Those lessons we learn.

You know as a parent, I think there is nothing worse than watching your kids when they are sad. Not sad because they can't have that lolly at the shop, or because they don't want to share their toys.

That is annoying sad.

I am talking about the sad where you know they need to be sad to learn. Like the stage Darcy went through when he barely ate anything except sandwiches and chips and nuggets.

Yes. I am one of those evil parents who feed their kids McDonalds. Sue me.

It got to a point where we had to make the decision that if he didn't eat what was on his plate, he didn't eat at all. And dinner time was our biggest battle. There was nothing that hurt my heart more than listening to my little boy lying in bed, crying, because he was hungry. It hurt me and I felt awful, but I knew as a parent I had to do it. Now, he is no where near as fussy, and he doesn't go to bed hungry.

Lesson Learned.

As I've mentioned in previous entries, Darcy is a dancer. For the past year he has been attending a dance school and is learning Tap dancing and Jazz ballet. For those who know Darcy, he has the moves. He is one little groover, and he has been since he music touched his soul, which are connected to his legs and pelvis.

He does a bad ass Michael Jackson. 

On Saturday was his first concert on the big stage. He was in his element, and it's something he's been building up to most of the year. The night before he admitted to me he felt like it was Christmas. He was too excited to sleep. I was so proud of his commitment even then. He is born for the stage.

Saturday came and he nailed it. I mean he absolutely killed it. He was amazing. He knew the steps perfectly, shook that pelvis - and if that wasn't adorable enough, he sung his little heart out to the music. The music he knew back to front.

So you think you can dance would have thought he was weird. I thought he was amazing.

So the night ended and it was time for the award ceremony. Each person in the show presented on stage with a medal around their necks, all for participation in the end of year concert. Darcy, he was chuffed. Beaming. Completely stoked with his medal. Then they all sat down and they began presenting trophies for excellence in each category of dancing. Darcy was enthused to begin with, politely applauding the others who won trophies. Then his little friend from school won one, and he began to look expectantly at the director, waiting for his trophy.

The one that would never come.

As each name was called from then, he became more and more defeated. He was unable to hide his anguish, as he knew his name wouldn't be called. He clutched his hair, he held his head in his hands, he rested his head on the floor. He held on to this tears until he was red in the face.

And he did it, on the stage, in front of 500 people.

And my heart broke.

And then his cousin won a trophy. And he tried to be happy, but when he looked at the trophy when she sat down, he fell apart.

And so did I. 

My sister and I sat watching, so elated and excited that her daughter, my niece, had won her first award. So sad, so torn, because of the torment Darcy was suffering.

And I realised, he was learning. He was learning that we don't always win. We don't always get that job. We don't always get that promotion. We don't always get the guy, or win the lotto, but we have fun trying.

And once again as a parent, I had to watch my son suffering one of the many lessons in life. How to be a gracious loser, how to be happy for others whilst swallowing the disappointment that threatens to blacken us. And I wanted to find the biggest trophy in the world and give it to him. But I knew he had to learn. It made me realise that maybe this age of 'everyone gets a prize' isn't teaching our kids anything. That maybe they need these lessons learned earlier so it's not so publicly painful as they get older. That they are still special and valued and can still have fun, despite winning.

So I cuddled him. Loved him. Praised him for being my favourite dancer on the stage and said that all he has to do is have fun, and as soon as the fun is gone from his dancing, he didn't have to do it anymore.

And when I tucked him into bed that night, his tired eyes all red, and his lips all puffy, he said "Well, Tessa didn't get a football trophy". And I said "No, that's right!"

But didn't have the heart to point out that no, well she didn't play football, and she did get a netball trophy! Whatever helps you sleep at night hey?

xx

I'm a dancer!

Well the thing is, I'm a dancer's mum. And I don't necessarily do the stage mum thing well. Do you know why? Because there is, oh, maybe a million things to remember.

Literally.

And I always remember them at the last minute and go in to internal meltdown mode.

And I have a boy, who doesn't need particular coloured underwear to match the tights to match the leotard to match the scrunchie to match the make up and

Breathe.

But, I felt like the biggest stage mum when I took Darcy for a hair wash and a cut.

His first of many, proper, hair washes.

This is Jill. He loves her.

And today? Professional photo day, in costumes and all. This year's concert is a movie theme. No prizes for who guesses what their tap piece is.

My niece is in the show too. Could these two look any cuter.

I am biased.

I'm very much looking forward to seeing them in the show. The other million kids I don't know who'll fill the three hours of dancing.

Not so much.

xx

My heart might explode.

After tidying the kitchen and tucking in a Tilly, most nights - I come in to the loungeroom to find this

And my heart, it literally swells. I love this about Adam, his patience

And his ability to laugh with Darcy as he learns how to read. 

I love this man. I love this kid.

