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.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
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.
"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.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, May 13, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Ban Summer Holidays
There’s been a bit of talk again how we’re missing out on statutory holidays and if the special days fall in the weekend, we should get Monday off. I’m totally against the idea. In fact I’ve decided to write to the Prime Minister to suggest he bans all holidays.
If even half of New Zealand felt like I did the week I had to go back to work after a summer break, we’re in serious trouble. If the psychological state I was in was multiplied by the New Zealand workforce, the nations psyche is in serious danger and that’s got to be bad for the government – especially in election year.
Holidays give you a taste of something unrealistic and unsustainable – a nirvana where we get to focus on our health and wellbeing and our families. We are almost always nice, thoughtful and without stress. We have enough sleep, we exercise and we set ourselves up workout regimes that are doomed to failure. We are creative, we write, we paint, we garden we have take time to cook. Surely all that lack of real productivity has got to be bad for the countries GDP.
Even worse when our credit card bill brings us back to the first realistic bump and we return to work, we spend the first few days drinking numerous amounts of coffee (that we made a New Year’s resolution not to spend so much money on this year) and then skip to alcohol by late afternoon for medicinal purposes only. Our work consists of pushing our inbox around like a child with a plate full of vegetables, eyes darting sideways for anywhere we can slip them without having to actually address them.
Weekends too should probably be banned. After washing, cleaning and carting the kids around sports fields, sometimes, just sometimes, a few spare hours in the weekend beckon us back toward the road to freedom.
So John Key, forget the sale of state assets – if you want a real election platform this is it – an end to annual leave. I’m sure he’ll buy it.
If even half of New Zealand felt like I did the week I had to go back to work after a summer break, we’re in serious trouble. If the psychological state I was in was multiplied by the New Zealand workforce, the nations psyche is in serious danger and that’s got to be bad for the government – especially in election year.
Holidays give you a taste of something unrealistic and unsustainable – a nirvana where we get to focus on our health and wellbeing and our families. We are almost always nice, thoughtful and without stress. We have enough sleep, we exercise and we set ourselves up workout regimes that are doomed to failure. We are creative, we write, we paint, we garden we have take time to cook. Surely all that lack of real productivity has got to be bad for the countries GDP.
Even worse when our credit card bill brings us back to the first realistic bump and we return to work, we spend the first few days drinking numerous amounts of coffee (that we made a New Year’s resolution not to spend so much money on this year) and then skip to alcohol by late afternoon for medicinal purposes only. Our work consists of pushing our inbox around like a child with a plate full of vegetables, eyes darting sideways for anywhere we can slip them without having to actually address them.
Weekends too should probably be banned. After washing, cleaning and carting the kids around sports fields, sometimes, just sometimes, a few spare hours in the weekend beckon us back toward the road to freedom.
So John Key, forget the sale of state assets – if you want a real election platform this is it – an end to annual leave. I’m sure he’ll buy it.
Bully Bashing
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 the act of being bullied would make a child express immediate outrage. The kind of outrage I see when they are requested to eat vegetables, make their bed or hang up the bath mat. But bullying isn’t like that. It creeps up on you like a slow growth. Sometimes you think you just imagined it – until it happens again. Sometimes you think you’re going slightly mad. And all the time it eaks away at your self esteem - a bit like what the Paekakariki beach is doing to our 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 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 before. Well it’s not that simple. To stand up to an issue 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 it at bay.
So I told my child what I knew about bullying. I told them that almost everyone experiences it at least once in their lives. I told them I told them that bullying can be caused by stress and that is probably inherent in all of us given the right mixture of circumstances. I said the best way, but a brave way, to deal with bullying is 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 at least once along life’s rocky roads, can only do our best to stand up for our children, and in the case of Paekakariki, for the teachers too.
In the meantime, for a quick fix, I said. Find some blades of grass, name them after the bullies, then get the lawn mowere and deal to them! Works for me.
They didn’t tell me themselves – they were too embarrassed.
You would think the act of being bullied would make a child express immediate outrage. The kind of outrage I see when they are requested to eat vegetables, make their bed or hang up the bath mat. But bullying isn’t like that. It creeps up on you like a slow growth. Sometimes you think you just imagined it – until it happens again. Sometimes you think you’re going slightly mad. And all the time it eaks away at your self esteem - a bit like what the Paekakariki beach is doing to our 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 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 before. Well it’s not that simple. To stand up to an issue 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 it at bay.
So I told my child what I knew about bullying. I told them that almost everyone experiences it at least once in their lives. I told them I told them that bullying can be caused by stress and that is probably inherent in all of us given the right mixture of circumstances. I said the best way, but a brave way, to deal with bullying is 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 at least once along life’s rocky roads, can only do our best to stand up for our children, and in the case of Paekakariki, for the teachers too.
In the meantime, for a quick fix, I said. Find some blades of grass, name them after the bullies, then get the lawn mowere and deal to them! Works for me.
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