My Precious Children,

Tonight, I succumbed to peer pressure (exactly what I caution you NEVER to do) and went with a bunch of girlfriends to see Fifty Shades of Grey. I ignored the little voice in my head that implored me to just say “no!” because, after all, it’s just a silly movie, right? Well, I wish I had done as I always tell you to do and given that voice credit because it was right. The thing is, I’m also kind of glad I didn’t because now I have these words for you.

One day, in the not very distant future, I’m going to blink and gasp as I realise you’re suddenly old enough to see movies like Fifty Shades of Grey, yourselves. Of course, you or your friends may even decide that curiosity wins and risk sneaking a peek even earlier than that. Either way, I have to accept the hard fact that your innocent eyes and your uncorrupted minds are going to see this drivel sooner or later.

I am writing this so that when that day comes, you’ll recognise Fifty Shades of Grey for what it is, rather than what it pretends to be.

Let me begin by telling you what Fifty Shades of Grey is not.

It is not a love story.

It does a pretty convincing job of masquerading as one, for sure, but please believe me when I say that love doesn’t even have a cameo role in this plot.

It is also not a romantic fairy tale with a harmless bit of naughtiness sprinkled on top.

Romance is glaringly absent, in fact. As for harmless S&M, please understand that this screenplay’s message is the polar opposite of harmless. In this ‘harmless’ piece of fluff movie, a rich, handsome, experienced man uses his power to seduce and manipulate a young, innocent student into doing a lot of things she is extremely uncomfortable doing.

Listen to Michelle read this on STITCHER – LIBSYN – iTunes

They are not equals. They are not partners. There is, in fact, no ‘they’ to speak of at all.

In 50 Shades of Grey, they are not equals. They are not partners. There is, in fact, no ‘they’ to speak of at all.
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Rather, it’s a movie about a narcissistic man’s controlling and violent sexual desires and his sense of entitlement to use and abuse a vulnerable young woman’s body and mind as tools for his own gratification. It’s all about his needs, coupled with the arrogant expectation that she should comply, regardless of her discomfort, to please him.

I sat in the theatre and looked around me at hundreds of women, buying into this so-called ‘sexy love story’ and I felt sick. If an entire theatre of women three times your age couldn’t see how damaging this plot line is, how on earth are teenage girls and boys supposed to?

Please, my daughters, don’t allow this romanticizing of sexual domestic abuse fool you into believing that you should ever allow yourself to be treated like Anastasia Steele. Please, my son, don’t watch this one day and believe that it’s ever okay to intimidate, manipulate or disrespect a woman like the ‘hero,’ Christian Grey. Nobody, male or female, wants or deserves to be disrespected, manipulated or violated against his or her wishes.

I hope, when the day comes that you’re grown up enough to be in a relationship, that you’ll understand that what goes on behind bedroom doors should always be pleasurable for both of you, regardless of your tastes. I hope you’ll understand that consent given under duress isn’t consent at all. I hope you’ll demand respect and that you’ll give respect in return.

Tonight, I walked out of the cinema feeling terrified and a little sad for your generation. If this is the movie that you base your ideals of love and romance on, then I need to make some things very clear and I hope you’re listening.

If someone wants to be with you, turning up at your part-time job unannounced when you haven’t ever even discussed that you have one and acting possessive when a co-worker talks to you is not romantic. It’s creepy.

If you say you’re a virgin and he responds by violently deflowering you, that’s not love. That’s assault.

If he tracks your whereabouts when you’re out clubbing and takes you to his hotel when you’re too drunk to make a rational decision, then undresses you and puts you in his bed for the night, that’s not protective. It’s stalking. In fact, stalking is the least of what it is.

If he turns up inside your apartment uninvited, it’s not romantic. It’s breaking and entering.

If you tell him you’re not interested and you ask him to leave and he responds by tying you to your bed and having violent sex with you after you repeatedly say “no,” all the while threatening to do worse if you make a noise, it’s not passion. It’s rape.

If he sells your car and buys you a new one without your permission “to surprise you,” it’s not romantic. It’s theft and manipulation.

If he monitors your phone calls and threatens you with physical harm because another man calls you, he’s not in love with you. He’s abusing and controlling you.

If beating you with a leather strap until you cry is what gives him pleasure and he asks you to do it despite your distress because it turns him on and then plays the victim to explain it all away, there is no soundtrack in the world that should quiet the voice in your head that yells out that love and romance were never in the picture and they never will be.

My children, this film was deeply disturbing to me, and I have life experience on my side. I shudder to think that you are going to grow up with stories like this to model relationships on and that you or the people you date will mistake this for ‘normal.’

Please, my precious children, know this: Love is gentle. Love never takes. Love does not demand. Love waits for consent. Love doesn’t need helicopter rides and expensive gifts. Love is enough.

When there’s love, the voice in your head doesn’t yell. It simply doesn’t have to.

My children, listen to me on this, if nothing else.

And, if you choose not to listen to me, then listen to the voice in your head.

With abundant love,

Mum

READ MORE FROM MICHELLE:

• You Don’t Have to be Harry Potter to Perform Magic
• The Best Love Letter I’ve Ever Received
• The Day I Became the Dummy Fairy

For those who still need to read the books:
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This post was syndicated with permission to BonBon Break Media, LLC.

The post A Letter to My Children About Fifty Shades of Grey first appeared on BonBon Break.

We talk about “mental illness” as though it is something that happens to other people. The phrase itself can sound so clinical, so distancing. But the truth is that problems with mental health happen to us. To our friends. To family members. Even to our children.

