Category Archives: Parenting
Parenting
The Last Snowman {Book Review}
BUY THIS BOOK.
Really. I mean it.
Every once in a while, a new children’s book author emerges who, quite literally, takes your breath away. JC Little, author of The Last Snowman does this and more.
I first met JC at BlogHer in July. Okay, that’s a lie. I didn’t meet her, as much as gawk at her from a distance and admire her from afar. This woman is so talented and so funny that it was hard not to be in awe of her. I don’t think I got up the courage to go over and say hello, and boy, was that stupid. In the last few months, I’ve come to know JC Little as one of the friendliest and unassuming people I’ve ever met.
You probably already know her from her brilliant blog, The Animated Woman, where she captures the hilarity of life as a mother and wife in her whimsical drawings. It’s with this background that she wrote her new book, The Last Snowman.
I’m not going to give you a synopsis, a review or any other description of this magical book. All I will say is that it made me smile a lot and then it made me cry. It also made my mother-in-law cry. Baby G requests it as her bedtime story at night and cuddles it as she sleeps. Miss M and Little Man keep going back to the story to explore the many layers hidden inside.
I had no choice, really, but to set the book to a composition my talented husband, Darren, wrote. Without further ado, here’s The Last Snowman by JC Little, narrated by yours truly and accompanied by the music from Darren’s soul.
Reading this book made my children wildly jealous that we, in this sweltering Australian Summer, couldn’t also build a snowman. I decided, weather aside, we would. I discovered that, by combining cornflour and baby oil until it formed a mouldable dough and then freezing it, I had some pretty amazing fake snow. It even has that powdery crunch. I even found myself making my own snowman after the kids went to sleep (shhh, don’t tell).
If you’d like be in the draw to win a copy of JC Little’s The Last Snowman, a gorgeous illustrated mug to enjoy a hot coffee on a blustery day and a swag of other sponsored prizes, please ”LIKE“ The Animated Woman on Facebook and write your thoughts about this beautiful book in the comments section below.
(Sponsors include Dot & Lil & Boiron)
You can buy your own copy of The Last Snowman here:
Createspace - https://www.createspace.com/4542030?ref=1147694&utm_id=6026
Amazon - http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H3R1YYE
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Facebook recently announced it’s going to make fan pages
(including this blog) PAY if we want our fans to read what we post.
That’s not something bloggers like me can do.
So if you want to know when I post, please subscribe to my blog, below.
Thanks and I hope you’ll join me!
Or follow me on these channels:
You may also want to read:
- “Teach him to ride a bike”, they said. “It will be fun”, they said. (7/24/2012)
- 10 Ways to Rock at Motherhood. (6/15/2012)
- 15 reasons not to let Hollywood raise your kids. (7/29/2012)
- A letter to a little boy in a scary world. (7/15/2013)
- A letter to my inner party-pooper. (8/15/2013)
- A letter to YOU. (1/13/2014)
The Masturbation Conversation
Masturbation.
This word strikes fear in the heart of most parents. It’s the kryptonite of the parenting fraternity. When most parents look at their children, the last thing they want to think about is that they – gulp – masturbate. Because there seem to be such taboos connected with this topic, many parents are unaware that it is , in fact, totally normal for children to be touching themselves regularly at the age of three and then again, from twelve well into adulthood.
It’s bizarre, really, this fear of the masturbation conversation. I’ve seen friends freely post on Facebook about how little Sammy ate a cockroach today! Marcus fingerprinted with his own poo! Jenny had an epic diaper explosion (with attached photographs for evidence)! But when they discovered little Toby masturbating: silence. This little milestone is shoved under the rug faster than the most shameful family skeleton.
I was fortunate to have been raised by two incredibly open and honest parents and had benefitted from the freedom to be able to discuss anything with them, This led to some conversations that my parents probably didn’t enjoy much (sorry, Mom and Dad!) but I grew up unafraid of my body and free of misguided hang-ups. I decided, when I started this parenting journey, that I was going to be the type of parent that answers questions frankly and openly and without reservation. Yes sirree, I was evolved.
