couples therapy

In couples therapy it is common for practitioners to encourage the troubled couple to make appointments with each-other to talk about thorny issues. Sort of like- ‘I would really like to talk to you about X- (the housework, the kids, the affair, whatever). Do you have any time at 8pm’. There are lots of rules to this appointment- most of which are unbelievably daggy BUT as it turns out- usually very effective.

The rule that is pertinent here is the length of the appointment. Sometimes people put off talking about the shit they need to talk about because in the past when they have tried to raise the really difficult stuff, it has led to hours or days of awful, awful fighting (sulking, stomping, ‘sure, fine, whatever’ type interactions). The couple gets wrung out, terrified of talking about contentious stuff, and ends up either doing the seething thing, or just carrying on as normal until they are ready to brace for the next marathon bout.

But the couples therapy appointment has a rule that the person initiating the conversation (‘the initiator’- told ya it was a bit embarrassing) has to be done in 15 minutes. Mercifully brief. For everybody. The tricky bit is that the other person (‘the inquirer’) has to really fucking listen to what they are saying- (no defense, all empathic responses and probing questions). But then it’s done- until the next appointment.

My impulse to write this blog has for months been stifled by amongst other things, a sense that that it will take TOO MUCH TIME- at a time of course, when I am so stupidly, un-originally busy. I dread the time commitment of blogging- like I’d dread a long fight.

But the impulse is still here. So I’m going all initiator/inquirer. I’m resorting to inspiration in the dagdom of couples therapy. I’m leaving long and never finished, for short, sloppy and done.

yeah, so we've been in the studio...

So for the last few days we have been in the studio.

God, I LOVE saying that.
I’m going to say it again.

So, for the last few days we have been in the studio.

Yeah, we play music. And then we record it in a studio.
So, yeah, we’ve been recording.

In the studio.

Right.

Now. I’m going to ruin the moment.

FAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRK.

I love saying 'we've been in the studio' in a casual kind of way which implies that this sort of thing happens all the time in my life and it is no big deal.' And we're just the sort of people that do things like record albums in studios.

But this has been NOT normal and I have been in no way CASUAL about the process.
We used to be the sort of people who recorded albums in studios. Now we are the sort of people that think about it for 4 years and then on a whim and because life is going so damn fast, panic, shut our eyes and book some time and hope like hell it will work out.

There were approximately 3000 phone calls made organising the logistics of 3 days in the studio. Some of these phone-calls involved discussions about rehearsals, song structures and instrumentation. Most of them concerned child-care.

Z will look after D until 2, and then C will come around while D is napping and then I SHOULD have my guitar parts done by then and be back in time for C to go in to be there for W to do his clarinet. But if Z could pick up S from his childcare then bring him back to her place then even if I’m not back by then they should be happy enough. And possibly even get fed. And then we will meet up at around 6. Except for that if the bass isn’t done by then, I might have to delay the guitar parts, and the clarinet- so perhaps in this situation, C could look after D, and I will catch the train so that he has the car to pick up S, and then drop them both off at Z’s before coming to the studio. And then I should still be able to get home before it is bedtime. And so on.

I have no idea why I’m using letters here rather than actual names. But you get the drift right? NOT very rock this looking after children business. Really not.

The avalanche of snot that has covered our house is also not quite the slick muso fantasy I had created for myself either. I spent the two weeks prior to recording insanely trying to avert the impending cold disaster. Both boys appeared in the bed most mornings around 5 with the express intent – it would seem- of contamination. Snot wiped on my fresh pyjamas. In my hair. Terrible toddler sneezes in my face. That’ll teach you to go off and do your fancy pants recording mama. Okay so nobody actually said that. What they actually said was quite a lot worse.

For instance, "I’M GOING to LICK YOU NOW MUMMY". The daily, HILARIOUS joke, from the 4 year old, a mess of saliva and morning phlegm:

Or, the simple, relentless, and pleading: "Kiss Mama? Mama, Kiss?" This from the almost 2 year old, streaming nose, mouth wide open, aimed it would seem at my nose. Cute huh.

It is not true that you won’t find your own children disgusting. THEY ARE DISGUSTING.

Just a little bit less disgusting then somebody else’s snotty children.

And after all the vitamin C and Echinacea and Zinc and vicks inhalations, and salt gargles, and ginger tea, and garlic and chilli and honey and lemon, I fell apart anyway. On the day before I was due to record vocals I couldn’t breathe through my nose AT ALL. And I had a very, very sore throat and a hacking cough. Again. Not very rock.

