I am firmly of the belief that the only thing more socially offensive than bragging about one's own weight loss is having a fit of the evangelicals and trying to talk everybody else into a fitness binge too.
So I won't be telling you that I finally returned to my pre-both-babies weight..... ahem. (Feel free insert some applause here. Not that I need it, I'm proud enough as it is.)
And I won't be telling you how I did it. Unless you keep reading, in which case I hold no responsibility for your impending boredom or a sudden urge to have a set of rock hard abdominals. (Your choice who the abs belong to. I prefer Mr A's myself.)
It all started when I saw my friend Leah, looking smoking hot and strong just a year after having her twins. Twins! And she was so healthy and vital and powerful! I wanted what she was having, so I did what she did. I ran home and signed up for the Michelle Bridges 12 Week Body Transformation. You've probably seen it around the place, heinously over-advertised in the odd one or two million places.
If you're good at following instructions, 12WBT is simple. Just chug along following the recipes and doing the exercises she gives you for every single day, and bam! Success. Well, with a few speed bumps. There was a random bean and legume week in there that was a struggle (for Mr A, too. But for different and more gaseously scented reasons.)
Of course, it probably would have been wiser of me to do the program at an easier time. Having a move and Christmas in the middle was a major derailment of the diet train. And the exercise train. It was a pretty big crash, actually. And there was ham involved. Succulent, delicious ham.
But by New Years all the ham was eaten and the brandy sauce had lost its lustre, so I decided to be delightfully conventional and start again. (Luckily, more recipes had been unlocked on the site by then too - no more beans for me!) I mixed in some Zumba and kettle bells too, because obviously fitness fads are only popular because they are extremely effective. (You're all just lucky this isn't an in depth review of Crossfit. I'm holding out on poor Mr A, he's a boots and all convert.)
Despite the enthusiastic exercising, I suspect my success was mostly due to counting calories. (Of course, there's an app for that. And in this case, it's free: MyFitnessPal) Now I have the hang of it, I'm actually shocked at how much I used to eat. My two daily, deliciously large, double-choc, post dinner cookies were the equivalent of what should have been half my day's food. Never mind the afternoon cake...and the huge meal servings...Mien gott! No wonder I couldn't shift the last few kilos! It's a wonder I wasn't the size of a house.
And so here we are. Goal weight: achieved. Next stop? Quite possibly super-fit. Or a relapse into cookie-queen. We shall see!
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Let them eat cake
We live in wedding-shop-central. There are about eleventy seven wedding stores within a minutes walk from our CityCottage. As a result, Peanut is currently mildly obsessed with weddings. Loves them. Plans her own. Intends to have a bright red floucy dress. Focuses on the provision of ample cake. (Of course, since she's three she doesn't actually like cake. Being an icing aficionado she sees cake as nothing but the slightly annoying but generally necessary delivery system.) But this wedding has one caveat.
The bride, in her mind, will be marrying another bride. Why? Because she loves her best friend Victoria fourth most in the world, and of the higher ranking peeps, Mummy and Daddy are already taken and apparently marrying your own sister is taboo. So it will be a girl on girl wedding.
Besides, she considers boys of her age to be stinky, overly violent and insufficiently communicative. She wants someone who will build a house with her, not run in screaming, fly kick it over, then soil their own pants. I can see her point. (There were two... interesting boys at her last preschool, both with behavioural difficulties. It's unfortunate she's made a assessment of an entire gender based on these two squeaky wheels, as she knows some lovely, gentle, emotionally intelligent lads too. I'm trying to talk her round.)
But back to our well planned numptials.
Luckily, Peanut doesn't yet know that currently a lady marrying another lady is not recognised under our backwards, discriminatory laws. And that's completely my fault because because every time she mentions choosing a partner, I remind her that one day she will meet a nice boy or girl who she really loves, and if they love her back, then they might be the person she chooses to marry. Or chooses not marry. Because we are not the slightest bit religious, and it is her life, and her promise, so it follows it should be her choice.
She does know, however, that if I don't get grandkids, then I will be exceptionally cross. For some things, the things that really matter, it's worth taking a stand.
The bride, in her mind, will be marrying another bride. Why? Because she loves her best friend Victoria fourth most in the world, and of the higher ranking peeps, Mummy and Daddy are already taken and apparently marrying your own sister is taboo. So it will be a girl on girl wedding.
