Stranger Danger

We had a lovely holiday down at the Mount (Maunganui) last week but, as a result, I’ve been on the back foot all week. And so, being behind on the news, it was mildly disconcerting to finally sit down with a stack of papers to read and find out there is a potential child predator in our midst.

Because that morning, as usual, Master Six had raced off ahead to school while I drove the twins to kindy, at which point, we usually pass and beep. But that morning we didn’t pass him. Of course he was all right – he’d just sprinted to school – but it did play on my mind, especially after coming home and reading the newspapers.

The following morning a hurried version of the stranger-danger talk ensued before Master Six left.

“But a stranger might get him,” whimpered Miss Four, having overheard the conversation.

While it was nice to know she cared, I simultaneously realised she’d got the wrong end of the stick. Despite trying my best to give a more age-appropriate version of the discussion on the way to kindy, it proved fruitless.

“What kind of legs does a stranger have?” asked Miss Four.

“And what kind of head does a stranger have?” chimed in Master Four.

When we pulled up and they piled out of the car it soon became clear what they’d conjured up in their little heads.

“Guess what,” they called out to their mates as they arrived with their parents. “There’s a monster in Whangarei.”

By the time we reached the gates a rumour was in full swirl which, like most gossip, had been blown out of epic proportions.

“Mum,” I heard one child say. “There’s a monster down the road.”

“Um, I think you might need to have the stranger-danger talk to the kids today,” I told the teacher. “I’ve obviously done a terrible job of it.”

She agreed that indeed I probably had and I left with the rumour mill in full circulation.

I was dreading what I’d walk back into at pick-up time, but it turned out the monster story was long-forgotten and the children had moved on, distracted with preparations for today’s Santa parade.

I’m thinking I’ll need to give the stranger danger talk another shot – this time with a little more effort put into convincing them that not all strangers are baddies (“Mum, why did you talk to that stranger?!”), or monsters with square heads for that matter. But, I’ll probably wait until after they’ve met the man in the red suit today – lest there be any confusion.

We wouldn’t want a rumour starting up about poor Santa now would we?

Parental Doubt

All it takes is one comment for the parental self doubt to creep in. Whether it’s someone randomly telling a new mother she’s holding her baby the wrong way (yep I’ve had that – but really, if he was uncomfortable he would let me know me so shut up!) to the latest:

Master Six comes home and casually mentions: “Mum, when I was walking to school this morning a mother told me to tell my mum I was too young to be crossing the road by myself.”

This time though, the self doubt only lasted about half a minute - Maybe I was a bit premature in letting him walk alone to school… but then we had walked the same route numerous times as a family and taught him to look three different ways before crossing the one and only street.

I had to ask: “You didn’t do anything dangerous when you crossed the street did you?”

“No, I stopped and waited till there were no cars like you taught me.” I can tell when he’s lying and he wasn’t.

No, this mother was just a busy-body who hadn’t yet cut the umbilical chords connecting her own children, I decided, and began to feel my hackles rising.

But even so, I walked the same route the next day with Master Six and made sure I had a good description of the “orange-hair, white-shirt, green-car, that wasn’t a van but had a sliding door” - driving mother who had given my son this indirect ticking off to his mum.

“Is that her?” I asked all the way to school, rolling up my sleeves.

Ok, that last part was a lie. I’m hardly the type to start a fisticuffs outside the school gates, let alone even confront her, but, for some reason, I still wanted to know who this Martha Stewart was.

We didn’t see her but I still met a lot of other lovely non-judgmental mothers that morning and had a good chin wag instead. It turned out Master Six is quite popular at school and, no sooner had we entered the school gates than a team of children came running up and, after calling out good morning rituals, began chasing his younger brother and sister round the yard like they were a couple of Pied Pipers.

Note to self: remember to dress them in running shoes next time.

But back to the orange-haired, white-shirt mother driving a green car with a sliding door that’s not quite a van – aka a people mover. When prompted further that night Master Six ventured: “Well, she said I looked scared and I didn’t say anything but I thought in my head ‘I’m not scared’.”

No, he’s an intelligent, well-trained six-year-old who’s been taught how to cross a street so maybe it’s time someone dealt with their own apron strings before passing judgement.

Spring Fever

Ask any teacher if spring fever affects their children and they will most likely roll their eyes to the heavens and shake their head knowingly.

Along with other symptoms, kids become more restless, disruptive, rowdy and generally silly.

Spring fever is said to be driven by the body’s reaction to its changing environment; the increased amount of sunlight. Along with improved moods this brings a better climate for romance in mammals, including humans.

And it would seem my children are no exception.

