Modern Fairy Fail

Modern Fairy Fail
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday October 17, 2015

The closet under our stairs is home to a pair of battered suitcases, a retired floor mop topped with a shrivelled toupee of sponge and at least two generations of Daddy Long Leg spiders. I quite like spiders-on-stilts as a rule, but not when they come charging three abreast from the dark recesses of my scariest cupboard. Spring cleaning can be bloodthirsty work.

With my vacuum cleaner, I sucked them into the vortex of Hurricane Hoover and continued nosing deeper and deeper into the cupboard. And that’s when I struck an unfamiliar object. It was a mouldering cardboard box. I sliced open the packing tape with a knife. Inside was an antiquated collection of Brothers Grimm fairy tale books. They’d belonged to my mother as a girl and she, in turn, had entrusted them to my childhood.

I shuffled through the box, surprised and delighted to find these yellowing relics. Here were my favourite fairy tales – Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty, Rumplestiltskin and Rapunzel. I teased open the fraying cloth cover of Hansel & Gretel and fell down a wormhole, hurtling back to my grandmother’s house and the bare boards of my bedroom, aged nine.

I remembered the story of Hansel & Gretel being a thrilling, if uncomfortable read: two children deserted by their new step-mother in the woods; captured by a cannibalistic witch who plans to barbecue her small prisoners. When at last, the witch gets her comeuppance, I reveled in the punitive gore of the hag being pushed alive into her own oven.

That witch deserved what she got. But I thought hard about what kind of father could be talked into discarding his children. He was a coward, I decided and I resolved never to get involved with one of those. But I was soon to acquire a step-father of my own. Not convinced of the benefits, I was already wary of being displaced in my mother’s affections. Hansel & Gretel became a touchstone for my own fears of abandonment.

Back beside the staircase, I discovered at the bottom of the box, a copy of The Juniper Tree – surely the most brutal of Grimms’ folk tales. As I turned the brittle pages for the first time in nearly forty years, the grisly illustrations loosened another panoply of childhood memories. In what cerebral crevice had they been hibernating?

Here was yet another hateful stepmother. This one beheads her stepson to allow her daughter to inherit the family fortune. The stepmother cooks the boy’s head in a stew and feeds it to his unwitting father, who remarks: ‘Delicious!’

I’d remembered few of the macabre and gory details – only a 9-year-old’s outrage that the villainous wife might get away with her crime. How relieved I’d been when she was crushed by a millstone.

Was my childish mind traumatized by such violent storytelling? Not me! I was far more terrified of the monster under my bed. Fairy tales were instructive: they cautioned me to trust my instincts. They helped me calibrate my moral compass.

Those old stories gave graphic expression to what every parent knows – that people get angry and even violent; and that these darker sides of human nature can be explored for entertainment rather than being repressed and denied.

My children have only ever seen the saccharine Disney versions of these fairytales – bowdlerized almost beyond recognition. In 21st century Hollywood, villains find themselves transformed or absolved. Good triumphs over evil and all mistakes can be rectified. Nice things happen to nice people.

Should we be sanitising fairy tales for today’s kids? In my mother’s 1940’s edition of Snow White, the evil queen must wear red-hot iron shoes at Snow White’s wedding, and dances herself to death. Cinderella’s horrible step-sisters have their eyes pecked out. Revenge was a fitting punishment. The awfulness those endings rankled in my mind, but I lapped them up, enjoying my darker fantasies.

Last night, I decided to test the delicacy of my five year old’s constitution. At bedtime, I produced my antique, unexpurgated copy of Cinderella and we settled down to read. On page 12, I remembered – nervously – what was coming. Cinderella’s stepsisters failed to fit the golden slipper. “Here’s a knife,” their mother urges. “If the slipper is still too tight for you, then cut off a piece of your foot. It will hurt a bit. But what does that matter?” So they slice off some toes.

I paused to gauge my five-year-old’s reaction, fearing I might have created a new monster for bedtime. But she turned to me and giggled.

“That was a dumb idea!” she said, whipping one foot out from under the covers. “They should’ve scrunched up their toes up like this.”

