Don’t you hate it when they get to that distractible age and won’t focus on breastfeeding? Stop looking at the angels, Baby Jesus!
Have a look at a piece I wrote for Pray.com.au on the Nativity. It got me reflecting on what it felt like to be a new mother. Did Mary feel this way too?
So Matilda’s gap year has come to an end. 2014 has been an adventure in homeschooling. I’ve had a teacher’s dream job – a classroom with one gifted student, eager to learn.
This is the year I made new friends, learnt Japanese, went on interesting excursions and got re-acquainted with our local library. Matilda now plays guitar, tutors one of Christopher’s friends, plays a mean game of netball and can rollerskate with the best of them. She also walks taller, stands up for herself and chatters warmly and effusively to her new friends.
She’s still a sensitive child – she wouldn’t be Matilda if she wasn’t – but her eyes have lost that hunted, anxious look, she eats her lunch and goes to sleep at night.
Of course, it hasn’t all been easy. It’s hard work organizing regular social catch-ups for Matilda and regular sanity-breaks for myself, and I often feel I could be doing more with her (her brain is enormous). It’s no picnic having to explain myself everywhere I go, either (No, she’s not sick, we homeschool. You want me to explain my reasons for homeschooling in 140 characters or less? Forget it. She’s sick.)
But it’s a lot easier and a lot more enjoyable than I thought it would be.
I love the lifestyle. I love learning about how Matilda learns. I love the rich curriculum and I love being able to tailor it to Matilda’s needs. I love the freedom and the simplicity. I love socializing with other families. I love the space it creates for extracurricular activities.
I feel like the most stress I’ve dealt with this year has been related to Christopher’s school. The pick ups and the drop offs. The tiredness and crankiness. The readers and the homework books. The bullying and standard-issue cruelty. And the endless, endless admin.
Homeschooling is rather strange, I guess. But sending my children off to a one-size-fits-all institution for an inefficiently mass-produced education is a different sort of strange. Not that I’m anti-school. And not that I’m telling you to homeschool or judging you for not homeschooling or waiting for you to list the manifold reasons why you can’t homeschool. I’m just trying to work out what works for my family.
All through the year, Christopher had begged me to homeschool him too and I’ve struggled to find a reason not to do it. It was difficult saying goodbye to the school, but in another way, I felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
So, I’m committing to one more year of homeschool. After this year, things get a little more complicated. Harry will be old enough for school and Matilda will be in Grade 6 and might benefit from a year at school before she goes to high school. But I’m only doing things one year at a time. I will have a clearer idea of where to go later this year. At least that’s what I tell myself.
Am I a mad person?
Disclaimer: I suspect this is going to be an insufferably self-indulgent and introspective post.
Suffer.
I love writing. I get such a rush from words tumbling out and jostling for position on the screen or in my ratty notebook. There is a delicious agony in searching for the right word or the perfect one-liner. I am filled with glee when I finish a piece and it’s done, it’s definitely done and I can totally publish it. And knowing that I have readers as lovely as you is pure bliss. I think I know now what I want to be when I grow up.
And here’s the funny part: I think that my job as a stay-at-home-mum fits perfectly with this plan.
I feel a little nervous saying this – in any other profession, it’s perfectly OK to say you love working and that your job is full of fun perks, but the role of full-time Domestic Engineer is fraught with emotional landmines.
You see, we’re all a little bruised by the idea put about that we’re spoiled rich ladies who spend our days wearing pearls and watching infomercials. Or that we’re a little bit stupid and child-care (being such an unworthy pursuit) is all our poor intellects are capable of. Or that we’re so insufferably dull, we need to surround ourselves with children as a distraction.
This makes us rather defensive.
As a result, we flood social media with earnest posts about how SAHMs should be earning a CEO’s salary for all the work they do (often accompanied by a Vishnu-like diagram depicting all the roles they play); stories of husbands who try to do the work of their stay-as-home wife and fall apart after Day 1 (“I had no idea!”); and heartwarming video clips that involve evocative piano music, baby’s first steps and advertisements for a South East Asian phone company.
I feel like a traitor to the cause admitting I really like what I do – and not just for the worthy reasons like “being there for my kids” and “hearing Baby’s first words” – the lifestyle really suits me.
I’ve been thinking a lot about a proper career as a writer and I see this time at home not as a delay or a roadblock, but as a gift. Time to practice and develop my skills before I try it on for real.
In fact, I’ve been thinking about it so much, I’m going to write a whole separate blog post about it.
Stay tuned.
My wonderfully talented sister wrote this about our grandmother. The little girl in the second photo is me!
A little over a year ago my dear, sparkling, much adored grandmother (or Mama as we lovingly called her) passed away. I wrote some words in my journal back then, when I had first heard the news. In truth, writing words down doesn’t really help the pain of the goodbye, but it can help try to capture in some way a mere slice of the vast joy that was the “hello”. Seeing as it was her birthday recently I thought I would post a little blog for her and include some of my journal writing from last year.
One of my favourite photos of Mama and me from Christmas a few years back- such joy!
When someone transforms from a person who Is to a person who Was, so much changes. Suddenly your experience of them becomes that of an observer, looking upon their masterpiece of life- as opposed to seeing them as a person with…
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I meant to get this post up yesterday, the 15th, which was my birthday, but didn’t quite manage it.
This is a quick, unpolished post, the electronic equivalent of scribbled notes, but I had to write something about today because it was so beautiful. I want to capture it and remember it always.
I am 33 years old today. When I sat in church this morning, as Matilda, Christopher Robin and Harry trotted off to Children’s Liturgy and Annie happily defaced a Vinnies Christmas Appeal envelope, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for my love-filled life.
