An open letter to Bobbin's favourite day care educator

Dear T,

When I met you for the first time one year ago, I was in the throws of an enormous mental breakdown as I brought my youngest, Bobbin, to day care for the first time.

You knew I was low; it was quite literally written across my face in streaks of tears, red eyes, and a puffy nose. But you don't know that you're one of the people who helped save my life. 

I felt like I was getting "neglectful mother" stamped on my permanent record when I walked in there that day. Not because I was placing my child in to day care, but because my doctors and the government agreed I was so unwell that the public purse would pay for her to be cared for by someone else three days a week for six months. That it was in everyone's best interests; hers, mine, even the taxpayers.

As welcome as financial assistance is to a single income family in a low socio-economic area, qualifying for it under those circumstances was demoralising.

Parts of that time are a tear-stained blur to me, and others I can replay in my mind as if they happened yesterday. One of the things I do remember was that day care was a blessing, giving me time to attend appointments, go to therapy, and focus on recovery. I also clearly remember that you stood out amongst the staff. Not just to me, but to Bobbin. And I believe children are excellent judges of character. 

You were kind, relaxed, and soothed my fears in a way that didn't patronise. You swooped in, a smiling angel in hot pink, and made Bobbin feel safe and secure at a time when she really needed it. At a time when I couldn't do it as well as I'd like to.

The way you cared for her, and helped her transition to having more weekdays away from me than with me was invaluable. On good days you would chat, and on bad days you'd appear as if from nowhere with a cuddle for Bobbin to make the separation easier for us.

Some people might say that's your job, but it felt like so much more. 

Bobbin would come home and talk about you endlessly; telling me stories of painting, playing, and learning songs from you. You quickly learned what she liked and incorporated it in to the activities. I remember one day you made extra playdough in yellow, her favourite colour, because she'd told you it wasn't as fun when it wasn't yellow.  

On the days you weren’t there, the others were capable, but they weren't you. You always went that extra mile. You even swooped in to the kindy room a few times after she’d left your toddler area when you could see either she or I were having a rough drop off, and I can tell you that it didn’t go unnoticed.

Our chats were sometimes the only non-therapy adult conversations I’d have in the early days. To be treated like a decent human being helped me to realise that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t terrible after all.

As time wore on, those small chats became conversations full of laughs, and littered with our mutual obsession with all things Disney, wild hair colours, and tattoos. Drop off and pick up times got longer and longer as we shared stories. The drop and run was not on the cards when there was an Alice in Wonderland party to discuss! As I recovered and was able to step back in as a full time parent to Bobbin and she attended the centre less and less, the care you gave her continued, and drop offs got even longer as you'd excitedly explain a tattoo idea, or listen to my thoughts on Beauty and the Beast.

I’ve tried to tell you this in person a few times, but I keep faltering. Two words, thank you, just seem too small to convey the enormity of what you did and the depth of gratitude that I feel. You helped teach her the alphabet, got her back on the toilet training wagon, but more than anything you made her feel secure.

You raised my child when I couldn’t.

Your kindness shone brightly through the clouds of my dark days, and I will be forever thankful.

With more thanks than you'll ever know,

Glow x

Trying not to raise assholes

Tricky has his first girlfriend and it is the cutest thing ever. No, really. Cat videos have nothing on this.

Previously he's called his favourite people his "best buddies" whether they be boy or girl. On Valentines he gave little homemade gifts to three girls and one boy, because he loved them the most. But he has never used the words girlfriend or boyfriend.

When he accompanied me to an Equal Love rally he expressed great disappointment that he couldn't legally marry his male friends, and was very relieved when I let him know that by the time he was an adult, I was sure it would be legal and he could marry whomever he loved. (Hey government, don't make me a liar, OK?)

But now, he says he has a girlfriend.

And she says Tricky is her boyfriend.

Her name is Ruby (used with permission), but Tricky calls her Beautiful. She calls him Tricky Eagle. Pet names? Geez. This must be serious. Heh.

They write each other love notes. They chose Easter presents for each other. They steal glances, then ignore each other for most of the day. Not unlike some marriages, really. Adorable.

Ruby's mum and I were chatting about how they will remember each other's names forever and that it is so lovely.

You remember the firsts. Your first boy/girlfriend. Your first teacher. Your first best friend.

I'm hoping the other firsts Tricky remembers are these first conversations we've started having about consent when it comes to girlfriends and boyfriends.

Shock, horror, she's talking to her six year old about consent?!

