Life is about compromise. Always compromising to get the best option for yourself and those you hold dear.
People always tell you to compromise, people always tell you to make sure you're happy with it and not to sacrifice your own happiness... but what if the only way to keep those you love is to sacrifice your own happiness and peace of mind?
I have given up everything for those I love... and always I need to give more and more of myself...
I'm losing this battle and I'm going to lose myself...
Monday 10 February 2014
Thursday 6 February 2014
To be continued...
- Why are you having another baby?
- Don't you love your first baby anymore?
- Are you less committed to your first baby now?
- Won't the first baby be jealous?
- You're being selfish by wanting to have another baby.
- The first baby did nothing wrong to you and now you're punishing them by making them have to share your heart with another baby.
This. This is how the people spewing hate at me sound to me right now raging at me about having 2 men in my life and my being Polyamorous. I see no difference, do you?
Thursday 26 December 2013
Two days after Christmas I almost lost everything
A few days ago I posted on the anniversary of my grandmother's funeral. If only that were the only major trauma my family suffered in 2010. Caution is advised when reading this blog as it's a revamped version of the original post I wrote the day after it happened.
This is all true events and happened to myself and my children.
Three years ago today, 27th December, my ex (Happy Helper's biological father) had some kind of psychotic break, and reenacted slasher horror movies akin to The Shining with myself and my children as the costars.
My ex (lets call him Joe) had just brought Happy Helper (1 at the time) back after virtually kidnapping her for Christmas (he refused to bring her home after he had his agreed visitation time) and only brought her home because I got in touch with his mother and she made him.
My housemate was going to stay at his girlfriend's place as they didn't get along and my ex was supposed to be staying the night on the couch before the 3hr long trip back to his place the following day.
My housemate and his girlfriend left telling me they'd be back tomorrow.
Joe got a phonecall and started to get angry and upset, and left the house with a 1ltr bottle of Jack Daniels Whiskey.
An hour or so later I started getting hateful text messages from Joe, who was alternating between saying he was going to kill him self and calling me names, such as 'whore'.
I stopped replying to him after a while and was talking to friends online after putting Happy Helper and Cuddle-Bird (then 4) to bed when I heard banging and crashing coming from the balcony door upstairs. I picked up a torque [read: BIG] wrench and went to investigate. It was Joe. Joe reeked of alcohol.
I started to have a panic attack due to the thought of someone breaking into my house (Joe or not) and sat on the stairs trying to breathe. Joe just stared at me silently before going into the kitchen to retrieve something, he then went into the downstairs bathroom.
As I regained my composure on the stairs he came out of the bathroom and stumbled into the living room and sat on the couch. Where he walked he left blood. He had stabbed himself with a small knife he retrieved from the kitchen.
There were blood drops on the floor, on the carpet, on the couch and on the children's chalkboard.
I came down the stairs and stood in the doorway to the living room, my emotions were high and I was in a bit of a panic still, I was afraid to go near him as he sat on the couch, his long hair hanging over his face, watching me while playing with the blood on his hands.
I kept asking him what did he do, what was going on.
He finally spoke, as he played with the blood. "Blood everywhere." He said in a monotone.
I was completely terrified right then.
I went upstairs, calling my housemate on my phone and telling him to get home NOW. I stood halfway up the stairs, between Joe and the kids' bedroom. And he started coming up the stairs after me.
I made it up the remainder of the stairs before my legs failed me. I turned around and put my back to the door of the kid's bedroom. I was still holding my big wrench, my phone was still in my other hand, call to housemate still connected but I couldn't hear him calling me as the phone was at my side, Joe was still coming up the stairs.
He stood midway up the stairs looking at me, before suddenly rushing up the remaining stairs at a run. I screamed.
Happy-Helper woke up in the room behind me and started to cry. He took a step back and started to repeat over and over in his monotone voice "you're scaring my daughter, get away from her". I didn't move, so he began to yell it, and grabbed my hands and pulled me towards the stairs. I screamed again.
He let go and went back downstairs, smashing the walls with his fists and throwing the children's toys.
My housemate was still on the phone, I could hear frantic yelling on the other end before it got disconnected.
While Joe was downstairs destroying everything he could I went into the kid's room, pushed the baby cot in front of the door and pulled Happy-Helper out of it. My phone beeped with a text message saying they called the police and were on their way back.
