The other day my three-year-old directly inquired: “Mummy, will you die?” I didn’t think kids were supposed to grapple with things like this until they were much older, so the question caught me a bit off guard. I always tell my boy the truth (except when it comes to Santa and the Easter Bunny), so I replied: “Yes darling but not for a long, long time and I’ll be really old and you’ll be a big grown-up man. Everyone dies eventually.” He burst into tears. Good one Mum! Perhaps I should have lied and said we would both live forever. But on some level that didn’t sit right with me. Even my truth, is not really the truth. I could be a hit by a bus tomorrow, get some horrible disease – obviously I just don’t know. The thought that I will die at a ripe old age when he is a healthy, productive man is my fantasy, not fact. Experts say that children are aware of death from a very early age. They see dead animals on the side of the road, or they see it on television. Young children often think death is reversible. But between the ages of about five and nine they start to realise it is permanent but it will usually be viewed as some impersonal concept – something that happens to other people. My son’s direct question leapt over all these stages and landed straight at the heart of the matter: death is forever and it happens to all of us. Even if you are religious and believe the soul lives on, it’s the physicality of the matter that will have most impact on children: here one day, gone the next. Many parents use the idea of heaven to cushion the impact of death. The person or pet who has died has gone to be with the angels (or whatever). But I’m afraid my heart isn’t in this explanation. So on the one hand while it seems a bit brutal to tell the truth, I console myself that death is not a taboo subject in our family so that should help my son come to grips with it later. Sadly two of my child’s grandparents have passed away – one before he was born and one when he was only six months old. We often discuss them and my son is aware that they are no longer with us. But dealing with the death of a living friend of relative who is a part of your daily life has to be very different experience for little people. I still remember the day of my grandmother’s death when I was nine. I remember the weight of it on my mother, an only child. My recollection is that my Dad pretty much told me like it was – she died of a heart attack while sitting in the lounge chair. I didn’t attend the funeral. I remember my pet birds dying in their cage in the backyard. (Perhaps that was the problem – that their cage was in the backyard!!) When Hope, Faith and Charity died, we let Love go (seriously – that was their names!! Maybe they died of shame?) I never experienced the loss of a close lovable dog or cat until I was in my twenties. During my childhood my Dad would do his block with our pets, and ship them off, long before they reached old age. I often thank my lucky stars how limited my experience of death has been. But that’s often not the case for many families, on many different levels. I would be interested in how others have handled the issue with their children, especially if you’ve actually had to deal with the death of a loved one. Do pets really help children cope with death or is that a conspiracy put about by Pets’ Paradise? Do you think kids should see a dying relative or go to funerals? Should we take our cue from our children themselves? (That is, let them do what they are comfortable doing.) One thing is inescapable – we can’t protect them from death forever.

Last weekend my husband and I celebrated our sixth wedding anniversary. The day conjured up lots of memories because for the first time our anniversary was on the same day as our wedding (a Saturday). I decided to relive part of the day with a surprise trip to the church we got married in. After all after six years, I thought it was about time we went back.So, after dropping off our 3.5 year old with his Nanna and Aunty Nat, we headed into town about the same time we did so, six years earlier - except this time there were a few differences and I am not talking about the extra weight or the grey hairs! I was in a Mazda, not a vintage Bentley; my husband was driving, not a chauffer; I was not dressed in a willowy ivory number, clutching white roses; my Dad wasn’t nervously fidgeting beside me; and 100 or so people weren’t awaiting my arrival at the other end. In fact there was no one at the other end. No one at all. And you see, that kind of derailed my plans for a trip down memory lane.

The church was closed. Doors bolted. Windows barred. The green steeple seemed to be laughing down at us saying: you think after six years, you can just turn up again, and we’ll welcome you with open arms? No way, we know what you’ve been up to!

Earlier in the week I’d expressly phoned to make sure the church would be open for our little sojourn. The church secretary and the “verger” (whoever that is - sounds like someone from Star Trek, or maybe the Thunderbirds) assured me that if we arrived before 5pm there’d be no problem as a Palm Sunday rehearsal would be taking place.

