We were smacked by our father and whether it is because of this or just plain common sense and morality stepping in, I am not a smacker myself. We were ‘punished’/'taught a lesson’ with all kinds of implements, including a bat tennis bat and wooden spoon. We had red marks to prove it. It’s interesting that I don’t recall why (surely I never did anything wrong as a child), but can clearly recall the situations in which the smacking took place. More so, I recall the emotions - largely fear and resentment. I don’t recall thinking, ‘Gosh, Daddy is right. I really did the wrong thing and because I now know that it was the wrong thing (thanks to my pounding heart and stinging thigh), I won’t do it again.’

I didn’t learn right from wrong because I was smacked – I learned, somewhat, to shut my mouth and do the ‘right thing’ for fear of the painful consequences. I learned that a parent could inflict physical pain and no one would stand up for me. I learned that talking was more risky than constructive…at the time. As an adult I have responded by avoiding getting ‘physical’ with my kids (the fleeting satisfaction from the release of pent up frustration or anger slides swiftly into a sickening guilt) and being big on communication and fair treatment. I also teach my kids that adults don’t always do or say the right thing.

What are we teaching our kids when we ‘smack’ them? We implore them to use their words rather than to bite or hit out or scream, and yet we use our hands to gain control or communicate. And as Josh suggested on the show, what do you do when your 16 year old realises that he can ‘smack’ back and is big enough to do so? Is it okay to hit someone to get the response that you want or to communicate to our kids that adults are allowed to be rough with kids simply because they are adults?

‘Lazy parenting’, is what our dear Dicko suggested, and I tend to agree. Sure, talking to and desperately attempting to reason with a young or not so young child can be exceedingly frustrating and time consuming and a smack would sure as hell get the ‘message’ across more swiftly, but once again, I come back to what message? Let me suggest ‘hypocracy’ and ‘control’.

What harm is a little smack on the hand? Start at the top.

You have probably gathered that our parenting style is not of the gently, gently, cotton wool type approach. There is little sheltering from truths, shying away from awkward discussions or just plain lying about stuff to ‘protect’ them (within reason… I haven’t yet explained to the School Boy that his existence contributes to mummy’s insanity..a lie of omission I guess). We are honest, mostly. But I can’t help get all childish in my enthusiasm to play with their little minds when it comes to these fictional characters that we introduce them to.

The School Boy recently lost his first tooth in the most hilarious of situations. He showed me the bloody tooth, hanging on by a  thread of gum, to which I responded, ‘ew, it’s bleeding.’  His response was to suck hard to get rid of said blood, and dislodge and inhale his baby tooth in the process. He doubled over, struggling to take a breath, then coughed and heaved until this little piece of enamel flew across the kitchen floor. He wasn’t too traumatised, and so I indulged in a side-splitting, semi-subdued fit of laughter.

The conversation that ensued, lead by my husband, included reference to the Tooth Fairy and money. A pang of guilt hit – I’d forgotten all about the Tooth Fairy, followed a pang of ‘oh crap, another lie to sustain’. We told him that we’d contact her by phone or email to tell her the news, but he insisted that there is a team of mixed-gender fairies who provide this service - my politically correct little man strikes again.

I just had to scratch my itch and probe a little into his ’knowledge’ of the Tooth Fairy (none of which has come from us). I asked him where the fairies live (‘with Santa’) how he thought a little fairy could carry a tooth (‘Magic, I guess’), where the fairies stored these teeth (shrug of the shoulders), and how they could possibly afford to put a coin under the pillow of every child, every time a tooth fell out (another shrug of the shoulders)? His inquisitive, perceptive mind didn’t once question the validity of the whole Tooth Fairy thing. But he’s more than happy to question us on matters that make much more sense. Maybe these kids are smarter than we think and they are actually deceiving us..they know the truth but fear that if they let on, all gifts, chocolate and monetary donations will dry up.

So what now?  I figure that if it is our job to sustain these parental lies, then we are entitled to a little fun along the way…

My body weakens, my mind resembles an icecream, clumsily dropped on the pavement, succumbing to the warmth of the sun – my capacity to make decisions, to plan, melts away. The pendulum of emotion begins to swing less wildly, rather hanging limply with barely perceptible movement. I am nearing Point Break.

It’s not one thing or another. If I could decompartmentalise my life and experience each aspect in isolation, I would be fine.