Besides, she considers boys of her age to be stinky, overly violent and insufficiently communicative. She wants someone who will build a house with her, not run in screaming, fly kick it over, then soil their own pants. I can see her point. (There were two... interesting boys at her last preschool, both with behavioural difficulties. It's unfortunate she's made a assessment of an entire gender based on these two squeaky wheels, as she knows some lovely, gentle, emotionally intelligent lads too. I'm trying to talk her round.)
But back to our well planned numptials.
Luckily, Peanut doesn't yet know that currently a lady marrying another lady is not recognised under our backwards, discriminatory laws. And that's completely my fault because because every time she mentions choosing a partner, I remind her that one day she will meet a nice boy or girl who she really loves, and if they love her back, then they might be the person she chooses to marry. Or chooses not marry. Because we are not the slightest bit religious, and it is her life, and her promise, so it follows it should be her choice.
She does know, however, that if I don't get grandkids, then I will be exceptionally cross. For some things, the things that really matter, it's worth taking a stand.
Monday, January 14, 2013
Ignoring Stuff. A city skill.
I feel like I'm finally getting the hang of city living.
It was overwhelming at first. I felt like Country Mouse. There was far too much noise, far too much happening at once. Too many people, too many cars, too many routes to learn and new supermarkets to navigate. (Sounds petty? Not at all - hustling two small children back six aisles in a crowded supermarket, fighting against the flow like a determined salmon in spawning season, is no easy feat. But I really did need more Parmesan.)
City dwellers seem to have refined the ability to Ignore Stuff. They know what is relevant, and what is superfluous, and can move about the streets noticing only what they need. But me? I was ridiculously overstimulated. My head was on a swivel, watching everything from the lowliest cockroach to a speeding bus. I reached the end of each day emotionally exhausted.
And I am used to seeing people I know on every corner. I had become a little too used to living in an idyllic neighbourhood cross between the Desperate Housewives and Stepford, but thankfully with less crime and fewer creepy robots. Here? I know nobody. As I walk the streets, I automatically scan the faces approaching for anyone I recognise. Anyone. At all. But I know no one. And when I reflexively smile at people, nobody smiles back.
I am working on my Ignore Stuff reflex. It's developing, I know, because now I can come back from a run calm, not frantic. I think of the ancient gums that line the local streets, the wrought iron work on the terrace houses, and that nice little dog at number nine. I am wilfully blind of the stinky old man I couldn't manoeuvre past, the piles of rubbish, and the busy roads I run down. And I've stopped looking for friends on every corner. But I can't stop the smiling. I won't! That's my little ray of sunshine, and I'm bringing it to the big smoke.
It was overwhelming at first. I felt like Country Mouse. There was far too much noise, far too much happening at once. Too many people, too many cars, too many routes to learn and new supermarkets to navigate. (Sounds petty? Not at all - hustling two small children back six aisles in a crowded supermarket, fighting against the flow like a determined salmon in spawning season, is no easy feat. But I really did need more Parmesan.)
City dwellers seem to have refined the ability to Ignore Stuff. They know what is relevant, and what is superfluous, and can move about the streets noticing only what they need. But me? I was ridiculously overstimulated. My head was on a swivel, watching everything from the lowliest cockroach to a speeding bus. I reached the end of each day emotionally exhausted.
And I am used to seeing people I know on every corner. I had become a little too used to living in an idyllic neighbourhood cross between the Desperate Housewives and Stepford, but thankfully with less crime and fewer creepy robots. Here? I know nobody. As I walk the streets, I automatically scan the faces approaching for anyone I recognise. Anyone. At all. But I know no one. And when I reflexively smile at people, nobody smiles back.
I am working on my Ignore Stuff reflex. It's developing, I know, because now I can come back from a run calm, not frantic. I think of the ancient gums that line the local streets, the wrought iron work on the terrace houses, and that nice little dog at number nine. I am wilfully blind of the stinky old man I couldn't manoeuvre past, the piles of rubbish, and the busy roads I run down. And I've stopped looking for friends on every corner. But I can't stop the smiling. I won't! That's my little ray of sunshine, and I'm bringing it to the big smoke.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Casualties
We suffered some casualties during the Great Accidental Move.
Those of you who read along regularly know that before our big shift we had two dogs of varying loveliness. (Archibald the delightful eternal puppy, and Panzer the hell-hound. You can read about Panzer's adventures here and here.) We also had two extremely large goldfish. I'm pretty sure that (if he had entertained the thought) the enormous gold fish could have climbed clean out of the tank and strolled off, evolving, down the road.