So, when the day came that I discovered my three year old daughter with her hands down her pants, I took a deep breath, plastered a non-freaked out smile on my face and calmly told her that touching herself was a lovely and normal thing to do but that it was something she should do alone in her bedroom. “Okay”, she happily replied and skipped off to her room. Patting myself on the back for being so calm under duress (because the inner voice was shrieking “omigodomigodomigod!”), I went about making dinner and praying that that was that.
The Masturbatory Gods had a good laugh at that one. As if. The next day, I unsuspectingly walked into the living room with a basket of laundry and BAM, there she was, hands in pants. Deep breath. Calm, cheery (slightly squeaky) voice. “Darling, remember how we talked yesterday about how if you want to touch your vagina, you need to do it alone in your bedroom?” Sweet, innocent eyes looked back at me. “Yes, mama, okay.”, and off she went.
Phew. Twice wasn’t so bad. Now, she got it. Excellent.
Until the next day. Three times. And the day after that.
By this time, I was getting so good at this conversation that I didn’t even bat an eyelid anymore. I knew this was a totally normal phase and I was proud that I was handling it with such grace and maturity. Mary Poppins herself couldn’t have handled it better. The new mantra in our home, repeated in sing-song voices multiple times per week, was “If you want to touch your vagina, you have to do it all alone in your bedroom.”
One morning, we were all eating breakfast before day care when down the pants went her little hands.
As I poured my cereal into a bowl, I said, “Honey, you can’t touch your vagina at the dinner table.”
Chewing her Weetbix, she replied, “But why, Mama?”
Good question. Now how to put it into a social context that a toddler could understand?
I answered, “Okay, Sweetie, let me ask you this: have you ever seen ME touch MY vagina at the breakfast table?”
(Brilliant, Michelle! If she understands this, then she’ll get why it’s an inappropriate social behaviour!)
Innocent eyes stared back, as she thought, then she grinned as the penny dropped, “No, I never seed you do that, Mama!”
I grinned triumphantly, “You see, touching vaginas is not something we do at the breakfast table.”
She smiled back and replied, “If we want to touch, then we have to go to our bedrooms!”
Phew. FINALLY. She got it.
Off we went to day care. My little girl skipped in happily and put her bag in her locker.
Then she ran to her teacher and excitedly declared…
Wait for it…
You’re going to love this… Read the rest of this entry
Exciting News: Mama’s Getting Published.
This blogging experience has brought with it so many surprise adventures and opportunities, like my trip to Chicago last year for the BlogHer ’13 Conference, the life-changing connections I’ve made with inspiring writers and of course, being named Editor at BonBon Break Magazine. What makes this journey so exciting is the knowing that there are always new and exciting things ahead – things we don’t expect or plan for. For me, with my ADHD and resulting love for spontaneity, this is a daily treat.
Today, I’m sharing one of these wonderful turns in the blogging road that I’ve been traveling: the opportunity to be one of a select few authors in an anthology that will be released later this year. All together now: Wooot!
If you want to be the first to hear about giveaways, book tours and early release details, click the link below and you’ll be added to the VIP list. The topic of the book? SLEEP – something we, as parents are universally passionate about, right?
I’d love to hear your thoughts, or even get a little thumbs up. Comments are hugs for bloggers, dontcha know?
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Facebook recently announced it’s going to make fan pages
(including this blog) PAY if we want our fans to read what we post.
That’s not something bloggers like me can do.
So if you want to know when I post, please subscribe to my blog, below.
Thanks and I hope you’ll join me!