The next thing I knew Joe was back upstairs bashing on the door trying to get in. Both Happy-Helper and Cuddle-Bird were screaming and scared. I was holding the cot in front of the door while trying to keep them calm.
And then, 1 year old Happy-Helper toddled her way towards the door. So I let go of the cot for a split second to pull her back, and Joe got his arm through the door, he was holding the biggest knife my kitchen had, his still bleeding arm dripping into his daughter's bed.
He shoved the cot, hard, knocking Happy-Helper down and knocking me over using her body.
He came into the room. And stood above us, Cuddle-Bird was hiding on the other side of her bed, I was cradling Happy-Helper and looking up at him.
He demanded I give Happy-Helper to him, knife still in hand. He reached towards her, and blood dribbled onto her teddybear pjs.
Banging. On the front door. He jumped up startled and ran out of the room. I re-barricaded the door behind him and tried to stop myself from shaking and the children from screaming.
Someone tried to open the door and I started to freak out again, until a familiar voice greeted me. I about died from relief. I opened the door and faced my neighbors, my roommate must have called them too. They stood outside the kid's bedroom between Joe and us as Joe came back to the stairs, having regained enough sanity to tell me to call someone, my neighbor stepped between us and said that he was here already. Joe stared at him hatefully as though he could kill him with a look.
Finally the police arrived and my neighbors told me to shut the door and stay in the room with the kids. Eventually Joe was taken into custody and I came downstairs as another neighbor arrived to take care of the kids while I dealt with police.
Joe was on the front lawn, on his knees with his hands on the back of his head. There were 3 police cars and police were all over the place with weapons drawn.
My housemate arrived as I got to the front door, and I don't think I have ever been hugged so tightly by my friends as they all piled out of the car.
Joe was talking, saying "check on her, check on her, I love her." as police led him to the wagon.
As I went back inside to sit and show police the bloody hand prints, smashed walls and overall damage he had done to our home I could hear him as they drove him away.
He was yelling again: "I'm going to kill you you f**&ing whore."
When we came up the stairs I came face to face with my daughter's name, written on the wall in the blood of a madman.
This was the most terrifying night of my existence. And I'm posting it, on the 3rd anniversary of it happening to warn you, do NOT ignore the signs of violence, with Joe it started with him throwing things or putting holes in walls. He was always sorry afterwards and always said it would never happen again.
People often ask women in abusive relationships, "why don't you just leave?". This all happened because, after years of an off-on relationship of me breaking it off and he promising it would be better this time, I was finally sticking to my guns and not going back. This happened because I made it clear that I wasn't going back to him.
It will never be better next time, and it will more than likely happen again.
Don't put your family in the place mine was. Leave and don't look back, before it gets this far.
*Joe is not his real name.
This is all true events and happened to myself and my children.
 |
| My babies' bedroom door.... |
--------------------------
Three years ago today, 27th December, my ex (Happy Helper's biological father) had some kind of psychotic break, and reenacted slasher horror movies akin to The Shining with myself and my children as the costars.
My ex (lets call him Joe) had just brought Happy Helper (1 at the time) back after virtually kidnapping her for Christmas (he refused to bring her home after he had his agreed visitation time) and only brought her home because I got in touch with his mother and she made him.
My housemate was going to stay at his girlfriend's place as they didn't get along and my ex was supposed to be staying the night on the couch before the 3hr long trip back to his place the following day.
My housemate and his girlfriend left telling me they'd be back tomorrow.
Joe got a phonecall and started to get angry and upset, and left the house with a 1ltr bottle of Jack Daniels Whiskey.
An hour or so later I started getting hateful text messages from Joe, who was alternating between saying he was going to kill him self and calling me names, such as 'whore'.
I stopped replying to him after a while and was talking to friends online after putting Happy Helper and Cuddle-Bird (then 4) to bed when I heard banging and crashing coming from the balcony door upstairs. I picked up a torque [read: BIG] wrench and went to investigate. It was Joe. Joe reeked of alcohol.
I started to have a panic attack due to the thought of someone breaking into my house (Joe or not) and sat on the stairs trying to breathe. Joe just stared at me silently before going into the kitchen to retrieve something, he then went into the downstairs bathroom.
As I regained my composure on the stairs he came out of the bathroom and stumbled into the living room and sat on the couch. Where he walked he left blood. He had stabbed himself with a small knife he retrieved from the kitchen.
