Did you know that no matter how stressful work is, a working mother’s stress levels go down when she arrives at work, while a working father’s go up?

You say, Did you put your lunch in your bag? Unfortunately children are banned from putting their lunches in the first time you ask, so they haven’t. Your little kid says, We’re not allowed to take anything in packets anymore. You take all the lunch out of its packets and put it in an old McDonald’s bag and just shake it as hard as you can, being sure to quickly step in the cat shit. You type GET PAPER TOWEL into your brain calendar.

The children GET OUT THE FRONT DOOR after you yell it into their faces six or seven times. In the car, they argue about what radio station to listen to. They argue about what Spotify playlist to listen to. Your little kid kicks the back of your big kid’s chair. Your big kid looks at her funny. Your little kid hates him. Your big kid tells her she doesn’t have any friends. You play a funny prank which is to drive your car into oncoming traffic.

You’re halfway to school when your little kid tells you she forgot to bring the poster you made for her homework. You tell her she has to learn to take responsibility for her own things, while chucking a dangerous u-turn and going back into the house and finding the poster under every Shopkins toy ever made. When you get back in the car she’s crying because your big kid told her horses made of marshmallows don’t exist.

A man cuts you off and then gives you the finger. You think about following him to work and shouting at him about it and then hiding in the staff room to eat Arnott’s assorted cream biscuits while someone else worries about what your kids are doing.

This whole piece, “School Run: a horror story” by Anna Spargo-Ryan is terrific.

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What December looked like in 2017

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Australian Summer

By photojournalist with the Sydney Morning Herald, Alex Ellinghausen .

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My children

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Thank god for school holidays

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Objects found on kitchen tables

Where upon one learns one’s strengths as a parent are apparently not one’s stability and caution. “Things i love my mummy for. I love the way my mummy is crazy and out there”.

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What price believing?

“Students who are told that things are fair implode pretty quickly in middle school as self-doubt hits them,” he said, “and they begin to blame themselves for problems they can’t control.”

Barrett’s personal observation is validated by a newly published study in the peer-reviewed journal Child Development that finds traditionally marginalized youth who grew up believing in the American ideal that hard work and perseverance naturally lead to success show a decline in self-esteem and an increase in risky behaviors during their middle-school years. The research is considered the first evidence linking preteens’ emotional and behavioral outcomes to their belief in meritocracy, the widely held assertion that individual merit is always rewarded.

“If you’re in an advantaged position in society, believing the system is fair and that everyone could just get ahead if they just tried hard enough doesn’t create any conflict for you … [you] can feel good about how [you] made it,” said Erin Godfrey, the study’s lead author and an assistant professor of applied psychology at New York University’s Steinhardt School. But for those marginalized by the system—economically, racially, and ethnically—believing the system is fair puts them in conflict with themselves and can have negative consequences.

“If the system is fair, why am I seeing that everybody who has brown skin is in this kind of job? You’re having to think about that … like you’re not as good, or your social group isn’t as good,” Godfrey said. “That’s the piece … that I was trying to really get at [by studying] these kids.”

From “Why the myth of meritocracy hurts kids of color” by Melinda D. Anderson in The Atlantic. 

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On children exploring the rituals of grief

This is a lovely piece by my friend, Monica Dux in The Age…

When the sad day arrived my daughter and a friend she’d invited over disappeared into her bedroom, emerging an hour later dressed entirely in black, their outfits expertly cobbled from the dress-ups box, including black gloves and hankies, which they clutched, both their faces tear-streaked from weeping.

The two little mourners set up chairs on the lawn, with Johnny’s open coffin in the middle, and Lily and Sara in their enclosure, perched on the side. My son and his mate watched from the garage roof, not quite part of the proceedings, yet affected by the mood. “My grandmother died recently,” offered my son’s friend, solemnly.

When my daughter asked if anyone wanted to say a few words, her friend gently touched her arm. “It’s only right that you do it,” she said.  My daughter’s eulogy was short. “Here lies Johnny. He lived a short life, but it was a good life. He lives on through his children. Maybe.”  Then my daughter pressed a button on the iPod that she had hidden under her dress, and suddenly there was music. Kate Bush, singing The Man With The Child In His Eyes.

And so Johnny was laid to rest, under the crab-apple tree. The girls lingered over his grave for a time, remembering.  Then it was done. Johnny, the man with the child in his eyes, was gone. Ham and cheese sandwiches were served on the lawn.

Johnny was just an insect, of course, yet I don’t doubt that my daughter’s grief was real.

 

 

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Truth

From Hurrah for Gin.

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Our mornings absolutely suck

This is a timely reminder that I could do work/school mornings better…

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