So I try to keep in touch by micro-blogging. I throw up a few Facebook posts, a tweet here and there, largely just whispering to the wind. Doesn’t really count.

To be honest, I think micro-bloggers are just people who are incapable of forming an entire paragraph, and if your life can be summed up in 140char or less…well, you’re living it wrong.

Just over 2 weeks since my last blog post, and it was a single photo. Doesn’t really count either. If I’d put any effort into sourcing advertisers I’d probably be refunding them about now.

I wonder, am I still a blogger? I don’t have to ‘wo’ to retain my status as a ‘woman’. I don’t have to be physically ‘reading’ to be able say I am a ‘reader’. Do I have to regularly blog to be a blogger?

Semantics. A procrastinator’s best friend.

Linking up with Jess for IBOT

Linking up for a rare Wordless Wednesday.

Something that is making my tummy churn is this seemingly endless requirement for me to pull teeth out of my daughter’s mouth. They’re so wobbly they’re bothering her, and she can’t cause herself intentional discomfort, so I get to twist and pull with a tissue until I hear that subtle sound, feel the fleshy separation, and hold a horror in my hand.

Did I ever consider becoming a dentist who does this for a living? No,  because it’s gross and wrong. Teeth belong in mouths, and if it’s grown a furry little universe then I especially don’t want to know about it. When going through the good old job guide back in 1994 I skipped merrily past anything that involved looking inside people – through ANY orifice.

Beauty is all on the outside, thank you very much. And it certainly never squelches.

I come from a family with 9 children, and whenever a tooth stubbornly decided to stay put, it was Dad’s job to pull it out. According to Mum, he “had the strongest hands”.

Given that with one maturing child I’ve been responsible for 3 out of 4 extractions, I gotta say Dad must have pulled a lot of teeth.

Not only that, but every time my ear piercing was infected, crusty, stinky and oozing pus – it was Dad’s job to take the back off for me. Because he “had the strongest hands”.

Good one, Mum!

There’s another loose tooth on the horizon, I think I might encourage Grandad to step in. I’m sure he misses this fun stage now we’re all independently gross.

What tummy churning task do you pass along?

*Just in case you were wondering why there’s no image, it’s because I googled ‘how to pull out loose teeth’ in image mode. I have regret.

Linking up with Jess for IBOT

I had one of my hot shower revelations this week – when you’re embarking upon a new career, any career, if you’re not stressed you must not want it badly enough. It must be true, since the stress is caused by pressure put upon ourselves by choice. Was I stressed when I bussed tables at a roadhouse? No, I couldn’t care less. I didn’t like going to work, and my IBS was making me sick but it wasn’t a thing back then, but the actual job was a big pile of meh that I could take or leave. I’d put in no effort to obtain that job, the rewards were almost non-existant, and leaving wasn’t hard.

Apparently this relieves stress. I guess soon Mars bars will come with external use only recommendations.

Compare that to my newest career choice.  If I had the hand strength I’d be squeezing foam balls. Of course, I’d lose them every time I had to throw one at my annoying children, but you get the idea. The only cruise control I have right now, is between semesters, and I’m running out of those too. Next week is my penultimate practical experience (teacher hat, means second to last) and I will be in a high school this time. Damn, those kids are tall! Since this course is designed to filter out the wannabes from the professionals, there is no slack in academic requirements just because you get sent out to be a teacher. If you’re going to fail, they’d really appreciate it if you did it sooner, rather than later. So here I am again, neglecting my blog, my comping, my pathetic attempts at nutritious dinners – and putting all my energy into lesson planning, learning new IT skills well enough I can pretend they’re old skills, writing assignments…and banging my head against a brick wall.

That last part is the absolute best!

It’s not just teachers this theory works for. D’s luvvah boy is a sparkie apprentice and he’s stressed for the big test thingy they do at the end. My sparkie lil brother too. Driving tests require stress to pass, not the least because the assessor can then say “you probably made that mistake due to stress, I’ll let it slide”.

I say again, if you’re not stressed, you don’t want it badly enough. And I do want it, real bad, except when I wake up and would rather sleep.

Apparently it’s Friday, and even though the universe is imploding around me, I’m linking up with Grace for FYBF.

Generic introduction statement, right? The uni forums and unit Facebook groups are full of them at the moment and there’s something that’s been bothering me and I can’t quite figure out why it should. It’s not that they’re all bland examples of compulsory non-graded course forum interactions, it’s that the women preface their introductions with their marital status.