And with that practical advice, we went to the ball, met our Prince and lived happily ever after.

Virtual Reality

Virtual Reality
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday March 14, 2015

The train doors hissed apart. My youngsters scampered inside the near empty carriage, debating the merits of north-facing window over south. They scooted towards the driver’s door and clambered onto the bench under the largest expanse of window, a foot apart, each claiming the winning view. Babbling to each another, they pressed their noses to the glass as the train glided out of the station.

Teenage son and I sat down beside them. I assessed the couple opposite – a well-preserved grandma in a floppy felt hat and her pint-sized companion, a boy about the same age as my four-year-old daughter. He was sitting quietly, his thonged feet dangling, head bowed, transfixed by the iPad in his lap. Every few moments, he’d jolt into action, little thumbs swiping frantically at the screen, a chorus of bubbles noises accompanying his efforts.

“Next stop: City West,” sang the lady-spruiker over the intercom. My youngsters parroted her in high-pitched voices. They leapt to their feet for a game of statues. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder like the Queen’s guard, they competed to see who’d falter as the train lurched to a halt beside the platform. As the driver squeezed the brakes, small daughter teetered, then stumbled forward, collapsing on the floor in a fit of giggles.

“I win!” gloated seven-year-old brother as she scrambled to her feet.

“Again!” she squealed, resuming her sentry post as she waited for the driver to accelerate.

That’s when I noticed a flicker of disapproval on the grandmother’s face. Her mouth set into a grim line. I checked myself before smiling at her: “They love that game,” I said, attempting to humour her.

“Pfff,” she harrumphed. “The train’s not a playground.”

“I know. But it’s empty,” I said. “I wouldn’t let them do it if it was full.”

She wasn’t buying my mitigation.

“You young ones,” she said. “You’re the parents who won’t parent!”

It took me a moment to register her back-hander. I scanned her stony face for signs of amusement but saw only contempt. I was saved by the tinny train-voice chiming “Next station: Fremantle.”

My children capered by my side as I gathered our bags. My brain scrambled for a riposte but the woman’s snipe had thrown me. I gave her a conciliatory nod as I stood up, wishing I’d joined the school debating team. For the rest of the morning, I felt rattled. I deconstructed our conversation and questioned my parenting.

Had my children made a nuisance of themselves? Should I have discouraged their playful exuberance? Was train-nanna the more considerate parent for occupying her grandson with an iPad?

The little boy had barely registered the journey, let alone the view. He’d missed the train clacking over Fremantle Bridge; the vertiginous drop to the swirling water below. He hadn’t spotted the two tugboats ploughing in from Gage Roads, nor marvelled at the bulk carrier unloading its cargo of white Hyundais like so many Matchbox cars. His curiosity about the world outside his window had been stifled by the attention-seeking gadget on his lap. The virtual world was his babysitter while real life passed him by.

I, too, have succumbed to the charms of electronic child-minding. Our two-hour trip to the family farm near Collie is now driven in rapt silence. Our three kids are allowed to power up their screens as soon as we hit the freeway. The bickering subsides as we coast over the Narrows Bridge. I swivel to see who in the back seat is silently crying. I’m greeted by my trio in matching pose, heads down, headphones clamped to their ears, thumbs hovering over shiny glass. I no longer bother to point out the Old Mill, the jet-skis foaming up the river, the parasailers tethered to their harlequin canopies.

I miss playing I Spy. I miss the alphabet games that taught my daughter her letters. I miss the collective groan from the back seat when I suggest a round of Who am I? (An hour later, no-one wants our charades to end.)

Lately, I even pine for middle child’s frequent piddle-stops. They gave us an excuse to explore the bush. But bladder breaks are a rarity now there’s computer time on offer. (My lad would delay a wee through an earthquake rather than cut short his weekly ration of a Minecraft game.)

Our drives to the farm, the five of us in forced company, are now sterile. I like my family boisterous, not tranquilized. It’s no fun without smallest child whining “How much longer?” as we pass Jandakot Airport.

The next time we go to the farm, I’m banning the iPads. I’m going to hold court from the front seat and parent the old-fashioned way. We’ll have spelling bees and play Spotto. They’ll hate me for it but I don’t care. That train grandma has done me a favour. I’ve seen the future of parenting and I want my family back.