There were blood drops on the floor, on the carpet, on the couch and on the children's chalkboard.
I came down the stairs and stood in the doorway to the living room, my emotions were high and I was in a bit of a panic still, I was afraid to go near him as he sat on the couch, his long hair hanging over his face, watching me while playing with the blood on his hands.
I kept asking him what did he do, what was going on.
He finally spoke, as he played with the blood. "Blood everywhere." He said in a monotone.
I was completely terrified right then.
I went upstairs, calling my housemate on my phone and telling him to get home NOW. I stood halfway up the stairs, between Joe and the kids' bedroom. And he started coming up the stairs after me.
I made it up the remainder of the stairs before my legs failed me. I turned around and put my back to the door of the kid's bedroom. I was still holding my big wrench, my phone was still in my other hand, call to housemate still connected but I couldn't hear him calling me as the phone was at my side, Joe was still coming up the stairs.
He stood midway up the stairs looking at me, before suddenly rushing up the remaining stairs at a run. I screamed.
Happy-Helper woke up in the room behind me and started to cry. He took a step back and started to repeat over and over in his monotone voice "you're scaring my daughter, get away from her". I didn't move, so he began to yell it, and grabbed my hands and pulled me towards the stairs. I screamed again.
He let go and went back downstairs, smashing the walls with his fists and throwing the children's toys.
My housemate was still on the phone, I could hear frantic yelling on the other end before it got disconnected.
While Joe was downstairs destroying everything he could I went into the kid's room, pushed the baby cot in front of the door and pulled Happy-Helper out of it. My phone beeped with a text message saying they called the police and were on their way back.
The next thing I knew Joe was back upstairs bashing on the door trying to get in. Both Happy-Helper and Cuddle-Bird were screaming and scared. I was holding the cot in front of the door while trying to keep them calm.
And then, 1 year old Happy-Helper toddled her way towards the door. So I let go of the cot for a split second to pull her back, and Joe got his arm through the door, he was holding the biggest knife my kitchen had, his still bleeding arm dripping into his daughter's bed.
He shoved the cot, hard, knocking Happy-Helper down and knocking me over using her body.
He came into the room. And stood above us, Cuddle-Bird was hiding on the other side of her bed, I was cradling Happy-Helper and looking up at him.
He demanded I give Happy-Helper to him, knife still in hand. He reached towards her, and blood dribbled onto her teddybear pjs.
Banging. On the front door. He jumped up startled and ran out of the room. I re-barricaded the door behind him and tried to stop myself from shaking and the children from screaming.
Someone tried to open the door and I started to freak out again, until a familiar voice greeted me. I about died from relief. I opened the door and faced my neighbors, my roommate must have called them too. They stood outside the kid's bedroom between Joe and us as Joe came back to the stairs, having regained enough sanity to tell me to call someone, my neighbor stepped between us and said that he was here already. Joe stared at him hatefully as though he could kill him with a look.
Finally the police arrived and my neighbors told me to shut the door and stay in the room with the kids. Eventually Joe was taken into custody and I came downstairs as another neighbor arrived to take care of the kids while I dealt with police.
Joe was on the front lawn, on his knees with his hands on the back of his head. There were 3 police cars and police were all over the place with weapons drawn.
My housemate arrived as I got to the front door, and I don't think I have ever been hugged so tightly by my friends as they all piled out of the car.
Joe was talking, saying "check on her, check on her, I love her." as police led him to the wagon.
As I went back inside to sit and show police the bloody hand prints, smashed walls and overall damage he had done to our home I could hear him as they drove him away.
He was yelling again: "I'm going to kill you you f**&ing whore."
When we came up the stairs I came face to face with my daughter's name, written on the wall in the blood of a madman.
This was the most terrifying night of my existence. And I'm posting it, on the 3rd anniversary of it happening to warn you, do NOT ignore the signs of violence, with Joe it started with him throwing things or putting holes in walls. He was always sorry afterwards and always said it would never happen again.
People often ask women in abusive relationships, "why don't you just leave?". This all happened because, after years of an off-on relationship of me breaking it off and he promising it would be better this time, I was finally sticking to my guns and not going back. This happened because I made it clear that I wasn't going back to him.
It will never be better next time, and it will more than likely happen again.
