When are life’s lessons best learnt?

I recently was in correspondence with the person in charge of extracurricular talks at a private girls’ school we presented to last year on money management. She turned down our offer to speak to the new crop of year 11’s as she didn’t believe they had reached a “point of need” and as a result were not really “thinking about these issues”.

I initially accepted her response as the average run of the mill rejection one often receives in the day to day running of a services oriented business. But then I got indignant on the girls’ behalf. Instead of writing a “Thank you for your time, please be in touch if you change your mind” email, I chose to have my say. This went along the lines that unfortunately the time when need arises, if it does, is often too late for many women, as they face the devastation of divorce or other such life change. Our approach (as with many other life skill topics like drugs etc) is more preventative of nature, so that when life changes occur, the girls are well equipped to deal with them from a financial perspective.

This means, yes, the session can go over the heads of some, but we still strongly believe those that do “get it” deserve the opportunity to learn about this vital topic that could be transformative to their lives. Otherwise the lessons go untaught and the outcome becomes self-fulfilling for many.

What do you think? Is it opportune for Healthy Harold to teach my 10 year old daughter the dangers of drugs? For teaching to be effective does it have to be “point of need” or are we obliged as adults to provide lessons that can make life run a little more smoothly for those prepared to take the effort to listen?

Setting a New Course - Brady Bunch circa 2012

Big changes afoot in my household over the last 3 months. After 6 and ½ years of flying solo, I am now navigating the unchartered waters (or airspace if I keep the flying analogy going) of blended families with my partner Gour (sounds like sour as he compulsively tells people on first meetings, me included). Before you flick off this page I promise you, dear reader, I am not going to wax lyrical about the joys of love the second time around and at midlife. My sister, Kate, known for her wit and ability to call a spade a shovel, did say she was a little sick in her mouth when she read a recent email of mine. Come on, SHE asked ME how I was going!

As I said earlier I have spent the best part of the last 7 years being master of my own domain and destiny. I didn’t have to wash anyone’s (apart from my children’s) shirts and undies. I didn’t have to consult someone if I wanted to buy something (still don’t). I took holidays where I wanted to go (translation – Bali, Hawaii and Disneyland – outvoted 3 to 1 by Tom, Issy and Lily – duoh!). 

Gour has also run a household of 3 children for a similar amount of time. He’s cooked and shopped and washed and schlepped the children around with the best of them. He had his routines and a rhythm to his life as I did. Heavens, he was positively anal when it came to hanging his washing out and don’t get me started on his man-ironing techniques of which he is inordinately proud (that’s called shaking the clothes out to the uninitiated).

Even still, after 3 short months, a new equilibrium has been established. This new status quo has not seen Gour hitting the start button on the washing machine since we moved in together. Oh sorry hang on, he proudly announced on Sunday morning he was going to wash the linen and hang it out (which he duly did).  With the Olympics uppermost in my mind, the classic “Let’s give the boy a medal” did spring to mind but oh no, I’ve come a long way from that.

I gave Gour editing rights to this blog because he knows I am taking the mickey out of him a little for the sake of getting to the point of this blog. Yes I will get to a point, believe it or not. A mature balanced view requires seeing things from all sides and taking into account the entire picture.

Shacking up with an internet geek means I never have to call Nerds on Site again and all screaming at the computer/printer/internet has ceased. He puts together a mean Ikea bookcase and takes Louis the cavoodle outside every night for his ablutions before bed whilst shutting down the house for the night as I de-makeup and put rollers in my hair. Ok, I do NOT put rollers in my hair but it was sounding all so Mike and Carol Brady I just went with it. What I’m saying is there is a new rhythm and we’re all (including the 6 lovely children between us) just getting used to what that is.

With our working lives as they currently are, I am doing more of the menial tasks, no question. The day in/day out grinding stuff that often goes unnoticed and unappreciated. It’s a hot button for me that in my second attempt at a committed relationship I do not fall into a bad dynamic with this.

