another playground rant

I have blogged about this before, but I can't help myself after my failed playground visit yesterday.

Why do mothers insist on ruling the playground? Why can't they just leave the kids alone to get on with it? Why does every single run up the darn play structure and down the sodding slide have to be supervised an inch away from the action, neurotically cheered on in a shrill voice and coached through as it was the Olympics?
God forbid we should miss a second of precious little Sam taking yet.... another step. Guess what? He'll do it again.
Intervening, interfering, we're not letting kids have a go at working it out it for themselves. That goes for both motor and social skills.
When I was a kid my mom packed a basket with a thermos full of black coffee, a book and her knitting. In the park she sat next to all the other mothers on a bench and she didn't bat an eyelid unless I had literally cracked my skull open. Bruised knee? Go on - get back and play. Hungry? Sure, dinner is ready in two hours. Mommy just needs to gossip away some of that caffeine rush first.
OK, so I am exaggerating a bit (kind of) but seriously: we need to stop mollycoddling our kids.

They will survive, they will not have to go in to therapy and they will not hate you if you leave them alone to figure it out for themselves for a while, in fact, they might even thank you.

Play ground pranks

There is a reason for why I avoid any human contact on a social level what so ever when I am planning on doing something with Leo. His third birth day creeping up closer and closer by the month, he still in the same old, boring phase as he was sometime around Christmas: he's a hitter, and I am the mommy in the playground that everyone secretly loves to hate.

Every time: all eyes on me!

Always curiously and unforgivingly watching me to see: how is she going to react today? Is she going to deal with it in a Perfect way today? Or will she break down, as she always does, and finally leave the playground with a screaming toddler under one arm?

Today was no different and after what felt like a lifetime, but was only fifteen minutes of constant observing, guarding, maneuvering and saving of other mother's kids before they get hit with a shovel in their face, I was exhausted and had to retreat to the bench to secretly eat some of Leo's snacks. I loose him out of my sight for a few seconds and suddenly I hear one of the other mothers:
- You know that Leo is being hit by another girl over there.
I look over.
There he is, on a play structure, trying to defend himself against an aggressive little fire cracker who keeps smacking him in the face.
I shrug my shoulders.
- It's OK. It's nice that he is one the receiving end for a change, I say and eat another piece of apple from the plastic Thomas The Tankengine lunch box.
The mother looks at me in shock horror.

So now they have yet another thing to add to their list of inappropriate parenting behaviour: I don't defend my son.

At home with the normal people.

Waking up and getting things ready for the day to come is a two man minimum task in our household.
There are hungry kids who are individually very particular about their morning kick start, and there is a rabbit who is equally so. There are lunchboxes to pack, snacks and drinks to get ready, clothes to be put out on bed, or helped to be put on tiny little two year old body, there are teeth brushing to supervise and when your done there are not much time let for yourself.

When my husband is gone away on business this workload only gets harder. I am on my own, and it seems that everything that can go wrong, undoubtedly will. Someone will knock over the new milk carton on the breakfast table and make paper marche of the morning paper, all sections.
Kate will realize that one partner of every pair of socks she owns has decided to mysteriously disappear somewhere between the laundry basket and the tumble dryer, and Leo will decide that this is the morning that he will no longer eat toast and cereal, but will instead take up a diet of messy crackers and wet, sticky left over water melon which will mutate via his hands on to every single piece of object between the kitchen and the kids bathroom.

As I pack the kids up in to car, a few minutes later than usual, but still on the right side of panic, I look at the mess in the kitchen, the unmade beds, the heaps of dirty clothes lying right next to the laundry basket (why would they make it all the way in to the basket, that would just be insane!) and my own dishevelled self, half dressed in pyjamas, half in work out clothes (no one will know the difference) I take a deep breath and give myself a pat on the back for making it through another morning without accidentally killing myself.

This is what it is like living my life, part one. And it's only 815 in the morning.

Joan Rivers

I went to see the Joan Rivers documentary A piece of work tonight and oh, it inspired me. It is a phenomenal portrayal of a fighter and survivor.
There are some touching moments when she talks about her relationship with her daughter, which I found very moving. She must be a nightmare mother, but I say this lovingly - all daughters find it hard to be around their mothers, all mother's want to steel the limelight away from their daughters! And Joan Rivers doesn't pretend to be anything but herself.
It is both funny and very touching - I highly recommend it.

This is hilarious

If you want to raise your child in a non-gender stereotyping environment (good grief, it makes me tired just writing it, haha) try doing what a Swedish couple is doing, namely: just don't disclose your child's gender.
The child's name is Pop, Pop has a wardrobe consisting of both dresses and trousers, and he/she/it/Pop's haircut is ambiguously androgynous (but, then, this is Sweden, and so is 99% of the rest of the kids hair-cuts too).

It seems like a hell of a lot of effort going in to messing this child's life up if you ask me. Believe me, most of us end up on the therapist's couch one way or another during our life on this earth, so why pave the rocky road leading up there with more confusion and alienation?

But then again, it is also a very clever move. Imagine the book-advances, the movie deals, the whole money making machine you are inevitably signing Pop up for - this baby is going to make a ton! Oh, no, wait, it's not the US, it's Sweden..... they don't look at people as brands over there.....