So I postponed the vocal tracking and mixing for a couple of weeks. And am hoping for a grace period from all the sickness so I can do the singing thing.

But we almost have ourselves a little bit of an album.

And I think the fact that we are doing this at such a stupidly busy and full on in all kinds of ways time in our lives kind of adds to the thrill of it. Nothing casual about it though.

Although I can't resist saying it in casual tones to people I don't know very well.

So much more impressive if you don't bang on about all the snot.

Hey also, Flemo has a very funny blog on stalking interesting looking parents in playgrounds, and one of the funniest people in the world- okay, well at least in my world, my friend Pauline has FINALLY started blogging here. Check out her piece on who helps you with prams at train stations here.

Hormones, Hilarity and Embarrassment. Motherhood as a second adolescence.

Lately I’ve been thinking that much of the emotional and social terrain of motherhood is like a throwback to adolescence minus the frigid tests.

First there is the hormone business.

As a 17 year old I did all the obvious things with my wild angst - joined a socialist organisation, wrote a lot of songs in E minor, hung out with older hairy men and spent an alarming amount of time at poorly attended rallies blaming America for everything,

As a 31 year old new mother I pretty much just focused on Schapelle Corby. She was on the telly ALL the time just after my first baby was born- and I became obsessively concerned by her plight - Outraged at the potential injustice, moved greatly by her protestations of innocence, deeply connected to her SHOCK at having found herself in her situation (I know, I know, easy to see where this would go in therapy) Most nights I wept over the agonies of breastfeeding AND the short-falls of the Indonesian Justice system.

Oh yeah. And my baby. I got pretty hormoney-joney about that whole business too.
‘HOW is it possible to love somebody so much?’ I used to ask Flemo urgently. ‘How is it possible I love him more everyday?’
‘And when does it end?’ I asked other parents, ‘Surely I cannot continue to grow this love any more’.

'It plateaus around 3' my sister, the anti-romantic, muttered.

And then there was the hilarity.

It is hard to compete with the shrieking back seat bus laughter of my adolescence, but I swear the sleep deprivation and vulnerability of the first bit of having a baby robbed me of any discernment and took me pretty close. Heaps of stuff previously very lame became really, really funny.

At the same time as I was developing my strong psychic bond with Schapelle, I discovered (aside from the antics of my own tiny baby- HILARIOUS- the way he would, you know, lie there all twitchy) the INTENSE and edgy humour of Rove McManus. Rove. Ha. Funny. I laughed so much Flemo could hardly look. Even now, four years on, he can’t let it go.

‘Funny guy, that Rove’, he still says occasionally, looking sideways at me with concern. ‘Could she go back there?’ he’s thinking. ‘Is it possible? And what will that mean for US?’

But you know, he doesn’t get I was basically operating as a 17 year old. Better Rove than some sleazy hairy socialist right?

And right now I am rediscovering embarrassment. Another throwback to adolescence. I’ve only just realised that I have spent well over a decade mercifully free of the level of self consciousness that fuels embarrassment. But now I have children who often don’t behave as I would prefer in public- they brandish sticks, and say weird things, and spack out at times when I am trying to make new friends- and bang, just like that- embarrassment is back. In all sorts of new ways.

We were leaving Metro last week when we passed a tiny brand new puppy at the same time as passing a former client. The 20 month old yelled out ‘Dog’ and start woofing. And the ex-prisoner looked back to see who it was he needed to kill.

It was a classic moment of parental unease. I wanted to apologise and laugh it off, and explain- none of which would have made the situation any better.

‘Look. You’ve clearly been inside, but NOBODY here is calling you a dog. NO way. YOU’RE not the dog. That dog that just passed is the dog. Like an actual dog. That’s why my kid was woofing.’

Yeah. Right. Nice one.

It reminded me (and not just because of the continuing dog theme) of when (the now 4 year old) had recently turned three, and he approached a large family group at the local swimming pool and said to a woman wearing a Hijab, ‘Do you speak DOG language?

A very weird thing to say. And implicitly offensive, although again, pretty hard to explain why, or in fact explain without adding to the possible offence.

And then last week I introduced two of my friends who both have children relatively recently diagnosed as having an autism spectrum disorder. One of the things that struck me about their conversation was the immense comfort and hilarity they found in sharing their experiences of acute embarrassment in playgrounds and playgroups. There was consensus that perhaps one of the hardest things about handling the challenging behaviour of their kids was actually managing their own embarrassment about it in public spaces.