However, we are now short two fish and a dog.
The fish first - we tried to move them, transferring them to an occasionally lidded bucket, stopping their food and generally following all and any directions we could find online about moving fish. It was a disaster. The black fish didn't last the night, and goldy wasn't far behind, splashing off our mortal coil soon after.
Of course I hoped that was the end of the losses, but the biggest was yet to come.
We're down a dog. Panzer to be precise.
She's not dead, just... relocated.
She was always a little different. As a puppy, she was abnormally psychotic, chewing and bouncing her bulk around with the best (or worst) of them. I was exceptionally glad when she started to outgrow her energetic ways, but unfortunately she then developed what can only be described as "violent tendencies". She was wonderful with the immediate family, but would chase and growl and bite at anybody and anything that came near us. Including my great aunt, an unsuspecting German backpacker, all children, and any dog smaller than her. She had issues.
We tried. Oh, how we tried. Endlessly. Exhaustingly. Expensively. Including professional training in home, then three weeks of residential training with one of the state's best trainers. He could fix police dogs, rescue dogs and other problem animals, but he was lost with our Pan.
It was becoming increasingly obvious we couldn't keep her. The new house had no spare backyard to hide her when little friends came over, and the dog park was full of small fluffy Pan-bait. We were 24 hours from a date with the RSPCA, and since she clearly going to fail the initial re-home-able personality test, she was 24 hours away from a date with death. We were beside ourselves. I even tried calling friends who might take her in the Northern Territory, hoping her particular brand of crazy would be more socially acceptable in the land of pig dogs and anarchy. No luck.
Finally, as a last ditch effort, I called the breeder. And even though Pan was desexed, that wonderful lady agreed to have her back. Panzer was heading off to a family that would love her as much as we did, full of her-kind-of-dog, back to her mum and dad, brothers and sisters, with plenty of space to run and play. It was an enormous relief.
And now she's gone, our house is so much calmer. The children are confident running down the hall or playing on the floor without being blindsided by a boisterous, heavy playmate. Our visitors can move around the house as they please, without being trapped on the couch at Panzer's discretion. And we can take Archibald to the park without fear of bodily injury and a lawsuit.
In fact, Archie's life has improved considerably. Panzer dominated him terribly, to the point he barely ventured from his corner and knew if he asked for a pat, it would come with a side of dogfight. It's taken him a week to come back out of his shell, but he's clearly far more confident and happy. We all are.
But I do miss Pan.
Those of you who read along regularly know that before our big shift we had two dogs of varying loveliness. (Archibald the delightful eternal puppy, and Panzer the hell-hound. You can read about Panzer's adventures here and here.) We also had two extremely large goldfish. I'm pretty sure that (if he had entertained the thought) the enormous gold fish could have climbed clean out of the tank and strolled off, evolving, down the road.
However, we are now short two fish and a dog.
The fish first - we tried to move them, transferring them to an occasionally lidded bucket, stopping their food and generally following all and any directions we could find online about moving fish. It was a disaster. The black fish didn't last the night, and goldy wasn't far behind, splashing off our mortal coil soon after.
Of course I hoped that was the end of the losses, but the biggest was yet to come.
We're down a dog. Panzer to be precise.
She's not dead, just... relocated.
She was always a little different. As a puppy, she was abnormally psychotic, chewing and bouncing her bulk around with the best (or worst) of them. I was exceptionally glad when she started to outgrow her energetic ways, but unfortunately she then developed what can only be described as "violent tendencies". She was wonderful with the immediate family, but would chase and growl and bite at anybody and anything that came near us. Including my great aunt, an unsuspecting German backpacker, all children, and any dog smaller than her. She had issues.
We tried. Oh, how we tried. Endlessly. Exhaustingly. Expensively. Including professional training in home, then three weeks of residential training with one of the state's best trainers. He could fix police dogs, rescue dogs and other problem animals, but he was lost with our Pan.
It was becoming increasingly obvious we couldn't keep her. The new house had no spare backyard to hide her when little friends came over, and the dog park was full of small fluffy Pan-bait. We were 24 hours from a date with the RSPCA, and since she clearly going to fail the initial re-home-able personality test, she was 24 hours away from a date with death. We were beside ourselves. I even tried calling friends who might take her in the Northern Territory, hoping her particular brand of crazy would be more socially acceptable in the land of pig dogs and anarchy. No luck.