Or follow me on these channels:
You may also want to read:
- You suck! (6/20/2012)
- You don’t have to be Harry Potter to perform magic. (4/7/2013)
- Why the happy face? (6/24/2012)
- Why I let my kids fight. (7/3/2012)
- Where did I come from? (How not to answer the question.) (6/28/2012)
- What to expect when you’re expecting a teenager. (7/13/2012)
What I’ve Learned… (A Roundup)
Today I want to share with you my last two weeks’ weekly columns at BonBon Break Magazine. In a series called, “What I’ve Learned…”, I explore the little lessons motherhood throws at me each week. I hope you’ll enjoy them!
Two weeks ago, I wrote about how we speak to our kids using accidental metaphors and pretty insane descriptors… and how they take us literally:
The Day I Became a Mother
Eleven years ago, I had a giant belly and dreams that were bigger still. I had a twinkle in my eye and a vision of myself as Earth Mother Extraordinaire. I devoured books and became a birthing expert (never mind the tiny fact that I’d never birthed a baby myself) who knew exactly how my baby was going to come into this world. I had a baby’s room decorated in primary colours (we didn’t find out the gender of the baby but I knew it was going to be a boy because my maternal instinct told me so). I had a wardrobe full of twice-laundered onesies (in sensitive formula washing powder) in pristine white.
Eleven years ago, Darren and I assembled a cot with no fancy bumpers because I was paralysed with fear of SIDS. We mounted a black and white mobile that played classical music (Baroque era, of course) because our baby’s brain was going to be stimulated from birth and all those heavy books that had rested on my gargantuan belly told me that black and white patterns were the key. We didn’t buy formula because I was going to breastfeed – I had no choice about that, after all the internet told me that if I didn’t then I would be a baaaad mother.
Eleven years ago, I cried every day as I visited the hospital to have sensors attached to my tummy to see if my baby was still alive. Read the rest of this entry
What I Said When My Son Asked Me To Explain The Meaning Of Life.
Today’s post is the second in my weekly column at BonBon Break Magazine called, “What I’ve Learned…”
After a Boys Only shopping trip, Little Man and Darren arrived home, clearly up to something. Little Man disappeared into the study and came out a few minutes later holding a gift-wrapped present in his hand.
“Mum, you do so much for us and nobody ever even pays you! (He was outraged.) I asked Daddy if we could buy you this present because I know it’s one of your favourite things.”
He held out his hand and presented me with my gift. I unwrapped it as he bounced beside me, gleefully.
Inside was a dragon fruit – a fruit we first tasted on a holiday in Singapore and that I fell in love with. From time to time, we see dragon fruit at our local shops but I never buy it because it’s expensive and frivolous. He had seen it and decided that I deserved something expensive and frivolous. He saw me as someone who deserves recognition and a little spoiling. The enormity of this, coming from my eight year old son, totally floored me. He demanded that I cut it open right then and there and eat it. I savoured every mouthful, we enthusiastically discussed the cool colours and textures and I thoroughly enjoyed the delicious experience of sharing this treat with the kids.
Later that afternoon, Little Man very solemnly and seriously requested that Darren and I go to his bedroom together at bedtime because “there are some important things we need to discuss”. I wondered what on earth was so serious in his life that it would warrant a meeting, so I nervously asked.
He replied, “I want to know what life is all about… you know. Why are we alive?”
To continue reading this post, visit BonBon Break by clicking the icon below:
If you liked this, please click the thumbs-up button at the bottom of this post. I’d really love to hear your comments, so please don’t be shy (comments make me do a happy dance).
____________________________________________
Facebook recently announced it’s going to make fan pages
(including this blog) PAY if we want our fans to read what we post.
That’s not something bloggers like me can do.
So if you want to know when I post, please subscribe to my blog, below.
Thanks and I hope you’ll join me!
You may also want to read:
The Naughty Spot
Today’s post is the first in a weekly column I’ll be writing at BonBon Break Magazine called, “What I’ve Learned…” I hope you’ll enjoy this hilarious story featuring Little Man, the Terrible Threes and the infamous Naughty Spot. You will laugh and hopefully learn from mine and Darren’s misfortunes…
To read this post, visit BonBon Break by clicking the icon below:
If you liked this, please click the thumbs-up button at the bottom of this post. I’d really love to hear your comments, so please don’t be shy (comments make me do a happy dance).
