The Sailor's movie meanderings: 3 Mile Limit

Today marks the beginning of a new series on this blog: The Sailor's Movie Meanderings.  As you may have gathered, we've had a new addition to our household.  I've dubbed him The Sailor, since he was born in the caul and according to ancient lore, will be forever protected from drowning.

Last week The Sailor suggested it was about time I took him to a movie.  He reasoned that no age is too young to enjoy a film, and I thought it was about time we got out of the house.  Movie theatres here in Wellington have special screenings to which you can take your baby and not have to worry about whether he fusses through the entire film.  I'm going to try and get to at least one film a week until The Sailor's naps are incompatible with movie watching.

Last week we went to The Penthouse to see 3 Mile Limit.  It was actually supposed to be another film, but a technical glitch meant that The Sailor and I, as the only viewers, got to choose something else.

It's lucky we had the friendly projectionist to guide us through the options, as we would have skipped over this one based on the title alone.  I thought it might be another rap artist's drama, like Eminem's 8 Mile.  Surely someone could have come up with a catchier title?  Something that more accurately foreshadowed the content, like Pirate Radio?  Or The Boat That Rocked?  Oh that's right, a movie with both those titles has already been made (they used Pirate Radio for the North American release).  What about Six Months in a Leaky Boat then?  That would have had broader nostalgic Kiwiana appeal.

3 Mile Limit is the New Zealand version of Pirate Radio, based on the true story of Radio Hauraki - New Zealand's first commercial radio station.  One thing I'm always curious about with these "based on a true story" movies is how closely they resemble the truth.  Of course real life is never as exciting as the movies, so I am willing to forgive a bit of creative retelling.  As far as I can tell, this creative retelling has most of the elements of the original story, albeit in slightly different order.

The movie did miss one event however: the time that the Radio Hauraki director ran into my dad's car as he was driving down Wellesley Street.  As narrated by Dad:

It was Wellesley St East, about 9:30 pm....rainy night, I had been studying at the Auckland Uni library and was heading home, David Gates came out of High Street and turned onto Wellesley St in front of me, with brakes applied my 52 Austin went into hydroplaning mode and slid down the street towards Queen St and a telephone box, where, on the left hand corner there was a telephone booth of the old red variety.  Someone was talking on the phone and as I came sliding towards it, I saw her step out of the box while still holding the phone at the length of the cord.  I stopped just short of the box.  She stepped back in and continued the conversation and Gates stopped and came over and asked if everything was ok..He was driving a very flash Jaguar, which in the early 70s in NZ was certainly a money car!  He gave me his details and drove off.  I had no need to contact him.

I guess, in the big scheme of things, such an event didn't change the course of Radio Hauraki's history (nor my dad's), so I can understand why it ended up on the cutting room floor.

Back to the movie, in all its 1960s New Zealand cringe-worthy glory.  In short, this is a feel-good David vs Goliath drama, with a bit of comedy, romance and adventure thrown in for good measure.

• the David and Goliath bit: it's Radio Hauraki vs the New Zealand Broadcasting Corporation, which has a stranglehold on NZ radio
• the comedy: it's 1960s New Zealand for a start - you probably couldn't get a more stodgy era in NZ history - this is personified in the character of Morrie the dorky radio engineer who is the brains behind the operation
• the romance: the visionary, Richard, and his wife have a cute little romance going on
• the adventure: there's a leaky boat, multiple storms, and about six crazy guys - all the ingredients you need.

The New Zealand accents were a bit overdone, but the movie captured the stiffness and conformity of NZ society of the 1960s - as well as the exciting undercurrent of rebellion that the Radio Hauraki directors and DJs tapped into.

And most importantly, what did The Sailor think?  Well, he had trouble staying awake.

Rating: *** (worth leaving the house for)

Why toddlers are like teenagers

The toddler in our house is almost four, which I guess means he's about to graduate from official toddlerhood into a preschooler.  Friends of ours have a teenager in their house, and we occasionally swap stories about behaviours that are making us tear our hair out.  Last time we did this, we noticed some striking similarities.

They are utter hedonists.  The toddler: I want ketchup with my muffin.  I will only eat the icing off the cake.  I demand that you wrap me in that fluffy towel and carry me around like a baby.  The teenager: I'll eat frozen berries all day, while lounging in my dressing gown in a darkened room.

