A flood of fun

There is a fine line to walk between disciplining your child and squashing their creativity and innate helpfulness.  We had to discover which side of that fence we wanted to walk on this week.

The Sweetpea does Kung Fu for fitness.  He always says it is really hard exercise, and raises his eyes to heaven as though to implore help for just how difficult it is, but secretly, he loves the chance of going out at night, being with "men", kicking stuff and saying things like "board-breaking" and "shall I do a chi-na (whatever that is) on you?" It's every man's man's idea of a good night out.

But, unfortunately, it is most often during this man-time that things go horribly wrong at home.  I normally do all the usual things, in the right order, but sometimes all the best intentions lead to terrible consequences.  Wednesday was no exception.  After feeding the kids, I took them down onto the trampoline for a while to burn off some energy, where we played our usual fast-paced game of "the spider on the trampoline".  This involves me sitting in the one corner of the trampoline, pretending to be a spider, as the kids run past shrieking and I then try to catch them.  If, by mistake, I actually do catch one, I spend a long time "eating my prey" by biting their little bottoms and tickling them all over until they are rescued by their siblings.  It can get quite long and involved and raucous.  

On the night in question, Paddy excused himself to go upstairs to the loo.  After he had not re-appeared for about fifteen minutes, I got suspicious and headed upstairs to find out what was going on.  I was confronted by a strange noise.  It sounded a bit like a cross between a waterfall and an extremely heavy downpour in the Amazon, the likes of which David Attenborough is always commenting on.  I could not place it.

Then I noticed that it appeared to be raining in the lounge, in fact, so much so that large puddles had formed under each of the light fittings, through which was pouring (literally) liters of water.  The carpet in the lounge was under about two centimeters of water.  But it got worse.  As I walked towards the stairs to my bedroom, I was surprised to see that a waterfall was indeed flowing gracefully down my stairwell.  Rushing up the stairs, I found my bedroom flooded, as well as the bathroom, and the bath overflowing.

In the midst of rushing around frantically, I fear not doing much good at all, I managed to find out that Little Miss Snoopy, aware of the fact that we usually go to have a bath immediately after supper, had kindly decided to run one for me.  She had snuck off quietly, put in the plug and started the taps, all by herself, no doubt believing herself to be a very clever girl.

And Paddy, you might ask?  Where was he all this time?  Turns out that, on his journey through the sodden and dripping lounge, he had got a bit wet.  Not wanting to repeat the experience, he had rather decided to play quietly in the toy room, until I came upstairs and sorted the problem out.  Fifteen minutes of flowing water later, I did, but by then, the damage was done.

Which brings me to my dilemma.  Little Miss Snoopy was trying to help.  The fact that she inadvertently caused the second Flood was a point which totally escaped her. So how hard should I be on her?  And more, how hard should I be on the boy who saw the problem, and neglected to tell anyone about it, because he "didn't want to get wet"?  

I hope I erred on the side of caution, but I must admit, the Sweetpea took it better that I did.

"Well, you have been wanting to wash these carpets for a long time now," he said.

It's true.  They do look very clean.

A Pair of Number Ones

Life with twins can be fraught with difficulties at times, and not for the reasons that one might expect.


I think I mentioned in one of my other blogs that early on, the Sweetpea and I decided to never let the boys know which one was the oldest and which the youngest.  After all, there was a period of only three minutes between them, which didn't seem like enough time for one to be able to lord it over his sibling as being the "oldest and wisest of the twins".  In fact, this has remained a closely guarded secret, with hardly anyone knowing which twin is older. 


The reasons for this were because we did not want anyone to be able to say something like "ah, so is the eldest the leader?" or have an excuse to treat one as the responsible elder brother, while the younger one was seen as the mad-cap, devil-may-care rake.  We wanted them to grow up without any worldly-imposed stereotypes of what older and younger siblings should be like.


Every day we are thankful for our decision.  For one thing, they have grown up remarkably free of the need to compete with each other.  Interactions can never be characterised by that horrible phrase: "but I am older, you must do what I say".  Teachers can never say to us, "oh well, he is the oldest, so he would be a bit more responsible/trustworthy/more mature."


Unfortunately, we were required by law to put the birth order onto their birth certificates.  So now, shopping around for a school, we were forced to confront the fact that the secret might get out somehow.  Short of saying something like "well, you can view the birth certificates but then I am afraid I am going to have to kill you" (which did not seem like the best way to endear ourselves to a future educaitonal institution), we were a bit stumped as to what to do.  Honesty is definitely the best policy, I thought. 


The first time I tried it, it did not go down well.  I think it was in the way I phrased my request.  "I would like some information on the birth-certificates to remain confidential," I announced to the two secretaries accepting my application.  I could see their minds working feverishly in an attempt to figure out wht exactly I could want kept confidential on the birth-certificate.  Illegitiamate twins?  Twins with two different fathers?  A diabolical secret such has not been dreamed up yet by the creators of "The Days of Our Lives" and "Shortie Street"?