And when he tucks him into bed at night, and I can hear Darcy in hysterics because Dad is beating him to death with pillows, 

I almost can't take it. I love these boys.

And you'll be happy to know, I can see some sunshine returning to my Darcy. His spark is coming back - and I am happy.

And my goodness, couldn't you just eat him with those specs on???

He said he would still be innocent. He lied.

In the months leading up to Darcy's birthday, we made the decision to get him a scooter. It only took a few years to convince me that he wouldn't launch himself head first over the minuscule front wheel and scrape his face beyond recognition. I had also witnessed with my own eyes that he was more than capable of scooting without causing harm.

So a scooter it was

A little background information. Adam works away in gas land. Anyone who knows Adam would realise how funny it is that he works in the gas industry when he, very unmanly like, has a serious (and I am deadly serious) problem with human gas. By that I mean he is quite unnaturally offended by farts. Bottom burps. He literally can't stand it which means two things. One: We have a no fart policy in this house. I don't fart in from of him (that he is aware of). He doesn't fart in front of me. No farts. Ever. And Two: He has essentially erected a giant fart target on his head when it comes to work colleagues who often 'accidentally' drop the bomb in his presence. 

There is so much wrong about a no fart policy, but believe me - it's another post entirely.

I digress. Adam works in the gas and oil industry and is away from home for periods of time. During his time at work he will often do night shift. Which means a lot of internet surfing free time to use when the plant is running smoothly. During this free time, Adam researched scooters. For weeks. 

He is very busy at work. Very busy.

After much research and comparing of notes with a colleague (who is also very busy) he sent me on a mission to our local toy store to buy a MGP Mad Gear Pro Scooter. When I arrived there, I realised there was a problem. There was a skull on the scooter.

Now, for whatever reason, skull and crossbones has become quite the in thing amongst boys as young as, well in utero. You will find them on just about anything. Clothes, toys, shoes, play equipment. EVERYTHING. And, I have avoided them like the plague. I just can't like them.

Can't like them. Tried. Can't. 

So I have avoided, convinced that by adorning the skull and crossbones logo, my son's very innocence will be sucked from his being and satan himself will breath the life back in. So avoided, I have.

So, in the toy store. I rang Adam.

Me: Adam, I'm standing in front of the scooter. It looks great! But there's a problem. It has a skull on it.

Adam: (silence)

Me: Hello?

Adam: er, is that a problem? 

Me: Well, I just don't like them. I've avoided them till now and, I don't know, Darcy is just so sweet and innocent and I feel like I'm ruining it by giving him a skull.

Adam: Don't worry dear (he may not have said dear), I'm sure one tiny little skull and cross bones logo on an otherwise plain black scooter won't ruin his innocence.

HA! I AM RIGHT! YOU ARE WRONG ADAM "urgh, don't let gas out your arse, so offensive".

Only this time, I kind of wish he was right. 

As of the unveiling of the skull and crossbones last sunday on Darcy's birthday. Innocence out, Demon in. Seriously.

We've gone from this face

To this face

and this...with the evil attitude to match

And Adam even received his first hate mail.

I always thought I would be the first to get hate mail. Luckily with the label there is no mistaking who it's for.

Now I am actually not trying to be funny. But is that the scariest bloody thing (and bloody could be quite literal) you have ever seen a seven year old do? Someone suggested therapy..but people it's me who needs the therapy. This has scared the gas out of me (sorry Adam).

I blame this:

Adam is quite sad and has even agreed with me that maybe it is the skull and crossbones and their subliminal hate message.

Whatever it is.

 Dear Jesus - please  can I have my bright shiny boy back. I miss him. Love me.

Dear Hormones and mother nature - boys don't menstruate, please stop sending PMS symptoms to my son. Thanks in advance, Rach.

What the?

Ok, obviously the seven things about me came to a pretty abrupt holt. It's due to a weekend of unforseen circumstances (nothing dramatic, just unexpected visitors and things like that). I think we were all getting a bit bored of the seven things anyway weren't we? 

Or was it just me?

Believe it or not, it's actually hard thinking of things about myself that warrant an entire post. So I'm sorry if the whole thing was one big giant snore.

I really don't know how people do the 365 day challenges. I just don't have much of anything interesting to say.

Oh, a quick but funny story.

On saturday I was busy packing away the shopping. Darcy was happily playing on the IMac. Now for those who are Mac fortunate, you know the 'textedit' feature? You know the one where you can type in a sentence or two and then hit 'speech' and it will read it back to you aloud. In the Mac voice.

The Mac voice used on most of the advertisements for Apple.

Well, it gave me a message. A loud, booming message.

"Mum smells like Poo".

Followed by the loudest scream I have ever heard. It turns out the scream was laughter, sheer delight and hysteria. One word.

Darcy.

Just quietly, I was a little bit chuffed that he could spell "Mum smells like poo". Flaming kid.

Enjoy the sunshine people! We may never see it again xo