Finally, as a last ditch effort, I called the breeder. And even though Pan was desexed, that wonderful lady agreed to have her back. Panzer was heading off to a family that would love her as much as we did, full of her-kind-of-dog, back to her mum and dad, brothers and sisters, with plenty of space to run and play. It was an enormous relief.
And now she's gone, our house is so much calmer. The children are confident running down the hall or playing on the floor without being blindsided by a boisterous, heavy playmate. Our visitors can move around the house as they please, without being trapped on the couch at Panzer's discretion. And we can take Archibald to the park without fear of bodily injury and a lawsuit.
In fact, Archie's life has improved considerably. Panzer dominated him terribly, to the point he barely ventured from his corner and knew if he asked for a pat, it would come with a side of dogfight. It's taken him a week to come back out of his shell, but he's clearly far more confident and happy. We all are.
But I do miss Pan.
Friday, January 11, 2013
The Move - Chapter One (or How I Fell I Love With A Lady)
Well there I go again, announcing sweeping changes and then disappearing for weeks.
Why? Total lack of the interwebz!
Well, not entirely total. I did manage to wrangle myself my very own smart phone (finally!) and use ridiculously large chunks of bandwidth to feed my Facebook addiction. But any plans I had for blogging were shot down by the ruthless combination of teeny tiny keys and massive data costs. Besides, I needed all my spare bytes to navigate my way around the new city!
I had so many posts in my head, too. All mentally written, edited, and promptly forgotten. Drat!
Well, best I start at the beginning...
"How was the move?" I hear you ask, on tenterhooks for weeks waiting for our riveting removalling stories, keenly anticipating my return.
It went remarkably smoothly. Technically it was the quickest move we've ever pulled off, because this is the first time every box we own has been unpacked. All our last moves we never actually finished, dragging a box or two with us over several years per house. We had to unpack every box this year, because this house is tiny. REALLY tiny. (And currently being made even more so by the additional of a hulking, man sized teenage boy, but that's another story.)
By the end of the move, we had ditched two skip bins and a medium sized truck's worth of junk, never mind all the still semi-useful stuff we managed to give away. It was a real wake up call on assessing the things we needed and really wanted. The downsize has been very cathartic, and do you know? I haven't missed a single thing I tossed. Not one.
We've found all sorts of ingenious places to stash the things we kept, too. All hale Ikea and underbed "storage". (Storage is a loose term I'm using here for the absolute cram-fest that is under every bed. I've put my childhood Tetris skills to excellent use. I'm pretty sure Peanut's bed legs are no longer actually touching the floor, but instead she's perched, floating on a morass of stashed Christmas decorations and excess crib parts.)
I'm in love with the house. Madly. She's a grand old dame with character. There are certain things I've always wanted in a house, and she ticks my boxes. Even the boxes I didn't know I had. Picket fence - tick! Hydrangea - tick! Wooden staircase - tick! Wooden floors.... shaker kitchen... dog door... formal dining... decorative arches... snug upstairs sleeping quarters that feel like we're tucked into the frankensteinian love child of a treehouse and a boat - tick!
And she's a house with history, who has obviously been loved for a long time. She's not just been cobbled together as strictly a rental concern. Everything from the hose fitted shower heads to the handy washing machine pipe hole in the laundry has been thoughtfully done. My friend Joel put it best: this is a house that was built (and recently delightfully practically renovated) to actually be lived in.
So, that's the end of The Move, Chapter One. I suspect the next chapter will cover the trials and tribulations of Moving With The Accidental Pets (we're down three, mien gott) or perhaps Ten Easy Lessons On How To Stow A Full Sized Christmas Tree In A Shoe Box. Who knows? See you tomorrow!
Why? Total lack of the interwebz!
Well, not entirely total. I did manage to wrangle myself my very own smart phone (finally!) and use ridiculously large chunks of bandwidth to feed my Facebook addiction. But any plans I had for blogging were shot down by the ruthless combination of teeny tiny keys and massive data costs. Besides, I needed all my spare bytes to navigate my way around the new city!
I had so many posts in my head, too. All mentally written, edited, and promptly forgotten. Drat!
Well, best I start at the beginning...