Married mum with 3 kids. Single mum with 1 child. Married with 3.5 kids (counting the husband).

Why do women seek to primarily identify themselves by that one marker – single or married? I take no issue with identifying as a mother, just the marital status of one, as it’s safe to say the word ‘mother’ alone has infinite symbolism.

I’m quite open with my single parent-ness on this blog, because this is a personal space. It explains certain things about my life and my behaviour, and acknowledging it so openly allows me to embrace the permanency of my status while at the same time questioning the general rush of separated women to find a new man. At least, that’s what I intend.

Do I disclose my marital status professionally? Absolutely not, unless they need to know. For example, on my teaching pracs I do casually tell my mentors, because they need to acknowledge, however cursorily, that I don’t have the tag team childcare backup and this may affect my availability at times. As someone who is only temporarily working full time, my arranged childcare is limited and just as temporary. Can I come to a networking event with them next week? School function on Saturday? No, I’d love to, but it’s not an option right now.

Do I disclose my marital status to a group of students who I will engage in academic and professional discussions with, via purely electronic means and without expectations of rapid response? No. Why would I? They don’t care. It doesn’t affect them in any way, shape or form. To be honest, I suspect it damages my chances of being taken into the more demanding study groups.

Which brings me to the next question: if single parents can justify disclosure through ideology or established limitations, what reasons do married women have?

Source

Is it a competition? Seeking public acknowledgement of their success at being female? Acknowledgement they are obliged to have regular sex?

Or is it just so deeply entrenched that ‘married’ is now who you are, akin to those who identify as ‘single mother’ having a common sisterhood of struggle and pride? Or is ‘married’ just used as a marker of differentiation, as in ‘not a single mother’?

What about the women who are married AND single parents? How should they identify themselves?

I don’t know. You certainly never see a male identify himself as married online, though that raises a whole other set of questions.

How do you introduce yourself?

Fat bums are all well and good, except when trying to wear clothes that physically don’t allow for such recently obtained cargo. Here is my guide to getting back into those skinny jeans, just in time to rock the rainy weather.

1. Try them on and see what you’re dealing with. Question whether you actually own these, and they don’t belong to your 6yo daughter, because that’s the only person who could do them up comfortably right now.
2. Extract your vagina from wherever you just wedged it, and peel your way to freedom.
3. Resolve never to eat chocolate again. Starting as soon as you finish off that one in your hand that doesn’t count because you just experienced a trauma.
4. Wear stretch clothing the next day, and marvel how much slimmer you are already.
5. Have a treat to celebrate. Your body is awesome at doing what it needs to do!
6. Try jeans on again. Force the button to do up.
7. Wonder if all you need is a flowing top…sit down to assess…turn blue and get dizzy. Notice your love-handles are currently located in your armpits.
8. Unbutton, peel and BREATHE.
9. Skip all treats for 3 whole days. Assume smug self-satisfaction as you skip the confectionery aisle at the supermarket altogether. Not even popping in for mints. Damn straight.
10. Try jeans on again. Swear.

Fuck it. Decide to just buy a larger pair. Eat cupcake to celebrate. Hurrah, you are a problem-solving ninja!

Now targeting: Hips & thighs. Not boobs.

Linking up with Jess for IBOT. Cupcakes all round.

Size 12 pair of skinny jeans for sale. Barely worn. BYO shoe-horn.

Since I could not afford that, and it turned out Medibank would only rebate a pittance on that specialist’s costs because she’s not ‘member preferred’ (ie, she doesn’t pay Medibank a massive kickback), I devised Plan B – use the free school dentist.

Plan B failed. Plan B actually made things so, so much worse.  We now have a full blown dental phobia, working in conjunction with sensory issues.

First visit to the school dentist got a quick peek in the mouth, and then they showed her the water squirter and vacuum they would be using. They made noise and wet and feelings she didn’t want to feel. Cue freak out, dentist telling her off for thrashing her head around, and being sent home to relax. The dentist wasn’t mean, but she was very firm and no-nonsense. Kind of like the Nurse Ratched from Cuckoo’s Nest actually. No, I take that back, I could tell she had a soft spot and was just being firm because wiggly kids need that, so I’m going to liken her more to Surgeon Sally from Hilltop Hospital.