But as I’ve already told you - that wasn’t the case. I even phoned the “verger” on a mobile phone number displayed outside the church, just in case he got an attack of the guilts and decided to fly down and open the church for us. I mean what else do these church types have to do on Saturday nights anyway?
Well no such luck. And I still haven’t heard from him.

So what to do? We took a few photos of ourselves outside the church for old time’s sake and briefly considered joining the homeless people outside the building next door. (Hey, perhaps they were there for us, in the absence of the “verger”?)

Instead we decided we’d better make the most of being in town on a Saturday afternoon, without a kid, and with a few hours up our sleeves now we didn’t have the option of enjoying a bit of solace at the stained glass windows.

So, where to? It’s 4pm - too early to start drinking; too early to have dinner; best to have a coffee and consider the situation. Perhaps we could go to a movie? Yes, let’s get a paper. Soon discovered 4pm is never land in cinema world. No movie ever starts at 4pm - they’re all halfway through.

And actually we’re parked in a two-hour zone so if we go to a 5pm movie we’ll get pinged in the middle of it. So we could just park somewhere else and forfeit all the gold coins we’ve just fed into the hungry parking meter, but, oops, do we have any coins left for the next one? And where is that cinema anyway - it used to be so simple - with those big blockbuster-type places in George St. Are they even there anymore? I think the last time I went was 1986. Oh there’s that Reading place, and that Dendy place, and that Verona place.

Oh god it’s all too hard. Let’s just head back to the ‘burbs where we know we can park. And catch whatever movie happens to be on (Emilio Estevez’s Bobby - not bad).

I tried to do something a bit different - I really did.

But next time I think I’ll get my Mum to come to our place and we’ll just go to Hornsby.

Isn’t life in the digital age wonderful? I find by the time I update my two blogs, transfer pictures onto the computer from the camera, answer my emails and check my favourite websites, there goes the night. I find I now spend more time in front of the computer than the television. I have simply swapped one sight-ruining box for another.

Social commentators used to spend columns of space writing about the dangers of television. It was supposed to tear at the fabric of families, and ultimately society.

How can families possibly be relating properly if they are sitting in front of the gogglebox all night? Well at least we all sat around the gogglebox together and occasionally even laughed at the same time.

In contrast, using computers is a fairly solitary task. I’ve never heard of the family logging onto You Tube, for example, and having a laugh at the latest Chad Vader episode (check them out - they are so funny. Chad, as opposed to Darth, actually works in a grocery store, but I digress).

Music used to be something to be shared as well. Now with the i-pod generation, music is a case of plugging in and tuning out.

For our little kids, perhaps the same will become of television. Everyone will have their own personal monitor and it will be so interactive there’ll be no such thing as the 8.30pm Sunday movie. It’ll be the anytime-you-want-it movie, from any camera angle you want.

It’s not all negative though. I find that with my blogs and the uploading of my photos onto share sites, such as Flickr.com, at least those members of the family who don’t live near you, can get a sense of what you’re up to. How else would my son’s Aunty is Canada know, for example, that he just saw King Kong on the weekend?

So we all get to know things about people we never needed to know. And as for the stuff, we need to know? I’ve just got to write one more post, answer three emails, contribute to an online forum, and edit the Christmas pics (in particular reducing the size of my nose and chin), and then we can talk, ok?

Just last week I was faced with a screaming child grabbing onto my leg as I left the childcare centre. It is a difficult situation for any parent. How can you leave, when your child is in such obvious distress? On the other hand, how will they ever learn that everything will be okay when you’re gone, if you stay.My boy hasn’t been particularly clingy, especially as he’s gotten older. He’s been in some sort of care since he was about eight months old. Until this year it was mostly family daycare, which consists of a maximum of five children in a carer’s home.

It’s a very personal experience for both the parents and child and I’d recommend it to anyone with very young children.

This year, in our second-last year before school, we have started at a childcare centre to give our child a bit more stimulation and to prepare him for school. He does that two days a week and still checks in with his lovely day care lady one day a week.

He’s really enjoyed the new experience for the two months or so he’s been attending - until last week. Apparently our experience is not unusual. There’s a novelty value with new things that soon wears off. Then the child can go backwards for a while when they realise the set-up is an ongoing thing and that they have to go, even when they don’t feel like it.