Don't put your family in the place mine was. Leave and don't look back, before it gets this far.
---------------
*Joe is not his real name.
 |
| My baby girl's name, written on the wall in blood... |
Sunday 22 December 2013
Merry Christmas, Granny...
The last time I saw you was October 12 2010, we visited you in hospital for your birthday. As far as I knew you were going home in the next few days.
No one thought to tell me that you never went home. No one thought I should know that you were still in hospital until I got a call mid december from the doctor telling me that we should come and see you.
I had thought it was the same as your birthday, partially because the doctor didn't make it seem urgent at all and partially because no one told me how bad it was or that you had been in hospital all that time.
I made plans to go and see you the following monday while the kids were at childcare, as it was a 2 hour round trip.
I never made it down to see you.
Sunday afternoon the phone rang. And as I collapsed in a blubbering mess on the stairs my housemate's girlfriend called for him and pried the phone out of my hands.
2 days before Christmas she drove me the hour long trip to attend your funeral.
I had never particularly liked her, and we never truly got along, but right then it didn't matter, she was needed so she acted.
She dropped me at the funeral home telling me to call when I needed and I met up with family.
My mother sat stonily in the front row with my brother, my father and I, her antipsychotics making it impossible for her to express her emotions; for all the world knew, she didn't know her mother was in that casket, or didn't care.
My brother was next to her, sunglasses on, even inside, not looking anywhere but at the Australian flag they'd hung over her casket showing that she served our beautiful country in her youth, even though she was born and raised in Britain.
My father and I held each other and we sobbed together. It was the closest I've ever felt to my father, and also the last time I have seen him. Oh he still lives, he just don't care about anyone except himself and his wine.
Merry Christmas Granny.
I'm sorry I never said goodbye, I'm sorry that you withered away in hospital for 2 months without me even knowing.
I'm sorry that you only ever met your eldest great-grandchild.
Thank you for always having a bed to sleep in when the violence erupting at home got to be too much, thank you for always having a gift for my brother and I to open for our birthday or Christmas, sometimes they were the only gifts we got.
Thank you for the hugs, and for loving so fully. Thank you for loving us, even if you didn't always agree with us.
I miss you.
Merry Christmas Granny. <3
Saturday 21 December 2013
Snow Angels
This is a story I wrote as an entry for the Single Dad Laughing Holiday Writing Contest and while I didn't place that's fine with me. I enjoyed reading the finalists and recommend you head on over and check them out when you have a chance.
------------------------------------------
Christmas.
The time of love, the time of giving, the time of warmth.
Trees
glowing and beautiful, smoke wafting from chimneys, the carefree
laughter of children as they run through the pearlescent snow...
A
slight breeze stirs the snow at my feet, and cuts through my
threadbare shirt like blades. I shiver and huddle closer to the foot
of the chilled green steel dumpster.
Out on the street the children gleefully dive into the snow and wave their arms, giggling.
“Look Mama! I made a snow angel!” A rosy cheeked girl of about 4 years sings out, pointing with an ecstatic grin at the ground.
I watch them play, in their warm clothes and snow boots, until the tantalising smells of Christmas dinner wafts through the street, the air is growing colder and the sky is growing darker, parents begin ushering their kids into their warm, inviting homes, telling stragglers that they'll get frostbite if they stay out too late.
I look down at my bare toe sticking out from the mouthy grin of my shoe, I can't feel it any more, the skin is mottled and purple.
Out on the street the children gleefully dive into the snow and wave their arms, giggling.
“Look Mama! I made a snow angel!” A rosy cheeked girl of about 4 years sings out, pointing with an ecstatic grin at the ground.
I watch them play, in their warm clothes and snow boots, until the tantalising smells of Christmas dinner wafts through the street, the air is growing colder and the sky is growing darker, parents begin ushering their kids into their warm, inviting homes, telling stragglers that they'll get frostbite if they stay out too late.
I look down at my bare toe sticking out from the mouthy grin of my shoe, I can't feel it any more, the skin is mottled and purple.
Frostbite.
I think bitterly to myself. Sure.
I
gingerly pull myself to a standing position as the first notes of the
door- to-door carollers reaches my ears.
Silent
Night...
Drawn
to their angelic voices, I stumble through the snow.
Holy
Night...
The
door in front of them opens and the rosy cheeked youth stands in the
doorway, eyes wide with awe as the cheerily dressed men and women
sing on her porch.
