The Green Butterfly Part II

As promised, photos of my BEAUTIFUL Green Butterfly Jelly Bean!

And as it started to go a little pear shaped - ie. we had an argument about him putting his hands down his pants in every photo.

Things The Bean has said:

As I am turning lights off and we are walking out the door, kitted up as A Green Butterfly.

TB: Mama, I don't want to be a butterfly anymore. I want to be a racing car.

Me: You are dressed up, you are going as a Green Butterfly! (read completely exasperated tone)

TB: I'm not a Green Butterfly, anymore, I'm a racing car.

Me: Well you sure look like a Green Butterfly to me.

TB: I look like a butterfly, but I'm really a racing car.

The Green Butterfly - Part I

The Jelly Bean's creche is having a dress up day tomorrow. I was talking to a couple of others at work the other day and asked them what on earth I was going to get him to dress up in. The sign reporting the dress up day also clearly stated 'No Superheroes' (they kill people, see).

Pirates were ok, I was told. And considering the area, I'm sure there are going to be a few soldiers.. But I digress...

The Jelly Bean owns a Batman costume. But that is not in the rules. The other girls at work suggested a rock star, a pirate, I suggested a ghost. I was thinking of the stuff we had at home, these three options were do-able.

This morning I told the Jelly Bean that he was having a dress up day at creche. Instead of suggestions, I asked him what he wanted to be...

TB: A butterfly.
Me: Oh cool, what colour butterfly would you like to be?
TB: A Green Butterfly, please.
(Such good manners)
Me: We'll have to go buy you some wings. What if they don't have green wings, what colour would you like?
The Bean looked confused.
TB: I want to be a green butterfly, Mama.
Me: Yeah I know, but if they don't have any green wings, what colour would you choose next?
TB: Ummmmmm, yellow.
Me: OK, yellow, just in case.
TB: No please, not yellow, I want green.

We went to swimming. He got in trouble and got sent out of the pool for not doing good listening. He waited patiently then burst into tears and refused to go back into the pool. He chucked a tanty getting changed. I was about to veto the butterfly wings.

But I felt that I had to keep my side of the bargain.

And here is where the admission of shame comes in.

I wanted to be the cool mum that let's her little boy dress up as anything he wants. I wanted to be the cool mum that supports her son in anything he wants to be, to grow to be, to choose to be.

I wanted to be that mum.

So I HAD to get the butterfly wings. They didn't have green ones. They didn't have yellow ones, either.

We got blue ones. And we got some green Christmas decorations and some green shiny string stuff and with the wings came a head band (it was for girls of course) so I put green Christmas baubles onto the wire at the end of the headband and made antennae. I stuck baubles onto the wings and some string and made the wings as green and butterfly-y as possible. I got an old green singlet of his and I painted black stripes onto it. I took the black pants out of his Batman costume and he is going to wear them as insect-y legs.

I'm going to take pictures.

I'm going to be so proud of him.

We had to go to the supermarket and we saw a friend of mine while we were down there. The Bean of course, wanted to wear his new wings and antennae and he looked adorable. But I was so ready for someone to shoot him down. To ask if he was a fairy.

I had my defensive finger on the trigger, just waiting for someone to have a go at him. Or me for letting him be him.

And then I realised, this was more about me than it was about him. Two old ladies told him how good he looked. One person asked if he was a spaceman. Another woman told him to be careful because in the wind, he might just blow away on a day like today.


The friend of mine that we saw told him he was a 'very spunky butterfly'.

Then I started rambling.

And I might have even told a white lie.

Me (paraphrased - but you'll get the idea): I know, he's a butterfly, they've got a dress up day at creche tomorrow and I asked him if he wanted to be a pirate or a rock star, we have a ukelele at home, he could've taken a guitar, but he said he wanted to be a butterfly, so I was like, cool, what colour butterfly babe? and he said a green butterfly mama but they didn't have any green wings, or yellow wings which was his second choice, so we got blue ones instead....

My friend to The Bean: Your mama is SO clever making your wings more green so you can be a green butterfly, hey?

TB: Yup.