So what did I do? Initially I said I’d stay for a little while in the vain hope that I could leave a happy child and then I wouldn’t feel guilty. But I don’t think that helped at all. In fact I think it made it worse. When I then did have to go (the train was coming!!) he was really upset as though he’d been deceived into thinking I was going to hang around.

He settled down of course but it took him a while, they told me. And of course he was fine when I saw him that evening but it was still a crappy way to start the day and I’m sure that bad taste was in his mouth a lot longer than mine.

I only hope that when it’s my turn to drop him off again in a few days, we don’t have a repeat performance. I will be sure to wax lyrcial about all his friends there and all the great activities he can do and I might even throw in a new Spiderman action figure (or his favourite “Kindy” (Kinder) chocolate) as a bribe for a happy drop off.

Pathetic, I know. But then it’s my separation anxiety as much as his!!

My blog: www.yuckymummy.com

I am so glad I had a boy child. Had I had say…a girl!…I would never have discovered the exquisite joy that is the cult of Spiderman. My son has been the web crawler’s biggest fan for a year or so. He has been collecting action figures of every character that ever appeared in a Spiderman comic. I think now he has about 40. The thing is I find that if I discover a particularly rare character in a shop, I’m bound to get even more excited than he does.This may not seem particularly remarkable to men, who are always ‘boys with toys’ at heart. But I’m sure women will think I’m a bit odd. Particularly women with daughters.

You see the thing I have discovered is that Marvel’s Spiderman comics are actually very funny. Peter Parker, Spiderman’s secret identity, is actually a pretty amusing guy. He likes to take the piss out of himself. And I like a man who can do that.

Spiderman comics started in 1963 I think and it must have been ahead of its time or perhaps it’s just more reflective of its time than I ever expected a comic to be. Tonight I was reading one of the comics to my son in bed and we discovered that Harry, Peter’s best friend, was on LSD! Thankfully three-year-olds are satisfied with the explanation that LSD means lovely soft donuts!!

My son’s favourite pastime is role-playing with all his action figures and Mum and Dad have to play their part. No matter that you’ve had a long day at the office and you’re trying to eat your dinner before collapsing in a heap. Oh no, you have to pick up that Green Goblin and do his evil laugh.

My son is so into the genre that we have action figures as portrayed in the more recent Spiderman movies, as well as the original comic ones. There’s the aforementioned GG but he’s not alone in the goblin stakes. There’s also the Hob Goblin and Demo Goblin. Other villains we have restrained in our huge plastic storage toy box include Dr Octopus, the Sandman, Mysterio, Rhino and Lizard, with the Incredible Hulk, Superman, Batman, Wolverine (X-men) and both Angel and Black Panther - from the Avengers - thrown in for good measure. That’s not to mention just about every Spiderman ever produced: big, small, in between, with aqua attachment, made of stretchable material etc etc and etc.
You can’t imagine how excited we were to see the release of a whole new line of Spiderman merchandise, called Spiderman Origins, in Target at Christmas (well, maybe you can…).

Of course there is no limit to how many ways a young boy can wear Spiderman. We have a Spiderman jacket, boxer shorts, undies, T-shirt, shorts and pyjamas, not to mention the watch and the specially made painting the boy’s Aunty had done for him in New York.
Yesterday’s Sydney Morning Herald had an interesting story about children who dress up as super heroes have a higher risk of injury. I quote from the Herald report:

The report, published in the journal Archives of Disease in Childhood, said children playing dress-ups tended to overestimate their abilities and were more susceptible to fractures and cuts from falls.

It said adventurous play and risk-taking were an essential part of growing up, but called on parents to keep a closer eye on their children’s dress-up activities.

The British researchers studied injuries in five boys aged three to eight, who were wearing Superman or Spiderman costumes when they were hurt.

One boy broke two bones in his foot and sustained deep bruising on the right side of his body after he fell out of a window while pretending to be Spiderman. Other cases included three boys who had fractured bones “after initiating flight without having planned for landing strategies”, the report said.