I look at my extended family – an amazingly supportive, loving, well-functioning group of people of which I am so incredibly proud to be a part – and I know that in addition to all of our wonderful strengths there is also depression, anxiety, psychosis, addiction, and attention issues (just to name a few). But a stigma still exists and so we too often shun those not-so-pretty parts, trying our best to keep them out of sight, hoping no one will know, hush-hush…and in doing so we let mental illness continue to be something that happens to “them,” not us, when that isn’t the truth at all.

In observance of Mental Health Awareness Month, I’d like to introduce you to several writers who have had the courage and willingness to open up about their personal struggles on-line. These women pull down the veil of secrecy and stigma and instead offer honesty, support, and inspiration. Each one shares a unique perspective and voice, some writing about their own mental health and others writing about how mental illness impacts their families. The beauty in these posts is that they make it clear that behind every diagnosis is a person, a story, and that these women are, really, all of us.  ~Ellie, Family Room Editor

Kimberly from All Work and No Play Makes Mommy Go Something Something:  For me, I am inspired to give hope to those who need it most and to put a face to mental illness. Some may not grasp that we are not our diagnosis and see us as crazy, nuts, deranged, etc.  Taking my readers on my journey to wellness in a way which they can better understand breaks down the damaging barriers that stigma creates. It shows them that we fight so hard every day against our illnesses and we are just like them. My piece, The Downside Of Up, details my mercurial moods. More specifically, it is about the glorious high of hypomania and the crash that soon follows.  Read Kimberly’s post,”The Downside of Up,” and her insights into Bipolar 2 Disorder.  

Katie from Sluiter Nation: I’ve had many people tell me that my descriptions of what it feels like to go through depression helps them to understand what their loved ones are facing. This post is a letter I wrote to a student who has shared her struggles with me because she knows I go through them too. She has been battling for a long time and is trying hard to be stronger than her sickness. My hope is that this not only gives her hope, but helps everyone who has someone like her and me in their life to know that there is a mixture of control and chaos to our illness; in order to survive we must master the balance. We must focus on the light. Read Katie’s post, “A Letter to the Depressed.”

Michelle of They Call Me Mummy:  Someone asked me to explain what ADHD feels like, and after I explained my memory lapses, my time-distortion issues, my struggles with organizational anything, she replied, “Oh, I could never live like that…” and shook her head. As if my ADHD is a choice. As if I have the power to just ‘grow up and get over’ all the symptoms with a little elbow grease and discipline. As though the physical make-up of my brain (the fact that my frontal lobe is smaller than a neurotypical one and is also under-stimulated) is somehow a character flaw. Read Michelle’s post, “Insensitive Things That People  Say When You Have An Invisible Condition.”  Then check out her piece “ADHD Explained,” where she explains what it feels like to have attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder. 

Heather of The Extraordinary Ordinary: The shame and stigma around mental illness and addiction have always been enemies of mine. I write openly about anxiety, depression and recovery from alcoholism to combat how misunderstood the alcoholic mother is in our society. We are mothers, who for one reason or another, struggle in a way that can leave us behaving not as who we really are, but as someone in the throes of a disease. Alcoholism doesn’t discriminate, but judgment does. I hope my story reduces ignorance and inspires other mothers in my shoes to believe they too can stop.  Read Heather’s post, “Hi, My Name Is Heather,” in which she first acknowledges her struggle with alcohol and commits to quitting. And be sure to also take a look at her recent and thought-provoking post, “Am I An Alcoholic? 10 Red Flags.” 

Mir of Woulda Coulda Shoulda: Relationships between mothers and daughters are historically complicated (especially during adolescence). My relationship with my daughter did not escape the typical push-pull of these years, only our situation is complicated further by a multitude of ongoing mental health issues. The first time I had to put my child into the hospital for “crisis stabilization,” she was 13. Two-and-a-half years and countless crises later, the celebration of her 16th birthday is a truly bittersweet milestone, reminding me that no matter what we think has been gained or lost in this time, I am always grateful that we still have each other. Read Mir’s letter to her daughter, “Sweets for My Sweet.”

Kelly of My Twice Baked Potato: My son presents as a child with autism; however, his neurologist says he is not autistic.  My precious boy is twice-exceptional which means he has a very high IQ and extremely immature social skills.  He has sensory processing difficulties and is often overwhelmed by his environment. Although I adore my son, it is challenging to parent a child that is nowhere close to the middle of the bell curve for anything. Read Kelly’s post, “Worry…Another Piece of the Puzzle,” about her son’s school-related anxiety. 

For a list of mental health related resources, see Where To Go For Help And Support.

Now find these amazing ladies…

on Facebook: All Work and No Play…    Sluiter Nation    They Call Me Mummy    The Extraordinary Ordinary    Woulda Coulda Shoulda    My Twice Baked Potato

on Twitter: @MomGoSomething    @KSluiter    @TheyCallMeMummy    @HeatheroftheEO

on Pinterest: All Work and No Play…   Sluiter Nation    They Call Me Mummy   The Extraordinary Ordinary

The post Mental Health Awareness: 6 Bloggers Share Their Stories first appeared on BonBon Break.

The internet is a brilliant resource for information about anything and everything. The thing is, it can get a little confusing and then we realise we can’t believe anything. Except for those dancing dogs – those are legit.