Not that they would ever admit this. The hot topic in our household at the moment is boyfriends, girlfriends, getting dumped and marriage. But they’re in denial: as far as the boys are concerned, girls are disgusting and vice-versa.  According to Master Six, his siblings have a string of boyfriends and girlfriends which change on a daily basis. In amongst dumpings, his four-year-old brother is going to marry Polly, Ava and Rudy (names changed) from kindy and his four-year-old sister will marry Jack, Harley and Trey (names changed), also from kindy. Heck, sometimes they will even marry each other. This is, of course, followed by uproarious laughing on his part.

If the tables are turned and one of the twins dare utter the name of a female in Master Six’ class, along with the word ‘marry’, all hell breaks loose.

According to my lot getting married is disgusting and, this being the ultimate sin, if ever I’ve done wrong by them (in their eyes), the response is: “You’re going to marry daddy!”

Oops, too late.

This revelation is met by a chorus of “Ewwwwws!”

“But Jayla,” I said one day as I unpacked a box of photographs and stumbled upon a wedding one, only to be met with the above response, “I’ve kept my wedding dress for you to wear one day.”

“Ew, no way,” she said running away.

Her brothers may have corrupted her for now but, one day I’ll win her back.

I remember the days when their older brother – the instigator of it all – was innocently oblivious to all this nonsense. I had read his four-year-old self a book about a frog who seemed to be having a problem with something inside his chest going “thump-thump”. After seeking advice from his animal friends, frog was finally diagnosed as being in love with a duck. He decided to impress duck by breaking the world high jump record but he landed on his head and made a fool of himself.

Never fear, it ended well. Duck nursed frog back to health and they went on to marry and live happily ever after.

But I digress. The next day we were walking up the hill to kindy. I was pushing the stroller while Master Four ran ahead. When he got to the top he stopped and turned round, his hand on his chest, brow furrowed in bewilderment.

“Mum,” he declared puffing. “I think I must be in love.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Because my heart won’t stop going “thump-thump.”

Halloween

Whether we like it or loathe it, Halloween appears to be here to stay.

The youngest generations have grown up with it being the norm but, for the older ones, it’s baffling, annoying and just plain frightening. The trouble with Halloween in our country is we’re just in the wrong hemisphere.

After sitting on the fence, leaning more towards thinking those against it were being party poopers, after Wednesday night – experiencing it from both sides of the door - I’m now in the ‘Leave Halloween to the Americans’ camp.

In previous years trick or treaters have always caught me by surprise, probably resulting in our house being black-listed after I could only come up with a few measly packets of raisons. The kids looked seriously ripped off. So this year I bought a family pack of Macintosh’s Toffee and, forgot all about it as I set off on an evening walk.

Along the way we encountered numerous trick or treaters who looked to be having a successful time with bulging loot bags.

Returning home I found my lot bouncing on the trampoline happily oblivious to the tradition. It turned out I’d way over-catered - when I asked if they’d been handing out lollies at the door they looked curiously bewildered before asking if they could go trick or treating too.

What the heck, I thought and helped them don costumes from the dress up box. Before setting off I filled my pockets with Macintoshs’ for the kids to hand out in the hope of getting rid of them while simultaneously not coming across as being demanding.

“Trick or treat,” they chorused proffering a McIntosh to the home owner.

Luckily they didn’t know any different because, apart from a bag of nuts each, they came away empty-handed. But they didn’t mind – they were just stoked to be out in their costumes handing out lollies.

We only went to a handful of houses but the reactions we encountered ranged from pleasant surprise, sending the home owner into a flurry at not having anything to give back, to a curt “No, I don’t subscribe to Halloween,” with a blunt refusal of the lollies kindly offered from three little outstretched hands. Their crestfallen faces prompted me to tell them they could eat the lollies themselves.

But despite striking that particular person off my neighbourhood Christmas baking list, I had to later admit that I no longer “subscribe” to Halloween either.

Once the kids were in bed a loud rapping on the door alerted me to a mob of about ten kids on the back deck who, apart from the oldest one pulling his sweatshirt over his mouth and a bandana over his eyes to look like a bandit, had made no effort to dress up.

“Give us some lollies,” he demanded in what he hoped was a badit’s voice.

“Where’s your manners?” I demanded back reluctantly giving them a lolly each before they raced off round to the front door and rang the doorbell there. Nice try.

It’s ones like that who give trick or treaters the bad rap and I don’t blame residents for not taking kindly to strangers, who could possibly scare the living daylights out of them, approaching their private property after hours and demanding sweets.

So what if residents, as one Advocate reader suggested, signal they are playing the trick or treat game by leaving an outside light on? This is a good idea in theory but, with daylight savings, school kids would have to wait until late for this to be effective.

Which brings me back to my first point: we are simply in the wrong hemisphere for Halloween to work here.

Next year I’m being a party pooper – we’ll be staying at home where I’ll lock all the doors, disconnect the doorbell and hide.