There are a lot of writer’s who say that there’s no such thing as writer’s block, because you can always write something – even if it isn’t very good. Maybe that’s true. I mean, I’m writing at the moment. I’m writing this blog post.
So, if writer’s block no more real than Santa (sorry, spoiler alert), what do you call it when you simply don’t want to write? When you re-read stuff that you loved a month ago, and think that it sucks? Is there a name for the feeling you have when all you want in the world is to be a writer – as your full-time, paid, ‘I’d-almost-do-this-for-free’ day job – and you wonder if you really have the writing chops to make it happen?
I’m suffering a crisis of confidence. That makes for a great comedy routine – thank you Rich Hall for this awesome gem – but does not make for a productive writer.
With this in mind – and drawing on my almost obsessive problem-solving skills – I have begun a new writing contract. I did this about a year ago with a good friend of mine in Seattle who is also a writer. But, because of the nature of the contract – I need to text someone when I am ‘done’ each day and I really don’t want to send her a text in the middle of her night – this time I am leaning on a different friend. She is also a writer, and I know that she gets ‘it’ – ‘it’ being the intangible, yet visceral pull that both compels and repels me. How’s that for some good wordplay? See, the contract has already started to work its magic.
Here ’tis:
Write (at least) 30 minutes a day, every day for 5 weeks
Only 4 ‘free’ days
Write my blog, my book, my book proposal, an insightful article for a magazine – you get the drift
The idea is that writing will stop being a chore, something that beckons me and then chews me up and spits me out, and become part of my normal everyday life – like working out, or checking Facebook, or helping to fund my barista’s retirement. thirty minutes a day – easy right? Write?? We’ll see. I’ll keep you posted, so to speak.
This month Ben and I celebrate the 7th anniversary of our ‘meet cute’. Ours was a cute meeting, and we have retold it in various forms to an array of people over the years. If you know us, we have likely delighted (bored?) you with it at some point.
I am currently penning a (mostly) fictitious version of our meeting in novel form, but for those of you who don’t know us first-hand, we met on a dock in Santorini – yes the Greek island – just as we were about to board a 9-day sailing trip on a yacht throughout the Cyclades Islands. Feeling nauseous yet? Yeah, it is one of those wouldn’t-believe-it-if-it-didn’t-happen-to-me moments. Anyway, we both got off a cranky old bus filled with locals at the Vlychada marina on the southern coast of the island – just me and him – regarded each other for a moment and then introduced ourselves.
We became fast friends – as we did with the other 5 people on the trip – and spent a great deal of time talking while taking in the beauty of Greek island life. A week later, we went on a date – without our 5 new friends. Seven years later, we are living in a new city (Melbourne), where we moved after a 4-year stint in Seattle, with our cat, Lucy.
In honour of our seven years, here are 7 Things I Love About Ben in no particular order (yes, there are more, but I’m sticking with the theme!)
One:He is hilarious
He makes me laugh pretty much every day, and I’m talking about good ol’ belly laughs, and sometimes the kind of laughter where I don’t make any noise and I can’t breathe. His retorts are so quick, and our banter so witty, we’re like a Billy Wilder script. No, we really are that funny together!
Two: He is kind
He catches me when I fall. He looks out for me. He takes out the rubbish, ’cause I hate it. He answers my inane questions about technology over and over again, without making me feel like a dolt.
Three: He is smart
Like crazy smart. He knows about a lot of stuff – including some really obscure stuff – because he never stops learning. And, he is the most technologically-savvy person I have ever met. Plus he makes the best cocktails – Tom Cruise, step aside!
Four:He is adventurous and fun
The things that we have accomplished together, the places that we have gone, the cool things that we’ve done, the amazing people that we know, all of that is because Ben wants to live a life less ordinary.
Five: He takes charge of stuff I don’t want to take charge of
Like collecting and collating our wine collection, sourcing cool stuff to watch and listen to, and maintaining our household tech stuff.