If all I had to deal with was one task or one challenge or one crisis at a time, there would be no blog post.

If all I had to do was deal with a clingy baby, with no need for doing the washing or vacuuming…

If all I had to do was come home from work and make dinner with no thought for bathing or lunch preparation…

If I had an entire day to devote soley to being enthusiastic, energetic and loving towards my volatile school boy with no thought for making beds, doing the shopping or dealing with a clingy baby…done.Well, done better, anyway.

But the reality is that life is not so neat or manageable.

Point Break is the snapping of ligaments as a consequence of being pulled in multiple directions, simultaneously. It is failing to re-fuel when the red light indicates a near-empty tank. It is wading through deep, murky water, unsure of your footing and what lies ahead.

But I sit, reassured in the knowledge that Point Break is not to be confused with The Point of No Return. All I need is a map, clear directions and a full tank*. That’s all.

*A house cleaner, cook, live-in nanny for the middle of the night wakenings, daily massages and hot baths wouldn’t be wasted either.

Children need a variety of influences in their lives; people other than their parents to guide them, make them laugh and look out for them. People to spoil them, loosen the reigns a little and smother them with hugs and kisses.

My point is that it also takes a village to support parents. No one will argue with a parent who acknowledges just how demanding and exhausting parenting is (and if they dare try, send them my way). It’s relentless. It’s wearing, and there are times, many of them, when an extra pair of hands are most welcome – someone to give you a break from this 24 hour a day, volunteer work. It might come in the form of practical assistance (some help with the grocery shopping, an offer to do some dusting or gardening); it could be an offer to mind the kids while you get on with all of those tasks that just never seem to get done. It might be an offer to have the kids for a night so that you and your partner can sleep peacefully and get up when your own body clock, rather  than that of your child, tells you to. Small things, simple things. Sanity-saving things.

It takes a village. We get run-down, squint through the fog and reach the end of our tethers, and we wonder why. Some parents have a wide, or small but dedicated community around them. Are they the lucky ones, or just examples of how it ought to be? Has the concept and existence of ‘community’ changed? Are we expected to shoulder much more of the burden than we used to, or are we just a more whingey parental bunch than our hard-working, uncomplaining older generations?

Whether you refer to it as a village or community, it’s about support and assistance. Stuff that makes survival that little bit easier; stuff that keeps sanity within reach.

Of course, the Big Boy (who shall be known from this moment onwards as the School Boy) has started school, and his behaviour has been a little bizarre. I may have mentioned poo on the walls. But that’s nothing compared to the flash backs to those glorious days of the two’s. In the last week, the docile library and a clothing shop have fallen victim to the School Boy’s tremendous, tormenting tantrums. Tiny triggers have sparked major defiance, followed swiftly by screaming and kicking. Nothing, absolutely nothing will calm him down as he continues to howl and make labour-like animal noises all the way home. That’s him. Me?

Perhaps it’s the frustration at knowing that I couldn’t get away with his tantrum, when in fact I have a deep desire to do exactly the same. But my temper doesn’t fair much better. The fury that is ignited when he insists on being defiant, laughing in my face and being completely sociably impossible, is scary. My eyes threaten to burst forth from their sockets and my hands ache to strangle or rip a head clean off. The capacity to feel such anger and the fear that I will one day let go of the thin thread that keeps me from snapping is terrifying.

‘Just walk away,’ I hear the crowds urging. Walk away? Leave him to throw items off shelves and to trip up the frail elderly (with his running down the isle at full pelt followed by skidding along the polished wooden floors on his knees…)? Leave him to understand, by the absence of reprimand, that such behaviour is okay? True, it’s probably a better option than the one that I took, which resulted in afore-mentioned major meltdown. But how would I feel if he did break stuff, injure someone else or even himself (he is known to be just a tad clumsy and prone to the oopsies)?

‘Oh, go easy on him love. He’s just started school and he’s probably out of sorts.’ True, again. But how much do you forgive? How much do you loosen the reigns during each and every transition in life?

He’s not two, and neither am I, and yet we both seem to find a way to behave and react as such. The only difference at the moment, is that I am managing to contain a little more of my rage than him. Just.

Yes. The Big Boy’s. Allow me to explain.