Here are Michelle’s 37 Lessons From the Internet:

ABOUT MICHELLE: Michelle Lewsen is Editor at Bonbon Break. She has 18 years’ experience in the advertising industry and multiple International Writing awards under her belt. In 2013, she was thrilled to be selected as a BlogHer Voice of the Year in the “Inspiration” category. She is  also the founder of theycallmemummy.com – a website for women (parents and non-parents, alike) covering a wide range of topics from parenting to work-life balance to mental health and fitness.

Follow Michelle via Facebook |Pinterest | Twitter | Google+ | LinkedIn | Instagram

Read more from Michelle on BonBon Break

This post was syndicate with permission from Michelle Lewsen on BonBon Break Media, LLC

The post Michelle’s 37 Lessons from the Internet this Week first appeared on BonBon Break.

This past week has been a tough one. A few of my friends have gone through traumatic experiences and my Little Man has been suffering some horrible bouts of anxiety that caused him to feel terribly sad. Through supporting him, being there for my friends and trying to make it all okay, I’ve been forced to ponder: What is happiness? How is it possible to be happy, while experiencing all this sadness? 

I’ve come to a new understanding and I’d like to share.

Happiness and sadness do not have to exist exclusive of one another.

As I sat with my friend who was suffering through a devastating loss and helped her to pick up the pieces of her broken heart, I tried to make sense of what it all means. Why do we have to suffer? How do we pick up and carry on? How do we find happiness again?

We talked and drank coffee and cried. I told her I didn’t know how to make it right but that I would stand there with her in her sadness and share it. She told me that was enough. We spoke about how we are both so grateful for each others’ friendship and that knowing that even in your saddest times, there is no ‘alone’ and that is surely something to be happy about.

That’s when it occurred to me.

Gratitude is everything. Gratitude is the main ingredient for happiness. It’s the spotlight that shines on all that we have to be happy about and, in fact, shows us the path to happiness. With gratitude we have the ability to build an unbreakable vessel to contain all our experiences. This means that even in our saddest times, that sadness can be safely contained in a vessel made from happiness.

It gives us context. Yes, this horrible thing we’re experiencing right now might be bitter and we may have no choice but to drink it, but the vessel we are drinking from is one made of solid happiness. While we may be suffering, we can simultaneously be acutely aware of all the wonder in our lives.

As I sat, a day later, with my little boy on my lap, sobbing because his anxiety had got the better of him, I felt so desperately sad. Even so, I was also able to contain that sadness in a beautiful vessel formed with gratitude for his good health, the fact that Darren and I are a formidable team and that we have the ability to help him. I felt the love that infuses our family and the knowledge that this too shall pass.

What a revelation – sadness and happiness can co-exist. In fact, if we allow our happiness to tightly hold our sadness, we allow ourselves to experience that pain in a way that doesn’t feel quite so devastating.

So, today I’m feeling gratitude for the sadness of this past week. I’m thankful that I was able to be there to support my friend, that she trusted me to be the one to confide in and that, that by simply being there, I somehow helped. I feel grateful for the introspection I’ve been forced into and the resulting discovery that sadness isn’t the opposite of happiness after all.

What are you grateful for?

ABOUT MICHELLE: Michelle Lewsen is Editor at Bonbon Break. She has 18 years’ experience in the advertising industry and multiple International Writing awards under her belt. In 2013, she was thrilled to be selected as a BlogHer Voice of the Year in the “Inspiration” category. She is  also the founder of theycallmemummy.com – a website for women (parents and non-parents, alike) covering a wide range of topics from parenting to work-life balance to mental health and fitness. Most importantly, Michelle is mum to three of the most beautiful human beings she has ever met.

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This post was written by Michelle Lewsen exclusively for BonBon Break Media, LLC

The post What I’ve Learned: Sadness isn’t the Opposite of Happiness first appeared on BonBon Break.

This morning, after dropping the kids off at school, I found myself in a helicopter, hovering over a post-Apocalyptic landscape when suddenly someone began shooting at us. As the helicopter started going down, the voice in my earpiece told me to grab my parachute and jump to safety. Heart pounding, I followed directions and, since I had no idea what was about to happen, I continued to listen to the voice in my earbuds.

“The helicopter is down!”, the voice shouted. “Come in! Come in! Are there any survivors? Hello?”, I heard him breathlessly call out. Then, “Yes! I see movement!”. Mr Earpiece continued, “Hey you, Runner, I see you, and I’m going to help you to get to safety. Listen carefully, there’s a swarm of Zombies 50 metres away and they’re gaining on you. You need to start running as fast as you can!”

 At this point, you’re thinking I’ve lost the plot, aren’t you? Well, this wasn’t a weird dream, my friends. This was real. Really, it was!

Yesterday, I downloaded the “Zombies, run!” app on my iPhone in a bid to add excitement to my runs. What I just described was the beginning of my run this morning.

Picture it: there I was, at the local park, wild eyed and running from imaginary zombies. The audio in this app is so well produced that my heart really was pounding as I flung myself enthusiastically into this apocalyptic fantasy scenario.

Now, where were we? Ah, yes, zombies were 50 metres away. The voice continued, “You’re going to need to speed up, Runner Five, they’re gaining on you.” Thud thud thud, my heart and running shoes thumped in unison. Earpiece Man then added, sweetly, “Know why I’m calling you Runner Five? Because the last four runners…well…they didn’t make it.”

Fabulous.

“Oh, no! They’re really gaining on you now! They are twenty metres away…no, ten! Run as fast as you can!”