To give it a name

So, what does it mean to live and cope with the big D-word? Well, I wouldn't have a clue. I have been so good at keeping it manageable by building tall walls around myself that the term denial would be an understatement. Instead, you would have to ask my family. Kate would look at you and say:
- Mommy sees someone who is helping her be happy. So she won't get angry all the time.

- Tell your daughter exactly what it is, said my therapist. But don't give it a name. Names are scary.
She's telling me??? - Giving it a name means I will be able to find at least fifty books on the topic on Amazon. Not giving it a name means that I can pretend it's part of my quirky, slightly cynical personality.

But we have given it a name. That's the bottom line. Kate is still happily unaware of this, but the name is there, looking right in to our eyes. And by giving it a name, I am being forced to deal. I am having to confront it head first, and I am having to admit that it is tearing us, our family apart.
- I hate this, I complained to my husband. We are actually giving in to it. Why can't it be like before, I was doing well. I had it under control.
- Well, you did OK, but the rest of us didn't, says my husband in earnest. And we're not giving in to it. We're taking charge of it.

I know he's right. It was shit before. It will still be shit, at least for a while yet. But at least we have decided to not let it take over our family. Because that would be giving in to it!

A confession of sorts

"We have the means for happiness, but no happiness" Virginia Woolf wrote about her marriage to Leonard Woolf. She was indicating that the depression she suffered from, and which subsequently she lost her life to, made it impossible for her to enjoy their relationship to the full. Virginia didn't have any children, but she loved spending time with her nieces and nephews, and to them, she was a much beloved aunt.
Living with depression is a constant struggle and trying to manage it and keep it under wraps takes up an enormous amount of energy. Today is a good day, and I can afford to confess: taking care of my children has been a part-time occupation, battling depression is my full-time job.

This blog is meant to document my life as a mother and for the last year I have written about my frustrations and reactions to what I like to call the parenthood trap. As of today I will have to include another topic in my blog, namely: how you live and cope with depression in a family with young children.

Having recently been diagnosed with the illness my journey has only just begun. Being able to write about it honestly and candidly is going to be very helpful to me. I hope you are patient with me:). The blog will not change. My angry rants will not disappear. This is still very much the angry mother's blog.
But now I will have even more to write about it.

Nancy Hannah Miley

I don't need to worry about Kate, that's for sure. Her best friend is besotted with Hannah Montana so I figured it was just a question about time before this vacuous phenomena would hit our home too. But not so. When I asked KAte the other day what she felt about Miley and her alter ego she just shrugged her shoulders and said:
- I don't really like it. It's not interesting, and nothing happens. Like: nothing happens.
She went back to reading her Nancy Drew.
- Mommy. How do I become a private detective?

I love children as much as the next person (no, I don't, I love my own children, other children I tolerate - if they are well-behaved and chew with their mouths closed....), and I think parents deserve to live in the same world as the rest of the people, with the same rights in public spaces, but if your child is screaming his head off and has done for the last 30 minutes, in the cafe where everyone else are trying to work - chances are you should probably consider taking him out for a walk instead.
I feel sorry for the little guy though. His mother doesn't seem to understand that the answer to his cries are not to rock the stroller ferociously side to side while mouthing "hush" in a very loud voice and throw books and stuffed animals at him.

Things my husband and I argue about

When I got a flat tire about a month ago, my husband quickly stepped up to the plate and change it to the spare, telling me he would call the garage the next day since, as he pointed out in a reassuring tone, although secured better than any of the others were, driving around on the spare is simply not a good idea, and use of the car should be kept at a minimum until we had the new tire.
The next morning I ask him if I can take his car, assuming that he will, as he had said before, take my car to the garage. We even have a short argument about what time of the day will be the best to drop it off so that they will be able to do it while we wait, all of this leading to my assumption that it will be business as usual within 24 hours. I can't have his car, he explains, as he needs to go to a meeting, and suddenly, driving on the spare is not such a big deal. And anyway, the garage don't have the tire, it has to be ordered, he says. As in: aren't we just soo lucky that we didn't need to bring it in today, of all days.

A month later, and I am still driving with the spare, and I ask my husband if he has called to garage to see what is going on.
- I'll do it today, he says.
That night, when I ask him again, he says he forgot.
- I didn't have time, he says and tries to turn it around: If I had ordered it myself it would have been here by now, and I could have fit it myself, and it would have saved us a good deal of money!
He looks pleased with himself.
I look puzzled.
- What's that got to do with anything??
- Well, it would have been quicker if I'd done it myself.
- .... but you didn't.... so what's your point?
I can see he's about to throw himself in to something so I just nip it by saying:
- Can you just call them. Please.

A week later, my husband is in New York on business.
I send him an email.
"I don't really care where in the world you are, or how good you are a t changing tires, if you don't effing call the garage tomorrow, the divorce papers will be at your desk quicker than you can say Fed Ex."

Most of you would say: Why didn't you just call the garage yourself.
I could have. And it would have been done, over, end off. But I didn't, he did. So it's now the principal of the matter.
Responsibilities vs priorities.
All of that.
You understand.