So all of this has got me thinking more generally about the role of embarrassment in parenting. Although I am lucky enough to have two kids who are actually not too tricky to wrangle in playgrounds, I still- I guess like all parents- have to deal with frequent breaches of social etiquette and cop my share of the playground death stare.

And embarrassment is so weird and circular- because it is itself embarrassing. It is impossible to respond to the ‘Oh my god are you blushing?’ question without blushing harder. And it is very hard to leave a park with calm confidence when coping with the real and imagined accusatory stares of the parents who have the kind of sweet children who do NOT pretend to be armed with semi-automatic weapons.

Embarrassment is clearly less about doing something morally questionable than doing something socially awkward. But although it signifies a smaller breach of the social order, than say, shame or guilt (I mean no-one is actually getting shot here, right), the question of responsibility is hazier with embarrassment. And when the question of responsibility is unclear, it makes navigating the response to the source of embarrassment a little more complex also.

My wise friend Emma once said that apologising for your children is like apologising for the rain. And in so many ways I think she is right.

But I am compelled to apology anyway- even though I am very aware that large parts of my kids' lunacy is way outside of my control.

Maybe saying sorry is the closest I can get to saying 'Fuck I am Embarrassed'.

Not as embarrassing as a frigid test perhaps. But sometimes pretty damn close.

Darth Vader is a Complex Man

3 year old: Darth Vader is an interesting man. He is very complex
Me: What did you say?
3 Year old: He’s complex. Like once he was good. But now he is bad.
Me: Oh.

Oh.
Oh.
Oh God. The poor children of philosophers.

Or more accurately, the poor children of Dr ‘well in some ways this and in some ways that’ Flemo.

This Darth Vader conversation came on the back of one of THOSE conversations between Flemo and I about the way we explain the world to our kids. I have been putting forward the case that perhaps less is more when it comes to imparting knowledge to 3 year olds.

Flemo with his unique capacity to see ALL future disasters that WILL occur as a consequence of the parental mess ups we make most days agrees. And naturally has extended my vague anxieties about giving kids too much information into a theory linking an overly complex view of the world with, oh you know, MAJOR DEPRESSIVE ILLNESS IN LATER LIFE.

But getting rid of the nuance and detail in his answers to the moral questions the three year old flings our way goes against every philosophical bone in Flemo's body. And I'm not so great at the pithy short response either.

So it doesn't actually surprise me that the 3 year old is noting the complexity of Darth Vader's character. But it does worry me.

I don’t really believe we are setting our kids up for depression- but I do wonder often at how much or how little or simply how to explain the hard stuff when it comes up. I know the basics- don’t overload and bombard with information, try and wait for them to ask before telling them what you know, and try and keep it simple, age appropriate, blah blah blah. But when I consider the ongoing philosophical and practical difficulties of explaining the ins and outs of, oh- say- violence and murder, this all seems to come unstuck.

The three year old adores killing. Shooting. Fighting. Doesn’t own a toy gun. Don’t think he ever will, but this has never stopped him taking aim at us all on a regular basis. We have a lot of conversations that go like this.

Me: Darling, please stop shooting at your brother
3 yr Old: But he’s a baddie mummy
Me: Oh. Does he mind being shot at?
3 yr old and 19 month old: NO
Me: Oh

Or about 300 times a day- this
Me: Darl, can you please stop shooting for a bit
3 year old: But I’m being a goodie- and I’m killing all the baddies
Me: Oh. Did you try talking to them first?
3 Year old: Yes. But they didn’t listen
Me: Oh

This is what I could say. “Look, violence should be reserved for times of self defence, at times when no other options exist, when all diplomatic forms of communication have been exhausted, and for when people are really, really bad- like HITLER type bad- but even then the argument for violence on utilitarian grounds is pretty shaky. In any case, murder – like chocolate consumption- I’m pretty sure, should NOT be an EVERY DAY type activity.”

To which my three year old, would, I am sure respond

“But I’m just pretending”

And of course he is.

So, I mostly just say "oh."

And maybe he actually gets what he needs to get about the complexity of killing, and the complexity of Darth Vader and the line between fantasy violence and the actual kind. And maybe despite our many bungled attempts to answer his difficult questions, these complexities don’t bother him at all. And maybe it is Flemo and I that need to shift gears on this one.

But somehow it doesn’t feel like that.