Playing it cool

Playing it cool
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published Saturday June 15, 2013

You have to be cool to know cool. I have no such expertise. By the time I’ve noticed the trendy young mothers at school are wearing Birkenstock orthopaedic sandals, that foot fetish is over. My decision to shell out $130 for a pair of cork clogs is the tipping point that declares them passé.

Proudly wearing my new Birkies outside class, I spot several willowy mums having their tetes-a-tetes in their new season zebra-print ballet flats. I flinch, but this is nothing new. I have spent a lifetime trotting at the heels of trend-setters.

Of course by next summer, cork thongs will be ‘in’ again, but I’m a laggard. Cool people know when to deviate from the manual. I don’t.

Over the years, I have tried to be cool. But the very act of trying is a guarantee of failure. Only once did I succeed – age 26 – by accident. After moving to Sydney in the midst of a steamy summer, I began taking long walks around my new city wearing ankle-grazing floral sundresses and Blundstone boots. I rode the crest of Bohemian cool for an entire weekend.

 I have often fantasised about parting a sea of admirers with my ‘indefinable something,’ and hearing people whisper in my wake: “Look at that! She’s got it!” Instead, I clumsily part crowds with a stroller festooned with lumpish bags of groceries. My darting toddler has only two speeds: accelerating and flat out. My scooterised 6-year-old gives chase, as pedestrians scatter for safety. Twelve-year-old son walks three paces behind hoping no-one will guess he belongs to this vagabond family.

My eldest son and I used to be inseparable. He idolised me, and I was captivated by his boyish charms. Now he’s like a boyfriend I’ve grown tired of, but feel obligated to keep. We have rare moments of the old magic, but mostly I can’t remember what I saw in him. He now maintains a veneer of cheesed-off indifference, and I scrabble to keep him connected to the family flock.

 I have tried pointing out to him that every generation thinks it’s cooler than the one before. “Yeah right!” he grunts. I’ve even suggested that he become a trailblazer at school by resurrecting the 80’s exclamation Mint! with his mates. I tell him: “It’s such a great word honey! It even feels cool saying it…. Mint! And you know what? When everyone’s saying Mint! you can start saying Mintox! That’s for things beyond Mint!” He sighs and shakes his head: “Yep Mum, that’s a fully sick idea, one of your best.” Then he adds: “Please don’t come to Assembly this week. I can’t stand the embarrassment.”

If I had street cred, everyone would want to talk like me and that would be Mint!  Lacking street cred, I pretend to be hip on Facebook instead.

Social media has done cool people a disservice – it levels the playing field by allowing everyone to appear at their best. Facebook is an illusion – it encourages users to showcase only their prettiest, wittiest side. On Facebook, we can all be sophisticates posting our snappiest thoughts and most flattering photos. My cool friends say Facebook has had its day.

And so has Twitter, says my 14-year-old God-daughter: “Who does Twitter anymore?” she scowls, “It’s so, like, dumb.” Then she rolls her eyes at me: “Don’t you get it? When the Mums start doing it, it’s so, like – over.” 

My bookclub, however, is still avant-garde after thirteen years. Twelve of us meet every six weeks to escape the twenty-seven offspring we have outputted since our club started. (We gave up reading the designated book years ago – Bridget Jones’ Diary had became an annoying distraction to the more fascinating minutiae of each others’ lives).

In 2007, when I was pregnant, I discovered that one book club girlfriend was on Twitter before I even knew what Twitter was. It sounded like a cult but I could tell it was cool. She could tell me fascinating insider stories about how Apple almost called the iPhone the TelePod. The only fascinating thing I could think to tell her was that I had a crush on my obstetrician. “No way!” she said. “Yes way!” I continued, “And I think he’s secretly in love with me too. When I’m on the examination table, he always catches my eye and smiles down at me through the gaps in the stirrups.””You dope,” she said, “He bats for the other side,” and sashayed off to fill her glass. I felt decidedly uncool.