All
is calm, all is bright,
Round yon Virgin Mother and Child;
Holy Infant so tender and mild...
Round yon Virgin Mother and Child;
Holy Infant so tender and mild...
The
snow starts to fall, the wind starts to bite and I've made it into
the street. Standing in the glow of the streetlight I look down at
the tiny snow angel at my feet.
“Merry Christmas!” The little girl calls out happily as her mother comes and closes the door to keep the breeze out. The carolers move on to the next house.
I
take a step forward and tumble into the angel in the snow. A warmth
spreads through my body and I'm so sleepy...
It's warm, the wind can't reach me here, it's ok. My mind calls to me sleepily.
This
is my 7th
Christmas. Last year Mama was still here, this year... I'm alone.
Sleep
in heavenly peace...
The
night goes on; the snow falls thicker, the wind gets colder, but a
dirty little boy slumbers unawares in a snow angel on the road.
“Mama!
Look! An angel!” A little voice rings out into the crisp morning.
A
woman looks over to the road where her child is pointing at the mound
of snow on the road and ushers her daughter inside quickly telling
her husband to keep her inside while she calls 911.
The
ambulance arrives swiftly, but it's too late, early Christmas
morning, the snow claimed another angel.
Sleep
in heavenly peace.
Tuesday 10 December 2013
3 little words to destroy a child
Why is it that EVERY year we have people trying to destroy our Christmas cheer?
Why do people insist on telling our children that "Santa isn't real."?
People claim that Christmas is "too commercial", Santa has nothing to do with religion, you're lying to your kids and the list continues.
For the record the first appearance of Dear ol' Saint Nick was when he was born on the 15th March 270. He was a DEEPLY religious man who many miracles are accredited to, and who modestly always credited them to God and God alone. He is the patron saint of children and is where the modern idea of Santa originated.
But beyond that, what's wrong with allowing our children to believe in Santa? A little magic at Christmas time?
What's wrong with giving them gifts that we don't get the credit for choosing and giving to them?
How SELFISH are we that we can't give them a gift without making sure they know that it's from us? What is the point of giving?
Santa was the BEST part of Christmas for me as a child.
In the days leading up to Christmas the excitement was overwhelming.
Each year I'd wrap up my own toys to put under the tree as my parents couldn't afford to buy gifts for my brother and I. I'd wrap them up in paintings I did at school, just so my brother and I had gifts under the tree like all the other kids. I'd even write on his that it was from Dad or Mum so he'd believe they got him something.
I'd lie in bed on Christmas eve, too excited to go to sleep, getting up to look out the window, believing that every plane I saw moving across the sky was Santa coming closer. I'd listen intently for the sound of bells or reindeer.
I'd wake up Christmas morning to a stocking filled with candy and fruit and be mad at myself for falling asleep.
My mum went above and beyond to make sure we had magical Christmas' even if they couldn't afford presents. (Well, even if my father wouldn't let her buy present's because Christmas was "too commercial"). Some years she'd get some sheep poop off the neighbors and leave it around on the lawn where we'd leave carrots for the reindeer and excitedly point it out to us. Other years she'd leave a note thanking us for the milk and cookies.
Don't ruin the magic for your kids or other people's kids just because you don't believe in Santa or believe that it's "too commercial".
Looking back I don't feel betrayed by being allowed to believe in Santa, Christmas time was the best part of my life as a child, BECAUSE my mum made sure we believed.
I'm so grateful for my mum doing that. I'm so grateful she let us have the magic and didn't take the credit for the only gifts we got each Christmas.
I'm thankful she taught me to appreciate the good in the world, and the kindness of strangers.
If someone had told me that "Santa isn't real" when I was cowering in my closet covering my ears and trying to avoid my drunken father's violent rages I would have been utterly destroyed. Santa was my rock. Santa loved me, even though my father told me I was nothing. Santa brought me gifts even though my father said he wouldn't waste money on me.
My mother was Santa. And she would spend her own money that she'd receive for Christmas off my grandma on filling our stockings as my father would not give her any other money.
Christmas was the best part of a childhood I would otherwise rather forget.
Stop trying to take that away.
You have no idea how much it may mean to a child to believe that SOMEONE out there loves them enough to bring them gifts.
You have no idea how much you're taking away with those 3 little words: "Santa isn't real".