I don't know if it is about protecting him from the uneasiness of sometimes not knowing what is right. Or hanging on to some hokey notion of childhood innocence- but I want to tell him unequivocally that Darth Vader is bad, and Luke Skywalker is good- and that there are these, and many other immovable moral truths and unshakable facts which anchor us. But in his three year old way, my son has figured out that Darth Vader is an interesting and complex man. And Flemo and I haven't figured out a way to pretend otherwise.

Playgroup hangover

Yesterday I left playgroup deflated- and today am suffering the associated playgroup hangover. My good friend coined the term to describe the lingering ick factor associated with the experience of a dodgy time at playgroup.

It is hard to say what it is exactly that can cause the dodge time. Sometimes it is clearly the antics of my own children. But these days when it happens, I think more often it is an absence of connection with the adults around.

Flemo used to look after the three year old one day a week when I was working out of the house part-time. He would take him up to the playgroup at Lennox house and was so desperate for engaged conversation I think he actually scared people. “So what do you do? Wow. You’re an architect. Wow. What do you think of Charles Jencks? Have you seen the documentary on Glenn Murcott? Read that book about buildings that talk? blah blah blah”

Cue bewildered mother slowly backing away. “Ah, I just have to check on my child now”… and in future, for fucks sake, just ask me how old the kid is and leave it at that.

I didn’t prepare for the new social world of parenting. Not just the mothers group scenario - which is like being thrown back to high-school and trying to hook up with the coolest kids in the room- but the regular playgroup, kindy gym, park meetings with other parents.

I need that social connection and my children need to get out of the house. But I continue to want desperately for these outings to evolve beyond the repetition of the required 'so how old is your little one?' playgroup repertoire- I wait for those times where conversation is easy, engaging- or funny. Or someone cracks a joke, or swears a lot, or farts and laughs, or says something surprising.

I guess I like those moments where for a few heartbeats we are more than just parents. And this for me- doesn’t mean not talking about our children, or parenting. I love talking about this stuff. I need to talk about it. This is after all, my life.

But it does sometimes mean finding a way out of the disengagement, lethargy and boredom that is an undeniable - and, oh god - on some days the defining feature of parenting young children. Obviously this requires a superhuman effort. Sometimes a more than superhuman effort. And on those days when for whatever reason we have all succumbed to the 'how long until nap time?' mode of parenting (and I know I am a repeat offender of the worst variety here) it is just impossible.

But the worst kind of playgroup hangovers promote the cultivation of ACTUAL alcohol related ones. And dealing with playgroups with an actual hangover- well – now - there is a vicious cycle bored and tired parents everywhere ought to be talking about.

Car Songs

Once a month I get in the car by myself and go to a board meeting. I've worked with community organisation, CRC, for over a decade - and these days serve on the board as vice-president. The work they do is phenomenal. Incredibly effective at reducing recidivism, relentlessly supportive and practically helpful to those who are confronted by the dramas and chaos of the NSW prison system, and very effective at advocating for social justice in the murky context of criminal justice.

I love being part of the organisation on so many levels. And I have many intentions of writing more about it and the sort of work they do in this blog- but at the moment, what I am really digging, is the drive to the meeting.

Instead of the big green shopping bag filled with nappies, spare clothes and snacks, I pack a small bag with wallet, phone, keys, my notepad, and a carefully selected album.

At the moment this is a mix-tape put together by Flemo called ‘Pittwater 07’. It opens with Phish, moves on to Aimee Mann and by the time I have driven to Broadway I have usually taken in Rage Against the Machine along with the obligatory (Flemo's obsession of the last 3 years or so) Loudon Wainwright.

Listening to music used to be one of the things I did. An activity all on its own - as well as the backdrop to any housework or dinner party. We used to see bands and listen to the radio, and being surrounded by music felt like as much a part of my identity as playing it. All of this is of course EXTREMELY normal- but for a whole stack of reasons it seems emblematic of a very different before children type of life. And now we pretty much only listen to music in the car.

Which is why we have never considered for even a second introducing the wiggles and their ilk into the sacred space of the Toyota.