I could see their consternation, and when I revealed the real reason why I would like the certificates to remain confidential, it was obviously so mundane that they were only too happy to agree, and blacked out those two incriminating phrases "elder of twins" and "younger of twins" for me.
 
 And so now, when will the truth be revealed?  The Sweetpea and I are still in doubt about that, but we are thinking maybe when they are 21, and we hand them the keys to the door.  When they are old enough that their personalities have crystalised into the natural leader or follower, or two leaders, as the case may be, without having the predetermined stereotypes thrust upon them.  


So I am afraid, readers, you will have to remain in the dark until that time too!



















 

Wrinkles are just antique smiles...

I thought we had more time before we had to answer the really tough questions in life.  It appears not.  And as an aside, why is it that the Sweetpea is always away for these discussions.  It is really unfair and a bit rude, since he would be the one to answer them so much better than I.

We have been away for a few weeks (as is evidenced by the lack of blogs too), and during that time, Sweetpea was acting as a locum for the local hospital.  Not arduous work, but at times he was out at night, which is when the uncomfortable questions usually occur.

Sam was musing in a concerned way as I tucked him into bed for the night.  "We are getting older, aren't we?" he asked me.  

"Yes," I replied, "at your next birthday, you will be five, and then you will go off to school."

"But if we are getting older, then that means you are getting older too?" he queried, making sure all his facts were straight.

I confirmed that this was indeed the case, that we all get older over time.

I was totally unprepared for all three children's reactions.  Sam and Paddy set each other off first - they started crying as though their hearts would break.  "I don't want you to get older," wailed Paddy.  "Then you will die and leave us alone."

Sam was sobbing uncontrollably at this point, and he set off Little Miss Snoopy, who started a determined wail of her own. Trying to comfort three wailing kids is no mean feat - I only have two arms after all. I called them all into my bed and positioned them, one on each side and one on the top, and tried to make them see reason.

I talked to them about how they will one day go off to school, and then probably University, and how, at this stage of their lives, they will probably want to be out there on their own.  And eventually, they might want to have families and children of their own, and then it won't seem as though they were all alone.  But I should have recognised the futility of my arguments from the start, for while they were asking grown-up questions, their little minds could not comprehend a time when they would not feel like four-year old boys.  A time when the answer to the question "what do you want to be when you grow up?" might not involve the answer "a superhero".

What a difficult and wonderful time of life.  It reminds me of that classic quote from Aladdin, when referring to the all-knowing genie:  "Phenomenal cosmic powers, itty, bitty living space".  All this potential, trapped in four-year old minds.

I can't wait to see what will happen next!

A pinch to grow an inch...

Sometimes the things that make the greatest impression on a mother's heart are those things that are the saddest.  The wry and funny things, those that are laughed at loud and long, are the ones that slip quickest from our memories.  Pity, that.


I had a sad one to deal with the other day.  I took the boys to kindergarten, and, as is my habit, stayed around for a few minutes longer just to make sure that they were settling in and didn't need me before I left to do the day's chores.  The boys are normally very conscious about me being with them for that time, and they take it upon themselves to show me around the kindy importantly, pointing out things I might not have noticed on one of my other humdred trips there.  With great excitement, they led me around, showing me the swings, the lovely playground, the computers.  


One large disadvantage of having the mother along, though, is the fact that normal small infractions of the rules that usually go unnoticed are suddenly remarked on and corrected.  I could see that one of my two had had enough when I asked him not to put the glass bricks on top of one another on the table, in case they fell off and were damaged.
In a fit of pique, he said to me "Please go home now, Mama!"


"Ok," I said, "I will go home now if you want me too."
I tried to act casual, like it was no big deal, but perhaps I am not as good an actress as I think I am.  I gathered my things and started walking towards the door.
Within a few heartbeats, I heard loud sobs coming from behind me as my little boy came flying to find me.
"I am so sorry, Mama," he was crying over and over, "I didn't really mean what I said."


Trying to leave the kindy after that became a mission impossible.  Every time I tried to walk towards the door, he would break out into a new fit of hysteria, and I would have to console him again and try to get him to go back to his group.  Eventually, I had to hand him over to his teacher, leaving him crying as though his heart was broken.  It was the first time I have had to leave one of them upset, and I drove home like a mad thing, to jump on the phone to find out if all was okay with my little boy yet.  Of course, he had been fine the moment I pulled out of the parking lot.


But I was made aware of just how sensitive a young child's soul can be.  Later that night, as I was putting them to bed, thinking the whole incident forgotten, he looked deeply into my eyes, just as I do to them when I want them to understand some thing really important.  Then he said to me, "I really didn't mean it, Mama.  I don't ever want you to leave me".  




And so I could go to bed that night, secure in my boy's love for me.  What a great feeling.

Ride like the wind...