You could destroy more than an illusion of a big fat man in a red suit, you could destroy the only person that child believes loves them, or is there for them.
Why do people insist on telling our children that "Santa isn't real."?
People claim that Christmas is "too commercial", Santa has nothing to do with religion, you're lying to your kids and the list continues.
For the record the first appearance of Dear ol' Saint Nick was when he was born on the 15th March 270. He was a DEEPLY religious man who many miracles are accredited to, and who modestly always credited them to God and God alone. He is the patron saint of children and is where the modern idea of Santa originated.
But beyond that, what's wrong with allowing our children to believe in Santa? A little magic at Christmas time?
What's wrong with giving them gifts that we don't get the credit for choosing and giving to them?
How SELFISH are we that we can't give them a gift without making sure they know that it's from us? What is the point of giving?
Santa was the BEST part of Christmas for me as a child.
In the days leading up to Christmas the excitement was overwhelming.
Each year I'd wrap up my own toys to put under the tree as my parents couldn't afford to buy gifts for my brother and I. I'd wrap them up in paintings I did at school, just so my brother and I had gifts under the tree like all the other kids. I'd even write on his that it was from Dad or Mum so he'd believe they got him something.
I'd lie in bed on Christmas eve, too excited to go to sleep, getting up to look out the window, believing that every plane I saw moving across the sky was Santa coming closer. I'd listen intently for the sound of bells or reindeer.
I'd wake up Christmas morning to a stocking filled with candy and fruit and be mad at myself for falling asleep.
My mum went above and beyond to make sure we had magical Christmas' even if they couldn't afford presents. (Well, even if my father wouldn't let her buy present's because Christmas was "too commercial"). Some years she'd get some sheep poop off the neighbors and leave it around on the lawn where we'd leave carrots for the reindeer and excitedly point it out to us. Other years she'd leave a note thanking us for the milk and cookies.
Don't ruin the magic for your kids or other people's kids just because you don't believe in Santa or believe that it's "too commercial".
Looking back I don't feel betrayed by being allowed to believe in Santa, Christmas time was the best part of my life as a child, BECAUSE my mum made sure we believed.
I'm so grateful for my mum doing that. I'm so grateful she let us have the magic and didn't take the credit for the only gifts we got each Christmas.
I'm thankful she taught me to appreciate the good in the world, and the kindness of strangers.
If someone had told me that "Santa isn't real" when I was cowering in my closet covering my ears and trying to avoid my drunken father's violent rages I would have been utterly destroyed. Santa was my rock. Santa loved me, even though my father told me I was nothing. Santa brought me gifts even though my father said he wouldn't waste money on me.
My mother was Santa. And she would spend her own money that she'd receive for Christmas off my grandma on filling our stockings as my father would not give her any other money.
Christmas was the best part of a childhood I would otherwise rather forget.
Stop trying to take that away.
You have no idea how much it may mean to a child to believe that SOMEONE out there loves them enough to bring them gifts.
You have no idea how much you're taking away with those 3 little words: "Santa isn't real".
You could destroy more than an illusion of a big fat man in a red suit, you could destroy the only person that child believes loves them, or is there for them.
Thursday 21 November 2013
1 step back = 2 steps forward
"Sometimes you have to go backwards to move forward."
How many times have I heard this in my life?
Countless times, from all directions.
How many times have I experienced it, in every aspect of life?
Countless times, in many ways.
How many times have I accepted it, and believed that going back will help me go forward?
Never. I always dig my heels and and get dragged there, kicking and screaming.
And yet, I always do manage to get that one step ahead again. However, especially those times when I dig my heels in, I make it there with broken shoes and bloodied feet.
Hindsight is a wonderful thing. I can look back and say "Well, I shouldn't have done that, I'm not going to make that mistake again."
Until the next time.
That's life.
Today we went out for dinner as a family, the local Italian place had recently reopened after being remodelled and Hubby and I thought it would be a nice treat for the kids. Bear (Mr 1-and-a-half) had just had his shots today so we thought he'd enjoy a treat, while Happy-Helper (Miss 4) had been super helpful all afternoon and Cuddle-Bird (Miss 7) had had a rough day with bullies at school.
Big. Mistake.