Last night, I had a group of dear friends over for a relaxed barbeque. I had tidied the house and made it beautiful with fairy lights and candles and fresh flowers from my garden. After we had picked at the last of the salad and the birthday cake crumbs, Mr Knightley lit a bonfire and we all sat around toasting marshmallows until the guitars came out.
I think it might have had something to do with the plastic cups of very lovely champagne (a Christmas present from her very generous student) that Lydia poured out liberally for all, or one of the most delicious and rather strong vodka cranberries that Lovely M kept making me, but I sounded AMAZING. We all sounded AMAZING. Like magical gypsy minstrels. Those weren’t fumbled chords. Those were highly sophisticated improvisations. It. Was. Awesome.
By all rights, I should have felt rather poorly this morning, but I did not. My children tumbled into bed with me and gave me presents and kisses. My husband cooked me bacon and eggs (even better: he fed and dressed the kids!). We got to church on time, too (this is big)
I was still feeling the love while Matilda, Christopher Robin and Harry walked slowly to the front of the church in the Offertory Procession with the other Children’s Liturgy kids. Harry solemnly delivered the corporal cloth to Father Jacob and then swiftly ran away, first in the wrong direction, then turning and racing back, almost knocking the priest and half the gifts over in the process. Annie, meanwhile had quietly progressed to colouring the hymn books.
I felt so good.
Later that day, I would eat brunch with Bess and George, my old uni friends ; my parents-in-law would drop by with a lovely present and my house would be tidy (win); and I would have a delightful afternoon tea at my favourite place with my parents, and brothers and sister (Jan’s in England, but was there in spirit).
I was yet to be showered in presents (and so was Cindy, my twin, who turns 23 on Tuesday), was yet to eat delicious gluten-free cake, but I still felt so good and so grateful.
At the end of the day, I would snuggle up with my darling love (my new curling iron) and my husband and watch a movie so compelling I couldn’t blog through it and post this in time.
A day might come that’s not like this one at all, when I feel blackness and despair. Maybe I might feel consumed by anxiety, like I can’t cope, like I always fail.
Perhaps it might not be blackness and despair, but greyness and blah. I might feel numb to joy, like I’m just surviving in a bland world of sameness. I might forget how to be happy and just settle for smug.
A day might come when I really need this post. When I need to remind myself that things aren’t really all that bad.
Things can be pretty damn sweet.
I’m really not enjoying the morning rush before school at the moment. Today, I returned from my search for Christopher Robin’s grey socks to find Harry sitting in the corner at my little Repressed Creativity table with Mummy’s Special Oil Pastels spread all around him. He had torn the wrapper off the one in his hand and held it in his two small fists.
“I snap it?”, he enquired animatedly, a mischievous glint in his eye.
“No! Naughty!”, I exclaimed in horror.
“I snap it.”, the wretched imp asserted decisively and broke the pastel clean in half before tossing it on the table to join its fallen brothers.
I managed to get to Harry before he unwrapped his next victim, made a mess of disciplining him (it was mostly me shouting “how would you like me to break YOUR special toys??!” whilst Harry shook his head solemnly and reasoned “they’re MY toys, Mummy.”) and tried to salvage what was left of my lovely pastels.
As I matched aquamarine with aquamarine and crimson with crimson, it seemed a twelve-year-old version of myself manifested itself before my eyes. There she stood, an awkward figure in her ill-fitting school uniform, clutching her A3 Spirax cartridge paper sketchbook and tin of 72 Derwent pencils to her chest.
“When was the last time you even USED those pastels?” she glowered at me, “You haven’t even opened the box for months and months! I think it’s been a YEAR!”
“Look, now’s really not a good time, Twelve-Year-Old Version Of Myself”, I muttered crossly. And it wasn’t. It was 8:25am and Matilda was still searching for her shoes, Christopher Robin’s reader still needed to be signed, Annie’s nappy was emitting a suspicious smell and Harry was off hunting for fresh mayhem. But the sulky tween manifestation of my subconscious was insistent.
“Mrs Flannery said we were good at art. She said it was in our soul”
It was true. I had a wonderful art teacher in Year Seven who had been kind and encouraging. She had looked past my crippling shyness and made me feel like I was special. And it was also true: I hadn’t used the pastels in at least a year. My house seems full of empty sketchbooks, untouched paints and blank canvases that my twelve-year-old self would have itched to play with.
I could have argued that I didn’t have the time, that was my usual excuse, but I knew twelve-year-old Kate wouldn’t buy it. The truth is, I’ve become terrified of Inner Critic. Inner Critic is another version of myself (it’s very crowded to be me) who usually tells the Twelve Year Old to sit still and be quiet. She also says things like “what if it turns out you’re no good at art? Wouldn’t it be better not to try than to find out you’re only average?” and she sighs and sneers and rolls her eyes a lot. It’s hard work keeping her happy.
Twelve-year-old Kate didn’t have an inner critic. She just liked to play with colour.
Later, in that beautiful calm after Matilda and Christopher Robin were delivered safely to school, I formed a resolution. Throughout the month of August, I will create some sort of art once a week, photograph it and post it on my blog. And if Inner Critic has any comments to make, I’ll just say “quiet, you!”. I’m a great admirer of proper-artist Ruby Hoppen, she is creating a portrait of her son every week this year. It’s amazing to behold. That’s where I got this idea. But I won’t be doing portraits, and I’m only going for a month, but other than that…
If any other of you lovely bloggers would like to “play along”, please let me know in the comments and I’ll link to you. You don’t have to be arty, that’s the whole point! I think I’m going to call it “Art in August”. Or maybe “Amateur Art in August”
And, in celebration of this decision, here is my first piece. It commemorates the destruction of my oil pastels and the miniature art festival this event inspired.
I call it “Shattered”.
Can’t wait till August!
Laptop on the Ironing Board 