This would be a good time to mention to you that I forgot to put on a sports bra this morning (I didn’t foresee the vigour that being chased by Zombies would require. Silly me, so unprepared for the apocalypse…) so, by this stage, there was a swish swish boing to accompany the thud thud thud. 

“Don’t look behind you! They are right on your heels!” Oh holy hell, this stuff sounded way too real! People  in the park stared, bewildered as this wild-eyed, wildly-swinging-boobed woman sped past the playground, huffing and puffing.

Then, they amped it up. I could hear zombies breathing in my ears. BREATHING IN MY EARS, PEOPLE. 

 Boing Swish boing thump thump thump wheeze squeal thud boing. 

“Well done, Runner Five, you’ve outrun them!” (Hooray, Earpiece Guy, I also lost all the elasticity in my boobs. Whoop.) “The bad news is that everyone in the Settlement earns their keep, so we wont let you in if you don’t go through the hospital to collect supplies.”

Oh no, he di’int.

Damn you, Fake Zombie Apocalypse.

Through the hospital I ran, collecting supplies (aka past the playground full of mums and babies enjoying a sunny Summer’s day. Lucky them, not being chased by zombies and being denied saviour by mean Settlers). According to the narrator voice (yes, I had more than once voice in my head), I collected 3 first aid kids, crutches, antibiotics and a sports bra. Oh, the irony. What use was an imaginary sports bra to me and my now-sadly-saggy bosoms?

The zombies chased me for a total of 45 minutes until I finally arrived, red-faced, panting, sweating and laden with important supplies (at this stage I had three sports bras – clearly a much-demanded item in Apocalyptic times, FYI) at the Settlement.  I tucked my boobs into my waist band and caught my breath.

What a fabulous app, what a horrendously divine run, what saggy saggy boobs.

My big achievement today: I wasn’t killed by Zombies! (Next mission, however, I’ll arm myself with a real sports bra. The imaginary ones don’t work as advertised…)

While I wasn’t compensated by the creators of this app for this post, I will earn a few cents if you download the app and join me in the madness by clicking this affiliate link:

ABOUT MICHELLE: Michelle Lewsen is Editor at Bonbon Break. She has 18 years’ experience in the advertising industry and multiple International Writing awards under her belt. In 2013, she was thrilled to be selected as a BlogHer Voice of the Year in the “Inspiration” category. She is  also the founder of theycallmemummy.com – a website for women (parents and non-parents, alike) covering a wide range of topics from parenting to work-life balance to mental health and fitness.

Follow Michelle via Facebook |Pinterest | Twitter | Google+ | LinkedIn | Instagram

Read more from Michelle on BonBon Break

This post was written by Michelle Lewsen exclusively for BonBon Break Media, LLC

The post What I’ve Learned: I Can Outrun Zombies first appeared on BonBon Break.

“Mummy,” she said, as she tenderly held my face in her chubby hands and stared deeply into my eyes, “I love you so much that I want to drink your blood in a milkshake!”

This was declared in rapturous tones, resplendent of the scene in every fairytale when the prince declares his love for the princess.

“You want to drink my what? Why?” I chuckled.

“Mama, I want to drink your blood in a milkshake!”, she giggled. Then, by way of explanation,  “You know, because I love you… just like how you said I am so cute you want to eat me up!

I began to laugh and Baby G joined me – laughing because Mummy was laughing and that’s always enough of a reason.

The words we speak land on our children’s ears in the most literal way and on this day, I had to laugh because I had never really thought about how ridiculous some of the things that pop out of my mouth must sound to my little ones.

“I want to gobble you up!” (“Mummy has a weird cannibalistic eating disorder.”)

“Your shoes no not live in the middle of the kitchen floor!” (“Shoes are alive. Be afraid.”)

“There are children in Africa who would love to eat your sushi.” (“Eating your sushi is magically going to feed African children.”)

“Watch your language!” (“Develop magical powers that will enable you to see the sounds you make.”)

These are all funny, but what about the child I saw in the supermarket, whose mother angrily told her, “If you do that again, so help me, I will kill you.” Did she take that literally? How about the kid whose mother jokingly referred to her older sister as “My favourite child” – did she know her mother wasn’t being serious?

It’s so easy to forget that our children are not little grown-ups. They are innocent, trusting and fragile. Our words have immense power to build them up, to shape them, to elevate them and to nurture them.

They also have the power to cut them to ribbons.

That is the lesson I learned this week.

Even so, Baby G is delicious. Just don’t tell her I said so.

ABOUT MICHELLE: Michelle Lewsen is Editor at Bonbon Break. She has 18 years’ experience in the advertising industry and multiple International Writing awards under her belt. In 2013, she was thrilled to be selected as a BlogHer Voice of the Year in the “Inspiration” category. She is  also the founder of theycallmemummy.com – a website for women (parents and non-parents, alike) covering a wide range of topics from parenting to work-life balance to mental health and fitness.

Follow Michelle via Facebook |Pinterest | Twitter | Google+ | LinkedIn | Instagram

Read more from Michelle on BonBon Break

This post was written by Michelle Lewsen exclusively for BonBon Break Media, LLC

The post What I’ve Learned: She Takes Me Literally first appeared on BonBon Break.

“Mum, you do so much for us and nobody ever even pays you! (He was outraged.) I asked Daddy if we could buy you this present because I know it’s one of your favourite things.”

He held out his hand and presented me with my gift. I unwrapped it as he bounced beside me, gleefully.

