Lifestyle Imbalance

“How I see maths problems: If you have four pencils and I have seven apples, how many pancakes will fit on the roof? Purple, because aliens don’t wear hats.”

I had an 'aha' moment when this post popped up on my Facebook page this week.

I’m convinced a large chunk of my left-hand side brain – the side that deals with numbers – is missing.

I am completely dense when it comes to maths, hence why it’s taken me till now to work out this whole lifestyle balance equation.

It turns out taking a four-day break isn’t enough after crashing and burning because the sudden lifestyle change from stay-at-home mum to working mum.

It fixed things temporarily but the stress-induced headaches I’d been experiencing began creeping back. This was because I hadn’t changed anything.

I was still trying to cram everything into the evenings that I used to do during the day – housework, gardens, groceries, washing, appointments, exercise, Shortland Street - as well as the whole, dinner, making lunches, bathing, homework, story routine.

It got to the point where, on Monday, we finally got in the door after 6pm (this is late when you have most of the above to still do) after having dragged the kids to two appointments, and saw the vicious circle of it all.

One of the appointments had been to the chiropractor to try and fix the chronic headaches which were causing me to lose focus. I returned home and was trying to cook a late dinner surrounded by chaos and hungry children.

Glancing at my ‘to-do’ list every few minutes I felt the stress build as I realised I couldn’t possibly get through it all and the Monster-Mummy started to emerge.

I had to get the kids to bed so I could get stuff done!

I must’ve been scary for I found the twins had put themselves to bed with Miss Five hunched under the covers in a little ball.

When I pulled the duvet back I was met with a timid, sad face.

“I will try and be good tomorrow mummy,” she said in a tiny voice.

At that moment everything stopped.

Of course it wasn’t her fault - I had been taking out my stress and lack of priortising on the kids.

When I stepped back and put everything into perspective I had the epiphany that I was busting a gut to get to a job that I love, but was not able to enjoy fully or give 100 per cent to because of the chaos that had generated over the last few weeks. What’s more, I was spending the money I earned fixing problems brought about by this lifestyle imbalance and my priorties were all wrong.

It came down to what I needed to drop and keep in order to create a happier family.

Exercise creates endorphins meaning a happier mummy. Happy mummies equal happy kids. To fit in exercise, something needed to give.

When I look back as an old grandma will I really care that my house had been clean week-in, week-out?

Probably not but I do find it hard to function surrounded in mess. Putting aside feeling like a failure at no longer being able to do my own housework and looking at the big picture, I paid a visit to my neighbour and hired her to do my weekly housework.

Perhaps, if the budget allows, I will hire someone to do the gardening (or perhaps I’m dreaming) and there’s always online grocery shopping.

It’s small steps but hopefully this frees up time for the important things because, at the end of the day, it's about keeping the Mummy Monster at bay and spending quality time with the kids before they fly the nest.

So although it’s taken me a while I think I’ve finally cracked the code. That was quite an equation and almost brought about another headache.

Phew.

# For more on this, watch Dr Libby Weaver's recent talk on The Pace of Modern Life Versus Our Cave Woman Biochemistry https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tJ0SME6Z9rw

Super Mum

It’s frustrating going from being the type of person who can work a year without taking a day off to suddenly taking them all the time, courtesy of sick children.

However, last week I could only blame myself.

Silly me – why did I think I could get away with a sudden lifestyle change and survive on next to no sleep?

Even energizer bunnies eventually crash and burn.

Being a stay-at-home mum, who worked on occasion, ran five times a week and, amongst doing all the usual mundane chores, pretty much did what I wanted when I wanted – particularly in the last few months when all three kids were at school, was pretty cruisy in hindsight. Going from that to almost full-time work, no exercise, trying to still fit in all the things I used to do during the day now in the evenings, and not sleeping must have been a shock to the system.

But I thought I was coping just fine.

The accumulating headaches over the past few weeks were bearable until they evolved into accompanying dizzy spells and nausea, to the point that, despite my best efforts, my boss noticed I was ‘away with the fairies’ (more than usual) from being unable to focus.

It culminated in taking myself off to the medical practitioners on my lunchbreak. But of course a sneaky visit to the doctor’s could never be achieved in a half-hour lunch break. So, instead I found myself texting my boss apologising for my absence and explaining I was bed-ridden with a line in my arm so wouldn’t be going anywhere in a hurry.

She was up there in a flash and my attempt at being a discreet, non-hypochondriac resulted in being sent home for several days, with my fatigue-induced chronic headache, to rest up and try to find some lifestyle balance.