I’ve decided the essence of cool, is indifference. And I am never indifferent. Instead, I made sure I married a man so laid back that at least my offspring have a 50-percent chance of being cool. And if the gene pool fails them, I’ll tell them to be proud of a mother who was uncool before uncool was cool.

In sickness and in guilt

In sickness and in guilt
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published Saturday April 27, 2013

Being house-bound makes me queasy. So when our family of five was sidelined with gastro for thirty-six hours straight, I was positively bilious. No sooner did one of us emerge from the fug of sickness, than another would vanish into a darkened bedroom with bucket and towels.  

That virus was so potent it took down grown man and small child with equal ease. But its curse was also a blessing, because that bug set me free from all domestic chores for an entire weekend. I did no cooking because no-one could stand the sight of food. I did no tidying up, no washing or folding because everyone else was too ill to care. But by Monday, I was post-viral and suffering a motherload of guilt.

Here I was, ignoring the mounting pile of sweaty sheets and dry cracker crumbs, sitting cross-legged on the floor doing jigsaw puzzles with my youngest. She was the first to recover, and I was the only adult still functioning. We spent two hours threading buttons onto string necklaces and making cut-out paper daisies with her pinking shears. I loved our craft afternoon even more than she did.

And then I ruined my maternal pride by feeling guilty: guilty that I don’t do this with her all the time. Why can’t I ignore the dishes, the bills and the dirty floor and play Snakes and Ladders with my daughter? After all, I closed the door on my career to stay home with baby number three. I was the one who opted for a few precious years minding the nest. And yet I resent the endless loop of housework that now keeps me from my 3-year-old.

The six hours between school drop off and pick up are the equivalent of a domestic nanosecond. That’s why a dozen tea-chests are still waiting to be unpacked three months after we moved house. Meaningless chores like cleaning up the breakfast dishes and making beds take twice as long with a small helper and her funny little distractions.

Most mornings we traipse to the supermarket like explorers tracking the source of the Nile. We admire the bob-cat machine three doors down as it loads house rubble into the tip-truck. Then, as we cross the park, we begin our search for cockatoo feathers to add to our collection. Feather-hunting is thirsty work, so we stop for a drink at the tap and talk to the black pup who’s licking up the splashes. The supermarket is still a sub-continent away. Some days I just want to nip to Coles and get bread and milk.

 Am I being a carefree, accommodating mother, or a feckless, frazzled wife? Mums can’t win: we over-indulge our children, or we’re too pushy. Or not pushy enough. We are suffocatingly present or dismissively absent.

Here’s my stand on mother-guilt: I am not tirelessly dedicated to my children. In the midst of a screaming tantrum (theirs not mine), I view child-rearing as hard work and would escape to the office in an instant, if I had one.

Am I supposed to think of mothering as a gloriously female biological function? I did once, but that was before I had children. Now I lurch from one parenting no-no to the next. Ranting is my latest imperfection. It turns relations between sleep-deprived mother and mouthy 12-year-old into a powder keg. Sometimes, the unflappable father intervenes to restore peace and I get sent to the naughty corner: ‘Blossom, settle down, go and take some deep breaths somewhere.”

I see classier mums and wish I could be more like them. Do they smile indulgently when their 5 year old eggs his little sister into breaking open a packet of biscuits at the shops? I do my lolly in public and feel mortified. For that reason, I can enjoy watching other peoples’ children behaving appallingly, because for once, they’re not mine.

Do men feel father-guilt? The guilt of absence or indolence? In our house, the perfect dad weekend involves him sleeping, reading the papers and watching the footy. All done from the left arm of the sofa, with the kids using him as a trampoline to the next armchair. I don’t think my husband feels any pressure to be anything other than what he is: a kind, fun and loving dad.

My mothering report card won’t arrive until my children have craftily turned into adults. I hope they blank out those ugly school mornings. The ones when my fury curdled the milk on my eldest’s Weetbix: “What do you mean, that project is due today? What do you mean, you FORGOT?!”

Please let them remember how many Women’s Weekly train cakes I laboured over, not the time I dumped their dinners in the bin when they whinged once too often about tuna pie.