Six: He sees me
I mean the real-deal me – the one who is imperfect, but a good match for him. He sees me and he lets me see him.
Seven:He strives and he encourages
We challenge and encourage each other to be bolder, better, kinder, smarter, more open, happier. We individually and collectively aim high (see #4).
P.S. He is so handsome, he takes my breath away
This one will embarrass him (sorry, Babe), but he is.
Happy 7th Anniversary, Ben! Can’t wait for the next 50!
It’s a little-known made up statistic that 9/10 people who insist on telling you about the dream they had, start re-telling it with these seven dreaded words, seven words that would make even your mother cringe. Because the truth is, no one wants to hear about your dream, not even your mum. I know that inside your head, it’s a vivid, incredible collection of imagery, heightened feelings, and impossibilities, but you won’t be able to tell it well enough to convey even 1% (*) of what it felt like to dream it. No, really. You might have dreamt you’d been to Shangri-la and back again, and it still won’t make a good story.
That’s why I would like to publicly apologise to my significant other. This morning I regaled him with the particulars of a dream that left me so out of sorts, I woke up in a panicked state at 5:45 and couldn’t get back to sleep.
I mean it was a particularly crazy dream. My X-boyfriend was in it, except he had an afro (he’s white), and so was Kevin Smith – the director and podcaster. We were at some kind of festival up a mountain, where the staff were paid to sweep the snow. I didn’t like that we slept outside, or that I didn’t get to do any ablutions in the morning, or that I couldn’t get home before midnight that night. I also didn’t like not having my mobile phone with me, because I couldn’t tell anyone where I was. A former friend was there too, telling me about all the mistakes she had make at work, and apologising for being a crappy friend. Finally, I teed up a ride home with one of the snow-grooming help on his motorcycle. And then I woke up.
See? Boring, weird and enough to make my mother cringe.
I was a lucky bugger and I won a trip – an all-expenses-paid trip – to New Zealand. 25 words or less on who I would take to NZ and why, and a couple of months later Ben and I were winging our way to Wellington. This is a retrospective of our 7 night, 8 day adventure along the New Zealand Classic Wine Trail. Kia Ora, New Zealand!!
We arrived in Wellington where it was a little windy and wet and the locals kept apologising for the weather. Settled in at the Wellesley Hotel rather quickly, we then made our way to the Te Papa museum for a private tour. At both places we were expected and were greeted with, “Are you Sandy and Ben?” We decided that we could get used to this treatment, which we received at many of the places on the rest of the trip – others seemed to have forgotten that we were coming (oops). Either way, though, the Kiwis are lovely and gracious people and we were generally treated like the rock stars that we think we are.
Te Papa, by the way, is phenomenal – NZ’s history, culture and natural wonders encapsulated in one impressive structure. I was particularly struck by the Colossal Squid exhibit.
official photograph (not mine)
The next morning, we drove north-east for about 4 hours to the Hawke’s Bay region.
The sun was high in the sky as we pulled into Ash Ridge winery for lunch – the first of MANY wineries.
After lunch it was into Napier, a town on Hawke’s Bay that was destroyed in 1931 by and earthquake and completely rebuilt. It has one of the world’s finest collections of Art Deco buildings and architecture. We were taken on a walking tour of the town by the Art Deco Society.
Back at their HQ, the Art Deco Society showed us a film about the town – with footage from the ’30s and gifted us with some souvenirs. How lovely!
The next day we were driven out to Cape Kidnapper’s to see the gannets. Actually, when we arrived at the appointed time, we waited (and waited) and finally decided to call our contact. Her immediate response when we said we had arrived for the gannet tour was, “But the gannets are gone!” Then she realised that we were “Sandy and Ben – the prize winners” and roused her hubby out of bed to drive us out there anyway.
We were on private property most of the way – it’s a working farm and golf course owned by an American billionaire. The views are ridiculous. And there were a few gannets waiting for us at the cape – the late bloomers who had yet to depart for the winter.