It was just as well I went home – I got worse. The rare sight of mummy horizontal on the couch later that day proved a source of entertainment for the twins who stood peering down at me, concern etched on their little faces. Apparently I was a freak show and, as I drifted in and out, the rustling of papers, followed by them placing multiple “I love Mummy” and heart-festooned pictures on me (complete with the odd paper cut) brought me back to the now with a jolt.

It’s interesting how many of us quietly fear the worst when we have major headaches and, convinced it was something sinister, I found myself back up at the medical practitioner’s two days later for a follow-up visit.

A scan and blood tests came back clear and, as I lay with my pounding head hooked up to a drip, surrounded by a crying baby, someone spewing their ring out, and a very large woman complaining how constipated she was, I tried to count myself lucky.

Still, I wanted out of there.

I hate needles and the mere thought of one coming near me makes me feel faint. However, I was stuck until the drip finished doing its thing.

As soon as it was done I pushed the beeper to alert someone I wanted to go home. Staff were run off their feet that day but eventually and with a renewed appreciation for medical staff and all they endure, I took myself back home feeling rather spaced out from it all.

It was 6 o’ clock and I was good for nothing but to put myself to bed. I sent mum a jumbled text explaining I was switching off all media and going to bed so not to worry. She must’ve had a mother’s instinct for, within half a minute, and like a god-send, she knocked at the door and proceeded to watch over me all night.

And, for once, I actually slept. The following morning I awoke to the remnants of Cyclone Lusi and, as well as clean windows (chur Lusi), minimal damage, thanks to mum’s partner driving out from the other side of town to batten down my hatches.

The following day a visit to the osteopath turned up a clue – apparently, as a result of the sudden lifestyle change, everything had seized up culminating in the major headaches… from which I had decided I was dying.

Eventually, with the help of the osteopath, acupuncturist and several day’s rest, I was back on track with the new-found wisdom that there is no point trying to be Super Mum – it just leaves you flat on your back with paper cuts.

Fabricated Stories

In light of Master Five’s “sickie” stunt he pulled a couple of weeks ago, in The Boy That Cried Wolf – style, I was hesitant to believe him when he said he felt ill.

While the other two were chirpily eating their breakfast, he uncharacteristically hadn’t emerged from his room.

After a while I went down to investigate. There I found him rolling round on his bed looking decidedly pale before uttering the words every working parent probably dreads to hear:

“Mummy, I feel sick.”

I saw my whole day plummet before me.

But I couldn’t ask for any more time off so my first instinct was to Pamol him up and send him along regardless. But then he turned green and dry-wretched. I lunged for a bucket and something the likes of nothing I’d seen before landed in it.

Ok, he was sick.

Something like this, which completely throws your day, calls for quick action, leaving little time for playing the sympathetic nurse and, feeling guilty about this, I set about changing my plans.

Once again, my understanding boss came to the fore, allowing me to work from home. Clearly I hadn’t been touching wood when I’d previously proudly boasted that my kids never get sick!

I still needed to keep my osteopath appointment so Master Five and his sick bowl got dragged into town for that. Luckily this was uneventful on the vomiting front and he slept for most of the day.

So while that time, he was clearly telling the truth, in another incident later that day, I realised I’d had the wool pulled over my eyes.

Master Seven had come home from school the previous day and calmly mentioned that a sky diver had landed on his friend’s roof behind the airport.

“Are you sure?” I asked, to which he nodded vehemently. “Well that would make a good story,” said the journalist in me. “You tell him tomorrow your mum wants to write a story about that.”

As it happened, I bumped into his mum up at the school. “So what’s this about a parachuter landing on your roof?” I enquired.

She raised an eyebrow.

I explained the story and she rolled her eyes and began laughing.

“Ah, no, no parachuter landed on our roof that I know about – they’re always dropping from the sky, but none have landed on our roof.”

We had a chuckle about our boys’ vivid imaginations and I asked a sheepish-looking  Master Seven on the way home who’d made up the story.

“Well he just told me that was what happened,” he mumbled.

You’ve gotta love kids’ imaginations and mine must still be such that I get taken for a ride every time.

Summer Nights

It was with a twinge of sadness that I noted the plunging temperature this week.

But there are some perks to the onset of winter and the darkness that comes with it.

Parents and caregivers know the frustration of trying in vain to get little monkeys to sleep when it’s just so darn light outside.

Although I get my two youngest to bed at 7pm – mainly so I can watch Shortland Street in peace with my seven-year-old (who is being educated on all kinds of worldly PC goings-on this week!) they are still bouncing around their room more than an hour later.