And then, later on, I called my mum to tell her how freaked out I am about an effing mouse that is plaguing my house at the moment, but ended up telling her about the green butterfly and the ramble started again although I didn't tell her any lies, I just told her that if anyone thinks he's gay they can get rooted and if they have anything to say then that is their problem. And she agreed and said whatever makes him happy and if I'm ok with that then that's fine, too.

And then I felt like she was having a go at him. I got off the phone before we could have an argument.

I love him. I want him to be happy. I don't want his life to be about me. I don't want to push him either way to make any decisions he doesn't think are right for him.

Now I'm in tears because he wanted to be a green butterfly and I've become THAT mum.

Not the supportive one, the cool, calm, accepting, ace one. Not the one that doesn't see gender, that doesn't hold stake in gender roles, sexual preferences, identity of sexual preference or gender at not even four years old. Instead I'm THAT mum. The awful, opposite of all that I outwardly represent.

The hypocrite one.

The militant one.


Things The Bean has said.

TB: A,B,C,D,E,F,G. H,I,J,K,ELemendede, P,Q,R,S - W, X,Y and Z now I know my ABCs, next time won't you sing with me.
(I keep waiting to see if he'll include T,U,V and I wait til the last micro second to interject and say T,U,V but he always gets to W before I can do it. Timing is everything I'm told..)


In the car.
TB: Mama, I'd like a boat.
Me: Really?
TB: Yup.
Me: But I can't afford a boat, baby.
TB - BLANK STARE
Me: I don't have enough money for a boat.
TB: Yeah, ya do.

The approaching 4 factor...

This is where we're at...

The Jelly Bean argues every point. I am in constant battle with the 'approaching 4 year old' logic and I lose more often than I win.

The Jelly Bean's favourite quotes within these battle of wits, strike that, battle of logics, are -

'No!'

'I don't want to!'

'But I want it/to do *that*/to eat this lollipop NOW!'

'Did you hear what I said?'

'Are you listening to my words?'

'MAMA!!!!!!!!!!'

'But I AM being a nice boy/friendly/talking nicely to you/using my manners!'

Tears also are in abundance.

As is the phrase when he wants attention or for me to stop doing something that I'm interested in/involved with/working on -
'I just want you.'

And how can one react to that other than to drop everything and pick him up and give him cuddles and tell him that I'm here. I'll always be here. I love him, so.

Emotional blackmail works a treat for the approaching 4 year old.

We've implemented a new tool. I have drawn up a chart and stuck it with a magnet to the side of the washing machine. He can see this chart when he cleans his teeth. It has a column for smiley faces and a column for sad faces. If he fills a row with smiley faces he can have a treat - a trip to the cool park, an icy pole, to make some cookies, to play with a friend. But if he fills up a column with sad faces he's not allowed to go to swimming and I can take one of his favourite toys away. We haven't filled up either column yet, but the threat of the sad faces seems to be working well.

Until this morning when I asked him if he wanted a sad face for being silly and jumping on the couch. He said, 'Yes please. I'd like a sad face.' Then promptly walked into the bathroom waiting for a sad face.

Touché

At times like this all one can reasonably do is lie on the couch or on one's bed and look out the window at the swishy tree outside.

Things The Bean has said:

When looking at the swishy tree.
Me: Baby, can you see that birdy in the swishy tree.
TB: Yup. Where is it?
Me: On that branch.
TB: Hey Mama. There's a rhino.
Me: In the tree?
TB: No, Mama. It's a rhino pig.
Me: A rhino pig?
TB: Hmmm.
Me: Does it have a rhino face.
TB: Yeah.
Me: And a pig body.
TB: No Mama, not a pig body. A rhino body.
Me: So it's a rhino.
TB: No it's a rhino pig.


I was cooking. The Bean, from the lounge room -
TB: Mama, my name's not Jelly Bean anymore. I'm just Relax.
Me: Oh really? Your name's Relax or you are relaxed?
TB: Yup, I'm Relax, it's my racing car name.


