All posts filed under: parenting

My girly girl, pay parity and other thoughts on being a woman.

As the proud mum of a two-year-old girl, I am privy to the whimsical workings of her sweet little head. She is the personification of joy and we have such fun doing girly things together, like dancing around the dining table to the Frozen soundtrack, picking flower petals for a fresh batch of perfume and making “wiggly worms” from pink play doh. Every night as I tuck her into bed, she insists I tell a story with a “princess in pink dress, pink shoes, pink lipstick, riding a pink neigh.” For the record, I’m allergic to pink, so this has been quite a journey and proof that girly girls are born, not bred. So, as we come around to another International Women’s Day awareness campaign, it is her I think of first. “Be bold for change” is this year’s battle cry to achieve equality with men and, in particular, pay parity. And when I think of my daughter as she flits through the room in a tutu with fairy wand waving, I do want that …

6 Things I want to remember when I’m mum to a teen

I have seven years until I can say that I’m mum to a teenager. I shall relish those years; relish the toddler tantrums, the toilet training and shoelace tying. Because people keep telling me that when kids hit their teens, the rules change. Everything changes. Dark clouds form and the light and shade of parenting becomes more shade than light. Well, I don’t know if you’re all being a little bit melodramatic. To be honest, I’m not the sort to worry in advance about these things. I’ll let tomorrow worry about that. But as I engage with you parents of teens, and you tell me what is working for you, there are so many nuggets of wisdom that I’m desperately trying to retain, to file away somewhere in this lackadaisical brain so that seven years from now, on my son’s 13th birthday, I can pull out that file marked, Useful Tips & Tricks for Mums of Teenagers. I won’t rely on my brain, I’ll rely on my blog. Here is the start of a file …

REJECTED.

I’m gonna start this post by saying that I love my kids, BUT… I love my kids but sometimes I question if they love me back. Never is this more pronounced than school holidays, when my teacher husband is home for great chunks of time and there is the wonderful expectation of family time, of the house buzzing with fun and memory-making. My heart aches a little as I write this. The truth is that my kids are so enamoured of their father that school holidays are a bit painful for me. By the end, I feel rather battered by the constant rejection. I joke about it with friends, but they know there is some hurt in my banter of being able to leave the kids with dad, not a care in the world, no clingers-on, no tears, no “I want mummy!” Come here darling, I say, let me put on your shoes. “No! Daddy do it.” Would you like to come and do the groceries, just you and me? “Is daddy going?” No. “No …

Thanks for the tips Mr Biddulph: 3 Ways to Support Girls

There I was, standing in my bedroom, selecting an outfit for the day ahead. Little Miss Two was at my side, as usual, watching my every move. I chose my super slimming, high-rise, black jeans, the ones that take a fair bit of jiggling to get on. A merino long-sleeved top (a thermal, in other words, I live in Tasmania afterall). And a light grey oversized knit that feels like I’m wrapped in a blanket. There, I’m thinking. Ready. It’s about then that I notice my little blonde-haired girl waving her rear-end at the mirror. She’s peering over her shoulder, gawking at her nappy-cushioned bottom… just like I do. The good old, “Does my bum look big in this?” move. I was shocked. I could’ve cried. My darling bundle of innocence had picked up on a rather shallow habit of mine. But I didn’t – I just laughed. I swung her up into my arms and laughed and laughed with her. She knew she’d done something endearing and she joined me with her wonderful giggles of …

Teaching Kids about Inner Beauty

Two pears sit on a bench. One is shiny, smooth, moderate in size, even-shaped and golden in colour. The other is much bigger, lop-sided, its skin rough and speckled brown, green and gold. I know which pear my children would choose. The same pear that most of the thinking population would choose, no doubt. The one that came from a regulated environment, selected for its regulated size, shape and texture. The one that was buffed and waxed, weighed and packaged, stored for who-knows-how-long at an even temperature before being stacked on supermarket shelves. I give you Specimen Number One: the supermarket pear.  The other would have been rejected had it come from the same production line. It came from the garden and its owners allowed it to bulge into whatever shape nature deigned. They relished plucking fruit from the branches, getting in amongst the sticky leaves, climbing to reach the topmost fruit. Specimen Number Two: the homegrown pear. We might even call them the beautiful pear and the ugly pear – but that would be …