You betcha. And guess what? We've been talking about it since he was about two or three because one of my main aims of parenthood is not to raise assholes. Toddlers are assholes by default, I'm talking about when they become adults.

Our conversations around consent started out by letting him (and obviously Bobbin, too) know that he doesn't have to kiss or hug anyone he doesn't want to. We've always respected it when he has refused a hug or kiss, and even when he has declined a high five despite part of me wanting to say "don't leave me hangin', bro!". The exception to this is a game we play called Surprise Cuddle, where you randomly go up to someone in our family and shout "SURPRISE CUDDLE!" (we are not very inventive game namers) while wrapping your arms around them. It's an exception because so far it has been enjoyable for all and no one has said stop.

From there we've also always respected that he hates being tickled, so we don't do it. On the other hand, Bobbin looooves being tickled, so for her we stop when she says stop... which is usually followed by her saying "TICKLE ME AGAIN!".

So now we're talking about what is and isn't OK in terms of having a "girlfriend" which is actually no different to our conversations around how we treat friends, but he kinda likes hearing the word girlfriend so I'm going with it. It hasn't been a sit down, formal talk; it's us, together, having a chat about his day and when he mentions her, I take the opportunity to say a few small things.

Like "You have to ask her before you hug her" and "Just because it was OK to hug her yesterday, doesn't mean she wants a hug today, so you should check again".

I've also said "You're both allowed to say no to having a hug if you don't feel like it, that's OK" and "When she says she doesn't want a hug, say that's OK and find something else to do". I've reminded him that no one likes to be pestered when they've said no, though this usually applies to him asking me to play Minecraft for the 1352nd time in an hour.

Just tiny little things, slotted in to a conversation.

I believe having conversations about consent with kids in age appropriate ways is imperative. Teaching both boys and girls to respect the word no, actions that indicate no, and us as parents respecting their right to say no, even when granny might get upset, will help counteract the rape culture that still surrounds them, where members of my own extended family have said that a boy hitting Bobbin is a sign he likes her (don't worry, that was dealt with very quickly).

Do you talk about consent with your kids? How do you bring it up?

It's just a colour

The other day at school drop off I witnessed Tricky being teased. I'm sure kids have been mean to him before, but it was the first time I'd ever seen it happen.

We were hanging around the classroom door, waiting for it to open and a few girls in his grade were there too. They were all chatting and laughing, having a nice time.

Then the mood shifted when one girl, who is usually lovely, noticed Tricky's pink water bottle.

"Errrrr, you've got a PINK water bottle!!! Girls, look, Tricky has a PINK water bottle!" she squealed.

Tricks tried spinning around so the girls couldn't see his water bottle on the side of his back pack, but the three of them pounced on him and stopped him from turning. They weren't being violent, they were just mucking around.

"Let me see! It's PINK!!!" they laughed.

He made some funny faces at them and they lost interest in the water bottle, but as a groups of kids are want to do sometimes, they picked something else.

"And you don't have any freckles! That's so weird!" The girl said.

The other girls crowded around his face to have a look. Their freckled noses scrunched up with sun damage and scrutiny.

Tricks looked rather confused and asked who wanted to play chasey. They all said yes and off they went.

It was bizarre standing there, watching it unfold. I didn't want to step in, I wanted to see how he would handle it without me. I'm a fan of kids working out their own issues with guidance rather than mum stepping in every time to fight their battles, and since this was a low level teasing I felt it was a good introduction to standing up for yourself.

That he tried to make them laugh shows he's my kid. Humour is my weapon of choice. That he tried to change the subject also shows he's my kid. If my first weapon doesn't work, running away is my only other strategy. But I want him to have more.

When the doors opened we walked in and had a chat.

"What did those girls say about your water bottle?"

"They made fun of me because it was pink. Maybe I should get a new one?"

"You chose that water bottle because it's your favourite colour. Do you think someone who isn't hurting someone should change what they're doing, or do you think someone who is teasing someone should change what they're doing?"

"I think the person teasing shouldn't tease."

"Yep. And what can we say if someone says they don't like our pink water bottle?"

"It's just a colour! There's no such thing as boys and girls colours!"

"Right on, little guy! If that is your favourite colour, then it doesn't matter what other people say."

We did our usual kisses on his hands (so he can place his hands on his cheeks during the day if he feels like he needs a kiss from mum), and as I left he ran off to play with his friends.

All day I wondered if I'd done the right thing by not intervening. Should I have stepped in? Should I have said something at the time? Mentioned it to the girls' mums? They would have been mortified that their children were teasing and would have told them off. Or was holding back and arming him with words and reason the way to go?