They are experimenting with the world.  The toddler: I want to see how that ketchup feels rubbed over my cheeks and legs.  I want to see what happens when I overflow the bathroom sink.  I like to unravel all the toilet paper.  The teenager: I wonder what happens when I eat frozen berries all day, in a darkened room.

The defiance.  The toddler: I won't get in that side of the car.  I want Daddy to read me a story, not you!  I wanted jam on that other piece of toast, not this one!  The teenager:  Yeah I'll tidy my room, like, never.

Incentives don't work.  The toddler: If you don't get your pyjamas on now, there won't be any bedtime stories.  I don't want a bedtime story!!  The teenager: If you don't do your chores, you can't go over to X's house. [Nonchalant shrug].

You may have difficulty getting them to bathe.   The toddler: I don't want a bath!  Don't wash my face!  The teenager: Lynx is my friend, showers are not.

Finding Emo

They are so emo.  So emo.  Need I say more?

They have strange sleep habits.  The toddler: likes to go to sleep with the light on, would prefer to stay up late and will still wake you in the night, occasionally has difficulty rising in the morning.  The teenager: will fall asleep in front of the computer if you let him, wants to stay up late, is almost impossible to get out of bed in the mornings.

In short, they will drive you crazy.  But every once in a while, they will let their guard down, and stop being defiant, emo and difficult.  Perhaps while they're asleep, perhaps at a creche or school dropoff where they're suddenly struck with uncertainty on not seeing their friends. You will get a glimpse of their achingly gorgeous vulnerability, and it will make your breath catch in your throat.

Letter to a new mother

Dear new mother

Everyone will say 'congratulations' and you should rightly feel proud of yourself.  You just made a new human being.  They will usually follow the congratulatory remarks with a searching "and how are you?". They will study you for signs of cracking.  It's absolutely okay to get a little teary and say you're overwhelmed and confused most of the the time, not to mention exhausted.

Those who are already parents will tell you to "enjoy it - they grow up so fast".  As if they enjoyed every waking, shitting moment with their precious little bundle.  What they mean to say is to savor it.  Savor the highs and the lows.  Let the lows wash over you and tell yourself, repeatedly, this too shall pass.  And savor and celebrate the highs, commit them to memory, or better yet, take a photo.

There will be days when getting out of your pyjamas is a superhuman feat.  Put it on your 'to do' list and tick it off so you feel like you've achieved something.

Time in the shower, or even on the toilet, has suddenly become a precious commodity.  Sorry but I have no solutions here.  Console yourself with the thought that you're doing the planet some good by saving water.  Take evening baths with your baby.  Make up for lost shower time when you visit your parents or in-laws.

Everyone will tell you to "sleep when your baby sleeps". I say do whatever the hell you want while your baby sleeps - this might be your only chance today to take a shower.

Strangers will want to hold your baby, or touch his cheeks, hands or feet.  I have no solutions here either.  Give over that baby and enjoy a break.  Watch those grandma-looking types - they usually know a thing or two about holding a baby - you might learn something.  

Most days you will have moments of misery and moments of triumph.  You will be baffled when the trick you used yesterday fails to work today.  

Learn to laugh at yourself.  Tell stories about your worst days and have a laugh. Tell them to other mothers - let your guard down and get some perspective.

You may not get to the end of every day in the same clothes.  Or if you do make it, by the end of the day, forgive yourself your dignity if you're covered in splotches of milk, drool and baby vomit.

You'll be baffled, repeatedly, by the question, 'is he a good baby?'. As if babies either come out innately 'good' or 'bad'.  What they mean to ask is whether your baby is an easy baby. To which you might answer "mostly".

I also want to tell you that it's okay to feel like you might throw your baby out the nearest window because he's been fussing and crying for three hours straight and you still haven't had a god-damned shower or gotten out of your pyjamas.  In these circumstances you also need to know that no harm ever came to a baby who was put in a safe place and left to fuss for 10 minutes while her mother has a cup of tea or a quick shower.

Contact with other parents with babies will save your sanity.  Or at the very least, should give you an excuse to get out of the house.  But don't engage in the parental one-upmanship that can sometimes be a feature of conversations at mum's groups.  Your baby might sleep through the night, or even sleep for more than three hours in a row at night.  Even if you want to shout it from the rooftops, remember that the mother sitting next to you is on the edge of sanity as she hasn't slept in three days and keep it to yourself.  Tell your parents, grandparents and anyone else who doesn't have a baby in the house.