"How was the move?" I hear you ask, on tenterhooks for weeks waiting for our riveting removalling stories, keenly anticipating my return.
It went remarkably smoothly. Technically it was the quickest move we've ever pulled off, because this is the first time every box we own has been unpacked. All our last moves we never actually finished, dragging a box or two with us over several years per house. We had to unpack every box this year, because this house is tiny. REALLY tiny. (And currently being made even more so by the additional of a hulking, man sized teenage boy, but that's another story.)
By the end of the move, we had ditched two skip bins and a medium sized truck's worth of junk, never mind all the still semi-useful stuff we managed to give away. It was a real wake up call on assessing the things we needed and really wanted. The downsize has been very cathartic, and do you know? I haven't missed a single thing I tossed. Not one.
We've found all sorts of ingenious places to stash the things we kept, too. All hale Ikea and underbed "storage". (Storage is a loose term I'm using here for the absolute cram-fest that is under every bed. I've put my childhood Tetris skills to excellent use. I'm pretty sure Peanut's bed legs are no longer actually touching the floor, but instead she's perched, floating on a morass of stashed Christmas decorations and excess crib parts.)
I'm in love with the house. Madly. She's a grand old dame with character. There are certain things I've always wanted in a house, and she ticks my boxes. Even the boxes I didn't know I had. Picket fence - tick! Hydrangea - tick! Wooden staircase - tick! Wooden floors.... shaker kitchen... dog door... formal dining... decorative arches... snug upstairs sleeping quarters that feel like we're tucked into the frankensteinian love child of a treehouse and a boat - tick!
And she's a house with history, who has obviously been loved for a long time. She's not just been cobbled together as strictly a rental concern. Everything from the hose fitted shower heads to the handy washing machine pipe hole in the laundry has been thoughtfully done. My friend Joel put it best: this is a house that was built (and recently delightfully practically renovated) to actually be lived in.
So, that's the end of The Move, Chapter One. I suspect the next chapter will cover the trials and tribulations of Moving With The Accidental Pets (we're down three, mien gott) or perhaps Ten Easy Lessons On How To Stow A Full Sized Christmas Tree In A Shoe Box. Who knows? See you tomorrow!
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Homeschool preschool
This year, I had hoped Peanut could to go to a preschool for three or four days a week. I wanted her to have some structure in her days and the experience of being outside the home and in a learning environment with her peers so the transition to "big school" would not come as such a shock.
Unfortunately, given our move, this was not going to happen. I did find her a school, and she will be attending, but it is only two days a week, and the classroom set up is so fluid they don't even have a designated time for lunch. It isn't what I had intended at all!
So I have an alternate plan.
Peanut will attend two days of school a week. She will associate with her peers, learn the realities if a hierarchical playground pecking order, and gain further confidence in being away from her family for hours at a stretch.
But the remaining three "school" days a week, we'll be homeschooling, complete with a schedule that involves set times for snacks! It's the best I can do in the position we are in, and hopefully it will be sufficient to set Peanut up for success.
We'll do literacy and numeracy every day (even preschool days, they don't seem to do much at school...) then on non-school days, we'll have PT and science one day, geography and art the next, then finally history and music. I know that sounds very scheduled, and it's meant to, but it's a schedule for me only. The actual lessons will be play based, last around half an hour (or more... or less... depending on interest level!) and start with provocations. I not a fan of piles of busy-work worksheets, I don't think they actually help much with retention. If I have my way, Peanut will barely realise she's "doing school".
I'm excited to start early in the new year, and no doubt I'll write about it here, so feel free to follow along!
Unfortunately, given our move, this was not going to happen. I did find her a school, and she will be attending, but it is only two days a week, and the classroom set up is so fluid they don't even have a designated time for lunch. It isn't what I had intended at all!
So I have an alternate plan.
Peanut will attend two days of school a week. She will associate with her peers, learn the realities if a hierarchical playground pecking order, and gain further confidence in being away from her family for hours at a stretch.
But the remaining three "school" days a week, we'll be homeschooling, complete with a schedule that involves set times for snacks! It's the best I can do in the position we are in, and hopefully it will be sufficient to set Peanut up for success.
We'll do literacy and numeracy every day (even preschool days, they don't seem to do much at school...) then on non-school days, we'll have PT and science one day, geography and art the next, then finally history and music. I know that sounds very scheduled, and it's meant to, but it's a schedule for me only. The actual lessons will be play based, last around half an hour (or more... or less... depending on interest level!) and start with provocations. I not a fan of piles of busy-work worksheets, I don't think they actually help much with retention. If I have my way, Peanut will barely realise she's "doing school".
