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A young girl wearing a mask looks on during a rally for climate action at Sydney Town Hall on December 11, 2019 in Sydney, Australia. (Photo by Jenny Evans/Getty Images)
A young girl wearing a mask looks on during a rally for climate action at Sydney Town Hall on December 11, 2019 in Sydney, Australia. (Photo by Jenny Evans/Getty Images)

ParentsJanuary 8, 2020

Emily Writes: How to help kids who are upset about the Australian bush fires

A young girl wearing a mask looks on during a rally for climate action at Sydney Town Hall on December 11, 2019 in Sydney, Australia. (Photo by Jenny Evans/Getty Images)
A young girl wearing a mask looks on during a rally for climate action at Sydney Town Hall on December 11, 2019 in Sydney, Australia. (Photo by Jenny Evans/Getty Images)

The scale of the horror in Australia right now can be hard for kids to process. Emily Writes explains what she’s been doing with her own sons to help them feel a little less afraid.

My sister and niece and nephews live in Sydney and my brother, uncles, and grandmother live in Queensland. I was born in a city that would one day go from a surfing paradise to a shit dump with theme parks. I then grew up in the stunning Northern Beaches. Yes, just like Home and Away.

One flat we lived in always had sand in the entrance and boards on the grass outside. Another featured a rock lizard that liked to hide in the toilet rolls. My father is a surfer, his brothers are surfers – surf culture was strong growing up. Boards, a bit of toxic masculinity, and a deep respect for the environment.

I don’t remember as much as I should about Australia. I remember Nippers Surf Lifesaving on a Sunday morning, my dad desperately trying to get me to surf then giving up when I showed zero coordination. I remember my little school that my nephews now attend – how there was a cockatoo that sat by the library that I’d read to. I remember the sea and the sky – so perfectly blue all the time – and I remember one bush fire coming near us, the result of an out of control back burning exercise, in the 14 years or so that I lived there.

I remember leaving the house not particularly alarmed. I remember my father with a hose – also not particularly alarmed. I remember us leaving. Going up to the bakery. And that’s about it. The fire was put out by fireys and it didn’t burn any of the houses on our street down or threaten the mall. It’s not a scarring memory.

People will tell you Australia has always burned but it’s just not true. It hasn’t burned like this.

It’s never been like this.

I went over to see my whānau at Christmas and I was heartbroken by my trip. My sister and nephews were almost used to the smoke, as horrific as it is. What can you do? They have to still go to the supermarket, to kindy, to school. Life goes on.

The smoke terrified my kids. Their eyes stung. The smell was awful. They were completely overwhelmed. Since returning home they ask constantly about their aunty and nephews. They want to know if the bush fires are over.

Is Aunty safe now? Are their cousins safe? Is it over?

It’s a hard question to answer. I tip-toe around it with my sister, trying not to say – Please come home! But this isn’t her home. Sydney is. And life goes on somehow.

The anxiety I feel for her safety and the safety of my precious niblings isn’t a patch on the anxiety she navigates daily with three children to protect from smoke and fear and potentially, a fire front that moves from regions to suburbs with barely any warning.

And yet she, like everyone else, has to just go on.

But anxiety is a beast that doesn’t really care if you’re here or there – so we must address our fears instead of minimising them. It’s valid to feel fear for your whānau, even for strangers. They’re our neighbours after all.

And if we feel worry and fear – chances are, our kids do too. What can we do to support our children here with their worries?

Here are some ideas I’ve been working on with my kids to help them process what’s going on in Australia.

Little can make a big difference

I have always tried to empower my kids to believe that even though they’re small they can make a big difference in the world. I encourage them to organise fundraising efforts instead of doing it for them or discouraging them. When we say every dollar counts, we mean it – so we should be particularly encouraging of children giving up their beloved pocket money.

My kids are doing extra jobs around the house to raise money for the fires and have talked about doing a clothes swap with their friends for koha. No matter how small, I encourage their efforts. A child giving $3.50 should matter as much as any other donation. It tells them that they’re helping. That they’re not helpless.