Go easy on yourself.  Your number one job is to be a parent, not to run around like a blue-assed fly ticking off jobs on your maternity leave to do list and getting all manner of household chores done.  If your baby wants to sleep on you all day, slow down, forget about the washing, vacuuming and ironing, and savor the feeling of his gorgeous little body snuggled on your chest.  Try not to feel guilty when your partner arrives home and the house looks the same as when he left that morning.  Don't imagine he's looking around thinking "what the hell has she been doing all day?".  He'll realise exactly what the hell you do all day on Saturday when it's him stuck on the couch with a sleeping baby on his chest.

The God particle: may or may not be
related to whether your baby sleeps.

Accept the fact that the buck stops with you. You're his one and only.  You know his cries, his faces, his noises and his needs.  You know the special rhythm that will ensure his descent into lala-land faster than anyone else.  You know the bounce or special move that will get a burp.   You get him.  

Take comfort from the thought that all your rocking and bouncing is burning calories.  You can finish your meal or your cup of tea later.

Above all else, don't try to solve the mystery of baby sleep.  It's the parental equivalent of discovering the God particle. 

Keep calm and carry on.

xx 

P.S. I have so much more to tell you, but I know you'll work it all out for yourself.  Go you!

Please, my child, just stay in bed and go to sleep. Please?

Milkbaby was a baby when the Go the F*&% to Sleep viral sensation happened.  If you somehow missed it, here's Samuel L. Jackson reading it.  Seriously.  How much cooler does it get than the dulcet tones of Samuel L. Jackson reading your book?

Being a new parent, I thought I could relate.  Like, totally.  Little did I know.

I'm now the parent of a willful 3 year old (what 3 year old isn't willful, right?).  The nightly bedtime battle is becoming something of a routine in this house, with Captain Boringvoice and I tearing our hair out in frustration at the repeated post-goodnight requests.

I turned to Google for help, and after a bit of digging, came across this great post.  Its suggestions include:

• giving tickets that can be redeemed for a certain number of post-goodnight errands
• a "bedtime box"of special items that can be played with while getting ready for bed
• extra love under the pillow
• getting your kid to suggest solutions

And finally, talk about it, role play it, deconstruct it the next day, and talk about it again.  One of the article's pearls of wisdom: "sometimes, saying yes to a behaviour will make it go away."  And so it is this philosophy we are trying (we decided the bedtime tickets sent the wrong message), along with a "keep calm and carry on" stoicism.  I won't claim that it's "working", but pushing the reset button on our approach to bedtime has so far resulted in no tears and no yelling (from anyone).

And it has meant I can actually see the funny side of the more unusual requests.  The best one yet?

My monkey needs a huggle.  "Okay" I yell, "just leave him in my room and I'll come and give him a hug soon!".

I go upstairs to find this:

No wonder Monkey needs a huggle.  He might also need a neck brace and some physio.

What you forget

There is a vignette in Anne Enright's book Making Babies, where she recounts a conversation with her mother.  I am probably going to make a hash of the retelling as I can't find the book (I blame baby brain), but in short, she asks her mother why kept having children (she had four).  Her mother responds simply: "you forget".

It is these words I keep returning to as I relearn how to dance with my newborn babe.  Even in labour I thought, with some indignance, "holy crap I don't remember it being THIS painful!". There is good evidence to suggest that if you've had a positive childbirth experience, your memory of the pain will diminish over time.  In my case, as soon as he was born, the relief was so immediate I wondered what all the yelling was about, and I have since struggled to recollect the pain of giving birth - much more so than the pain of a paper cut, a stubbed toe or a grazed knee.

Not only do you forget how painful labour is, you actually forget a lot about babies.  Luckily, it all comes rushing back to you, whether you want to remember it or not.  Like my total novice mistake last night of taking an unfed baby into the bath with me and Milkbaby.  I figured feeding him in the bath would relax him.  And it did, a little too much.  In no time the bath was full of baby poop.  I've never seen Milkbaby get out of the bath so quickly.

