Exploding rainbows

Wondering what to do with the kids? Here is a simple activity that B and Little Miss called exploding rainbows. Seeing as B can't get enough of anything war or bomb related (hear me cringe) and Little Miss's favourite colour is currently rainbow, this activity went down a treat. I also liked it as I had everything on hand and didn't need to purchase anything special.

To make your own exploding rainbows take a plate of milk

Add some food colouring

Then dip an ear bud into some liquid soap like hand wash and then into the milk. Watch in amazement as the soap changes the surface of the milk and the colours mix together.





I could have talked to the kids about the science of detergents and fats or even prattled on about colour mixing, but I didn't. Instead we just played, they never asked why? So we just enjoyed the magic of their exploding rainbows.

Eight

I can't help but look on my first born's birthday as the day I became a parent. B's birthday is not only a celebration for him, but a huge milestone in my life too.

I never thought I would have a son who is eight. When I first held my new born son in my arms eight years ago I was so relieved. Relieved that the labour was over, relieved he had all the right bits in the right places and relieved to put all that IVF process behind us. Finally I was a Mum at last with my real live baby in my arms.

Little did I know. That shoulder dropping relief didn't last long at all. Within 2 hours of his birth baby B started to struggle to breathe, instead he made a grunty noise that worried the midwife. So B was taken away from me and examined. Next thing we knew he was in intensive care and a machine was breathing for him.

I was left empty and without my baby B in my arms.

The next 48 hours are a bit of a blur. My pure new baby was now in the hands of strangers. He lay connected to machines that bleeped. Tubes came out of him and wires and tape were stuck all over him. I couldn't see his face properly for the ventilation tube. All the time I was thinking,
"After all that IVF we went through, how can this be happening to us?"
I wondered if I was ever really meant to be a Mum.

Doctors talked about brain scans and infections. Baby B developed a very high temperature. X-rays revealed mucus in his lungs and the brain scan showed swelling. They thought he got distressed during the birth. He was given various types of antibiotics intravenously, plus a paralysing drug to stop him fighting the ventilator. All the time he was inside me I hadn't had one drop of alcohol or even one paracetamol tablet.

Then he improved and breathed for himself. He came away from Intensive care and went into the special care unit. I got to hold him for little bits. I changed his nappy and saw his body for the first time. Thankfully he kept improving. We fed baby B via a tube. I expressed my milk for him then syringed it up his nose via the tube. I never imagined doing that to a baby. He kept improving and I got to attempt breastfeeding with baby B in my arms at last. But he didn't want to suck. With midwives looking on and coaching, B and I slowly learned to breastfeed. Days seemed like weeks, but eventually baby B left the special care unit and roomed in with me. Over the course of seven days we went to hell and back but finally he got the hang of being a baby and I really did get to be his Mum.

That shaky start to parenting has been the worst thing we have ever been through. Thankfully B has been quite drama free since his first week of life. A paediatrician did say to us,
"This is probably the most stress this child will cause you throughout your life."
And he has been right so far. B has been comparatively easy since then.


So happy Birthday my dear B. As we travel our journey together as mother and son I can't help but be so proud of you. Not only have you beaten all the odds of IVF and a dodgy birth, but you have grown up over the last eight years into a spunky kid who knows his own mind. An eight year old mind that is developing fast and shows so much promise. You delight all who meet you. I feel so lucky to be your Mum, eight years ago you gave me the best purpose in the world. I love you so so very much.

Self discipline

Self discipline is controlling yourself.

I use self discipline when I stop at one chocolate biscuit. When two would be much nicer.


I also try to use self discipline when the kids are going crazy. I might feel like screaming or hiding in a cupboard, but instead I try to be a reassuring calm Mum who reminds everyone about the rules.

The rules are not always explicit though, like our dinner time rules. I tend to think of the rules as a general code of behaviour that we learn through experience and consequence. Like if you make a big mess then you have to help clean it up or if you hurt someone you say sorry.

But the kids like things to be black and white, spelt out and written in stone. Perhaps it may have been unfair to have this vague notion of "the rules" and "appropriate behaviour"without really working the rules though with the kids and recording them for future reference.

So the other day when I was trudging up the stairs carrying a fully loaded laundry basket and B and Little Miss bombarded me with missiles over the stair banister I drew on my own self discipline to not go mental at them. Instead I had a talk to B, the instigator of the missile attack. I could see his eyes glaze over as I ranted on about the dangers of throwing things at people on stairs, throwing stuff in the house blah blah blah. There was a cheeky smirk in his face,  every fibre of my being was furious. I was totally livid with him.

So what should I do? I think I even asked him that. I could see that talking wasn't working B was in one of those silly moods, he wasn't listening or following any thoughts through. Out of no where I told him to sit on the naughty stool and write out the rules. Little Miss was set to work cleaning up the missile mess.

After some time B presented these rules to me.

And I was really impressed as not only had he included a rule for not throwing and dropping things, but he had also included a rule for not running inside, not jumping on the furniture and no talk back. Much more than I expected.

After another incident where he gave me a lot of lip, his father sent him to the naughty stool to read his own rules. His dad asked him, "So what rule did you mess up on?"
"No talk back" was his response.

B can't argue with his own rules in his own handwriting. He is actually disciplining himself. I hope this is a breakthrough and a means to help B learn some real self discipline. Something we are all learning to draw on throughout our lives whether it be the temptation of another biscuit or a full blown melt down in a cupboard.