was a well oiled machine of education gloriousness.
I have honestly been blown away by the way the kids have adapted to this situation. Not only have we been stuck together 24/7 for 7 weeks, they have also taken to a new way of learning with hardly a whinge. It’s been an interesting insight into the “school version” of each of them. Like a lot of parents, when I’d read their school reports, I think “who the hell are these kids? They don’t sound like mine AT ALL”….My messy and seemingly lazy 11 year old is anything but that when it comes to school; the big one actually does have a great work ethic and my funny little fella… well, actually, he doesn’t change his spots too much 😂. I understand his teachers frustrations and wonderment at the fact that it appears that his head is secured up his arse but somehow the information gets in…?
I’m so very proud of them and during this week, I’ve also learned a few things along the way. I’ve learned that explaining when and how to use quotation marks is harder than you’d think; that if allowed, ice cream for ‘recess’ would be the order of the day; I need to brush up on my times tables; the English language has way too many weird rules that make no logical sense; like me, my daughter likes to slam doors when she’s pissed off; I should have incorporated ‘laundry duty’ into the daily lesson plan; in the deep recesses of my brain is the ability to help explain how to calculate the volume of a triangular prism but the four years of French has left the building. Mostly I have been reminded of how fabulous our educators have been throughout this time and how lucky we are to have been serendipitously born in Australia whilst living through a pandemic.
To my fellow Mrs Mums…I wish you strength and good internet connection as we smash out another week of school work delivery, while questioning our IQ’s and clambering through the golden nuggets of knowledge we were once taught and now forgotten.
