Please I'm not a camper

'You need to be at school for the camp at 6 o'clock.' 'The what?' 'My school camp.' Hhon you know I don't do camping' Long pause, face starts to pucker. "okay, I'll do the camp, although I'm sure I didn't sign anything to say I would..." I don't get there until the kids are getting ready for bed. Its early yet and still time for a bit of fun - or so I think, until very nice teacher by day turns into big scary teacher by night. "Be quiet' she roars. ' you should be asleep.' OMG its still daylight. The parents stand around shuffling from one leg to the other. So what now? Wine? Beer? Scrabble? There's nothing for it but to retreat from the threat of mozzies and face a bedtime I usually only dream about. And it would be a dream except (Jaws theme music) I am surrounded by three eight year old boys. Can we tell ghost stories? Yeah, says I far too enthusiastically for a mature adult. 'Weeeeeeellll' Child one goes off on the longest, most tangential, unscary ghost story I have ever hear. Child two has dropped off to sleep with boredom. 'Be quiet' booms scary teacher, who has now transformed into Attila the Hun. We all jump bolt upright, including the sleeping child. 'Right,' says I, 'Here's my ghost story.' 'you can't talk about blood,' says one "Or ghosts,' says another. "or vampires.' My creativity is stunted. Child one and two start to drop off to sleep. 'What do we do now?" says child three (who happens to be mine). 'We could play with the torch.' "Be quiet," roars Attila. Sighing I use my number one method of trying to get to sleep - daydreaming in detail about the day I learn I have won Lotto. The night progresses. 'Caaaaaaass, I need to go to the toilet," 'Caaaaaaaass, I cant find a torch," "Caaaaaaaasssss, I can't unzip the tent," 'Caaaasss, my airbed has come down. "Caaaaasssssss, can I get in with you?" "Absolutely not,' says I emulating Attila the teacher. There IS a limit. The night drifts on. A roar comes from outside the tent. Someone is playing the DVD of 'Where the Wild Things Are." Or perhaps I've woken up in Wellington Zoo. No, it the children in the next door tent. Hee heee, haw haw, giggle, chortle,. Now its the kids on the other side. Its in stereo. And its pitch dark. The time is 5am. Where is Attila the teacher now? Seems like its a hanging offence to talk after 8pm but 5am is perfectly acceptable. I clamber out of bed. "Be quiet,' I demand. I clamber back into my bag, I try to sleep but I am livid with the injustice of the situation. Why are early birds so righteous and night owls condemned? 'Time to get dressed', I hear one of the parents say. It's only 6.30! I abandon ship, so angry I go home and pull weeds from the garden for half an hour to calm down. Finally shower and head to work for a strategic planning session with the board - a picnic in comparison with what I've been through. Next year Dad gets the job.

Ageing: the tipping point

There's been a bit of aging going on in our house lately. Boy and girl were counting off the days for weeks off the days for weeks until their birthday while man-child ad I hid for longer under the duvet as the anniversary of each of the days we were born ticked over. Boy and girl child planed their parties with intricate detail while we adults bought in extra food ad drink and invited only friends who were older than us as a support group. !' say I'm trying to remember the tipping point into old age. When I stopped looking forward to birthdays and began to fear them. When I stopped obthering to preen myself in front of the mirror like th children and instead scuttled away pulling the loosening skin up behind my ears. I remember a mild crisis when I was the ripe of age of 22, beig philisophical at 30 and leaving the country at 40. But this year was particularly cruel. Stupidly on my birthday I decided to reintroduce myself to the gym. I got on the arc trainer, I programmed in weight and age with a shudder and strode off on the spot to make up for all the chocolate I had ever eaten in my life. Suddenly lights began flashing 'slow down' and the machine announced ' your heart rate is too high.' "Pooh" say I and puffed harder on the weight loss, cardio, make yourself look fab programme. Then, to my horror, the machine announced it was switching to manual to 'manage' my heart rate before shutting down completely. I was so angry I kicked the inanimate object and set my arthritis off again. Striding home I caught sight of boy child joyfully playing with his newly acquired birthday toys. He was terribly sad that he would have to wait another whole year until his next birthday, but bursting with joy that he would be in 'double digits.' This will of course be followed closely by the joy of being old enough to drive, drink legally, marry, have a mortgage and somewhere, sometime, you'll reach the tipping point and your loving parents will be there with the presents of your choice: anti inflammatories, hair dye and a heart rate monitor.