Tricks has grown up in an environment where we try not to gender toys and accept that toys are for playing with and pretending with, no matter what colour they are or who they are aimed towards. He loves Lego, cars, plays rough and tells poo jokes. Other times he nurtures dolls and is Brozen - a bro who likes Frozen. His favourite colour is pink and he wants to be an army officer when he grows up.

He's a wonderful mixture of masculine and feminine but I realize that he could seem weird to some people who are only used to rigidly defined gender roles.

So I equip my boy with strategies to use when someone teases him and hope for the best in a schoolyard that can be cruel sometimes. It's just a colour. Although in my head I'm shouting inappropriately at a six year old "It's just a fucking colour and it's called sunscreen, bitch!".

Heartache and help

I have this heart condition.

I've had it for years but it's been pretty good for such a long time now that I don't see anyone for it. I was discharged about 18 months ago from from my follow up program because I was doing so well. Hooray for me.

Except recently, this heart condition flared up.

I was really ill.

So I did what I was always told to do when I felt like my heart was going to give out and headed to my GP for a referral to a specialist. 

My 'emergency referral' got me an appointment a MONTH away.

I knew I wouldn't be able to last a month with my heart like this. Doing it's own thing, getting sicker by the day. I'd be dead in a week. The specialist said go to the emergency department in the meantime.

A friend took me to the ED on a Monday night and I was assessed. Yes, my heart was just about to give out, but since I had kids they didn't think it would give out any time soon. 

I didn't understand. What does having kids have to do with it? No medication was started, the nurse said it was because I might have an anaphylactic reaction to it and they didn't want to be responsible for that. Um, OK?

I was left by myself for a while, then discharged alone at midnight having been promised that a referral to Hospital in the Home (HITH) had been made, and that it was HITH that would take care of my heart with medication. 

At home my heart got sicker, but I waited, thinking HITH would come and help me soon. We got referrals to three private heart hospitals and two public, putting our eggs in as many baskets as we could. Hoping there would be space somewhere. That someone would help my poor heart.

We learned that the private heart hospital would charge us $420 per day for me to stay there, after my private health had paid. And that that wouldn't cover specialist fees or medications. You have to be rich to be sick, it would seem, even in Australia. 

MG had two weeks off work to look after me and the kids because I couldn't get out of bed let alone be an actual parent. I've been absent from school drop offs and using the last of my energy to do a few fun things with the kids, wondering all the while if today would be the day that my heart would give out totally. If today would be the day I left my kids without a mother.

MG made a stack of phone calls to the hospital and was put through to all sorts of departments. Some had no record of me, some said the referral was pending, others said it had never been sent. There were no straight answers and we could never speak to the same person twice. 

Finally, at the end of the week MG got through to the correct person by pure chance and we learned that the HITH referral had gone through and been rejected as they didn't have any room.

I'd been desperately waiting for this "virtual bed" and no one had told us it wasn't available, and they hadn't referred on to another service like they should have.

So me and my heart were just left to fend for ourselves, desperate for medication, clinging on for dear life, back to square one as if we hadn't asked for help at all. 

I took another trip to the ED the following Monday as my heart had become much, much worse. I was finally seen by the heart team who noticed that they hadn't been called to see me last time when they should have been. They were so lovely. They said they had a bed upstairs on the heart ward for me and even gave me a starting dose of medication and had no idea why the previous nurse told me I couldn't have it.

But then, as quickly as it was given, the bed upstairs was taken away. Someone else needed it. There are lots of broken hearts, all needing help.

And as quickly as the bed upstairs was taken, so was my cubicle in emergency. I was now on a stretcher in the corridor.

Hours passed. A nurse checked on me once to find my heart was in a very bad way, I told them it hurt more than I could ever remember it hurting. He called over to another nurse and a passing doctor rolled his eyes and said "ugh, of course her heart hurts" then, trying to imitate my voice said "somebody pay attention to me".

I broke down. I couldn't believe I was being mocked for asking for help. 

I was informed that they'd stopped looking for a bed for me since all the receptionists would stop work in an hour, and that they would try again tomorrow... that I could spend the night on the stretcher in the corridor and try to get some sleep.

Have you ever been on stretcher in a emergency department corridor? Sleep is not really forthcoming. There were five or six empty bays that we could see from that corner of the corridor, but I wasn't allowed one of them, they were for "sick people" who would come in through the night, not for those with sore hearts.