____________________________________________
Facebook recently announced it’s going to make fan pages
(including this blog) PAY if we want our fans to read what we post.
That’s not something bloggers like me can do.
So if you want to know when I post, please subscribe to my blog, below.
Thanks and I hope you’ll join me!
You may also want to read:
- You are a shit-head. (6/27/2013)
- What I’ve Learned… (A Roundup) (2/17/2014)
- This is what makes it worth it. (6/14/2012)
- The Wiggles made me cry. (11/26/2012)
- The Naughty Spot (1/22/2014)
- The Masturbation Conversation (2/25/2014)
Big announcement!
Let me start by telling you a little about my childhood. My mother was, amongst other things, a writer. I would spend hours poring over her scrapbook with clippings of all the pieces she’d written for various magazines, voraciously lapping up her success and revelling in it. I’d stare at her byline under the picture of The Most Beautiful Woman In The Whole World and I couldn’t believe that this talented writer - who was published – was my mother.
As I grew up, I watched as my mother tore up rule books and wrote two books and a slew of TV series. Never mind that she was an ex-school teacher who was now a stay at home mom. I couldn’t have kept count of the times I heard her say “Where is the rule book that says I can’t do (insert giant, insane feat here)?” and then watch the world stare, open-mouthed, as she succeeded wildly in her crazy ventures.
If you want to achieve something, don’t ever listen to anyone who says you can’t. You can.
You see, my mother was an adventurer. She didn’t ask the world for permission to be fabulous. She went out and granted her own permission slips with wild abandon. She dived head first into her passions and often landed spread-eagled, face-first, skirt over head. Did she cry? No, sirree. My mom laughed. Read the rest of this entry
The Day My Jewish Kids Met Santa Claus.
It was a regular day at the local shopping centre. Being December, the centre was decorated with tinsel and holly and all things Christmas. Carols were creating jolly white noise and the atmosphere was festive as we went about our business.
My kids know about Christmas and we give presents to our Christian friends (we’ve also been known to sneak next door to help decorate our neighbours’ tree) but, as practicing Jews, we don’t celebrate Christmas. We don’t have a tree. We don’t receive presents. We don’t do Santa. (I do sing Christmas carols, though, can’t help myself. Really, who doesn’t love a red-nosed reindeer?) Chanukah happens to coincide with Christmas, as calendars go, but there’s really no competition – lighting a candle and spinning a dreidel don’t have a hope of matching up to the excitement that Christmas brings.
We were talking about Christmas and what it means to our friends when we walked past Santa Claus. This red-tracksuited, red-faced (no doubt, from boiling in that red tracksuit in an Australian heatwave) man grinned at my kids and cheerily declared, “Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas!” They shyly smiled back and we carried on, leaving Santa scratching his head and wondering about these weird kids, not enthralled by him.
We needed to go to the supermarket to pick up a few odds and ends and while we were in there, the kids huddled together and had a “private chat”. I was not allowed to listen but I could see, from their expressions, that whatever it was they were discussing was S E R I O U S. Read the rest of this entry
A Thank You Letter to my daughter’s Kindergarten Teacher.
To my daughter’s Kindy teacher,
How do I begin to thank you for what you’ve done for Baby G this year?
You welcomed my little girl into your classroom in the beginning of the year with your arms wide open. No booboo wasn’t worth a cuddle and a band-aid and, likewise, no achievement wasn’t worth a mighty celebration. It didn’t matter that the achievement was ‘not crying’ when it was goodbye Mummy time – you recognised the gravity of each and every moment in her year and respected her right to be little for as long as she needed to be. As a result, Baby G dances into your classroom, runs to you for cuddles and declares you to be the prettiest of all fairy princesses. How do I thank you for that?
You start every morning with a song and dance Read the rest of this entry