Our paths through the wonders of raising children are a lot like teaching those children how to ride a bike.  I saw the parallels myself today when taking the littlies through the first joys, heartaches and ultimate triumphs of riding their first two-wheeler bikes.


There is the beginning phase, where every moment is encompassed in just keeping them alive.  The Sweetpea and I, holding onto fistfuls of jacket at the scruffs of the boys necks as they teetered on their bikes along the path, were able to guide the bikes and keep them upright by holding onto the handlebars with what, at times appeared to be only our teeth, or possibly even just one foot. Every swerve we were able to counter, and when all fell apart, as it invariably does, were were able to let the bike plunder on to its inevitable crash while the little rider in question dangled in his jacket from our clenched fists, like a kitten from its mother's jaws; scared, but unharmed. 


As their confidence grew, we were able to take our hands off the handle bars for increasingly longer times, relinquishing the control we had fought so hard to keep just a few moments earlier.  This required trust, a belief that the boys could be responsible for managing on their own, yet still with our presence close enough to them to swoop in and grab them up if they seemed like they were losing control.  Their repeated cry to us at this time was "Please don't let me go," and in fact, most of the more spectacular crashes at this time were caused by the boys looking behind them to see if we were indeed still holding onto them.  We always were.


But then comes a time when, as a parent, you are just running alongside the bike.  Not needed, really, but essential for moral support.  "You are doing it - you are riding by yourself!"  And the power and self-confidence that comes through knowing that they can ride as fast as they like, but if they come off, mom or dad are right there to catch them, makes them almost invincible.


And then the saddest, most heart-wrenching and proudest moment comes all too soon.  "Don't hold me any more, Mama, I can do it by myself." Like winged creatures, they are off, joining the throngs of others riding the paths, and you are left with your heart in your mouth, praying that you have given them enough skills to make their way through the world, to avoid the pitfalls, to pay heed to the slower riders, the younger, the more accomplished.  



And mostly, you are praying, with all that is in you, that they will know how to find their way back to you again.

The Bare Necessities...

Okay, so it was one of those conversations.  We were all lying on the bed, the boys had just had their bath and were snuggling up under the covers naked before getting into their pajamas for bed.  We were enjoying the silence when Paddy piped up.

"Daddy, what are these?"

We all look to see what he is referring to.  There is an awkward silence as the Sweetpea and I mentally tried to coerce each other into replying. 

"They feel like little balls," he adds conversationally into the silence.

"They are called testicles," the Sweetpea eventually says, obviously opting for the medical terminology.

"Mine are small," adds Paddy, "but yours are humongous, Daddy."

Much uncomfortable laughter ensues. A silence falls and I start praying that it spells the end of the conversation. No such luck.

"Can I see your little balls, Mama?" was the next question.  No way was I going to go there.

"Mummies don't have balls, darling," I say.

"Well what do they have, then?"

Little Miss Snoopy is by now shouting "Thanny, thanny," but the boys don't catch her drift.

The Sweetpea takes control of the situation with yet another medical explanation. "Blah...blah...uterus,  a house where the babies grow in their mummies' tummies, blah...blah...ovaries...." he drones on.

The boys listen with interest, but I fear, not much understanding.

 

A short while later, Sam says confidentially to Paddy: "Cool - we've got tentacles!"

School daze...

We are suddenly at that stage in life when we need to choose a school for the boys.  I know I shouldn't say suddenly, as we have had four years to get here in the first place.  It just seems to have gone too quickly, and I am afraid I have dropped the ball on this one.  There is still time, I suppose, between now and next year March, but I feel dreadfully unprepared for what is, I feel at the moment, one of the most momentous decisions of my life.


We went to visit a school last week as part of the outings for the term at kindy.  They combined the school visit with participation in their school movement programme, a wonderful opportunity for the kids to see the "big" kids doing their exercises that have been designed to help with crossing the mid-line and promote concentration in class.  It was fantastic to see them all running and jumping, landing in circles and walking on the balance beam, with the principal smiling indulgently and on hand to answer any questions that the prospective parents had to ask.  I was impressed with my two (I always am, I am their mom, after all), but mostly for their wholehearted enthusiasm and ability to throw themselves into the activities without the self-consciousness that I am sure I had at their age.  I would have been the one holding back, standing where I could not be noticed, thinking "if I can only make it through without making an absolute idiot of myself I will be fine."  They had none of that hesitancy or self-doubt.  Not sure how that happened, but I fervently hope that air of competence and confidence stays!
 
At the end of the hour-long programme, they gathered the children around (about fifty in total) and talked through the reasons for the exercises, the improved muscle tone, better concentration, etc.  "Right, boys and girls," the principal rounded off the  little chat, "are there any questions you would like to ask?"






Not surprisingly, it was one of mine who raised his hand. 
"Is there a chance we could rather play at the park?" he asked loudly.


Oh well, I suppose we can scratch that school off the list now...