GannetsThis little guy kept a close eye on us.
After Cape Kidnapper’s (so-called because when Cook arrived, the Maoris mistook one of his crew, a Tahitian, for one of their own and kidnapped him. Cook and his crew got him back and sailed off around this cape and he named it at that time), we were due to collect bike for a 1/2-day ride, but instead we found Clearview winery.
We were greeted by a lovely lady who took us on a guided tour of their tasting menu and then deviated from it a few times. She and her partner had found a couple of unlabelled cases the day before – and ’00 cabernet and an ’02 cabernet-merlot – and she gave us a pour. Holy guacamole. She said she would price them while we had lunch – which we thoroughly enjoyed – and we bought a bottle of the ’02. Pricey, but we’ll save that for a special occasion.
We did end up grabbing the bikes for a couple of hours when we got back to Napier. We rode 8kms to the closest wineries – Mission Estate and Church Road – and bought a bottle from Church Road (a Riesling). It is easy to excuse yourself from buying when you’re on bikes. And it is a little harder than you might think to ride back into town after tasting at only two wineries – not that we were too tiddly, but after a few days of no exercise, lots of sitting and lots of wine, the body can protest a 40 minute bike ride (each way).
The next day we drove south, heading towards Greytown where we would have $100 to spend at Schoc chocolates.
At a place where the 75g bars are $11, this took less time than you might think, but we tasted our way through their menu too – and found some great selections. Dark chocolate rose – yum.
And on the way we saw some cool stuff, including 2 giant kiwis and a Viking (for Ben’s mum, who barracks for the Minnesota Vikings – and for Ben, who is descended from them).
We even met this little gal, at Loopline, one of the first wineries you will come to heading south on the 2, just before Greytown.
She rushed out to greet us at this beautiful place.
It has a simple tasting room, where you’ll meet the winemaker and his lovely dog, whose name we never caught. Still, we bought a bottle of their Riesling, because it was dry and delicious.
Into Martinborough, which is a lovely town reminiscent of small towns in the south-west of Australia, like Bridgetown, we were shown to a spectacular suite, which had an equally spectacular bathroom.
We just had a night there, and popped across the road to the local where we had great wine, and great food – and met the locals! Packing the next morning was a little tricky – we had a kilo of chocolate, 5 bottles of wine, we still had Marlborough to go, and we were getting on a ferry that afternoon.
We headed towards Wellington, and miscalculated the arrival time at the (not so) stunning ferry terminal, so got to spend 3 hours there. On the ferry we were treated to the executive lounge, and had a lovely late lunch and wine as we headed to Picton on the South Island. The views were rather gorgeous.
That night and the next we were at the Marlborough Vintner’s Hotel, where we woke up both mornings to stunning sunrises over the vineyards.
Our full day in Marlborough we were treated to a private winery tour, with our guide (other) Ben. He took us out to Cloudy Bay.
And then he took us to Cloudy Bay.
We got private tours and tastings at 6 wineries, and stopped for lunch at Wither Hills, where – again – we bought the Riesling. Seeing a trend??
The next day – my birthday – we returned via ferry to Wellington (back to the Wellesley), where we were greeted with champagne and a Devonshire Tea. Did someone mention it was my birthday? We decided to skip Zealandia, which was supposed to be our afternoon activity, but the weather was not great for an outdoor nature experience, and we really just wanted to go shopping. Wellington is a hip city, reminiscent in many ways of Seattle, although (sorry Seattle-ites) the Wellingtonians dress FAR better than the average Seattleite. The 40 and 50-somethings had the coolest style. Diggin’ the Kiwi vibe.
That night we decided on a cocktail (no more wine, please!!!) at Matterhorn and then dinner at Monsoon Poon. Both places gifted me with a complimentary cocktail (thanks!) and the salmon at Monsoon Poon was crazy good. We even got a massive booth, with some cool signatures lining the walls.