Heading for a Fight

I confess that sometimes the parental tax service gets so busy that we run from one thing to another without necessarily thinking what we are doing through: ballet, swimming, drama, piano, soccer, netball - of yeah and school - it never-ending. So a few Saturdays ago when I looked on the calendar and saw that a Tae Kwon Do tourament was next on th elist, I was more worried about whether the dobok (the TKD uniform) was clean and how we would fit this new activity around winter sports - than whe we were actually letting our children in for. When we arrived, boy-child boldly announced, 'My fight is at 4.30" "Fight? What fight?" I said, momentarily distracted by a nearby shopping mall. I proudly watrch girl-child in patterns ansd thought what a lovely extra curricular activity this was. But when I saw me wee son being kitted out in helmet and body padding, I started to break out in a cold sweat. My anxiety levels then excalated off the scale watching one of his little school mates kicking the living daylights out os some stranger on an over-sized mat. The fight was stopped momentarily while one of the wee boys wiped his tears and gained composure. Mothers were weeping silently and father were grinning proudly. This was surely not happerning. But there he was - boy-child, one the mat, psyched to the max. The buzzer went and the fight began. I cannot explain what I felt at that moment, but a cvoice inside my head kept saying ' this jext ain't natural. I'm supposed to be a nurturing mother and yet here I am supporting my son in a scrap." I decided to cheer for him to distract myself. 'Kick him Zandie - kick him." I called, then recoiled in horror. " OMG, what am I doing?" My sweet little boy won his fight and there was back-slapping and hand-shaking all round. Well - from the blokes anyway. The women gave each other sympathetic looks and half-hugs as we wondered how we had meandered into this foreign land. Lgic says TKD is a fantastic sport for discipline, strength, self-discovery and, of course, self-protection. Logic is, of course, correct, but logic doesn't always work for emotional mothers. The kids love it; they'll keep doing it with my full support. But next time there's a tournament I'll be coweing in the toilets - or even better - heading for the shopping mall.

Bullying and the Aftermath

Last year, I discovered that one of my children was the victim of bullying. They didn't tell me themselves - they were too embarrassed. You would think a child that has plenty to say about terrible injustices such as having to eat vegetables and make their own bed would have plenty to say about being bullied. But bullying isn't like that.
It creeps up on you like a slow groth. Sometimes you think you hust imagined it - until it happens again. Sometimes you think you're going slightly mad. All all the time if ebbs away at your self-esteem - like the sea on the Paekakariki seawall.
It broke my heart when I heard about the bullying, not just because it was nasty and unjustified, but because it was another one of life's experiences and it wouldn't be the last time they'd face it. Bullying and related activity come in many forms right through life, as we adults all know.
The irony of my child's plight was not lost on me when I knew a little about what the Board of Trustees was dealing with at Paekakariki School. A number of complaints about the way past and present staff had allegedly been treated. Each complaint had to be thoroughly investigated, taking hundreds of hours of the Board's time. Some asked why these issues hadn't come up beofre. Well it's not that simple. To stand up to an issues when you feel like you've been regularly undermined is far from easy.
Years ago as a fledgling journalist writing a feature on domestic violence, I interviewed numerous women who had been victims. Why didn't they just walk away? Well, they said, the day after it happened life was back to normal. The only thing that was different was a feeling in your belly that it could happen again anytime soon. They said it was like walking on egg shells and, you thought, if you were really careful and kept light on your feet you could keep th shells from crushing.
So I told my child what I knew about bullying. I told them that almost everyone experiences bullying at least once in their lives. I told them that bullying can be caused by stress and that it is probably inherent in all of us given the right mixture of circumstances. I said a brave way to deal with bullying was to stand up to it. But that too has its own consequences.
And the best we can do as parents who have all experienced bullying is to stand up for our children, and in the case of Paekakariki, for the teachers too.
But in the meantime, I advocate a short term solution - eye up some blades of grass, imagine they are the bullies, and then get the lawn mower and deal to them.

Lessons in Being Uncool

'Girl Child" I yelled.
"I can't get this button to work."
"I'm not the family techno-wizz," she responded.
Well why did I have children, if they can't help me programme recordings of Desperate Housewives?
Tongue in cheek- but nevertheless - I am not sure what I would do without a child of the -z-generation to guide me through the rapid changes in technology. It was Girl child who taught me how to use my i-phone, without reading instructions. It is Girl Child I call on to help me through the complexities of the modern-day TV and all its accessories.
Z-generation (and Y too I'm sure) are wired differently - they're intuitive - I read an instruction manual. There are other less inspiring things I am learning through Ms Z. For example, she has just confirmed for me that I am incredibly uncool. I knew this would happen. I just thought I might squeeze a couple more moments of adultation from her. Evidently it is 'so wrong' to invite friends to 'play.' Evdiently now you have to say 'would you like friend over to 'hang out.' Like 'let's all hang out you funky chickens?' I say making chicken movements with my head.
'That's just sad,' was the response. 'First you were uncool, now you're just trying too hard - and that's way more uncool. It's sad.'
Man, these lessons are tough - or is that - Yo these lessons are tough? I'll have to ask.
At the age of twelve, Girl child clearly knows everything. Or maybe not. Last week she asked if she could go and 'hang out' with a friend at Coastlands.
'Convince me why,' I said.
'We'd have a really good time withough grownups and we can spend money.'
'And in what way is that a good thing?"
Sit down Girl child and your incredibly uncool mother will speak to you about the art of persuasion.
There is still much to teach you ... grasshopper.