MG and I decided I would be better in my own bed and tried to discharge but the doctor wouldn't let us. He kept saying "you're in a bed in a hospital" whenever MG or I mentioned the words stretcher or corridor.

We asked to talk to someone higher up. A few nurses (all lovely) came by to try and convince me to stay, but we again requested to leave. Being surrounded by so much trauma was making my heart hurt even more at this stage.

Finally, a nice doctor came to us and agreed that a corridor stretcher wasn't really ideal and said that it was likely I'd be waiting on that stretcher for four to five days for a bed to become available in the heart ward, and it might be better if I went home to wait it out.

I signed the forms and was discharged.

At home over the coming days we chased more referrals. The hospital had actually sent the referral this time (hooray), but to the wrong centre (groan), so MG, acting as both nurse and personal assistant, kept calling as many places as he could. 

Most said call again later, or that they'd get back to us. Two weeks later we've only heard from one of those places (to say no), the rest still haven't returned our calls.

Finally, we decided that it was worth a shot showing up at the local community heart clinic, without a referral, to beg for help.

I almost wept with relief when they said they would fit me in.

An amazing nurse (are you sensing a theme here? nurses are awesome) took me through and my heart was examined. It was really, really sick, but I had gotten there just in time. He recommended a course of treatment, got it written up by the doctor, and let me know which additional services he was referring me to... and then actually referred me to them. 

He said that my case is far from uncommon and recommended I never go to that particular emergency room ever again. 

He referred me to HITH again so now I am in the community clinic and the Hospital in the Home - where nurses and doctors visit me daily to make sure my heart is OK and that the medication is kicking in. 

It took two weeks of begging, being told that I was an attention seeker, being discharged without care, two emergency room visits, four GP visits, endless phonecalls, the tireless work of MG and that one amazing nurse to get medication started; to get the care that I needed.

As I see how much effort it took to get medical care I can't help but think that everyday people like you and me would find this delay in treating a heart condition appalling. 

But go back and change "heart" to mental illness, and this is exactly what is happening. What happened to me these past few weeks. And it's happening everywhere and we just accept it. 

The stigma of mental illness in the community is greatly reducing, but it remains high in the hospital, the very place we are meant to go for help. Medical professionals not taking it seriously; mocking patients; not bothering to put in referrals; providing a lower standard of care than they would someone with a physical condition. 

It's time to stop accepting that this is just the way it is. It's time to stop punishing those with mental illness. It's time we realised that mental illness is just as real as a heart condition, diabetes, or a broken leg. 

"Mum, what does motherfucker mean?"

I try reeeaaaalllly hard not to swear in front of my kids. It does happen though, because I'm human. A very sweary, quickly frustrated human who says fuck a lot. But I try really, really hard. 

When talking to friends with any kiddies within earshot I will drop out the swear sounds but still mouth the words or spell it out, but at home I say things like fuuu...dge and other such completely un-fucking-satisfying words.

After 7pm, when my babes are (usually) asleep, all the suppressed curses come bubbling to the surface. Every bloody second fucking word is a shitty swear. See? It's as if my body has a natural quota of swearing that must be completed by the end of the day or I'll turn in to a pumpkin or something.  

I grew up with my Dad making up huge sentences of just swear words when he was angry, but after getting a smack for saying fuck when I was three, I didn't swear again in front of my parents until I was an adult. Now they are subject to my foul mouth as much as anyone else because I figure they taught me, they gotta hear it. 

I used to swear a bit in front of Tricky when he was little, and because he was speech delayed and wouldn't say boo, it went on for quite a while. One day he piped up from the back seat with "bitch" and it put an end to the 24/7 trash talk pretty quickly.

Bobbin, on the other hand, is a parrot. She has been talking our ears off for months; we lost count of her words somewhere around the hundred mark. She will repeat everything she hears. EVERYTHING. Though not always 100% correct, so when she grabs your hand and pulls you to floor and says "sit"... well, yeah. She's constantly telling people to shit and I'm hovering around saying "SHE MEANS SIT!" 

Tricks is very in to words now; how they're spelled and what letters make what sound, and is always quick to ask what different words mean if he hasn't heard them before. It's led to some interesting conversations, "Mum, what does motherfucker mean?", being the one that has stuck in my mind the most (and never got an answer other than the ol' it's not a nice thing to say cop out), but other than that, he's not generally a swearer. Plus he is a bit of a tattle tale when he hears other people swear, and tells me or takes it upon himself to tell them off. "Nanna, that's not a nice word!". 