Inside was a dragon fruit  – a fruit we first tasted on a holiday in Singapore and that I fell in love with. From time to time, we see dragon fruit at our local shops but I never buy it because it’s expensive and frivolous. He had seen it and decided that I deserved something expensive and frivolous. He saw me as someone who deserves recognition and a little spoiling. The enormity of this, coming from my eight year old son, totally floored me.

He demanded that I cut it open right then and there and eat it. I savoured every mouthful, we enthusiastically discussed the cool colours and textures and I thoroughly enjoyed the delicious experience of sharing this treat with the kids.

Later that afternoon, Little Man very solemnly and seriously requested that Darren and I go to his bedroom together at bedtime because “there are some important things we need to discuss”. I wondered what on earth was so serious in his life that it would warrant a meeting, so I nervously asked.

He replied, “I want to know what life is all about… you know. Why are we alive?”

Again, I was blown away. This is an eight year old kid!

Darren and I managed to touch base sometime in the afternoon (a huge feat, with three kids on a Sunday at home, I can assure you) to discuss this little nocturnal meeting. Our conversation went something like this: “What the…? How do we answer that? “Let’s just see what he says.”

Bedtime came and after we had tucked in Little Miss and Baby G, we (somewhat intrepidly) went into Little Man’s bedroom. “So, Mum and Dad, I want to know why we are alive and what we are supposed to, you know, be doing in life.”

Darren asked him, “Well, what do you think we are here for?”

Little Man replied, clearly frustrated, “I don’t know! I mean, are we supposed to work all the time and get lots of money and big houses and food or play all the time and have fun or do other stuff?”

I answered, “Well, let’s think. Do you think you could have fun if you had no house and no food and no clothes?” He shook his head, “No”. Eyes looking upward, scanning his brain, he replied, “Ohhh, so you have to work to get money to have a house and food and things. Okay. But why are we here? Are we just here to work and get stuff or are we supposed to have fun?” 

I blinked. 

Darren interjected, “Here’s another thought, Buddy. Who gave you life?”

Little Man, without hesitating, replied, “God.”

Darren smiled, “Right, so what do you think God wants you to do with this life he gave you?”

Little Man’s brows furrowed and he replied, “I don’t know! That’s what I am asking you!”

I smiled widely. I had an idea. “Little Man, remember today, how you gave me that very precious dragon fruit?” He nodded. I continued, “Remember how I was so excited and I loved it so much that I took a photo of you holding it, all wrapped-up and another photo of it unwrapped and even another photo of it once we cut it up?” He nodded again. “Remember how we studied it and talked about the texture of the skin and the colours and the cool pattern on the inside? Remember how, when we tasted it, we enjoyed the way it kind of tastes like nothing and also something wonderful all at once? Remember how I loved every mouthful and I loved even more that I could watch you guys enjoying it, too?” He nodded, gravely.

“Well, Little Man, how did you feel about giving me that gift and seeing me really love it and savour it and delight in it?

“He replied, “It felt really nice and it made me happy.”

I grinned, “Well, maybe that’s how God feels when he sees us take this life He gave us and really live it. When we explore every bit of life and take joy in it, then it shows we are grateful for it, doesn’t it? Maybe that’s what we are here for – to try to be grateful for the gift of life and to enjoy and share it as much as we can.”

To which he replied, “Dragon fruit is a weird fruit, you know. Some bites taste like nothing and they are boring and other bites are sweet and delicious.”

I pondered this deep thought, internally creating an analogy for life. Before I could go there, he continued, “I like my soft blanket. Sports Camp is cool. Can I have a drink of water?”

Conversation over, clearly. That was that. He was satisfied.

I have no idea if our answers meant much to Little Man.

What I do know, for certain, is that my innocent Little Man made me think. He has no idea that he explained, perfectly, the meaning of my life to me. My life with this family of mine is a gift, sometimes boring, sometimes delicious, always interesting and precious beyond measure.

ABOUT MICHELLE: Michelle Lewsen is Editor at Bonbon Break. She has 18 years’ experience in the advertising industry and multiple International Writing awards under her belt. In 2013, she was thrilled to be selected as a BlogHer Voice of the Year in the “Inspiration” category. She is  also the founder of theycallmemummy.com – a website for women (parents and non-parents, alike) covering a wide range of topics from parenting to work-life balance to mental health and fitness.

Follow Michelle via Facebook |Pinterest | Twitter | Google+ | LinkedIn | Instagram
 

Read more from Michelle on BonBon Break

This post was written by Michelle Lewsen exclusively for BonBon Break Media, LLC

The post What I’ve Learned: The Meaning of Life first appeared on BonBon Break.

===SYNDICATED===

Look on the wall of any kindergarten classroom and you’ll find a list of rules like this:

From the minute they enter the school system, our kids are taught how to be good, play fair, be nice. It’s wonderful and delightful and, well, unrealistic.

I was the mother who mirrored those rules at home. I made damned sure my children said please and thank-you. I always facilitated sharing and turn-taking. We spoke about weapon-words and how to ask for things nicely and how snatching toys was bad. When my  children started to fight with one another, I always jumped right in and mediated so they could learn that it’s not necessary to be mean. We did a lot of role-playing.

How very naive. Not to mention short-sighted.

“Why?” you ask.

Because my children live and go to school in the real world. In the real world, there are real kids. Kids who are not always good. Kids who often don’t play fair. Kids who snatch and swear and hit. Know what happens to kids who are brought up like mine in the real world? They don’t cope. Because Mummy told them they have to always follow the rules, they can’t fathom why someone else isn’t. Instead of brushing it off like their peers, they fall to pieces. Why? Because Mummy said it’s baaaaaad.