A dehydrated and injured Koala receives treatment at the Port Macquarie Koala Hospital in Port Macquarie on November 2, 2019, after its rescue from a bushfire that has ravaged an area of over 2,000 hectares (Photo by SAEED KHAN/AFP via Getty Images)

Get making

To encourage busy hands to comfort busy minds I’ve got the kids thinking about their skills and what they can make to support those in need right now. My eldest loves sewing so I have him sewing hanging joey pouches. Animal rescue groups are also in dire need of bat wraps, quilts and blankets. They need crocheters and knitters to make birds nests, blankets, joey pouch outers, and animal jumpers too. These are really tangible things kids can make. The groups where they are donated will post photos of animals in the wraps and pouches. It’s a great way to show kids there is something we can do to help animals.

Turn off the news

If you feel terrified watching the news, imagine what it’s like for a child. If you have kids over, turn off the radio and TV. Watch it after they’re in bed or on your phone. Children can’t process how big this is and the news is scary. Sometimes we want our children to see things to really understand them. Kids in Australia can’t turn away from this horror. Why would we willingly expose our children to that horror? What would it achieve? Australian parents would likely give anything to hide this awful reality from their little ones. We are so fortunate to be able to protect our kids from seeing the worst of it. Talk to your children about the bush fires – absolutely – but images can stay with children forever. And traumatising a child for their ‘education’ is messed up.

Keep the conversation open

Other kids might be talking about the fires with your children. They might hear things that aren’t true – it’s important you can clarify and support. My son somehow came to believe fire could cross water. They hear or interpret shit really weirdly. Be on guard. Sometimes I say to my son “Your face looks like you have a question” because he gets a look like he’s asleep with his eyes open whenever he’s concerned about something. Encourage questioning – make sure they know that no question is too stupid (we know kids ask stupid questions but bear with me). I’ve had the inane “What would fire look like in Minecraft?” eventually turn into “Will my cousins be burned if they hide under their beds?”. It’s heartbreaking to know your child is carrying around those worries. Be honest but be age appropriate.

Look to the helpers

One of my favourite people ever – Mr Fred Rogers – once said “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’” I tell my kids this a lot and it seems to help. In my opinion, it’s not a message for adults though – I wrote about it here.

I don’t have all the answers but I think what’s helped my husband and me is trying to be as compassionate as possible toward the kids. I’m crying myself to sleep right now in sadness for my old country. Perspective is vital – it’s not us there. But grief and sadness and worry is valid. We must never become used to this.

This isn’t right and we can’t ever think it is.

Keep going!
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ParentsNovember 28, 2019

Raising twins is a privilege. And it’s hard as hell

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In the third part of our parenting series What They Don’t Tell You, Jane Yee discovers nothing can prepare you for twins.

I’ve had a good many ultrasounds in my life. Most have been exciting, a couple have been devastating, but regardless of the extreme emotion tied to each of those appointments, I couldn’t tell you the sonographer’s name. But I’ll never forget Rhonda. 

The transducer had been on my belly for mere moments before Rhonda pulled it away and said “just at a glance, you’re having twins”.

I wanted to say “at a glance? Get that thing back on there and have a longer look woman! It could be gas! Or a fibroid! Last night’s noodles perhaps? But surely not an extra human!”

What I actually spluttered was “are you joking?” but it turns out she was not. 

And so bubbly Rhonda with the lovely Irish accent is indelibly etched on my brain because she knew, even before we did, there was a shitstorm of epic proportions tracking our way. 

I was cocky when we decided to go for a second kid. I was proud of how I’d managed with our first, Victor. He was an easy baby really, and while the newborn phase was a total shock to the system, we’d sailed through relatively unscathed and were looking forward to doing it all over again. 

Then the twins happened. Suddenly, every helpful thing I’d learnt about bringing up babies jumped on a bus and headed for Huntly. 

Victor and the twins (image: supplied).

With Victor, I felt incredible pressure to show the world what a capable new mother I was, but when the twins hurtled into our lives I had the good sense to throw that mother-martyrdom out the window. Instead, I accepted every offer of help that came our way. We were lucky to have the support of many wonderful friends and family members, but even with an amazing village around us, it was bloody hard work – and honestly? It still is. 