We'd had some friends over in the afternoon, we'd eaten dips and other assorted snacks. After saying goodbye I'd come inside, gone to the loo and then to my room to get changed into my non-company tracky dacks. I'd been out of sight for maybe 2 minutes.

TB: Mama, I ate all your biscuits!


One morning I was dozing in bed while The Bean was playing with his cars. He'd eaten breakfast but had started nagging me to get up, from the lounge room.

TB: Mama, can you listen to my words?!
Me: Hmmmm.
TB: Mama, you have a big stretch and then I'll come in and talk to you.

Guilty, of love in the first degree...

Love.

'Love is a many splendid thing,
Love lifts us up where we belong,
All you need is love.'

Ewan MacGregor got it right. But with ultimate love comes ultimate guilt. Feeling guilty of getting it all very, very wrong.

And the mother guilt we pass down onto our children, from our mothers and their mothers and every other parent in the known history of the known universe has given it all to their off-spring and I'm feeling ALL of it, from ALL of them, EVER, ALL of the time because what if I'm messing him up? What if the Bean turns out ultimately crap without any sense of respect for life and love and people and feelings and family, without any sense of being a good man, without any sense of direction?

We went swimming today with a good friend of mine who is 6 months pregnant and already so much more relaxed about things than I ever was, have been, potentially will be. I have my moments of calm and my moments of content and I LOVE THEM, but at the end of the day, I'm a worrier. This has also been passed down so graciously from my fore-father (yes, singular... Thanks Dad).

This friend told me to just let the Bean swing into the pool from the pool steps because he's only going to hurt himself once. I've got to let him hurt himself. I was never going to be one of 'those' mothers. The ones that worry about their kids being dirty or sick or hurt. I'm certainly not a helicopter at the park mother, I let him fall of slides and swings and light houses all the time. In fact, just this afternoon he scraped his little spunky face because he fell off the climb-y stairs thing and I made a joke out of it. He wasn't really hurt, I wobbled his legs to check it they were broken. Then I wobbled his arms to check if they were aslo broken. By the time I tickled his tummy and his back in search of broken bits he was giggling and fine. But at the pool I'm a shouter. A 'Get Back Over Here Jelly BEAN', type mother. I try to make him stop throwing stuff. I try to make him eat his vegetables. I have to do homework while he hangs out with himself.

I don't really let him eat many lollies. Or chocolate. Or Ice Cream.

And I'm tired of making sure I'm always saying the right thing because sometimes, just sometimes, a good Swear Fest Vent 2010 can go a long way to making one feel better about the injustices of one's world/day/job/life/frustrating situation at hand.

And I feel so guilty when I get it wrong. And when other people seem to be getting it right.

And I don't want the responsibility, sometimes. Just sometimes.

Because I don't have to justify myself. I don't need to explain how I live my life to anybody. I don't need anyone's approval of my parenting skills or lack, accordingly, thereof. But at the end of his teenage years, when I'm both a teacher of teenagers and a parent of a teenager I know how many judgments will have come my way. He will be a teenage boy. He will drive everyone around him to near insanity. Wait, he'll, one day, BE IN YEAR 9!

And that worries me. This whole gig. This parenting deal.

Sometimes, it's just too hard. And I don't know what the fuck to do.


Things The Bean has said:

1. I walk into the lounge room and all of the cushions from the couch are all on the floor.

TB: Hi Mama, I'm a froggy. And I've hopped and hopped onto all these Lilly Pats.
Me: Hi Froggy.
TB: No, my name is Munjel The Frog.

2. *Sounds of flushing toilet*

Me: Did you just do some poos?
TB: No but there was a thing on the ground and I put it in the toilet and closed the lid and I pressed the button and now it's gone away!

*flashes me the proudest grin EVER*

(I Remember the purple paper clip I'd seen on the floor earlier but couldn't be bollocksed bending down to pick it up)
Me: Was the thing purple?
TB: Yup.
Me: Oh, you could have just given it to me babe, it didn't need to get flushed down the toilet.
TB: No Mama, it was yucky!

3. Driving past the local small plane/helicopter airfield, The Bean points out some planes with rotar blades on the front.
TB: Mama, Look at those heli-planes!