To be clear, menial does not equal less. A household does run like a mini corporation and all the jobs and parts of the “engine” that makes it operate have their role. If the person working more outside the home on personal career endeavours starts to see himself or herself as the more “important” part then you don’t have a relationship, you have a power struggle. And if that attitude plays out on how one party is treated…well you know how the downtrodden like a revolution to redress imbalance.

It’s about mutual respect and empathy without which no relationship will survive. Or as I like to say to my children and I’ve come to learn, we teach people how to treat us. I am not suggesting a big scene every time someone doesn’t thank you for cooking dinner but a calm, well meaning, “I’ve been to counselling and am trying to communicate better” expression of - I feel disappointed when you blah blah blah. Then work on a solution together.

Oh yes, I hear you chortle, it all sounds so easy in black and white. Real life, not so much. I get I’m in the honeymoon phase, but you know that wisdom I was talking about in last week’s blog that has been kicking in over the last few years, that’s where this comes in.

Gour and I have both made all those mistakes (and more) in our previous lives and relationships. Lucky us, we get to make a whole new set of mistakes with each other this time round J. Respect for roles and appreciation for doing things for each other won’t be one of them. There’s a great joy in giving and showing love for a person through the small things. Often way more gratifying than expensive jewellery or flashy gifts (though they’re nice, too).

So, to sum up, in these early days of Bradyville and new equilibriums I just want to know one thing…Alice, where are you?

The Weight of Expectation

I’ve been thinking about expectations a lot lately. You know what I’ve been thinking? They suck. What’s got me onto this? Two things.

1. The HSC

2. The Olympics

Let me elaborate.

My eldest son, Tom is about to begin his HSC year. Two years after that it’s Issy’s turn then two years on from that, Lily. People tell me your first is the hardest but if my mental state is anything to go by I am in for a pretty rough ride. We all want our children to do well. Full stop. But it’s a very delicate tightrope walk between yours and their expectations and hopes and their abilities and performance.

On one hand I want him to put all his effort into this last year and give himself the widest range of opportunity and choice for tertiary study. Balancing this is the perspective that it is not the be all and end all if he falls short of what he “should” achieve. The world is a place of abundance and prospects for those who see past ATAR numbers and performance bands. Some of the most interesting and successful careers of former school and university peers are not those who posted the best marks. Life, as we are constantly reminded, is way more complex than that.

Now to the Olympics. Who could not fail to have their heart go out to Emily Seebohm when she cried to the (gleeful?) poolside interviewer that she was worried she had let down her parents and coach by coming second in the 100 metres backstroke. Who else wanted to reach inside the television to give her a big hug?

What did strike me was that the person she most disappointed was probably herself. However, as human beings we project outwards and assign our own feelings to those around us when they are hard to handle. For these young adults to reach the dizzy heights of international performance like the Olympics they are probably all too familiar with the crushing distress and moments of elation that accompanies striving for dreams and goals. Compare Emily’s reaction to those of Sally Pearson to see these polar opposites in action.

Disappointment is a damn uncomfortable feeling. But it is also entirely necessary. Why are we so afraid to stand up and say, yes, I am disappointed? Whether it’s in your performance, in your behaviour or in events that have affected you most of us get to experience the emotions that accompany letdowns, failures and near misses. Is it because admitting disappointment implies admitting defeat? Or lack of strength?

Of course it’s what you do with it or learn from it that counts and is your greatest teacher. Sometimes the lesson isn’t that the next time you will overcome all and be victorious. Sometimes (but not always) you only get one chance. It’s learning to live with and assimilate your disappointment into your human experience. There can only be one “winner” in every race so that would imply there has to be a whole lot of disappointment out there. There’s no shame in second, or third or all the places behind it. The real shame is getting stuck in a cycle of regrets and disillusionment.