That’s enough of that nonsense, you don’t want me to miss, do you?

Second visit failed too. I’d bought some phernergan, which is all the GP would let me have to chill her out. Weasel spat it out. Nil effect. She was already reluctant to visit the ‘mean dentist’, but hopped up onto the chair happily enough. Surgeon Sally lowered it  and before I knew it was trying to pull Weasel up onto the headrest. Weasel of course gripped the armrests for grim death and began a panic attack. All she had to do was move 10cm, but the loss of control over her own body and the sensation of falling backwards was too much to bear.

Many tears. Obviously she needs the chair adjusted before she hops on, and the dentist needs to be aware that all movement has to be in her control. I feel bad for not realising this would be an issue, but I also know she’s been having checkups and rides in the dentist chair every 6 months for the past 4 years with only a few nervous squeaks. I waver between admonishing myself for not being a better advocate for a gentler approach and not being forceful enough.

The trouble is she entered the room anxious and it spiralled from there.

After much alternating between cajoling and stern instructions, a temporary filler was put into one tooth, but without the decay removed first or being shaped afterwards. She bit Surgeon Sally, and the hygienist too.

Plan C: Since the only way I can afford this is for it to be either free or at an approved dentist where I only have to pay 30% of the bill, I located an alternate ‘members choice’ dentist, who offers the green whistle paramedics use. My research indicates it would work quite well and make her nice and loopy for just long enough. I made the appointment for morning time and planned a day off school. We discussed the green whistle, looked at pictures of it, talked about how it worked and how it would help at the dentist.

The morning of the appointment arrived and I found myself phoning in to cancel, because Weasel had commenced her freak out before we even left the house.

So, what comes next? Little help from others with special kids?

According to my mother, I turned 35 this last week. Bit hard to argue with her, I mean, she would know.

What does a suddenly mature lass wish for her birthday gifts?

• A garment steamer (Received. Check!)
• A popcorn maker (Received. Check!)
• Dinner at a restaurant (Received. Sizzler counts.  Check!)
• A makeover (Donated by self. Check!)

Here are the before/after shots to prove it, as my pal says quite often “pics or it didn’t happen”.

Ok, neither of these are mine. My close up had far too much crazy eye going on, but you get the idea.

No more ponies. All that pointless hair is now gone. Yes that is a mozzie eating my brain, I look *that* good.

All that is missing is a new handbag…but I can’t seem to find one. Shoes from Katies $5.00 clearance, dress from Target $59, child from Tummy $3

It just felt wrong to be a 35 year old woman who wore a pony tail every single day. I’ve joined the ranks of middle aged women who people refer to as ma’am, that lady, and mrs. Next time at the hair dresser though I’m going to get my blondish foils turned purple, because I may be old, but I’m still cool.

This post has been brought to you by the numbers 3 and 5. For posts that aren’t about me, head on over to Jess’ IBOT linky.

What prompts your makeovers?

Parked carefully, and walked up the road. People were streaming past me, giggling. One in particular was quite literally squealing with joy, as she skipped to a man in a car and said “If you want some money, you’d better get in there fast before they run out! They’re giving cash to EVERYONE! Squeeee!”

I was at a flood recovery centre, ie ‘a place the government processes and disburses flood compensation’, and I quickly forgave people for being gleeful on exit when I too began to share the giddy excitement of the morning.

Yes, there were bingo wings present, but most were decorated with tatts.

The  process goes like this: You arrive, say why you’re there, and get given a number and a cup of tea. Then you sit down and wait.

Hours pass.

Your number is called, you give a sob story, paperwork is completed and you move through to the money queue. Then wait some more.

While your number is inching closer and closer, it is natural to experience growing excitement. Not because you’re going to get money or whatever, but because finally, FINALLY, you could be next. Just next in general. Could be next for a poke in the eye, after waiting all that time it would still feel desirable to get something, anything. Start comparing  ticket numbers with those around you, give them a pat on the back for being higher in the queue than you, or commiserations for being much lower.

Camaraderie forms quite easily in these situations. Group hostility towards queue jumpers, muttered plots about where to sit for maximum bingo possibility, pleas to the staff to move you up (and her and her too) because you all have to leave in time for school pick up…

We even had a whip around to obtain the components of a phone charger.  Cable from one person, plug from another.