How’s that for a cross section of celebs? Sachin Tendulkar, Nora Jones, and Gordon Ramsay.
The next morning, we began the long journey home.
Thank you as always to my darling travel companion, Ben, with whom I row merrily.
Today I saw Darth Vader and Jessica Fletcher – on stage together.
Well, not really, but I did see the matinee of Driving Miss Daisy starring two of the world’s most famous octogenarians. James Earl Jones, 82, and Angela Lansbury, 88, together for 90 splendid minutes.
They were joined by a 3-time Tony winning actor, Boyd Gaines, who held his own against this formidable pair – and a few times, stole the scene from them. Miss Lansbury was – at times – magical, even though she missed a few lines here and there. I was stunned to read afterwards that she is nearly 90! She’s so elegant and it was a lovely performance. I choked bad a quiet sob when she said, “Hoke, you’re my best friend,” and there were tears in my eyes in the final scene when he feeds her her pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving and she gives him the most loving smile.
And, Mr Jones – how incredible his performance was. Such a study in dichotomies – the man who is both humble and proud – the humour and the pathos of this wonderfully portrayed character.
At times the play itself leapt about – almost clunkily – it spans 25 years in 90 minutes, a one-acter, which means there are large chunks of their lives that are missed. I liked the simple staging, which mostly worked to tell the story, but at times the actors seemed rushed into the next scene with nary a moment to transition emotionally. Still, I laughed throughout – Jones’ and Gaines’ comic timing both incredibly sharp, and of course there were the few highly poignant moments.
It was someone else’s bad fortune that this ticket fell into my lap – and I am grateful to the friend who thought to pass it on to me. I hope your mum is better soon, Simonne. And please thank her again for me. I am completely amazed that I got to see two legendary actors on the stage.
This blog post is inspired by Renée who was inspired by another, who was inspired by…it goes back a ways…
BATHROOM COUNTER: Pretty things in seafoam blue. And tissues. My dad taught me that you should never have to be more than 10 feet away from tissues in your home. Of course, the box is seafoam blue.
PERENNIAL TO DO LIST: Don’t drink on weeknights; get a job; go outside at least once a day.
REFRIGERATOR SHELVES: yoghurt, cheese, white wine, olives, eggs.
ITINERARY: New Zealand. I won a cool trip.
FANTASY ITINERARY: Cambodia, Thailand, Vietnam and Laos for a month – with Ben.
PLAYLIST: My ‘work’ playlist is the Enigma Pandora station. My ‘play’ playlist at the moment is vintage Bowie.
NIGHTSTAND: The Passage (on my Kindle) and Committed by Elizabeth Gilbert (of Eat, Pray, Love fame. I barely got through the first part which described my greatest nightmare about being kept apart from your love because of immigration laws – but I do want to finish it). My silk eye-mask (get one – they are amazing!)
WORKOUT PLAN: Move every day – even if it is just to the grocery store (which is a km away and I walk and then bring everything home in a trolley – not one of the store’s trolleys – one we bought – and not a nana trolley – a cool one). Otherwise I spin, ride a bike, run or jump on the elliptical in our building’s gym.
Ipad: Draw Something, Reddit Pics, Facebook, FaceTime (with my fam in the UK) and gmail.
TOP 5 LIST: Hanging with my BF (Ben – best friend and boy friend); Lucy (weirdest cat in the world); riding all over Melbourne thanks to bike share; learning new stuff; possibilities!
BUCKET LIST: Retire from all other work because I am a published author – yeah, that’s it – I am doing everything else.
MIND: Making some $$ from the current cool projects I am working on AND our house-warming party next weekend.
WALLS OF YOUR FAVOURITE ROOM IN YOUR APARTMENT: I love our whole new place, but the ‘wall’ I love most is the glass one that overlooks the marina from our balcony – we call that our TV. People watching is super fun!
LIQUOR SHELF: Nothing. We need to stock up – hopefully our house-warming and an international trip will do the trick.