What sucks about expectations is that we are hardwired to have them. Unless you are perhaps a Zen master sitting on top of a mountain meditating 24/7, who doesn’t want things for themselves or their loved ones? Keeping expectations realistic is the challenge as is managing the outcomes of not having our expectations met as I’ve described above.

As a parent, there’s no harder thing to sit with your child when they have missed out on something they want. A good mark, a place in a reps team, a prefect position. Parenting seems like a piece of cake when your child is literally AND metaphorically kicking goals in every area of their lives. Not so when their eyes well and voice cracks telling you their bad news. I’m slowly learning not to try and make everything better for them when this happens. Just listening to them and not pointing out their achievements and good points validates their experience way more than trying to gloss over something which is clearly important to them. The time to build them up again will come but for that short moment a hug and comfort is the best thing you can do.

To Tattoo or not to Tattoo?

That is the question. So I may be having a midlife crisis. I have a sneaking bubbling desire to acquire a tattoo at the ripe old age of 44. Not one of those horrific sleeves or a tramp stamp at the top of my jeans nor do I want to mark the latitude and longitude of my children’s birthplaces on my arm a la Angelina Jolie. Just a teeny tiny symbol or word on a place very few (other than my nearest and dearest) will have viewing access. I hear what you are thinking. Big rebel, right? But for a middle class girl from Perth who was a teenager in the 80’s where those with a tattoo were either bikies or in the navy, it’s a big step.

Call me smalltown, but I am still astonished when I travel to places where one is compelled to wear swimmers and hence view others in theirs, at the sheer number of people who have one. Old and young, women and men. And not just teeny tiny ones. We’re talking sizeable works of art that you know would have required hours of agony inducing needle punctures.

My first exposure to the craft of body art was my brother who is 6 years younger than I. Much to my parent’s horror their lovely, but somewhat rebellious, son waltzes in at 18 with a mean looking tribute to a recently deceased mate. Paralyse me perpendicular, as my Dad would say. Shortly after that a second eagle appeared on his upper right chest. At that point my parents shrugged their shoulders and said, as many have before them, he’s an adult, it’s his decision.

The golden moment came a couple of years later. My parents had mastered the art of detachment by then. However, one warm summer’s day (and we have a lot of them in Perth, let me tell you) my gorgeous niece Maddy spied uncle Jock’s tatts while swimming in the family pool and like all observant 4 year olds duly commented on what she saw to the entire family gathering. “Jock’s got stamps”. Out of the mouths of babes. My dad loved this story and it was a big contributor to said tattoos becoming a non-issue from that point on.

So back to me and my ink. Being a somewhat analytical person I asked myself what was driving me to this yearning for personal graffiti. When I said midlife crisis earlier what I really think I mean is midlife re-evaluation.

Believe it or not, aside from the slowly dawning reality of the effects of gravity and excess on my physical form, I love getting older. Bit by bit, the layers of immaturity and fragility are peeled away to be replaced by growing wisdom and strength. I know more about who I am, what I stand for, what is important to me and what I want from the next four decades or so, god willing that I am granted that. I care less what people may think or say about me and even more telling, have realized that generally people aren’t even thinking that much about you at all. Things happen that may sting but the sting wears away a helluva lot quicker than it used to. For us sensitive souls this is good news.

My friendships have become sweeter in recent years as the female tendency to compete and compare gives way to tenderness and respect for what many of my friends have endured. Most of us are touched in some way by hard times and tragedy. Rather than this depleting and depressing me, I see it as a great connector. I remember my mum saying that the older she gets the more fun and appreciation she has with and for her girlfriends. We realise no-ones life is a perfect fairytale so let’s just get on with it and enjoy the time together and be there for each other as much as we can. 

So the tattoo, if I get one, will be an aide-mémoire to myself of these sentiments. Although it may wrinkle and distort over the years it will always be there as a reminder of my mid-life evolution. A bespoke marker to the unknown path ahead.  Anyone want to join me?