In the ad breaks I might go down to their room, if I can be bothered.

“Mum’s coming!” I will hear before a scrambling of feet and rustling of the bedding.

By the time I get there all is calm, however, the carnage in their room tells another story.

Last summer our neighbour, a fan of hosting late summer night dinner parties, provided many hours of entertainment for the twins, whose room backs onto her deck.

On one such ad break I headed down to their room and caught them both standing tip-toe at the heads of their beds and peering out the open window.

“Are you spying on the neighbour?!” I asked, before they guiltily swung round and dived under their duvets.

This became a regular occurance to the point that they used it as their excuse for not being able to sleep.

“What are you doing?!” I demanded one other time when I caught Master Five trying to open his window.

“I just want to tell Christine (name changed) to shut up!” he replied.

I stopped him just in time, although I was sure it would provide some amusement for Christine and her guests. And she took it in good humour when I mentioned it the next time we bumped into one another.

It turned out they weren’t so discreet. She and her guests were fully aware they had two little spies.

This summer, all was quiet on the dinner-party front and the twins could no longer use it as their excuse not to sleep.

However, one night was an exception.

I went down to their room to sort them out and got the full report:

“Christine’s having a dinner party again,” moaned Master Five.

“And we heard someone say ‘Holy crab!’ piped up Miss Five from her bed.

It seems that, while Master Seven was being educated upstairs with me, the twins were also learning a whole new language downstairs from their beds, via their eavesdropping.

I decided not to correct them on that one.

Foiled Pans

You think you have your week mapped out before you and then the smallest occurrence can foil your plans.

This came in the form of a rather impressive-looking teenage pimple sported by one Master Seven when he emerged last Friday morning.

“I don’t want to go to school,” he whimpered. “All the kids will laugh at me.”

My god, this wasn’t supposed to start yet was it?

I sent him to school and sure enough he was teased.

By the time the weekend finished it was obvious this was not some random teenage pimple - the spot had spread into impetigo, AKA “school sores” and my normally handsome little man was not looking pretty.

Fortunately I have a lovely, understanding boss who let me work from home in order to keep Master Seven off school and get him to the doctors.

While there, he didn’t think to mention he felt sick. It wasn’t till we were heading out the doors, prescription in hand, that I heard him make a funny sound, hand covering mouth.

“Are you going to be sick?” I asked. 

He nodded and I swung him round and got him to the toilets in the nick of time.

Well, not quite – he power-chucked and got most of it in the bowl but I spent the next 15 minutes on my hands and knees cleaning up the remainder.

Next came the problem of waiting for the prescription with a green-looking son. There was nothing for it (that I could think of anyway) but to sit him next to the rubbish bin outside while we waited. I didn’t think the pubic would appreciate their gardens being fertilized in that manner.

I still had another few errands to run – including an overdue WOF and going up to my work to email myself some work - so we stopped off at home to have the first intake of medicine.

The doctor had warned us it was foul.

I had a little sip and immediately regretted it. That stuff was vile. I poured Master Seven’s into a full glass of orange juice but even this did not dilute the potent taste.

He sat on that one glass for an hour, moaning in agony with every sip while I empathetically encouraged him on. Even the line-up of six jellybeans to follow was not enough enticement.

Finally we were done (although I noted there were three doses a day) and, grabbing a sick bowl, we headed back out the door. The poor thing got dragged around the city for most of the day. The spew bowl was certainly a blessing whilst stuck in an hour-long traffic jam.

The highlight for him was turning up at my workplace and discovering it looked “just like Shortland Street”, before meeting my friendly co-workers and discovering that “Mummy has highlighter pens at her desk”, as he reported back to his brother and sister later that day.

The next day dawned my birthday and I was a tad tired. You see, the night before, the kids had declared themselves too excited to sleep. God knows why – I certainly wasn’t. Anyone would think it was Christmas.

However, I was relieved from the planned (and no doubt sloppy) breakfast in bed by a daughter under the weather with croup and her twin brother wanting to get in on the action by claiming to have a sore tummy. The jury’s still out on the latter but it completely threw my day.

Three “sick” kids amidst a whole lot of work piled up was not how I planned to spent my day.

The idea is to make it as boring as possible so they think twice about pulling a sickie again - the next day the twins happily trotted off to school and it was just me and a still-spotty Master Seven at home.

But now here I find myself working all weekend - plans to take the kids away abandoned - as I make up the extra hours lost.

And it all began with that one “teenage pimple”.