The girls quite decisively decided what they wanted to order, and insisted on ordering it themselves. Bear happily sat in his high chair and slammed his, and my, forks on the table over and over laughing like a little lunatic. And the waiter completely ignored Hubby, opting instead to talk to my cleavage.
The entree arrived and little Bear decided he didn't want any of it after the first bite of bread. Happy-Helper wanted some cheese and olives that she picked at then kept getting out of her chair to try to offer it to Cuddle-Bird instead. Cuddle-Bird piled as much as she could on her plate and then proceeded to smoosh huge portions into her mouth with her hands.
Hubby and I were hissing at them all to "sit down!" and "use your manners!".
I'd just started getting to eat my plate of entree after being Bear's drink holder for around 5 mins as he sucked juice through his straw and dribbled it all down his front after each mouthful, when Happy-Helper decided she needed to announce for the whole restaurant to hear: "I'm pooping!".
To the bathroom we go! Hi ho hi ho!
Our meals we being brought out as we got back to the table. Happy-Helper took one look at the rough cut chips she had in front of her and decided Nope! (to be fair she HAD ordered chips and these were closer to potato wedges). Bear's mashed potato (that the waiter knew was for a toddler) had a thick layer of coarse ground black pepper over the top of it. And Cuddle-Bird's baby octopus was mostly olive oil and pepper covered lettuce.
I'm fairly certain Hubby's meal wasn't particularly great, even if he didn't complain at all about it. And my $33 lamb rack was little more than a couple of uncut lamb cutlets.
Bear ended up eating a few of Happy-Helper's potato-wedge-chips, Hubby scraped off the top layer of potato off the mash for Cuddle-bird to eat since she had mostly peppered lettuce while Happy-Helper tore apart the rest of her potato-wedge-chips and piled them up on her plate.
Looking at Cuddle-Bird she was staring at people around us while they ate, with an octopus hanging out of her mouth. Happy-Helper was asking for ice cream and Bear was tearing up his napkin.
Over it.
I told everyone we were leaving with a look that bore no arguments.
Packed up the family, paid the $120 bill and left. I was furious. Both at the restaurant and at the kids for their behavior.
As we got closer to the car Happy-Helper remembered the cicada shell I'd found and picked up for her on the way to dinner and happily asked if we could make it a house.
I shrugged her off with an ambiguous "maybe tomorrow" and proceeded to Mum-nag at them for their rudeness, lack of manners and not eating their food.
Strike 1.
Silence from the backseat.
"Straight to bathroom, teeth brushed and pjs on then bed!" And they knew they did the wrong thing and that I was mad.
We got home and as I walked to the front door I saw the tree out the front was covered in cicada shells.
And I forgot how mad I was at them, and I started to collect them, telling the kids to get stuff to make them a house.
They excitedly started gathering bark and sticks, Cuddle-Bird knocking Bear over headfirst into the garden in the process.
Strike 2.
We found a suitable cardboard box and set ourselves up on the floor to start building the cicada shells a house. Cuddle-Bird started to get huffy and protested that she only had two cicada shells.
As Happy-Helper and I were putting sticks through the cardboard Cuddle-Bird decided to snatch one of Happy-Helper's from her lap, crushing it and causing Happy-Helper to burst into tears.
Strike 3.
Hubby stepped in and Cuddle-Bird was not allowed to help make the house anymore.
Once we were done making it I decided to have a little sit-down chat to both girls.
Cuddle-Bird couldn't tell me WHY she had chose to act that way while we were out, or WHY she had to snatch and destroy her sister's cicada shell.
However what she DID tell me was enough for me to know why. And to forgive her and try to offer ways to help her.
And sometimes that's enough.
Going home early, without dessert didn't change her behavior, getting mad at her didn't change it, and talking to her and listening and asking her about unrelated things like her friends and school didn't change it.
But it did change how I saw it. Which is the most important lesson in this blog tonight.
All I saw was her acting out, I didn't see why, and asking her why was getting me nowhere.
But after our sit down chat, with cuddles and kisses and tickles, I think we got somewhere. My Cuddle-Bird isn't trying to be bad, she isn't trying to be mean. She's hurting and lonely.
 |
| And we made a cool house for the cicada shells. |
I'd just been too wrapped up in being the parent that acted on the behavior to take a step back and just TALK to my kids about what's bothering them and causing them to act that way.
I stepped backwards today as a parent.
And, in doing so, I went forward two steps in the eyes of my kids.
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