By constantly reprimanding my kids for snatching/pushing/fighting, I had inadvertently made these deeds into a far bigger deal than they, in reality, are. Other kids, whose parents weren’t anal-retentive like me (yes, I do admit it) would brush these things off. My kids would dissolve into a puddle. All my well-meaning, Mary-Poppins-chanelling, try-hard mothering did nothing for my kids when it came to finding their way in the big, bad world. In fact, much as it pains me to admit it, I think I handicapped them.

I should have known better.

I was always the kid who did the right thing. I was the one who was always nice, who always shared, who was always fair. I have spent my entire life feeling slapped in the face by people who don’t play by the same rules. I am 36 years old and I am still learning the hard way that not everybody follows them. Hell, there are lots of people out there who haven’t ever heard of them. I still cry when I realise someone didn’t play fair.

A few months ago, after counselling my child through another episode of heartbreak over a relatively minor altercation with a friend – something she should have had the resilience to brush off – I had an a-ha moment. All my interfering when my kids fight with each other needs to stop. They have the perfect training arena for schoolyard altercations right here at home! By telling them to  stop fighting, by intervening and helping them through the moment, I have not been allowing them to learn how to stand up for themselves. I have stopped them from learning that they can survive ugly words, snatched toys and the occasional shove. I have stolen from them the precious lesson that they have the ability to stand up for what they believe in. By constantly coming to their rescue, I have not allowed them to recognise their own power to do it themselves. I have essentially taught them that they have no power. Way to go, Mum.

So, I let them fight. It grates on my nerves and feels wrong, but I let it happen. And when they come to me, crying and rubbing a sore arm, I try to discuss with them how they could have handled things better. We talk about “the golden rules” and how living by these rules will make them better people. We discuss “respect” and “tolerance” and how the fight didn’t really need to happen. We hug (often not too willingly), we laugh (eventually), and we move on. We now have a more chaotic home, more bruises, and less civility. But I feel like my kids are better armed for the reality of the world outside of this cocoon we call home.

Yes, I can’t stand hearing them fight. Yes, it takes every ounce of self-control to not, control-freak-like, jump in and “fix” the problem. Yes, I believe I’m doing the right thing.

I want my children to grow up to become amazing people. I want them to be the type of people who treat others fairly, stand up for their beliefs, give generously and play nice. But I also want them to be able to cope in this game of life, where the majority of players burn the rulebook and get away with it.

ABOUT MICHELLE: Michelle Lewsen is Editor at Bonbon Break. She has 18 years’ experience in the advertising industry and multiple International awards under her belt. Most recently she was selected as a BlogHer Voice of the Year in the “Inspiration” category. She is  also the founder of They Call Me Mummy, a website for women (parents and non-parents, alike) covering a wide range of topics from parenting to work-life balance to mental health and fitness.

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CONTINUE READING IN THE FAMILY ROOM

The post Why I Let My Kids Fight first appeared on BonBon Break.

Hey, you! (Yes, YOU.)

I see you, you know.

I see you in those moments when you think nobody’s looking, those moments when you’re not sucking in your tummy, when you’re yelling at your kids, when you’re serving McDonalds for dinner because you’re too tired to manage anything else. I see your panic when you realise you let down your guard for a while and showed your vulnerabilities. I see the judgement in your eyes as you assess yourself and find yourself lacking. I see your sadness. I see it through your smile, a smile so pretty that I’m left mystified by your inability to see how beautiful you are.

I see you.

I see you when you stay up late at night to hold together the fabric that makes up your family. You carefully sew that fabric with a shiny thread of dedication, resentment, love, fear and hope and you wonder if it’s strong enough to hold. You wonder if the 200% you’re giving your family is enough, and I want to take you in my arms and hug you. I want to take you by your shoulders and shake you, because I can’t believe that you could ever doubt your immense value.

I see you.

I see you when you catch a glimpse of your child doing something spectacular. I watch in fascination as you get that glint in your eye and you ask yourself, with wonder, how such a great kid could be yours. I want to scream because I can’t comprehend how you do not see your own beautiful self in your child’s actions? How is it possible that you don’t see your own magic? Do you not see that everything that incredible child has learnt has come from you? I see you as the teacher, mentor and inspiration that you are. Every day. I see the kisses, the cheerleading, the comforting, the teaching, the role-modelling you give unselfishly with every one of your breaths. Generosity is who you are, yet you refuse to look in the mirror and see the exquisite person I see.

I see you.

I see you, hiding in the bathroom, as tears roll down your cheeks. Your exhaustion hangs on you, cloak-like, as you sit with your head in your hands, sobbing because you simply cant. go. on. I see you as you bravely deep-breathe, splash your face with cold water, dust off and paint on a smile. I see you beating yourself up in this moment because you feel you have no right to these feelings. I see you as you mentally tally your bountiful blessings, count yourself lucky and make the decision to hate yourself more for daring to not be happy. I see you bravely face the world when you emerge, wearing a hopeful smile and a promise to be better. I watch in disbelief because you refuse to see how absolutely remarkable you are.

I see you. 

I see you struggling with not being enough. Not engaged enough with your kids. Not up to date enough with the laundry. Not enough of a disciplinarian. Not enough of a hugger. Not enough of a wife. Not enough of a professional. Not enough of a friend. I see you, shoulders hunched, as you weather the beatings of these “not-enoughs” as they rain down on you. I see you try, over and over, to be more and do more and I see you fail because you will never judge yourself to be enough. How could it be? You are so much more than enough.

