Family Matters: Laughter and wisdom from the home front

By Pat McDermott

Life, love and laughter from one of the Australian Women's Weekly's most adored contributors - 30 years and still going strong!

'Children between the ages of twelve and 25 find parents embarrassing 95 per cent of the time. Any younger and they're so uncritical they think you look good in swimmers. Any older and they drop in just long enough to leave their laundry and borrow $50. If you want to embarrass your kids you have to strike when they're teenagers.'

For 30 years, Pat McDermott's much-loved 'Family Matters' saga has unfolded on the last page of The Australian Women's Weekly. Her hilarious observations on her own family (five kids!) and their dramas, from toilet-training to weddings and beyond (grandchildren!), her long-suffering husband (MOTH, the Man of the House), an endless succession of beloved and badly behaved pets and just about every situation a couple or family can find themselves in, have kept readers amused and entertained every month since 1984.

Now these generations of readers can relive their favourite 'Family Matters' moments and new fans can be charmed by Pat's warm, laugh-out-loud anecdotes and confessions.

This is the perfect book for every imperfect family - a treasure trove of wisdom, love and laughter from one of Australia's most adored chroniclers of family life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Allen & Unwin
• Release date: Oct 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781743439180

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

Before we begin I should explain something.

I’m not a brave woman.

For example, I wouldn’t take a spluttering candle and go down into a damp, dark cellar to investigate strange groaning noises.

No, not me.

Not even if I was to learn that the groaning noises were coming from the Man of the House (MOTH) pinned to the floor under a case of fine unwooded chardonnay. I’d probably send someone else down to bring up the unbroken bottles.

You can keep your attics, caves, windswept moors, gloomy mansions and remote motels. Alfred Hitchcock would despair of me. Psycho wouldn’t get past the opening credits if I’d checked in to the Bates Motel.

‘Young man I don’t like the look of you. I insist on meeting your mother immediately. And I didn’t order room service so you can just put that knife away!’

Mountaineers like to say they climb mountains simply because the mountains are there. How ridiculous. The ironing is there but you don’t see me doing it.

I found another way to get my thrills, chills and spills.

I had a child—and then four more. I discovered that parenthood made climbing mountains look like a walk in the park.

Thirty years ago I was offered the opportunity to write a lighthearted but truthful column in The Australian Women’s Weekly about raising a family in Australia. I accepted.

I looked as honestly as I could at my own experiences and borrowed from the real life dramas of family and friends to convey the realities of parenthood.

My family doctor said he liked the way I made ‘something out of nothing’ every month. Obviously, I still had a lot of work to do.

I told him it’s the little ‘nothing’ moments, the frustrations, the small tragedies, the sound of 4000 plastic building blocks hitting the floor, flooding washing machines, parent–teacher nights, cake stalls and graduation balls that make family life rich in experience, love and tolerance.

It’s why most of us get out of bed in the morning.

People sometimes ask when or if I plan to write ‘serious stuff’. Do I have a novel in me? Well, of course I do. Show me the journalist who doesn’t think they could write a great novel and I’ll show you a dead body. But if and when I do it will be about family. All the greatest novels are.

My doctor billed me for a long consultation.

When I started writing the column 30 years ago I had a house full of big-eyed babies and toddlers with chubby cheeks who liked nothing better than to lie on their backs wearing a huge smile and not much else while carefully examining their toes. One day, when my back was turned, everyone grew up.

They moved out and in and out again. Other people joined ‘the firm’ and the membership grew. Before I knew it, there was a high chair in the kitchen once more and a travel cot in the study. The roller coaster ride goes on.

Our five children grew up in the pages of The Australian Women’s Weekly. This collection moves back and forth over the years from when they were wee babies to the twenty- and 30-somethings they are now. Their partners and friends enrich our lives and the privilege of parenthood is enhanced by becoming grandparents.

Over the years readers shared their own family experiences and reassured me I was on the right track. ‘Your articles take the sting out of the hard and the mundane,’ said one. Another wrote, ‘It is like you know what is going on in my house. You shine a light and remind me to look at the bigger picture—thanks.’

No. Thank you. After all, we’re in this together.

Pat McDermott

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Ruff Red—giving babies a bad name

If, as one wag suggested, death is nature’s way of telling you to slow down, then I’ve decided Ruff Red is nature’s way of telling me I may have had enough children.

Ruff Red is a ‘Bad Baby’ and it has come as a bit of a shock.

I’ll admit that I might have been a trifle smug when the other four were little—they were, by and large, easy-going, placid babies, and as I nursed one or the other on my knee I would watch Bad Babies going by and think to myself: ‘If only their mothers knew how to manage babies, they wouldn’t be so difficult.’ And then Ruff Red arrived, and I’ve been apologising ever since.

How can you tell a Bad Baby? Here is a Bad Baby checklist. Read it and weep.

• Bad Babies are born knowing the difference between a cheese stick and a chocolate biscuit.

• Bad Babies take tiny bites out of lovely apples and then throw them on the floor or at other people.