I’d like to be remembered as the fun-mum, the one who took them on pyjama walks in the dark, who rode the train just for kicks and didn’t nag about unmade beds. I might be deluded, but I’ll think back fondly to that awful gastro weekend, when in sickness, I did my best work.

They made my day

They made my day
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published Saturday March 23, 2013

The kindness of strangers is never wasted on me. Especially when I’m naive enough to believe small children can be good in a sofa shop after a lemonade icy-pole. It wasn’t the sticky hands or clothes that was the problem – I’d mopped up and they were spotless and un-sticky. Perhaps I underestimated the sugar-rush, but they were already euphoric from a swim at the local pool.

This was a day when two strangers showed me their capacity for tolerance and good humour. My children, who had been giggling hysterically in the car, wanted to go to the park. Instead, I took them to an expensive leather furniture playground.

It started out well. They were rolling around in a shag pile rug as though it was long grass. (Price: $1799, on sale.) They chose a replica Eames armchair each, counted to ten and madly swapped seats. (Price: $1950. Each)

Then while I was flipping through the fabric samples (inwardly cursing the prices) with the immaculately groomed sales lady, my 2-year-old decided to strip off her nappy and dress and leap all over a white leather sofa in the buff. (Sale price: $4050.) Her brother, impressed, threw off his shirt and shoes and ran half a lap of the cavernous showroom shrieking for his sister to chase him.

I made a mental note of the exits and then met the sales lady’s eye: “I’m so sorry, they’ve gone completely mad. Give me one second to round them up and we’ll be out of here.” Without a hint of annoyance, she said: “Oh they’re fine, this is floor stock you know  – you’re allowed to try out the furniture.” I could have kissed her.

With quote in hand, and daughter reacquainted with nappy, I decided to tempt fate by calling in at a gourmet supermarket on the way home. Already, toddler daughter was tired, and small boy was coming undone. This time, they really cut loose.

At the deli counter they went to town on the free olives on toothpicks until I lifted the whole tray out of reach and stood there like an idiot waiting for some staff member to relieve me of it.

Next my daughter decided to stack the sausages in the open fridge into towers while 5-year-old attempted chin-ups on the butcher’s rail. In the middle of this circus, I was trying to order mince for meatballs. And all the while, I was grabbing for one rascal’s arm as he whisked past me on the way to the free crackers, while I tried to convince his sister to ride in the trolley so I could manacle her to it.

A couple of bystanders awaited the results as I warned my children: “This is your last chance, I’m counting to three!” I got to three (and even tried “Four!”) but the rampage continued. I moved up a gear and threatened to withdraw all future ice creams after swimming lessons: “No , Mum no!” That seemed to work quite nicely. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an older woman approaching me and mentally prepared for a dressing down. She stopped and leaned in so no- one else could hear: “You’re doing a sterling job of disciplining those little monkeys. I’m a teacher of 30 years and I know a good mum when I see one. You’re going to get lovely adults out of them one day.”

I was astonished. I didn’t know what to say so I told her the truth: “I thought you were going to give me a lecture about my terrible parenting  – the kids are completely nuts today and the third one’s not even here!” She patted me on the shoulder: “Enjoy, you’re doing fine.” Then she was gone.

All day I thought about those two women. Two strangers who had given my desperate mothering their stamp of approval. In one hour, those two ladies did more for my self esteem than all the parenting books I’ve slaved over.

Most days I question my child-rearing abilities and they come up short. Am I spoiling the little one by bribing her with a jellybean for every wee in the toilet? How hard I should come down on the big one? His 12-year-old insolence would have earned me the whack of the wooden spoon when I was his age. Am I strict enough for society’s liking? Do I care too much what other people think?

With stares and frowns, society likes to judge women on their mothering, but rarely have I seen a dad chastised in public for his fathering. I notice people act indulgently towards dads and unruly kids. They’re off limits, earning credits for effort. Mothers are fair game. Why? When I see a tantrum in the lolly aisle at the supermarket I give the mum a wink and grin: “Having fun yet?” just so she knows I’m on her side.

Perhaps that’s why a stranger’s acceptance and encouragement is such an unexpected gift. Even more reason to say to two women who clearly remembered the trials of motherhood: Thank you. 