I see you. I love you. You’re enough.

ABOUT MICHELLE: Michelle is an award winning copywriter with 18 years’ experience in the advertising industry. She is  also the founder of theycallmemummy.com – a website for women (parents and non-parents, alike) covering a wide range of topics from parenting to work-life balance to mental health to fitness – the whole gamut. She was recently voted one of the 25 Voice of the Year Honourees in the “Inspiration” category at the BlogHer ’13 Conference in Chicago.

Follow Michelle via Facebook |Pinterest | Twitter | Google+ | LinkedIn

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This post was syndicated, with permission, from TheyCallMeMummy.com

The post A letter to YOU first appeared on BonBon Break.

I grew up in Apartheid South Africa.

My childhood was idyllic and picture-book pretty. I was raised by two incredible parents who nurtured my siblings and I with respect and an abundance of love. My siblings and I also grew up with another ‘mother’, Flora, our family’s maid who took care of my family as if we were her own. Except that we weren’t.

Flora’s family weren’t allowed to live with her in our lily white neighbourhood. Flora took care of us, but our government didn’t allow her to take care of her own children.

Until I was twelve years old, the only black kids I ever saw were on American TV shows. I do recall that during school holidays, Flora’s children would sometimes leave their township and come stay with her at our home. I have no idea whether this was ‘allowed’ or not, but my parents taught me from a young age that this segregation that our country forced on it’s citizens was NOT OKAY – that our government’s treatment of Flora and her family was not okay.

It wasn’t the same in a lot of my friends’ families. I vividly remember a school friend coming over one day and refusing to swim in our pool because Flora’s kids were swimming with us. Her disgust and refusal marked a milestone in my life: the first time I actively saw for myself – with clarity – the injustice of it all. That friend never was invited back. I’m 38 years old now and still, I feel immense shame when I recall that day.

That day was the first time I really questioned the way we lived… the laws we lived by. I spoke to my Granny about it (I could always count on her to discuss issues with me like a grown-up) and she opened my eyes and my mind. I found out that, in her late teens, she worked for Lionel Sidelsky (the lawyer who allowed Nelson Mandela to do his articles – almost unheard of in those days) and later, she was PA to Bram Fischer (who acted as Nelson Mandela’s legal defence at the Rivonia Trial). In addition, she did a lot of covert work looking after the underprivileged, running a soup kitchen through police lines in Zimbabwe to besieged shanty-township residents. With a glint in her eye, she told me how, when there were riots, she’d still venture into the townships with her car full of pots of soup, loaves of bread and other provisions, because there was a job to be done. She once spent three straight days at the airport, following a siege in the Congo, helping refugees.

If I learnt anything from her, it was that the women in our family are strong and that standing up for what’s right is more important than just about anything else. In this spirit, and at massive personal risk (these were the days when people simply disappeared in police paddy vans and never returned) she and my Grandpa Herbie also secretly ran a safe house for fleeing ANC (African National Congress – the political party founded by Nelson Mandela) members from South Africa. In fact, the SA Bureau of Secret Service had a file out on her due to her political activism in South Africa prior to going to Zimbabwe (then Rhodesia). On her return to South Africa, she was denied the right to resume citizenship, and her passport and identification documents were seized. Her fight to reclaim her citizenship lasted many years.

This incredible woman was such an inspiration to me and, together with my parent’s phenomenal teaching, she helped me to grow up in South Africa with a burning desire for change. We cheered together as we watched Nelson Mandela freed from prison. We gasped as he chose forgiveness over retribution. We cried as he used his platform to extend an olive branch instead of a gun.

What a thrill it was for all of us that my school was the first in Johannesburg to integrate. What a proud memory it is, to this day, that black kids were welcomed into our school with open hearts and open arms. My community may have been exclusively white, but not by choice. The pride I feel to have grown up in a family and community that actively fought against Apartheid is immeasurable. The shame I feel for living a charmed childhood at the expense of someone else’s children is even more so – it’s a guilt I will carry with me forever, despite the knowledge that it wasn’t by choice.

In 1994, I turned 18 and was eligible to vote. How humbling that it was also the first year any black South African of any age was eligible to vote, Nelson Mandela included. How shameful and uplifting and heartbreaking and wonderful it felt to stand for hour upon hour in that long queue as it snaked around city blocks. I was part of a giant centipede-like line made up of rainbow coloured people. There was singing and dancing and ululating in that queue. The hope was tangible. The joy was electric. The togetherness was exquisite. The pulse of South Africa beat in the hearts of everyone there as we collectively imagined a future of hands clenched peacefully, palm to palm instead of in angry fists.

Once the votes were tallied a few days later, Mom, Dad, my siblings, Flora and I gathered in front of the TV and we watched as our new president, Nelson Mandela was inaugurated. He spoke of our Rainbow Nation and we knew it was possible because we had felt it so viscerally in those voting lines.

It was with great sadness that I left South Africa a few years later, for a new life in Australia. South Africa represents the best and the worst of my life experiences and lessons. It is my foundation, my heritage and where my roots are. My pulse still beats with African drums, even as it harmonises with a digeridoo.

Last week, when I heard that Nelson Mandela had passed away, I sobbed. This world has lost far more than a President or a politician. This world has lost an icon – a symbol of the very best that humanity has to offer. This man had enormous lessons to impart, and I feel incredibly blessed to have learned them as a South African.