The lead author, Lisa Munro-Davies from the emergency department of the Bristol Royal Hospital for Children, said children had always taken risks, but superhero role models gave them unrealistic expectations.

“The children that we saw have all had to contemplate on their way to hospital that they do not in fact possess superpowers,” she said.

Neither the Children’s Hospital at Westmead nor the Sydney Children’s Hospital at Randwick had data on children taken to hospital after a superhero-related injury, but estimated the number would be small.

The head of psychology at the Sydney Children’s Hospital, James Donnelly, said role-play and dress-ups were a natural part of boys’ and girls’ development and often a way of coping with anxiety.

“If they are a superhero they don’t have to worry about things they don’t understand - and it’s also really fun.”

However, anecdotal reports to the Herald show that some Sydney child-care centres have moved to ban or limit superhero play to outdoors.

Fiona Pendergast hosts themed parties for children aged three to 12 and has overseen more than 100 superhero parties. “When they are in full character they really do become the superhero with arms and legs going everywhere,” she said.

While no one had been injured, her centre had laid cushioning beneath carpets to soften the impact of falls, and the male adult superhero hosts were told to wear padding as some of the boys could become rough, she said.

Most experts the Herald spoke to agreed parents should encourage their children to play dress-ups, but also to explain the dangers of superhero behaviour.

Guess we’d better install rubber floors!!!

PS. My son knows a little of the Spiderman theme song (from the 1967 TV series, would you believe). So I have taken the liberty of posting the words in full here. Must teach him the rest. Enjoy!!

Spiderman, Spiderman,
Does whatever a spider can,
Spins a web, any size,
Catches thieves just like flies.
Look out! Here comes the Spiderman.

Is he strong? Listen bud -
He’s got radioactive blood.
Can he swing from a thread?
Take a look overhead.
Hey there! There goes the Spiderman.

In the chill of the night,
At the scene of the crime,
Like a streak of light,
He arrives just in time!

Spiderman, Spiderman,
Friendly neighborhood Spiderman.
Wealth and fame, he’s ignored -
Action is his reward.

To him,
Life is a great big bang-up -
Wherever there’s a hang-up,
You’ll find the Spiderman!

I just dropped my Canadian niece and her friend off at the train station for the next leg of their Southern Hemisphere odyssey. Despite being weighed down by bulging backpacks and the 5am start, each had a spring in their steps as they waved me goodbye. It reminded me of those heady days of my youth when taking a trip meant going to Paris, rather than the local shopping mall.

Don’t get me wrong - I’ve hardly been grounded since having a child. In his 3.5 years he’s been overseas twice and to most states of Australia. But I have to admit that the family holiday to Fiji, while no less enjoyable, was rather different to that weekend in Amsterdam with Janice in 1989.

Travel is a wonderful, mind-opening thing but I have found I’m much more cautious these days. Who wants to be stuck in a dive in India with a sick kid or even in a five-star hotel in Indonesia, for that matter.

I travelled to and from Canada on my own with a well and happy six-month-old and that was challenging enough. (Where exactly does one put the baby, when one needs to use those minute aeroplane toilets?)
I find the come-what-may attitude that makes travel so exciting doesn’t work quite the same way with little ones in tow. (The amount of stuff I had in my baby carry-on just about broke my arm off.)
My niece Alison and her friend Hayley were on their way to Byron Bay for a week of sun, sea and sand. Both up-and-coming accountants are smart enough to know they probably won’t actually learn to surf but that the fun will be in trying to. It’s not the destination, it’s the journey…and all those other tired but true cliches.
Although I’m cautious about travelling with little kids, you can’t do better than to instill that wanderlust in your kids. I’m not really sure how my parents did that for me, but it was certainly there from a young age.

These days Asia is the flavour but back in the ’80s, London - as a place to work and as the jumping off point for the rest of Europe - was the place to be. For years after I returned home I’d watch The Bill for a dose of that London magic, and I still miss it.

This week, however, I’ll spent approximately 10 hours just travelling to and fro work, and that’s enough for me. Sigh.