Doctor’s Orders

Doctor’s Orders
Ros Thomas
The West Weekend Magazine
Published January 19, 2013

What is it about growing up in Perth that sticks to me like beach sand whipped up by the Freo doctor? Remembering mums and dads struggling to wrap wet kids in flapping towels. Brothers and sisters duck-diving under waves trying to stall their departure until someone shouts over the howling wind: “Icecreams for kids who help carry!” Everyone searching for their thongs.

Try explaining to someone who’s not a native: “Hey! I think the doctor’s in” – that bastard-saint of bluster and balm so familiar to Perth beach-goers. The sea breeze that’s welcome relief from yet another stinking hot day, but the killjoy that makes the beach so unpleasant everyone packs up and heads back to the baking car. As a kid, the bitumen was always so hot you had to stand on your towel until there was a break in the traffic. Back then, as we drove away from the sinking sun with all the windows open, I would take one last look back at the ocean, sun-dappled but choppy now. One last laugh at the seagulls being buffeted sideways as they swooped down to the fish and chip wrappers on the grass.

Thirty years later, these are the memories that hallmark an Australian childhood. We must tell our children how we tortured the Hills Hoist in the backyard, how it made terrible creaks and groans that brought Mum outside to tell us off. We, too, now have the buffalo lawn, and another generation of kids knows the sting of grass cuts from rolling around on it. Someone still gets sent inside to fetch the calamine lotion. And little ones still go to bed in shortie pyjamas with the fan on full bore, legs covered in pink calamine dots.

I want my children to know by instinct all these ways of being Australian. I want to hear them squealing  as they jump on the trampoline while Papa squirts them with the hose. I want them to know that the best thirst quencher is a slab of cold watermelon; that the hot plate needs a slosh of beer before you cook a dozen snags. I think back to all those backyard barbies where Uncle Hughie would send me inside for the tomato sauce (“Get the dead horse for me will ya Rosi-gal!”) I would sit by his elbow and marvel as he drowned his steak in it.

Killing flies was small-game hunting when Mum handed us the red plastic swatters she kept on top of the fridge. (Fly spray was expensive and only for special occasions.) Anyone who didn’t shut the flyscreen door got a peeved: “Were you born in a tent?!”

I’d spend Sunday afternoons on the swings at the park with a girlfriend from six houses up. Sometimes we’d vanish to the corner deli to play Pinball while we waited for Countdown to start. We’d blow our pocket money in an hour, but a dollar lasted for ages and Smarties were three for a cent.

I try to give my 12 year old son the same long leash –  let him skateboard round the streets and vanish ‘up the shops’ with a mate. I hope he’s sensible enough not to take for granted the freedoms  I give him, because I feel uneasy every time I let him out the door. At the same age, I was horsing around at the local pool for hours, only coming home when I was hungry.

I spent most Saturday afternoons unsupervised at the tennis club, racing my blue bike up and down the driveway, or hitting balls up against the clubhouse wall. The members’ last sets always seemed the longest – waiting around for the grown-ups to finish play because then we were allowed a packet of chips and a bottle of red creaming soda. With a paper straw. We didn’t get in the way of the adults socialising: we were part of a family, not the centre of attention.

All those sunburns, and heat rashes, and chafing from too much sand in our bathers – the small but vivid discomforts of an Australian summer.  How many times did I slather myself in baby oil and lie out in the backyard to summons the New Year’s tan? That night, I’d be soaking in a bath loaded with bicarb soda to take the sting out of red shoulders. My childrens’ peachy skins will be saved by sunscreen and long sleeved rashies. And the comfort of air-conditioning.

I have promised my children we will go to the beach every single day of these holidays. Their father thinks that’s way too much effort. But I have chosen to ignore the sand-pit in the car and the endless wet towels. Rather, the kids and I are now craving our daily dose of sea and salt. With each swim, a new generation of Aussies is laying down a patina of beachside memories. I hope these memories will be easily retrieved when in years to come, someone asks them: “So what was it like growing up in Perth?” Or better still: “Who’s this Freo Doctor?”