• Bad Babies speak early and very clearly. They say what everyone else is thinking such as, ‘That man smells funny. No—not THAT man, THAT MAN!’

• Bad Babies lie on the floor in change rooms and look under the doors at strangers in their underwear.

• Bad Babies call every man you meet Daddy!

• Bad Babies insist on feeding themselves from the time they’re six months old.

• Bad Babies, therefore, often look a mess.

• Bad Babies walk everywhere carrying cups of milk or juice or water and are surprised when big splashes fall on the floor. Bad Babies always bend down to have a good look and hey presto —Niagara Falls.

• Bad Babies tidy up their tray after dinner by throwing globs of potato and bits of carrot all over the floor.

• Bad Babies don’t like the television program you are watching so they stand in front of the screen or take the remote control and turn the TV off and on, but mostly off.

• Bad Babies bite for fun.

• Bad Babies like to pat dogs, especially big dogs. They pat pretty hard.

• Bad Babies don’t like cats. The feeling is mutual.

• Bad Babies like to squish the last bit of banana through their fingers and then wipe it on your white shirt when you’re not looking.

• Bad Babies go to their big sister’s room and knock things off shelves. Sometimes, for a change, they rip pages out of books or tear up artwork.

• Bad Babies don’t want their own ball—they want the ball that belongs to that other baby. They want it NOW.

• Bad Babies promise not to splash and make a mess.

• Bad Babies always have their fingers crossed.

• Bad Babies know what potties are for and they don’t care.

• Bad Babies go to pre-school to paint the floor and other children.

• Bad Babies have well-worn houses with bits of plaster missing, fingerprints on the stair wall and marks on the carpet.

• Bad Babies have well-worn mothers and fathers with bits of food on their clothes.

• Bad Babies throw yoghurt over the side of the shopping trolley and eat the biscuits before you get to the checkout.

• Bad Babies DO NOT WANT to sit in their stroller or their car seat. Not now, not ever!

• Good friends say your baby is lively, energetic and incredibly bright. They reckon the scratch on the car will polish out nicely.

• Not-so-good friends say you’re very patient and give you the name of a sedative that worked for them. Also they’ll get the window replaced and send you the bill.

• Grandparents and other kindly souls think Bad Babies are terrific and sweet and ‘will soon grow out of it’. Whether this means their behaviour or just their jumper, I can’t say.

• Bad Babies love you to bits and give you big, smacking kisses . . . just before they clobber you with a toy car.

• Bad Babies’ parents go everywhere twice, the second time to apologise.

• Bad Babies grow up too quickly. But that’s another story. (See Ruff Red turns 21.)

The naming game

For many years on winter Saturday mornings I stood in the rain and watched my children play sport. I loved it. I really did.

I liked the way, no matter what I was wearing, the rain found its way slowly down my neck. I relished the ‘duck and weave’ to avoid a ball coming my way and I had a lot of fun shouting instructions from the sidelines.

The best part about ‘Sporting Saturdays’ was always the food—lukewarm meat pies and little paper bags of red (never green!) frogs. When you’re cold you can eat anything you like and not put on weight. Shivering burns kilojoules. Shouting burns even more. Going back and forth to the tuckshop for stewed tea and muddy coffee takes care of the rest.

But my children don’t do anything on Saturdays now. Or nothing they want me to watch, at any rate, so I have what is now called ‘me’ time. I’m careful to put it to good use. I do this by reading the obituaries in the Saturday paper. And no, I’m not checking to see if my husband, Dennis, the Man of the House (MOTH) and I are on the list! Not just yet.

I read the obits because I’m fascinated by the laundry list of children, grandchildren and great grandchildren of the recently deceased whose names are included in the notices. This is clearly the place to go if you are searching for a name for your new baby or baby-to-be.

Choosing a baby name requires care and creativity. Naming a child after a favourite relative or friend is too easy. It’s like you’re just not trying. And you can’t get away with the American custom of adding a number even if it means your very own Charles Winthrop-Huffington III needs a nappy change.

All over the country pregnant couples and expectant grandmothers struggle to find or invent unique names. But, as they say on Project Runway—one day you’re in (Charlie, Archer, Cooper, Noah, Lucas, Lily, Ruby and Madison) and the next day you’re out (Christopher, Ava, Olivia, Sienna, Joshua, Riley and Max).

Some people inject individuality by creative spelling. Why have Taylor when you can have Taellah? Or try Pjaksonne (the P is silent) and amaze the staff in the passport office. And who can resist spice rack names like Saffron and Tarragon? Not me! I guess Coriander, Chives and Oregano are okay for second names but nobody deserves to be called ‘Chicken Salt’ do they? PULLLEASE!

But wait just a minute. This is Australia. If this country didn’t invent the nickname it certainly perfected it. Just ask Ruff Red’s friend Noodles. (Yes, he is Chinese.)

Let’s be frank. In Australia nobody’s baby is going to be called their carefully chosen name for very long.

