School holidays

It hadn’t even gone 9am on the first day of the school hols and I’d been driven round the bend.

A ‘rugby widow’ I was flying solo and had a full day of back-to-back children’s events meaning the twins would skip their sleep.

Adding to the chaos was a call from the real estate agent asking if potential buyers could be shown round my dad’s place which we were currently house-sitting. So, when a break between downpours permitted, I sent the troops out to stomp in puddles while I shot around hoovering up the breakfast carnage.

But no sooner had they got their boots on, then they were trapsing mud back inside - messing it faster than I could clean.

Now I’d spent most of a sleepness night before vowing to slow down and enjoy the kids rather than spend all day yelling but the insistent pull toward the door once again took over. By now my stress levels were so high I found myself wondering when was too early in the day to have a stiff drink.

Finally everyone was loaded into the car and I set the alarm, only to be informed by my resident nark that his younger brother had soiled his pants. Back inside for a quick change, and after a ten-minute frantic search for my ever-elusive keys we were finally on the road 20 minutes late. Still fuming at my kids’ behaviour, I drove in silence.

But it was the startling sight of a wayward cow wandering off the state highway onto our road which changed the tone for the day.

Visions of what could happen prompted me to change pace.

Reversing I hemmed the cow into a nearby stockyard entrance and herded the emaciated beast through the nearest gate. Walking back to the car I looked up to see three little faces, mouths agape, peering through the steamed windows at the bizarre sight of their mother, who’d been nothing short of a monster minutes earlier, now playing farmer Jones.

Somehow this incident had a calming effect on us all and I drove on now 30 minutes late, but happy in my newfound status as good Samaritan cow-cockie.

After fielding questions about the cow all the way to Cade’s rugby we watched him play before a quick, albeit awkard, car-park change from our muddy clothes into suitable attire for Dorothy the Dinosaur.

They say that having a good laugh is the ultimate relaxant and watching the sheer joy on my kids’ faces reminded me what it’s all about.

Our last stop was a fifth, circus-themed, birthday party and, while the kids had a ball stuffing their faces and tearing about, I began to feel normal as other mums regaled me with tales of trying to get their lots out the door in the mornings.

Finally, our hectic day almost over, we piled into the car a lot happier and headed home (noting the cow had vanished from the paddock) where the kids burnt off their sugar highs outside in the mud, while I put dinner on.

And then, with a contented sigh, I sat down with my not-so-stiff drink.

Squabbling Siblings

Some days I need the Super Nanny. I’d even brave being humiliated and reduced to tears on international television for the sake of getting control back.

I admit to watching it in my smug childless status prior and scoffing at the parents letting their brats walk all over them. How could an adult be scared of a child? I used to wonder with scorn.

Well now I know.

Sometimes I am reduced to one of those pitiful parents practically pleading with their child.

I think a lot of our problems stem from the dynamics of three. When there’s one, they’re an angel. Two, they get on fine, but add a third to the mix and it just doesn’t work. Not in our household anyway.

I have new empathy for my mother. I wrack my brains to remember if my brothers and I fought as much as my three. She says we did. Empathy aside, that makes me feel a little better - more normal somehow.

It’s their mood swings too. They have the ability to make an enjoyable moment turn into a disaster in a split second.

Take this morning for instance: 6am. All is silent in the Fraser abode. Until a light comes on and pitter, patter, pitter patter, a small shadowy figure pads up to my bedside. “Morning mummy,” a sweet voice says.

“Good morning Cadeyn,” I open up the blankets for him to snuggle in. “Mummy,” he says softly. “I had a dream …

He is stopped at the sound of his siblings waking loudly down the hall.

“Cade, would you please go and get your brother and sister up?” I lazily ask. There’s got to be some pros to his being five and able to after all.

“Sure.” He leaps out of bed and I hear him greeting his brother and sister warmly. My heart melts.

Into bed they all tumble until Jai, seeing an opportunity to milk his brother’s kind mood, asks if he can play trains in Cade’s room.

“Sure baby,” Cade affectionately says and off they troop.

It’s here that all hell breaks lose and our day is ruined.

A door is slammed and Master five, who had no intention of letting his brother play with his trains, is heard laughing from the other side.

Jai, and Jayla, who has optimistically followed, are left protesting in the now pitch-black hall, much to their brother’s amusement.

“Cade, get in the naughty corner,” yells his dad.

“It’s not the naughty corner – it’s the thinking spot!” Cade corrects. He has previously informed us that at school, you are allowed to come out once you have thought about your behaviour.

“I don’t care – get in there!”