We’ve grown accustomed to being called upon to converse, answer a question or get another roll of toilet paper when the Big boy settles in to his saga of a bowel emptying session. He gets a little bored, wants to know that we haven’t packed up and deserted the family home whilst he’s been straining and he uses a hell of a lot of toilet paper (despite many a lecture about trees, oxygen and life). So when he calls out from down the corridor we simply sigh, roll our eyes and nudge each other until someone gives in and trudges towards the loo. We anticipate a story about a certain imaginary dragon who seems to have become one of the family. Perhaps a fleeting thought about cucumbers or a recollection of something or someone that has floated into his wandering mind. What we don’t expect is this:

‘Mum,’ holding his index finger in front of his face, ‘I’ve got poo on my finger.’ Indeed he does.
‘Eww! How did that get there?’
‘When I wiped my bottom.’
‘Didn’t you use toilet paper?’
‘Yeah, but…’
‘Well wipe it off! Don’t just sit there waving poo in my face! Use some toilet paper and get it off!’…..’Then wash you hands really well with lots of soap!’

End of story. Except the next day, my husband comes into the lounge with this:

‘There’s poo on the wall.’
‘What?’ Glaring at the Big Boy.’When you got poo on your finger yesterday, did you wipe it on the wall?’
You can see the indecision in his eyes as he tries to work out whether he’ll suffer more from an honest, disgusting answer, or a little lie. ‘Just tell me the truth. Did you wipe poo on the wall or not?’
He can’t bring himself to respond verbally, so he nods his head silently and I remind myself to cut his finger nails.

The best part of this story is that it takes another two days for the poo to get cleaned off the wall.

If I were a car I’d run purely on gas (as a by-product of wheat), which, while being fairly cheap, would mean that I might lack power at times, struggling up the steep hills. The head gasket would need careful attention as I’d be prone to over-heating, especially on family holidays (more of that another time) and we all know that a blown head gasket can be costly, for all. My indicators would be a little unreliable, rendering other road users frustrated at having to guess which direction I’m going in, and stunned as I make sudden u-turns.

If I were a car my mirrors would always sparkle, affording a clear reflection to help guide decision making, but also allowing a guilty view of the grimy back windscreen. My tyres would require regular rotation as I wear through the rubber with poor control over the brakes, at times attempting to accelerate and brake simultaneously.

If I were a car my performance would rely on regular tuning and oil changes, and even some dormant periods in a dark garage, to rest and ensure longevity.

Oh, and I like to think that I’d be that first car that, whilst being a little dorky, is reliable and able to provide many a sweet memory.

I, perhaps naively, assumed that my role as a parent would be enough to ensure that my kids treated me with respect. You know, treat me just that little bit better than a cheeky chook in the backyard or a sticky tape dispenser that just won’t release the tape. I thought that my position meant that I didn’t have to earn respect, because I was simply entitled to it. Wrong.

This sounds strange, even to me, for I was raised to respect my parents and other adults…wasn’t I? But here I dig, and discover that there is a difference between respecting and submissing; being respected and being in control.

Controlling your kids makes life a hell of a lot easier and less embarrassing. Other parents may compliment you on your well behaved, polite children, making you beam with pride. It feels good. But whilst achieving a sociably acceptable outcome feels good, does quieting your young one with threats of punishment, with evil glares or pinches on bare arms or legs achieve respect? Does this child respect his parents or fear consequences?

My latest challenge with the Big Boy and his ‘lack of respect’ for me (as demonstrated by a blatant disregard for polite requests to PLEASE STOP COPYING WHAT I’M SAYING!!!) is really playing on my discomfort with being disrespected. Or is it the control freak in me, screaming out for the reigns? Does authority and control breed respect? I think not.

So whilst it is easy to get tougher, more demanding, threatening and punishing, it may in fact not have the desired outcome…in the long run. Respect is not borne out of fear and submission, nor is it a given. Respect is borne out of modelling the desired behaviours and attitudes; rewarding and encouraging; being honest and listening carefully; being genuine, loving, patient and respectful.

If I have one wish as a parent, it is not to have children who are obedient or ‘successful’, but to have children who respect me. And so I continue to work on earning it.

It goes against everything we will tell our kids about strangers, especially men offering gifts and cuddles. But we push them forward each year, so that they can have their annual photo with the big guy. We chuckle at the screamers, applaud the children who make it to the feet of the jolly fella, and cheer when a smile breaks out or physical contact is made without meltdown. WHAT?