I know it sounds like a horrible way to spend the day, and if I had the choice I wouldn’t have been there, but really it wasn’t that bad. I met some new people, practised my social skills, and at the culmination of hours of anticipation, I got bingo and a prize. I can see why the oldies like it!

Linking up with Jess for IBOT

Realising mean girl behaviour will only get worse (and let’s face it, I’m sure Weasel can be a bit of a mean girl herself), I set about researching a solution. Where do solutions for everything come from? Books of course!

I started with this one, Little Girls Can Be Mean. Though I like the ideas put forward by this book, I have to say it is really hard to read. I wanted to read it in a linear, front to back fashion, but I kept being told to skip ahead to here or there, random page number role play bubble, then do the 4 steps I hadn’t even finished identifying properly.

The four steps in summary

1. Observe. Watch your child for signs that they didn’t have a good day, signs they are suddenly not enjoying a club, things they’ve said in the past that might shed light on today’s problem.

2. Connect. Use active listening techniques to paraphrase what the child has just confided in you. Offer an empathetic story of your own. Keep the emphasis on the child’s emotions, not other people’s actions. Doesn’t have to be a long talk, just a quality one. See through their dismissals, such as ‘it’s no big deal’, because it obviously is – to them.

3. Guide. a) Identify the real issue, it might not be the one the child first mentioned. b) Depersonalize the situation, present other perspectives. c) Bring the worry up or down in size. d) Brainstorm ideas. e) Help the child understand the dynamics of the friendship.

4. Support to act. Help the child write a letter, plan a playdate, etc. Help them enact one or more of the brainstormed solutions.

What I learned

I’ve been trying to solve my daughter’s problems, not supporting her to solve them herself. Never ever say ‘play with someone else at recess’, because in the event of playground meanness, Weasel will be left bereft and alone until she comes home to complain to me, and is only then told how she should have responded. That blanket dismissive statement also tells her I don’t particularly care who she plays with, whether she connects with them, and that it’s okay for her to dismiss whatever her friend was feeling when she was excluded from play.

I also say other no-no things, such as ‘did you tell the teacher’, and ‘You’ll feel better tomorrow’.

I cannot control how other kids behave. I’d like to though, I really would!

What we’re doing at home now

We will still do our happy/sad in the car ride on the way home (Tell me something that made you happy today. Tell me something that made you sad today). This quick Q&A has been working well for us, and the girls actually do it for each other now. I join in too. It’s just a nice, simple, stress free way to check-in about our day and allows me to bookmark a conversation for later.

Working on ‘I feel…’ statements. Rather than Weasel telling her friends off for something, she is going to try to present the problem as hers, not theirs. I feel <frustrated> when you <sing different words to the song> I need you to <slow down and listen first, so we can all enjoy singing along>.

Making her skill set explicit, so she can be proud. This builds a solid block of self-esteem, the more kids have, the more resilient they are. Celebrate with a high-5, a hip hooray. We will link this with the happy/sad, and offer congratulations for small accomplishments, as well as big ones.

Practicing compliments. The book suggests giving compliments since people are more likely to be nice to people they like, but I prefer to think of it as creating a positively-charged dialogue. Our compliments aren’t based on appearance, but rather effort and achievement. The other day I wrote Weasel a list of ’10 things I like about you’ and asked her how reading it made her feel. I asked her to hold onto that list and that feeling, and think about how she could make her friends feel that way too.

Practicing friendly assertiveness. Role playing standing tall and saying things like ‘no, I don’t think so’, or ‘we’ll agree to disagree’. Sure beats having a tantrum and trying to force her friends to her will or doing something silly just to fit in.

Sizing down the worry box.  My darling tends to get quite worked up and stressed over what I consider small things, so I’ve been asking her to show me how big her worry box is. If it’s a big worry, it’s a big box and arms go wide. You get the picture. We have a chat and brainstorm ideas of ways she could put it in a smaller box.

Would I recommend this book?

Yes. The concepts are sound, there is some good advice for parents, girls and even teachers. Will it “bully-proof” your child? No, of course not. It will give you a better idea of what to do when it strikes though, and how to explain the friendship dynamics in such a way that lets you guide your child towards/from their friend.

Next time, I’ll look at this book, written for kids, so less psycho-babble and more how-to.

Linking up with Grace, one of the bloggers I admire both as a writer and as a mother.

(Weasel isn’t the only one practicing compliments to become a better person)