That’s killed his good mood and sets the tone for the rest of the day. Come 3pm I’m standing one floor below listening to all three yelling “Mummy” asynchronous sounding like a symphony orchestra gone wrong. For a while I tried morphing it into music and began swaying to it and it was at that point I decided I needed the Super Nanny.

# Diane Levy, perhaps New Zealand’s answer to the Super Nanny says sorting out disagreements is frustrating and exhausting work. 

“We find ourselves as counsel for the prosecution, counsel for the defense, judge and jury. Each child hopes we will be the executioner – of the other sibling, of course. And not many of us set out to have a home-career in law!”

However, it is best to intervene because we are responsible for having a home that is a pleasant oasis rather than a war zone. .

“When you see inappropriate behaviour happening in front of you, stop it.  It doesn’t matter who started it.  Don’t even try to find out.”

She advises to avoid questions like “How would you like it if someone smacked/pinched/bit you?” as chances are your child has little interest in compassion right now. It’s also not worth pointing out how much they have upset their sibling, as that may well have been their intention.

Many disagreements between children close in age are about sharing and Diane recommends developing a system. “Systems not only save a lot of squabbles, they also teach your children to develop their own systems of fairness.” Timers are great for making length of turns fair.   

“Undoubtedly, the dynamics of managing two siblings is often much simpler than three.  Often, when there are three siblings, two form a natural alliance and one is frequently on the “outer”.

“We need to expect and demand inclusion rather than exclusion – so it is perfectly reasonable to expect children to include others in their play.  However, be aware of things beginning to “hot up” and get in and intervene by changing the activity or the grouping before things degenerate.

 “We have all heard a situation hotting up in another room and crept away, pretending that we haven’t heard and hoped like crazy it would all go away.  Then we hear the scream or the crash.

“If you wish to teach your children that you don’t condone fighting in your household, you need to get in early, just when you begin to hear the temperature rising.

“Get in fast and break it up. “Afternoon tea time” is a sure winner. Asking for a task to be done is less popular but works just as well.  Or you may choose simply to walk in, say “This isn’t working”, and split the children into two separate rooms for about ten minutes.”

Using this approach consistently means that each time they fight, your children will learn one of two things:

• They will learn not to fight, or;
• They will learn to fight very quietly.

More information can be found in Diane’s book “They look so lovely when they are asleep”.

Poo-Painting

It assailed my senses as soon as I set foot in the room. My disbelieving eyes scanned the carnage - it was smeared over bedding, stuffed toys AND up the walls, not to mention all over the princess herself, who was sitting in its muddy midst grinning from ear to ear.

And then it hit me. I had a poo-painter.

Her twin brother caught my attention from his cot across the room. ”Ja-ja mess,” he emphasized through his dummy while pointing an accusing finger at the chocolate-coloured scene before us – as if I could miss it.

I boldly ventured further into the room and noticed it was covering her white nightie, had made its way up into her hair and, of course under the finger nails.

The next night it happened again so, posting my frustration on Facebook, I received this tip: ‘A friend of mine would give her boy a cold shower. It worked a treat.’

Well the next day we were heading off camping to the depths of the far north where drought had taken ahold. But on the second night of finding faecal graphics painted up the tent walls around every reaching vicinity, enough-was-enough. We all had to sleep in there after-all.

A bucket of our precious water was brought to the middle of the paddock where a giggling – albeit tentatively - Missy stood and, surrounded by an audience, received her first post-poo-painting shower.

But alas, this did not get the desired effect as, being a hot evening, the water was a cool relief.

We returned home where the problem persisted – intensifying to her throwing it across the room at her brother (and missing thank goodness).

Back to the internet where I googled ‘faecal smearing’.

It turned out to be a common problem among toddlers and, aside from one American mum’s solution of putting packing tape around the ‘diaper’, the recurring answer was the cold shower which is all fine and dandy in the colder climes.

At my wit’s end, it was time for the wooden spoon.

But before you call CYFs, the mere rap on the side of the cot elicited enough of a fright to halt the habit in its dirty tracks.

We then moved onto potty training, which presented another problem: upon discovering a pile of logs in the potty I was so proud I turned a blind eye to the fact a hand had been dipped in and subsequently smeared over the ranch slider.

I decided to take this one step at a time, bearing in mind a quote from that same American mum: “Just remember that curious babies are intelligent babies. My brother did this as a child and now he has his PHD!”

# Says Whangarei Plunket nurse Sue Saunders: “(Faecal smearing) is a sensory experience and I think she was enjoying the feel of it on her hands.” Sue suggests introducing faecal smearers to finger painting, play dough or clay. “A good idea would be to get them to paint in shaving foam as it doesn’t stain anything and wipes up easily afterwards.”