The Big Boy has never really taken fondly to St Nick, but now sees him as a source of toys, the giver of gifts, the one who asks for nothing in return. So this year he went with no cajoling towards this man and snatched the bubbles right out of his hand.  He told us that this was the real Santa, as opposed to the one of TV who is simply a person dressed up as Santa. No panic attacks and no screaming.

Only a few months ago we’d had a wee chat about talking to people he doesn’t know, when he took it upon himself to go out into the front yard and talk to a walker with a dog (as opposed to going to the garage and getting in the car as he’d been instructed to do). Without wanting to squash his sociable, chatty tendency, we spoke about making sure that mum or dad is with him if he decides to wander and converse with an unknown quantity. We didn’t want to harp on about dodgy men with lollies and backseats, because instilling fear seems a little wrong.

So why is Santa any different? Should we be including a clause (excuse the clever pun) in our Stranger Danger talks about red suits, bells, sacks and ho-ho-ho’ing? Should we explain that when it comes to Christmas time, parents are inconsistent and please don’t dwell on this one too much? And then there’s the small issue of a strange man coming into their bedroom when they’re asleep…

“Welcome to the Great Debate! On the affirmative team, debating that the arrival of a newborn should mean the end of life as you knew it, is New Beginnings. On the negative team, debating that the arrival of a newborn should not mean the end of life as you knew it, is Clutching On. Opening the debate is the affirmative.”

New Beginnings:
“You chose (either intentionally, or by a lack of diligence or thought) to have a baby. You made a decision to bring another life into the world. It is, therefore, your DUTY to care for and nurture this person. Your DUTY. Anything other than complete devotion and dedication is negligence. From the moment of conception, you can choose to harm your baby and jeopardise her future (for example, by drinking black tea or nibbling on soft cheese during pregnancy; by leaving her to cry in her early days; by having her jabbed with toxins; by saying no to any request; by getting angry at impossible behaviour), or do the right thing and always put her needs first in the most gentle of ways. ALWAYS.”

Clutching On:
“You cannot be serious? Are you really saying that a new mum should forsake her own needs and desires for her baby? That anyone should completely surrender themselves to any other person? We don’t do it when we marry, do we? (or do we?) And at what point does this duty, this dedication stop? Are we expected to pander to our children until we hit the grave with a thud, unrecognisable as the person who once existed before parenthood? Why not just jump into the nearest vacant plot now?”

New Beginnings:
“A little melodramatic, don’t you think? Nurturing another human is the most rewarding task of all. Watching her grow and develop; fostering the most sacred and lasting bond of all. Letting her know that you are there, always, to comfort and support her. To cuddle her when she’s sad and nurse her back to health when illness strikes. Allowing her to see that you would do anything for her. Is that so hard?”

Clutching On:
“Allow me to clarify the topic. We’re talking about ‘the end of life as we knew it’, yes? Right, well, let’s stick to that shall we, and stop using Guilt to distract us from the debate. I’m not saying that it isn’t a parent’s job to love, nurture, educate and nurse her child. I am not saying that it’s okay to wittingly cause harm to your child, in the womb or in the arms. But I am saying that life does not need to end for the parent. It is well known that a child needs many things in order to thrive both physically and emotionally. One of the most significant factors is the wellbeing of his parents. Parents need to respond to their own needs, nurture their own emotions in order to make themselves available to nurturing someone else. It could be a cup of black tea, a row of Cadbury chocolate, a hit of tennis, dinner out with friends or returning to work. Life as we know it does not and should not end when a baby arrives.”

New Beginnings:
“Selfish. When a baby arrives, she is your life. Tennis? Work? You’re happy to leave your baby for such trivial pursuits? They are more important than your own child? If you’re a real parent, with real feelings and a proper sense of responsibility, you don’t need or even yearn for more than that. Life as you know it does and should end when the most precious gift of all arrives.”

Clutching On:
“Well start digging that plot. Or should I say, you mind the child and get someone else to dig it for you? Guilt abounds and drowns us parents, even when we do attempt to do our best for our children. Unrealistic and outdated expectations only set us up for failure and a close encounter with the ailing mental health system. Go get a spade and leave me to go for a run (child looked after by another loving adult) on the green grass above you.”

At this point, both parties are required to shake hands and congratulate each other on doing the best they can (it’s in The Club‘s Code of Conduct).