The MOTH has been called McTavish by family and friends for years. In turn he wasted no time re-christening each of our children. Reagan started life as Pigeon Pie but later became Finzi (The Garden of the Finzi-Continis was a favourite film of the MOTH’s). Flynn, who was the smallest, became Baby Flynn. Patrick’s wry sense of humour earned him the nickname Hawkeye after the surgeon in the TV series, M*A*S*H. Courtenay puts up with Pinkie (or the Pink Pet or even the Pink Pet Kangaroo) because 27 years ago she looked pretty in her pink baby clothes.

There are no prizes for guessing that Rowen was Ruff Red about a minute after he was born—something to do with his strawberry blond hair and feisty manner.

And the latest additions to the family, granddaughters Audrey and Eleanor, have now been officially re-named Sweet Pea and Captain Smiley.

My nickname? Well, if you must know it’s Sheila. Unless we’re running late in which case it’s Sheel! The MOTH told me all Australian women were known as Sheilas and he wanted me to feel right at home. Gee thanks.

Celebrity mums

You’ve got to love celebrity mums-to-be. Hardly a week goes by without one of them, coyly stroking a tiny baby bump, telling us over breakfast that she’s thrilled to be expecting. The Sunday newspapers dutifully report that her ageing partner is, understandably, ‘elated’ and absolutely ‘supportive’—all of which goes down well with his ex-wife’s breakfast toast and marmalade.

Three months later we learn they’re reading childbirth manuals and drinking spinach smoothies to ensure optimal brain development. I’m guessing here that they mean the baby’s brain! Pretty soon she and the bump are listening to Mozart and he’s reading poetry out loud in the general direction of her stomach. Seven months in and their PR team is talking books, film rights, a lingerie line for expectant mothers and a new perfume in time for Christmas.

Baby names? They’re working on it. They want something dignified but catchy. Cumquat and GoKart are on the short list.

Then it’s time to plan the birth—natural of course with twenty close family and friends, several children from a previous marriage, one lawyer from a previous marriage, the film crew, a journalist from the magazine that bought the exclusive rights and a nice guy from the publicity department.

Of course there are caterers and a few helpers to light the scented candles and fill the birthing pool. A doctor? A celebrity obstetrician and an anaesthetist too—just in case things get—eeeww—painful.

And finally there’s the official announcement: THIS BABY IS NOT GOING TO CHANGE THEIR LIVES! With only a little help from a live-in nanny, a housekeeper, an ironing lady, the kids from the previous marriage, the butcher who delivers (also from a previous marriage), ten or eleven devoted grandparents and that nice guy from the publicity department, they’ll keep their careers on the boil, their social life lively and still find time to bring up the baby.

Apparently they plan to see the baby at regular intervals. At least, whenever they’re in town.

Meanwhile, the mother-to-be keeps up a punishing schedule. In and out of limos, day spas and cafes, she finds time to interview birthing coaches and frolic in icy waves for the paparazzi. In the photos she wears a pink bikini she designed herself.

And, finally, the launch of ‘Preggy in Pink’—her very own exclusive lingerie line. Yes, the panties are pricey at $98.99 a pair but, as she points out, ‘you don’t get to be a mum every day!’

Well, here’s the thing. In the real world you do get to be a mum every day. Even on the days when you just want to stay in bed and pull the sheets over your head.

You can see real mums everywhere. They struggle in the rain to fold giant strollers into car boots, lug groceries and screaming toddlers down supermarket ramps, put their names on the tuck shop roster. They hear slow readers and make cupcakes. Yes, of course they’d be delighted to hand out the 3rd place ribbons at the swimming carnival.

And despite the endless work and worry, an amazing number of women manage to stay well groomed, good humoured and gentle throughout. Little babies with wah-wah cries and years of cake stalls, noisy washing machines, good teachers, bad teachers, head lice, birthday parties and children who vomit on their doonas at midnight might weary them—but still they get up in the morning.

A drum roll please for the real celebrities—the mums and dads who hold down jobs, settle arguments and can’t remember the last time they went to the toilet alone.

I read once that you never know how much your mother loves you until you explore the attic. There are five boxes in our attic, one for each child—100 years of finger paintings; odd pottery dishes; school ties; merit awards; class photos; a few 1st, some 2nd and lots of 3rd place ribbons; Christmas, Easter and Mother’s Day cards brought home crumpled in the bottom of school bags.

I wouldn’t have missed a day of it. (Well, maybe two or three.)

Happy Mother’s Day.

Strolling into the future

There was a time when an early morning walk was a solitary affair despite the odd distraction. Garbagemen would sometimes try to wake the dead by smashing bottles and aiming bin lids at the blooms on the agapanthus and there was the occasional exploding ATM. But most of the time it was quiet and I walked alone with my thoughts.

Not anymore. The streets are alive with women walking. By 6.05 most mornings we’re pounding pavements and pathways in our leggings and roomy T-shirts. In comfortable twos and threes, or dragging reluctant husbands and dogs, we’ve hit the road, Jack.