TV MOST NIGHTS: Ep after ep of our faves: Mad Men, Dexter, Buffy, Vicar of Dibley, Community. We have eclectic tastes. I just watched 8 eps back-to-back of Up All Night. LOVE it.
In 1997 (February) I was on Contiki’s European Training Trip. This is what I wrote about going to Gallipoli.
Attaturk’s Memorial, Gallipoli, Turkey. With thanks to Patrice Andersen.
Leaving Greece we were on a pilgrimage – to Gallipoli. Most of us were antipodean and we were keen to see where our ANZACs had landed, fought and died, and to pay our respects with a brief service at one of the cemeteries.
Our coach was met by guide, an older Australian gentleman who led us through the displays at the visitor’s centre. I was antsy and wanted to get out in the fresh air to see the trenches and touch the grave markers. We loaded up and drove some way up a dirt track, stopping at the section of coast the soldiers should have set down on. I was struck by the silence. It was cool in the pale sunlight, the sky a milky blue, so different from the sky that had delivered storms the day before.
The water lapped the beach gently, no waves, no ocean sounds, no wind, just stillness, as though the ocean had been silenced along with those who lost their lives. I stared down into the clear water, only inches deep, and saw a smooth, snow white rock. I reached into the cold water and collected it; it fit perfectly in my closed fist. I remember wondering if it was illegal to take from the beach at Gallipoli. Probably. Selfishly I pocketed the rock.
The next stop further along the trail was a monument, one of dozens. However, this monument would stand alone in my mind from then on. It testified of the great mutual respect felt between the two warring sides during the battles of Gallipoli, and the eventual alliance that formed between them. This monument left me speechless. It was erected by Attaturk, and it is engraved with his words:
Those heroes who shed their blood and lost their lives,
You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country.
Therefore, rest in peace.
There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us where they lay
Side by side, here in this country of ours.
To the mothers who sent their sons from far away countries,
Wipe away your tears.
Your sons are now lying in our bosom
And are in peace.
After having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well.
We wound our way up the hill, passing trenches left open for nearly 9 decades, gaping holes the reminders of lost lives. At the top of the hill we stopped at one of the cemeteries, populated by Aussie diggers – most of whom were barely post-pubescent. We walked the rows of grave markers, the lawns were trimmed, small shrubs well attended. The ANZAC monument gleamed in the morning sun. Our heads were bowed to the markers as we stopped and read selected epitaphs.
It was numbing to imagine the young men, terrified, landing on the beach in darkness, met with bombardment. I know that many of us were replaying that final scene from the film “Gallipoli” in our minds, realising the futility of the ANZAC and British assault as we stood upon the terrain.
I stopped in front of one grave marker, its message burning on my brain, “To see you just once again, to shake your hand and say ‘well done’”. I turned, the tears that ran silently became a sob, and buried my face in a friend’s chest. He put his arms around me and hugged me tightly.
We laid a wreath and listened to “The Last Post” played on a portable tape player. One of us spoke, eloquently, a kind of prayer. “Lest we forget.” I touched the rock in my pocket, washed clean of any blood that may have marred its pure surface 90 years before. Such brave men and boys. I had never been so proud to be an Australian.
Last week I listened to/watched a wonderful talk by Kirstie Clements, the woman who was the editor of (Australian) Vogue Magazine for 12+ years and was unceremoniously dismissed last year. The talk is an incredible exploration of women in the business world and if you have 25 minutes to give to it, you may just find it as fascinating as I did.
One of the points that Kirstie made was about holding tight to professional integrity when many around you are selling theirs to the highest bidder. In particular, she had some interesting things to say about ‘market research’ and how middle-predominantly male-management at the publishing house would tell her – a woman who had worked in the fashion publishing industry for more than two decades – about the Vogue reader. Market research indicated that women do not read pages of text without at least one image on them. Market research told middle management that all women like pink and all women like shoes. These were the specific examples that she listed, but you get the drift. She was constantly battling to provide cutting-edge, relevant content while still maintaining a luxury brand. Whether or not you are a Vogue reader, there’s definitely something to be said for professional integrity and knowing your audience.