What you forget

What you forget is the utter simplicity of baby sleep
And the complexity sometimes involved in getting him there
Whisper incantations in his ear, hold him just right, bounce on one leg and hold your tongue right - and maybe, just maybe, he'll go down without a fuss
What you forget is the snuffling and sighing and snoring that will keep you awake at night
As well as how still and black it is, when it's just you and him, nursing
What you forget is the sheer physicality of new motherhood
How your body, still recovering, aches throughout the day, and each night
Your arms ache for holding, and then when empty, ache to hold again
What you forget is that a baby will not be rushed
You're on his timeframes now.
But what you won't forget is the downy feel of his head against your nose and lips
As you lean in for a kiss
And that new baby smell
Of moses basket, sour milk and fresh laundry
What you won't forget is the warm snugness of your babe nestled into your chest, learning your heartbeat.

Now I'm pregnant, feel free to comment on my body

It's a common gripe amongst pregnant women.  Suddenly your body is not your own, people feel free to comment, they touch your stomach without asking, bla bla.  Last time around, all the comments about my shape and size floated right past me, mostly unchecked and unnoticed.  I was also slightly in denial, telling everyone who commented on my size that I would be having a nice, normal-sized 7 pound baby, thank you very much.  Little did I know.

But I'm really noticing it this time.  Probably because I'm a little bit tired, and, according to the last person who looked at my scan, and the one before that, "this is going to be a very big baby".  Great.  Nice to know.  But does everyone have to comment on the fact that I look like I'm either (a) carrying twins or (b) about 8 months' pregnant?  And what is it about these comments that makes me conversationally inclined to make the commenter feel better about the faux pas they've just committed?

Almost daily I have a conversation that goes something like:

"You haven't got long to go."

"Three months, actually.  I'm not due till January."

[surprised look, reassessment of belly size] "Gosh, are you sure there's just one baby in there?"

"Yes, definitely just one baby.  He's just a big baby."

Or this one:

"Wow you look like you haven't got long to go!"

"Months actually, I'm not due till January"

"Gosh, really?"

"Yeah, don't worry, it's just a big baby boy"

[someone else, chipping in] "My daughter's about to have a baby in a few weeks and she's the same size as you"

"Is that so?" [Did you seriously just say that to me?!]

These one-liners didn't really deserve a response:

"You're huge!!!" [Thanks, I was hoping I could just stand over here unnoticed]

"You look really tired, have you got the weekend off?" [Are you kidding?  I have a three year old at home]

For some reason, I find it even more surprising that it's men doing a lot of the commenting.  Men are well-trained to know that comments on body shape/size/appearance, even the most positive and well-meaning, should be approached with extreme caution.  But once you're pregnant, it's like that rule goes out the window, and it's open season on commenting.

Babycenter.com actually has some great suggested responses.  My personal favourite:

"My excuse is that I'm pregnant, what's yours?"

A happy Mother's Day

Mother's Day.  The one day in the year when mothers across the world know for certain they can expect just a little bit of special treatment... perhaps a lie in (hallelujah), breakfast in bed or out at a cafe, alone time (at least while going to the toilet), maybe even a present or an awkward card.  Like this one:

I got this card:

I'm not sure what Milkbaby was trying to say with this card.  I feel like it should be captioned with a "I can has cheezburger" caption.

According to Wikipedia, the modern version of Mother's Day started in 1907, when Anna Jarvis held a memorial for her own mother.  By 1914, it was a nationally recognised day, and by 1920, Anna was disgruntled with the commercialisation of the day, lamenting that:

A printed card means nothing except that you are too lazy to write to the woman who has done more for you than anyone in the world. And candy! You take a box to Mother—and then eat most of it yourself. A pretty sentiment.

By that standard, I am grateful for a homemade card.  I am also eternally grateful for the sleep-in, the brunch, the alone-time, and the spa vouchers (alright, self-purchased, but still holding the promise of more alone-time).

My own mother didn't receive the same treatment, largely because we weren't in the same city.  Though to be fair, that probably meant she got a sleep in and some alone-time.  I sent her a text, wishing her a happy mother's day, and complaining about being sick.  Shame on me.

But that is the lot of mothers - to wipe butts, noses, mouths, and other miscellaneous orifices all without a jot of thanks.  Though now Milkbaby is almost three I get the odd "tink you" for some act of service or glass of milk delivered.  

I think this diagram explains it all:

Anyway mum, "tink you"!