As a consequence our boys do not realise there is a kids music genre and we get to discover their own musical preferences within the strict parameters of our own selection. Ryan Adams had a subdued reception, and ultimately prompted my youngest to tear up and repeat ‘no song, no song, no song’ until we turned it off. Amy Winehouse was a BIG hit. Although it was tricky explaining to the three year old just why she was so much trouble and why she did not want to go to rehab. Elvis Costello provokes a strong positive and repetitive devotion- but again, the explanations for his reticence to visit Chelsea take a little time. The three year old, like everyone else in the close vicinity of Dr. Fleming has been worn down into loving - and requesting Loudon Wainwright. And now, weirdest of all, they have both developed a tantrum inducing connection with Robert Fripp and the league of crafty guitarists, especially the tune ‘A Connecticut Yankee In The Court of King Arthur.’ At the end of this entirely instrumental piece, Dom invariably purses his lips and makes a delighted ‘oooooh’ noise and both boys refuse to get out of the car until it is finished.

I never imagined I would be listening to this stuff with a family. It seems like a wonderful merging of worlds. And I love that car music has now become a kind of shared venture, even if it does mean a little more prog rock and Westchester County folk singers than I would would have chosen myself.

But on those evenings, driving alone to board meetings, I am transported by the tunes in an entirely different- solitary - and alive to possibilities kind of way. And on the way home, with the stereo up, and thinking of my sleeping babies, I feel like the short drive crosses seamlessly between the worlds of public and private, and pre and post children. And the freedom of having both worlds accessible- but for a brief twenty minutes belonging in neither- is nothing short of euphoric.

PS- Leonard Cohen and Paul Kelly have donated $200,00 to the Bushfire Appeal. As if it were possible to love them anymore. To donate to the Red Cross Victorian Bushfire Appeal, go here

Craft tables and shouting classes

God, I’m an incredible parent today. A focused, non-shouting, quick cleaning, healthy cooking, book reading, role-playing legend. My children have been playing together- no doubt inspired by my calm brilliance- and apart from one small knight costume tussle there have been few tears. It is such a relief to have days like this- when I am not just getting through until sleep times- when the dictate to ‘enjoy your children’ doesn’t seem like a cruel taunt but seems reasonable, applicable- even profound.

My two boys are not the sort to sit down peacefully at a craft table for long periods of time. They are not in fact the sort to sit down at a craft table at all. I know kids the same age as my own who know how to use scissors and glue as skillfully as mine know how to dismember the couch. So anyway I'm figuring out that enjoying spending time with my own children is very different from the 'enjoying hanging with children' images I've lugged with me from my childhood. There is no cellophane or glue for a start. But right now my two are being lovely super-heroes. Good. Brave. Noisy. The living room is a bat cave. No-one is crying.

Mind you, I am only a couple of weeks back in to the grind of the normal work year after a glorious four weeks of Flemo being around. I became accidentally very conservative during this time. I kept on saying things like- “it’s true you know, children really DO need two parents”. When actually what I meant is that it all seems so much easier when we are all about. We all become so generous and caring. ('No, baby, why don’t you have a sleep in today, I’ll take the kids…'- a subtle change from the snarly, half martyred ‘Ten MINUTES. Please. I JUST WANT TEN damn MINUTES)

At the end of last year I felt like I was floundering- My voice got sore from shouting. My three year old seemed unreachable, constantly on the verge of violence, and mostly in character as a 'tinja noodle inja turtle'- or a mutant of some kind anyway, and my 18 month old managed to turn whingeing into an art form, before you know, he could actually say anything.

My friend Emma, who used to sing in a serious rock band, said maybe I wasn’t shouting in a technically good way- and suggested maybe I could have lessons to save my voice. I thought it was a great idea. Shouting lessons for mothers who are losing it. How to scream at your children, and still have the voice to be able to complain loudly about them when they are in bed.

I borrowed two books from friends at that point. Normally when things are rough at home, all it takes is for me to borrow a book, and by the time I have gotten around to doing that, the behaviour has changed, the dynamic has shifted, and we are all in a different kind of space. One of the books was the Christopher Green toddler taming classic,

and the other was a book by Louise Porter- the ickily titled (but strenuously recommended amongst some of the nicer parents I know) book called, ‘Children are people too.’

I had only gotten as far as their completely opposing ideas about attention when Dr ‘Its all about attention’ Green, and Dr ‘Attention seeking is a myth’ Porter became redundant. Everything seemed to calm down. And now, of course, I am an amazing parent and my children are perfect so I don’t need no damn parenting manuals.

But I haven’t returned the books yet. I'm scared their magic will stop if they aren't actually in the house. And its pretty amazing- us all being nice like this. Sure there are no craft tables, and maybe a few more ninja jumps than I am completely comfortable with- but its peaceful in its own way. It really is.