When you combine these two with a mother who was sleep deprived from looking after sick kiddies all night, the following happens:

Me: *dropping carton of milk * "Fuuuuuck!"

Bobbin: "Fuck!" 

Tricky: "Mum, Bobbin said fuck!!! Bobbin, fuck isn't a nice word, you shouldn't say fuck."

Great. We've all dropped the F bomb in the space of three seconds. 

We have adopted a variant of @emmasbrain's rules of swearing with him. Our rule is he can swear in our car, singing along to songs if it just us there. It's worked pretty well and I try to have songs without swear words whenever possible, but he is really in to anything Macklemore ("I rock that motherfucker") and his favourite song is Uptown Funk right now ("I'm too hot, hot damn!"). Though damn isn't really a swear word, it still sounds a bit wrong coming out of his mouth, so I count it as one now.  

I put the call out on Facebook for sweary stories and laughed my ass off last night reading them all. Here are some of my faves:

So my kids are not the only ones who swear sometimes. PHEW. And 60% of my readers are called Emma. Wait, what?

Tell me your sweary stories!

Can we talk about genitals for a minute?

There are a whole lot of words you can call your junk. Instead of listing the ones from my own personal Dicktionary, I asked on my Facebook page late last night and you lot helped me create something pretty from words like foof-fa and schlong. See, if you follow me on facey we talk about dicks. You should totally put that on your to do list. Following me on Facebook I mean, not talking about dicks. Though you could do both, I'm not stopping you.

So here we have it. Genital word art FTW.

Genital Euphemisms BOOYAH!

But I want to talk about the words we use for gentials around our kids - and as I type this I'm already scared of the awful search results this post will bring. And straight from the get go I am going to say I don't care what your family does; I don't think there is a right and wrong with parenting, just what works for your family, which is possibly different to my family. I don't think I'm better than you, that you're better than me, whatever. As long as you don't give your kids crack and have them wallowing in their own filth, then you're pretty tops in my books.

Anywho, Casa de Glow has a "real names" policy. It's not a formal policy in that we don't have a document stating the correct pronunciation of body parts is required at all times, but it's just what we do. Although, now that I think about it, I'd like to create that document and hang in the entrance just to see how awkward I can make people feel. I'll do it in Comic Sans just to make people really uncomfortable.

Tricky has a penis. OMG SHE SAID PENIS. We call it a penis. OMG SHE SAID IT AGAIN. He calls it a penis. OMG CAPSLOCK IS BECOMING REDUNDANT. Bobbin has a vulva. She can't say it yet.

MG and I chose to use the correct terms in age appropriate ways for a number of reasons; the abuse prevention aspect, empowerment, self-esteem and what not. I was not brought up this way (we were a house of doodles and wee wees) and since a large chunk of my parenting strategy is to not make my kids end up like me, I tend to turn everything I was taught on its head and go from there.

Calling a spade a spade, or a vulva a vulva and a penis a penis as the case may be, seems to be pretty uncommon amongst my circles and it has led to many an embarrassing situation - for them. The words have about as much effect on me as other body parts like elbow, wrist and leg (but not foot, that makes me squirm).

In the checkout line recently I told Tricks that we'd just pay for our groceries then I'd take him to the toilet, to which he replied "It's OK, Mum, I don't have to go. My penis changed its mind". We got a mixture of giggles, red faces, death stares and looks of abject horror. For the record, I giggled because those things sure do get a mind of their own young.

Would we have had a better reception if he had said bladder? Urethra? Don't be shy about the penis, y'all, it's just a word.

I remember my mum coming to me wide eyed after hearing Tricks say it for the first time, checking to see no one was within earshot then whispering "He told me he needed to tap his peeeenis after he went to the toilet!". I'm sure she would have been less taken aback if he'd dropped an F bomb. When they hear him say vulva there may be a coronary event. I'm not even certain they know what a vulva is, to be honest.

Speaking of which, he doesn't actually say vulva properly... most of the time he says Volvo. As a car aficionado I can't blame him, but it's bloody hard to keep my mouth shut when the jokes about it being "a bit boxy" are just dying to come out.

My only concern with teaching my kids anatomical names for their body parts is that when others say willy or fanny or Mr Foofy or whatever that they'll be confused. But I figure there are so many different names going around already and they all kinda know what is going on. Either that or they'll hear me call someone a dick or a cockhead and figure it out.

So I'm curious. What do you call genitals? Was it a decision or it just happened?