Here are 6 lessons that Madiba taught me and that I will teach to my children:

1. Education is everything.

2. Nobody is better than anybody else and nothing is more important than fighting for equality.

3. Forgiveness is a get-out-of- jail-free card. Grudges are nothing but bars for our own personal prisons.  

4. Life is too short to care about what other people think. However, never stop caring about how other people feel.

5. Love comes more naturally than hate and it will beat hate every time. 

6. Success is relative. What matters is effort and intention.

Rest in peace, Madiba. Your Long Walk is over. 

ABOUT MICHELLE: Michelle is an award winning copywriter with 18 years’ experience in the advertising industry. She is  also the founder of theycallmemummy.com – a website for women (parents and non-parents, alike) covering a wide range of topics from parenting to work-life balance to mental health to fitness – the whole gamut. She was recently voted one of the 25 Voice of the Year Honourees in the “Inspiration” category at the BlogHer ’13 Conference in Chicago.

Follow Michelle via Facebook |Pinterest | Twitter | Google+ | LinkedIn

The post Six Lessons I learned from Nelson Mandela first appeared on BonBon Break.

This morning, as I battled to tame her deliciously curly brown hair for school, Baby G very sadly uttered,

“Mama, I wish I had long, straight yellow hair and blue eyes.” 

That one sentence halted my world, Matrix like. In the microseconds that followed, I was forced to swallow the bitter pill that was her first yearning to be something other than herself. That one sentence had the potential to become the first brick in the foundation of the hateful self-doubt jail that so many of us women have built and locked ourselves in. That one sentence needed to be faced, head on.

I responded, faking nonchalance, “Tell me, why do you want long, straight, yellow hair and blue eyes?”

She replied (somewhat condescendingly), “Because EVERYONE knows that yellow hair and blue eyes are the prettiest kind.”

As I mentally beat Barbie to smithereens with a meat mallet and cursed Disney for Cinderella and Rapunzel, I dug deep for the right words to say to her.

I continued detangling her delicious ringlets as I enquired, “Can I ask you a question?” She nodded, as I continued, ”Who do you think is the prettiest lady in the world?”

Crossing fingers and toes and praying to whoever might be up there listening, I waited.

Grinning, she exclaimed, “YOU are, Mummy!”

Exhaling, I grinned and pulled her on to my lap. “Well, Baby G,” I said, “do you know what makes me very very happy?”

Curiously, she asked, “What?”

I answered, “When I look in the mirror every day, I see my brown eyes and brown hair and I give myself the biggest smile, because they are the exact same colour as yours. I feel so happy because that must mean that I am beautiful, just like you!”

She gasped.

She looked at me again, this time much more closely, then she jumped up and grabbed the hand mirror. Looking from my face to her own, holding a strand of her hair against mine, she inhaled sharply and her eyes filled with wonder.

She put down the mirror and purposefully took my face in her two soft little baby-like hands and then she uttered words that will forever be diamonds in my memory bank.

With awe, she declared, “Mummy, we’ve got the same beautiful!”

ABOUT MICHELLE: Michelle is an award winning copywriter with 18 years’ experience in the advertising industry. She is  also the founder of theycallmemummy.com – a website for women (parents and non-parents, alike) covering a wide range of topics from parenting to work-life balance to mental health to fitness – the whole gamut. She was recently voted one of the 25 Voice of the Year Honourees in the “Inspiration” category at the BlogHer ’13 Conference in Chicago.

Follow Michelle via Facebook |Pinterest | Twitter | Google+ | LinkedIn

CONTINUE READING IN THE FAMILY ROOM

The post Damn You Barbie! first appeared on BonBon Break.

Let me ask you a question. If you found out that your child had diabetes, would you deny him insulin? If he was short-sighted, would you deny him glasses and tell him to just sit nearer the front of the classroom?

Well, then why, if your child was diagnosed with ADHD, would you decide to withhold medication?

Since I wrote about my own ADHD diagnosis, I have been overwhelmed with private messages from distraught parents whose children have been diagnosed with ADHD. Their distress is exactly the same – they are afraid to medicate and are certainly not going to share the diagnosis with anyone, for fear of the negative stigma. Their relief upon reading my post was almost palpable. For most, it was the first time someone had spoken about medicating ADHD in a positive light.

This really made me sad. Incredibly sad. All I could think was “Those poor kids.”

Before you judge me as a drug-peddler, let me begin by saying that I absolutely understand the fear of the scary monster ADHD drugs that are out there.

Hell, if you Google it, you’re led to believe you’re a selfish parent who wants to zombiefy her child for her own convenience. You’ll believe ADHD drugs are only used by lazy, inept parents and teachers to tranquilise naughty children who really only need a good old-fashioned spanking. In fact, if you take all the online literature at face value, there’s no way you’d agree to administer any ADHD drug. Giving your child medication would be tantamount to child abuse. Right? In my humble (but educated) opinion you’d be wrong.

ABOUT MICHELLE: Michelle is an award winning copywriter with 18 years’ experience in the advertising industry. She is  also the founder of theycallmemummy.com – a website for women (parents and non-parents, alike) covering a wide range of topics from parenting to work-life balance to mental health to fitness – the whole gamut. She was recently voted one of the 25 Voice of the Year Honourees in the “Inspiration” category at the BlogHer ’13 Conference in Chicago.

Follow Michelle via Facebook |Pinterest | Twitter | Google+ | LinkedIn

CONTINUE READING IN THE FAMILY ROOM

The post Kids’ ADHD Explained first appeared on BonBon Break.