I'm excited to start early in the new year, and no doubt I'll write about it here, so feel free to follow along!
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Preparing kids for the move
I have a two year old and a three year old.
Thus far, they have been unfailing excited about the upcoming move, even though it has involved giving away their trampoline, throwing out three tricycles (who needs five bikes for two kids? After all, they can only ride one at once. It was getting crazy.) and leaving the schools they love and their first real self-chosen friends.
So how did we do it? How have we kept the whole thing positive? Here are my tips and tricks:
Start early. Many guides advise keeping the information about the move to from the children until just a few weeks before. I wholeheartedly disagree -- this is not the kind of thing to spring on your family. We began talking about the move about six months ago. There is a lot of administrative work to be done to move a whole family to a different state, especially when that move is being arranged through work, and all their additional layers of bureaucracy. This meant plenty of discussion between my husband and I, and if we hadn't introduced the idea to the children early on, they would have figured something was up and possibly worried unnecessarily.
Use props and play. When we first started talking about the move, I made the girls a book. It was just paper stapled together, and drawn with markers and crayons, and was very quick and simple to put together. It used the girls names, and outlined what would happen during the move in story format. You know, the usual:
The story, written with their names in, and then the concrete modelling of the move really helped their understanding, and allowed me to identify and clear up any misconceptions they may have had about the move.
Show them the new house. This is easy if you are moving locally, but we're moving interstate. So when Dad went to the open house he took plenty of photos. We added these to the real estate agent photos, and regularly scroll through these on the computer. We have shown the girls their new room, their bathroom and the courtyard. They know the new house has stairs, and that we won't be able to play on the grass-out-the-front anymore, as there isn't any - it's a road. All these things help to manage expectations, and they feel familiar with the property before they have even set foot in the place. I also talk up the positives: "Look, this garden bed is empty, will you help me to choose the flowers for it? We can plant them together." and "Wow, that looks like a great corner for your art table! What do you think?"
We've also been cruising the neighbourhood on Google Street View finding the best route to the library, pointing out the new sushi shop and looking at the supermarket where we've ordered the Christmas ham. The girls are excited to arrive and see it all in person! (I don't know how I'm going to explain the shop-with-the-pole-dancing-ladies-painted on though - small steps. I keep having reminders that we're moving to the middle of a proper big city.)
Find them matching activities. Peanut currently does playschool and swimming lessons, so I have placed a great deal of importance on finding her matching activities in our new location. She will still be attending a preschool two days a week, and she will swim too. But we are adding dancing lessons as a reaction to living in a small house, much further from our local park - there will be limited space to groove in the house, and she does love an exuberant, flinging boogie. (Different to flinging boogers, thank goodness. That's the two year old's domain.)
Introduce the new school early. To ease nerves (hers and mine) I dragged the whole family on a six hour round trip to attend Peanut's new school's open day. This allowed her to meet her new teachers, find her way around the playground and classrooms, find and use the toilet (more important that you might imagine - that can be a real source of concern to young kids!) and feel happy and confident about the new school situation. Then, and I think this is vital, she could go back to her old school and tell her current teachers all about it. This allowed them to make all the usual positive mumbles (from trusted adults that aren't a parental unit, and are seen as school experts) about how good it sounds, and how much fun she will have, and how excited they are for her, which really reinforced the message.
Talk talk talk. Every evening I ask the girls if they have any questions. These have ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous (no, we aren't taking the toilet... yes, we have to take the dog.) but it keeps the communication channels open. I must have run through the timeline for the move a thousand times if I have done it once. (Tuesday pack, Wednesday put-it-in-the-truck, Thursday drive, Friday unpack... then Christmas! Yay!) I figure the more we talk, the more they know... and knowledge, in this case, is reassuring.
So that, for what it's worth, are my tips on a happy move with young children. I have two very excited girls just waiting for the big truck here, happy to discard their trampoline to make it happen, so it's working well for us. I'm off to clean the blinds before we move... until next time!
Thus far, they have been unfailing excited about the upcoming move, even though it has involved giving away their trampoline, throwing out three tricycles (who needs five bikes for two kids? After all, they can only ride one at once. It was getting crazy.) and leaving the schools they love and their first real self-chosen friends.