A lot of people say memories of those early days with a baby are a blur. For me, with the twins, they are crystal clear. Maisie and Jude spent their first week in NICU as they arrived five weeks early and needed a little help to get world-ready. I vividly remember the beeping of machines, the shuffling of nurses’ sports shoes, the overwhelming warmth and the acrid smell of hand sanitiser.

I remember being passed each tiny baby, as I prepared to tandem breastfeed for the first time, and thinking “holy shit, there are two of them”. I mean, it’s not like this was new information, but right then it really hit me that keeping one baby alive for two-and-a-bit years was not adequate training for doing it in doubles.

For the weeks that followed, feeding the babies became a production that made Les Mis at the West End look like a kindergarten singalong. Wherever possible I had someone close by to physically hand the babies to me, because it turns out it’s pretty difficult to situate two newborns on your boobs at the same time. 

Mastering the art of burping one kid while still feeding the other was an Olympic-level feat that I’m both proud of and kinda sad about. Sure, I majorly levelled-up skill wise, but there was no opportunity to just snuggle a baby and look at him or her lovingly while feeding and burping like I did with my first. The whole thing felt more like a military operation that involved doing twice as much half as well.

As soon as the feeding, burping, changing and settling was done I would whip out my ladies again and get on the breast pump. It was a double pump, obviously, because now everything in my life seemed to happen two-by-two (hurrah, hurrah). Twice as many babies meant twice as much milk required, so I spent all my “spare” time increasing my supply. While the twins slept, I pumped, and when they woke we started the whole feeding process over again.

It was beyond exhausting.

I’m not exaggerating when I say my boobs were out almost constantly. At first I tried to be discreet, doing my best to cover up when I had company. Within a week or two visitors just had to deal with the fact that if they wanted to meet the twins, they were also going to meet ‘The Twins’ – simply put, feeding two babies is not a subtle affair. 

During those early days of the twins’ lives, everything revolved around getting them fed, and I laugh/cry now when I think about how much time and effort I put into making sure their nutritional needs were met. What I should’ve done was throw a piece of white bread with a side of plain pasta at them and yell “this is all you’ll be willing to eat in two years time, so you might as well save us all this trouble now.”

There were also new emotions I had to deal with that are unique to parenting twins. Having to decide which baby to pick up first when they were both crying, constantly worrying I wasn’t spending equal amounts of time and energy on each, trying not to compare their milestones and feeling guilt-ridden when I did.

Then there was the isolation. I think it’s fair to say, all primary caregivers go through a period of feeling lonely when they find themselves at home with a new baby, and with two that was amplified. Any social life I’d managed to preserve after becoming a mum took a nose-dive when I went from one kid to three. 

Trying to get out of the house while juggling two capsules, a bulging baby bag, a double pram and the inevitable pooplosion (twice over) just as I was strapping the kids into the car often felt like too hard of a hill to climb. So I rarely did.

I also rarely slept, because … babies.

Combine all these intensified challenges with also having to meet the physical and emotional needs of a toddler and it’s little wonder I had a total, proper breakdown when the twins were 15 months old. 

This all sounds very woe-is-me. I don’t mean for it to be that way, because the fact of the matter is those two kids have brought so much laughter and love into our lives, we would genuinely be lesser people without them. 

We haven’t had to face the extra challenges of major illness, financial instability or solo parenting, and for that, I am truly grateful. However, I do believe there’s value in getting the message out that yep, raising multiples is a privilege and makes for a lot of cute photo ops, but it’s also hard as hell.

So if you know someone who’s recently had twins crash-land into their lives, for the love of god please drop around some meals, vacuum the floors and rock the shit out of those babies while their parents get a blessed hour of sleep. Call them often and ask if they’re doing okay. Listen carefully when they chirp “we’re doing great” for signs that, actually, they could do with some help.

And if you know someone with triplets or more, after dropping around meals, vacuuming floors and rocking babies etc, go ahead and erect a monument in their honour, shower them in riches and worship the very ground they walk on because those poor buggers are the real MVPs.

Previously:

Emily Writes: What I wish I’d known as a new parent

Catherine Woulfe: When having two kids is infinitely easier than having one

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