By the way, I kinda don’t really like pink, except maybe on my lips – and then only sometimes. But I digress…
This week I went shopping for Mother’s Day cards – 5 in total, for various lovely ladies in the family that Ben and I share – and boy, talk about pink! To steal a line from a fave movie of mine, Steel Magnolias. “It looked like the place was hosed down in Pepto Bismol!” Pink, pink, pink, and not a drop to drink (I don’t mind a drop of pink champagne or a Cosmo from time to time). And not just pink cards – pink cards with flowers or dresses on the front. Flowers I can understand, but dresses? Drawings of dresses? Why on earth???
Maybe this love of drawings depicting pink dresses is a well-kept ‘mother’ secret and as I am not a mother, I am not privy to it? Or, maybe, somewhere down the line, the market researchers had a brain fart and this is the result. Good grief, Charlie Brown! By the way, I chose the least flowery, least overly pink cards I could find. For those 5 women, one is coming soon to a mail box near you.
And speaking of farts…well, we were about two sentences ago, sort of…
Last week (it was a big week for revelations), Ben and I went to see my uni friend, Gavin, perform his comedy act as part of the Melbourne Festival. I would plug it, but it’s over. It was hilarious, by the way, but back to the farts.
Gavin, a comedian who expertly draws on real life for his act, had tried to find his dad a card for this birthday. Apparently – and I can attest to this being true, as I bought a card for my soon-to-be-60-father-in-law yesterday – all 60-year-old men like booze, cars and/or golf. I say ‘and/or’ because to their credit a lot of the cards combined these activities in pairs – and sometimes all three!
The exception to these three things that 60-year-old men like, is farts. Apparently they also love fart jokes, even the unfunny ones. All men do, didn’t you know?? So much so, that in his show Gavin produced what I can only describe as the WORST card I have ever seen, which said on the cover, “Your farts hospitalise small children,” and on the inside it said nothing. It was blank. I mean, really, once you’ve said that to someone, what else is there to say? The saddest part? Gavin had to go to three places to buy it, because it was sold out in Myer and Target.
So, well done market researchers. Women like pink and men like farts.
** No market researchers were harmed in the writing of this blog.
My sister was born, which at the time I was not particularly pleased about, but I’ve since come around. And many of my oldest (pardon the use of that word here) and dearest friends were also born in 1973. You won’t have to remember any of your 9th grade algebra to work out that because it is 2013, they are all turning 40 this year. Congratulations, gorgeous women! 40!! Woo hoo! This post is for you, from your ever-so-slightly-older sis.
What I love about being in my 40s:
In your forties you realise that it is okay that you don’t know it all. In fact, it’s great that you don’t, because who wants the pressure of being the world’s authority on everything all the time? It must be exhausting trying to convince everyone else how wrong they are about everything – just ask the 20-somethings (hee hee).
You learn what you are great at and passionate about and you dig deeper into those things and they bring you great joy. You accept what you’re not great at with less angst than you have ever before. I will never be a professional singer, and I am okay with that (now).
You slough off other people’s expectations of what you should be or do or want. You become a better friend to yourself. You see when you are failing, and you are brave enough to ask for help. And, you learn what a brilliant and powerful word ‘no’ is.
You also earn your feathers. Let me explain: You know the laurels that cup the prestigious awards earned by films at film festivals? They look like this:
Ben and I share a running joke about the laurels. I don’t know which one of us started it, but we call them ‘feathers’. “Look at how many feathers this film has! It must be amazing!!” Well, not too long ago I was playing with my nephew and smiling joyously and I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror.
The laugh lines around my eyes reminded me of the ‘feathers’ – and in a way they are much like the laurels. I earned those feathers with all the laughter, and hilarity and joy that I have felt and shared throughout my 4+ decades. Cate Blanchett calls hers the songlines of her face, which I also love.