There is a strange place in the Universe - not unlike the Twilight Zone (but without the scary monsters). It is a place mothers (or fathers for that matter) don’t visit very often. It is an exciting, delicious, almost forbidden place, that we long for guiltily, and take in small doses when we can get it, like expensive wine. It’s … a day off work, WITHOUT KIDS!

By pure chance (or as it turns out, good luck) I’ve had a few weeks in between finishing up working part-time and starting working full-time, where some of my days off have coincided with my son’s daycare days.

Now once upon a time I would have kept my child at home with me, but these days I justify sending him, mumbling something about the high cost of care, which we’d have to fork out anyway, and that he enjoys seeing “all of his friends”.

But am I really wanting kid-free time? I think I have to admit, yes.

I really have come a long way from being a mother who couldn’t be without my baby at all.

A few days after I gave birth I was having a blood transfusion (don’t ask, or see my post under ‘birth stories’ for gruesome account) and my baby was on the other side of the room crying his lungs out. I couldn’t reach him, on account of being tied up to the transfusion. I kept buzzing the midwives and they kept ignoring me. And I was getting really upset.

So eventually I stretched so far that the IV nearly popped out of my arm and I somehow managed to grab his little crib with the other arm. I swept him up in a smother of cuddles and he was perfectly calm again. By the time the midwives arrived my baby was fine. But I, of course, was a mess.

Well that incident kind of became a bit of a metaphor for my parenting, for at least the first two years. The IV took different forms - work and other commitments - but the result was always the same - being away from my baby too long was very upsetting.

Now, 3.5 years later, I guess the IV has largely been removed from my vein and those four units of B positive blood (Be positive….I am! Get it?) have finally done their job. But I still feel a little jab every now and then, such as when my increasingly articulate child said to me the other day: “I’ve got a brilliant idea! How about I won’t go to preschool and you don’t go to work?!” And there was this one (where do they get these things from?): “Mummy, I want you to spend time with me!”

Yet, I find as my child grows, the gulf between kid and non-kid days, gets larger.

Let’s compare yesterday (kid) and today (non-kid) for example.

Yesterday: Got up; gave son milk; coaxed son into eating breakfast; washed soiled sheets; watched Ghostbusters; played with pipe cleaners; went to shops: bought Ghostbusters soundtrack, more pipe cleaners, foam balls and eyes to use for heads for pipe-cleaner men; bought milkshake that landed on floor; bought pretzel; looked in toy shop, picked up some discounted kids’ clothes for next season; came home; more pipe cleaners; went for walk - ended up piggybacking; cleaned up ‘accident’; mopped up bathroom after water incident; coaxed son into eating dinner; read four stories; he slept; great - time to myself - too tired; slept.

Today (the plan): Dad pops child off to preschool; have leisurely coffee while blogging; have bubble bath; pop down to hair salon and get cut, colour and blow dry (takes several hours - well it would want to at that price); have a spot of lunch with friends; pop back home; see another friend this afternoon; read novel; pick up son from preschool around five; for the rest of the day re-run yesterday from ‘more pipe cleaners….’ except the part where I am too tired to have time for myself. I’ll be so rejuvenated after my day off will probably go out for a jog (LOL).
So this, that is so remarkable to me, is actually the way some women live! Imagine that! Those ‘ladies who lunch’. But it would hardly be a delicious pleasure, or another Universe, if it were to happen everyday now, would it?

I’d better go now, I’ve got to get on with doing nothing.

Objective for the next year of my life: tell as many people as possible that I am in my thirties. Because I sure as hell won’t be able to do that next year - without lying. Turning 30 was meant to be a terrible thing: the end of one’s life etc etc. But if 30 was the end of my life, what is 40? On the occasion of my 39th, I have a whole year to ponder that question.

There was no party this year. But I have already warned friends and family: next year there is to be a party like no other, so be prepared. And guess what? No kids allowed!!

I am planning on booking out a swanky resort in the Hunter Valley, NSW. All my friends will arrive from near and far. Hell they’ll cross the world - there’ll be Martha, from Chicago; Sue, from Lancashire; Jac and Di, from Melbourne; and Lesley, from Hornsby Heights (hey, it’s about as hard when you’ve got too little’uns).

It’s going to be huge - but that’s next year. What of this year?