So how did we do it? How have we kept the whole thing positive? Here are my tips and tricks:
Start early. Many guides advise keeping the information about the move to from the children until just a few weeks before. I wholeheartedly disagree -- this is not the kind of thing to spring on your family. We began talking about the move about six months ago. There is a lot of administrative work to be done to move a whole family to a different state, especially when that move is being arranged through work, and all their additional layers of bureaucracy. This meant plenty of discussion between my husband and I, and if we hadn't introduced the idea to the children early on, they would have figured something was up and possibly worried unnecessarily.
Use props and play. When we first started talking about the move, I made the girls a book. It was just paper stapled together, and drawn with markers and crayons, and was very quick and simple to put together. It used the girls names, and outlined what would happen during the move in story format. You know, the usual:
"Once upon a time there where two little girls called Peanut and Bug, who lived in a big house with their Mummy and Daddy and dogs and fish. One day, Daddy's job moved to Sydney, and so the whole family decided to move too.
Removalists came to the house and packed everything that Peanut and Bug and Mummy and Daddy owned into boxes, then put them in a big truck. Then Mummy and Daddy and Peanut and Bug and the dogs and fish got into their cars, and followed the big truck on a long drive to Sydney. They were lucky and stayed the night in a fancy hotel.
Then the next day the removalists unpacked all their things in the new house. Because Peanut and Bug were such a big help during the move, they were allowed to sleep in the same bedroom at their lovely new house!"Then we brought out the Tonka trucks, and the girls spent the morning packing the dolls house into the truck and moving it around the playroom.
The story, written with their names in, and then the concrete modelling of the move really helped their understanding, and allowed me to identify and clear up any misconceptions they may have had about the move.
Show them the new house. This is easy if you are moving locally, but we're moving interstate. So when Dad went to the open house he took plenty of photos. We added these to the real estate agent photos, and regularly scroll through these on the computer. We have shown the girls their new room, their bathroom and the courtyard. They know the new house has stairs, and that we won't be able to play on the grass-out-the-front anymore, as there isn't any - it's a road. All these things help to manage expectations, and they feel familiar with the property before they have even set foot in the place. I also talk up the positives: "Look, this garden bed is empty, will you help me to choose the flowers for it? We can plant them together." and "Wow, that looks like a great corner for your art table! What do you think?"
We've also been cruising the neighbourhood on Google Street View finding the best route to the library, pointing out the new sushi shop and looking at the supermarket where we've ordered the Christmas ham. The girls are excited to arrive and see it all in person! (I don't know how I'm going to explain the shop-with-the-pole-dancing-ladies-painted on though - small steps. I keep having reminders that we're moving to the middle of a proper big city.)
Find them matching activities. Peanut currently does playschool and swimming lessons, so I have placed a great deal of importance on finding her matching activities in our new location. She will still be attending a preschool two days a week, and she will swim too. But we are adding dancing lessons as a reaction to living in a small house, much further from our local park - there will be limited space to groove in the house, and she does love an exuberant, flinging boogie. (Different to flinging boogers, thank goodness. That's the two year old's domain.)
Introduce the new school early. To ease nerves (hers and mine) I dragged the whole family on a six hour round trip to attend Peanut's new school's open day. This allowed her to meet her new teachers, find her way around the playground and classrooms, find and use the toilet (more important that you might imagine - that can be a real source of concern to young kids!) and feel happy and confident about the new school situation. Then, and I think this is vital, she could go back to her old school and tell her current teachers all about it. This allowed them to make all the usual positive mumbles (from trusted adults that aren't a parental unit, and are seen as school experts) about how good it sounds, and how much fun she will have, and how excited they are for her, which really reinforced the message.
Talk talk talk. Every evening I ask the girls if they have any questions. These have ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous (no, we aren't taking the toilet... yes, we have to take the dog.) but it keeps the communication channels open. I must have run through the timeline for the move a thousand times if I have done it once. (Tuesday pack, Wednesday put-it-in-the-truck, Thursday drive, Friday unpack... then Christmas! Yay!) I figure the more we talk, the more they know... and knowledge, in this case, is reassuring.
So that, for what it's worth, are my tips on a happy move with young children. I have two very excited girls just waiting for the big truck here, happy to discard their trampoline to make it happen, so it's working well for us. I'm off to clean the blinds before we move... until next time!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)