Your forties is when your feathers really come in – and how wonderful that we earn them through the joys of life.
Happy birthday, beautiful women. I toast you and your feathers.
I am the proud aunty to Alexander, who is now 20 months old (I started to count out my age in months and quit when I got to 500). This is him:
Yes, I completely agree. He is adorable. Even in a photograph with a cute bear, he is the cute one.
These are the aunty lessons I have learned over the past few weeks, while I stayed with Alexander and his parents, Mummy and Daddy.
Lesson One: The Third Person
It is remarkable how quickly Aunty Sandy adapted to speaking about herself in the third person. After only hours in the house, I was saying things like, “Aunty Sandy is eating her breakfast too, Alexander,” and “Aunty Sandy is going upstairs. She’ll be right back,” and “Aunty Sandy loves you, darling.” Aunty Sandy noticed that Mummy, Daddy and Grandma all do the same thing.
Lesson Two: Narrate Everything
No task can actually be accomplished unless accompanied by a toddler-appropriate commentary.”It’s dinner time! (be very enthusiastic about everything – see below) Let’s get you into your high chair. Tuck your feet in. Good boy! (praise often – see below). Let’s get your bib on, so you don’t get food all over your clothes. Here’s your dinner. Would you like Aunty Sandy to help feed you?”
Tone is very important, as he does not fully understand all the words yet.
Lesson Three: Everything is Amazing
In the world of a toddler, everything is amazing. They are still quite chuffed when they get from the couch to the table without falling down, and think that choosing their own socks is an incredible honour. As an adult in close proximity to a toddler, everything should likewise be amazing. This manifests as enthusiasm for things you otherwise would not find that amazing. Example: “Yay, Alexander, it’s time to watch Peppa Pig!”
This is Peppa, by the way. If you can draw a whistle, you can probably draw Peppa.
That said, she is an inquisitive little thing, giggles a lot, and the show follows Lesson Two: Narrate Everything. Alexander loves it so much that he started saying “Peppa Pig” long before he could say ‘pease’. Ahem, I mean, ‘please’.
Lesson Four: Praise Often
The ratio for praising behaviour to correcting poor behaviour for a toddler is about 20 to 1, which is the exact opposite to what most adults experience in the workplace. It means that you spend a lot of time seeking out ways to ‘catch them being good’. So, “Great job eating all your peas!” rather than “Well, it took you 45 minutes to eat your peas and more of them ended up on the floor than in your mouth, so work on that, will you?”
A toddler loves praise, so will actively seek out ways to earn more. This can backfire a little when they are super funny or cute while they are doing something you would rather they didn’t – and they know you are laughing at them. They will see the laughter as praise and keep doing whatever it is that you want them to stop doing. If in this situation, put your hand over your mouth, turn your head or leave the room. But even then, they tend to know when they are being hilarious. Clever little buggers.
Lesson Five: You will be surprised by how much you can love a small human
I am completely blown away by how much two Marmite-covered hands reaching for me tugs at my heart. I love this little boy more than I ever thought it possible to love a child.
While I was staying with them, Alexander started saying ‘please’, although he adds his version of the sign language Grandma taught him and he says, ‘pease’ with a long drawn out ‘eee’ sound. He worked out pretty quickly that ‘pease’ is a magic word, because Aunty Sandy gave him everything he asked for when he used his manners. Just call me a smitten kitten.
And when people say, “Oh you love being an aunty just because you can hand him back when he gets cranky or messes his nappy,” I reply that I am a full-service, hands-on aunty. I do screaming toddler. I do poopy nappy. I do runny nose and chapped bum. I do three Peppa Pigs in a row. (My friends will attest to the fact that I have always been hands-on with my honorary nieces and nephews.)
So, Alexander, when you are old enough to read this, just know that I love you (always) and can’t wait to see you again soon.
Sandy Barker | Author 
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