Black Friday

On the morning of Friday the 13th I watched the Breakfast telly hosts sneering at people who are suspicious about the date. I had to agree. Intelligent people don't hold out much belief in 'old wives tales' and old fashioned suspicious beliefs. One hour later I was begging at the Air New Zealand counter after having been mistakenly booked on a flight that had already departed. Could happen to anyone at anytime. So could an error that meant there was no rental car for me to pick up when I got to Auckland making us an hour late for our meeting. Nothing to do with it being Black Friday.
We were meeting with advertising agencies – you know those companies where the prerequisite to working there is that you are blonde, blue eyed and incredibly slim – and that’s just the guys. Attempting to behave incredibly cool, I got my foot caught in my handbag and went head first into the door in front of a boardroom of ‘Joe-cools.’
Back at the airport later that day there was a gate change and I ended up trying to board a flight to Christchurch instead of Wellington. As I reached down to get my boarding pass from my bag my finger smashed into the skirting board and a large wooden splinter rammed itself right down the length of my fingernail. Dizzy with pain, I heard my name being called to please board immediately. I tried to break into a run when the heel snapped off my shoe. I hobbled onto a plane full of annoyed waiting passengers. By this time my finger was swelling in red rage at the foreign object that had slammed into it. I spent the flight dipping my finger into a warm cup of tea in an effort to ease the pain – it didn’t! Black Friday? Surely just coincidence.
Back in Wellington I took my broken shoes off and walked through the airport barefoot, splashing into a freezing puddle in the dark outside.
By the time I got home, a throbbing mess, I was bundled off to the after hours medical centre to have the splinter extracted. The Dr said it wouldn’t be as painful as childbirth. The only difference was it didn’t take quite as long. $65 and a $5 packet of antibiotics later, I am typing this blog with one hand.
in the hope that I never have such a tale to write about Black Friday ever again.

Adrenalin Forest Porirua – a review of sorts

If you fancy an adrenalin hit for free, try taking your kids to Adrenalin Forest in Porirua. You will, of course, have to pay for your children. But that comes with the chance to watch your distressed offspring dangle from a 25 metre high rope pleading for help – all at no extra cost.
There are five grades of high ropes. The top is 25 metres. There are no age restrictions only height. The first sign of trouble was when the manager broke their own rules and insisted boy child could do the whole course even though he wasn’t quite tall enough. The children were whisked through to a safety briefing that had already begun. And brief it was. The key message was that once you’re up the tree you’re on your own, so don’t forget to always stay clipped on. No guides are up in the trees and to me the expectation that a nine year old boy would remember to keep clipping himself to the wires under increasing stress was mildly ridiculous.
And so it began, a slow creeping horror as boy and girl child climbed higher and higher away from terra firma with me running from tree to tree, craning my neck to yell instructions.
The first real trouble was on Grade 3. Boy child was indeed too short and not strong enough to tug the pully along as he balanced precariously sideways on a rope. He hung suspended above me sobbing 'Oh God Mama, Oh God,' and I could do absolutely nothing about it. Then it was no holes barred. All rules about not swearing until you’re 18 went out the window as he yelled and screamed down from his 14 metre high hell. "Girl child and I promised fun-filled flying foxes if he could just get through this tiny little bit of difficulty. It was, in fact only a half truth, as there were a few more challenges before the flying foz. ‘You lied,' he screamed at us in outrage. "You lied, you are liers.’
But the real nightmare was Grade 5. Let’s just say a lot of the adults didn’t dare to try this grade. One woman told me she was ‘going home to change her pants’ after the 22 metres high Grade 4.
Girl child’s confidence was rocked on the ghastly slip ropes where ropes looped in stirrups slide down as you put weight on them forcing the other side up. You then have to fling your other leg high in the air to force the stirrup down – all this while balancing 25 metres in the air. By this time I was reciting the rosary while listening to Girl child snuffling away to herself miserably alone in the air. Somehow, she got through that but on the next part the guide starting screaming at her to go back to the start. He claimed she was on the wrong side of this activity – even though there were no instructions. That was the living end. Girl child slunk over the rope and all I could hear was ‘can’t, can't, can't,' sobbed over and over again. The guide started to give her instructions but I had had enough. ‘Believe me this girl is staunch' I said. 'And if she says she can’t, well she bloody well cant’ I said. ‘Get her down.' The guide looked at me. "Now!'
And he was gone up a ladder to her rescue.
My heart was wrenched at the tragic look on girl child’s face as she was lowered down under the watchful eye of the guide. "How embarrassing' she sobbed. Despite the fact that by this time there was noone there.
Ridiculous exercises such as this are not totally unfamiliar to me, although I wish they were. A previous boss had a penchant for pushing us outside our comfort zones in similar strange and wonderful activities. But I have to say, although I often felt blind terror, I never felt as unsafe as I felt my kids were that day.