The actual day was spent registering the car, browsing around the shops from 9am Monday morning (add sound of elevator music and pins dropping) and a kind of awkward wait for my son to finish at daycare and my husband to finish work (in the computer room upstairs).

Cards received: Aunty Marea; Dad and Janina; Mum and brother; sister and boyfriend (hers not mine); husband and child; and lovely Sue from Lancashire.

Happy Birthday emails: Cara

Happy Birthday texts: Mark

Presents: Lesley, Sean, Tom, Mary and Bella; Mother and brother; sister and boyfriend (hers not mine); husband and child, Dad and Janina.

Catalogue of gifts: David Jones voucher (hence Monday morning shopping trip to buy book - The Devil Wears Prada - black pants and Marvel Comics sticker book…not for me!); lovely green top; lovely brown top; lovely brown shirt (just as well bought black pants); book: the God Delusion (Mum mortified, when realised what about); Thumb Thing (can now read book with one hand); massage pillow; actual massage (voucher); black thongs; bronze thongs (love thongs despite horrid feet); Jindabyne DVD (seen it - good! but why didn’t they just call the police?) and two pink pashmenas (apparently am taking one back, but one can never have too many pashmenas, can one???)

Yeah I am pretty spoiled. And all this only six weeks after Ex-marse.

But you know, when you’re as old as me, with all the wrinkles and the loose bits, you gotta have something to celebrate.

Bring on 40!

If anyone would like to see our photos from the current fires, please go to http://www.flickr.com/photos/67884727@N00/

The fires came right up to our backyard last night and nearly claimed my son's cubby. Our backyard has been featured on television all day (though thankfully not us!)

Before I had a baby I was very fit. One of the changes I had to make during pregnancy was to reduce my exercise. Now the very phrase ‘reduce exercise’ is laughable to me. You mean there really are people who actually want to do more exercise than they’re doing and actually have the time to do it? But do not despair of me. I am not a totally lost cause. I have started swimming again!Taking a job near one of the best pools in the city presented me with an opportunity I could refuse no longer. That thought that had been nagging me at the back of my mind ever since I had my baby, came to the fore: “You really should get back into swimming!”

Before getting pregnant, swimming was a big part of my life. When I turned 30 I decided I had to get active so I took up the sport of my schooldays. I had been good at it once, I thought, so at least I wouldn’t drown!

But never to do anything by halves, I soon became obsessed with swimming. Within two years I was competing with Masters at a national level and within three years, internationally. I swam at least three times during the week and every other weekend involved a carnival or an ocean swim. At one stage I was swimming from 5am in the middle of winter at an outdoor pool. (Sick!)

After being out of the pool I found it hard to get back in because I knew I was so much slower. For a competitive person like me, that provides a convenient cop-out: if you can’t be the best, why bother?

The baby I mentioned earlier is now aged three years and four months. And that’s about how long it’s taken me to don the goggles again. I have now accepted that going swimming at all is better than not going at all. I do not have to be a world beater. I do not have to overtake the guy in front of me (unless he thinks he’s faster than me, then I’ll show him..)

I am enjoying the refreshment of swimming on warm summer days and also that virtuous feeling a few kilometres of exercise gives you. (If you eat a Tim Tam, for example, you can tell yourself you deserve it.)

But old habits do die hard. A flyer came through the post the other day for an ocean swim and I haven’t thrown it away. When people ask me how far I’ve just swum I invariably exaggerate . And I like to swim in the ‘Fast Lane. No Breastroke!’ at least occasionally. Under ‘interests’ on surveys and things I like to write ’swimming’. It makes me sound svelter.

And there’s another thing. I have plans for my son to be the next Ian Thorpe, so I have to show him a good example.

Swimming is great exercise for Mums as putting one’s head in water inevitably gives you some ‘me’ time. It’s hard to chastise a toddler, while doing 50m butterfly, for example. Not quite the same with, say tennis, with the kids running all over the court.

So look out for me at North Sydney Pool, following the black line up and down, in the shadow of the Harbour Bridge. I’ll be the serious one with the Masters logo on my cap. Just don’t try and overtake me …