Change

You’ve made lists, tickled card boxes, posted yellow stickies, grouped tasks by A, B, C, filled in workbooks, made rosters, stuck things on the refrigerator.

But none of it sticks. Sure, for a week or two, or even a month, life becomes a bit more orderly.

But then, something happens at work, or one of the kids gets sick. And it’s back to tears before bedtime.

I wanted to provide a happy, supportive home for my kids. And I had to work full-time to do it. But the mornings were the worst. Even though I wanted them to go off to school bouncy, warm and well fed, there were way too many drive through breakfasts, and lunches that came out of a cellophane wrapper.

Not working was not an option. I don’t work, we don’t eat.

But I felt so useless. The moms at the school gate were always cool, groomed, and lunchbox friendly. Had I missed something obvious? Maybe I didn’t get the handout from the maternity ward.

So I was totally behind the play. And I desperately craved some peace. Some quiet. Some sense of harmony and flow. A little grace. Not to be shielding myself against the dishes on the benchtop, the grit in the carpet, and the fact I hadn’t flossed for a week.

But I felt that my children’s childhood was slipping away as I floundered to stay afloat. That I wasn’t swimming – just not drowning. Only surviving. Not creating a bank of happy memories and times for them to draw on.

Why was getting things done at work so easy, and getting them done at home so hard?

Clang. The penny dropped.

Things at work are easy because they have systems. And the system focuses on the most important things. And the system is neutral. It doesn’t judge, argue or get resentful. It just is. It’s like the ribs of a boat. A boat carries you on a journey. It can be a tiny dinghy or a superyacht.

But you decide what it looks like, and where you want to go. But a system gives you a skeleton, structure, the difference between a pile of sticks and some seal skin, and a slim, responsive vessel that slips through the waves, keeping everybody safe and dry and heading on an adventure.

So, how do you create a system for you? And for your family? One that fits you perfectly? Not one that’s bought and bolted on – bits hacked off, dangling uselessly because they’re redundant.

You make tiny, tiny changes. I mean it. Tiny. Minute.

But, they have huge results, because they move your ground state. And if your ground state is moved, then everything moves. Order and ease flow out in ripples from the new state. And because they’re tiny, and you take it easy, they stick. They last. They become the way your family does things.

I read many, many books. I did lots of courses. Pages of instructions how to organize my pantry, my wardrobe, my paperwork, my cleaning and my finances. These stuck for about a week.

The answer is not what you change. It’s how you change it. If you want to try this out for yourself and start tomorrow morning with more zest and fun, try this idea.

It looks so easy. As it is. And it makes all the difference in the world. I know how I feel about my life now. I wish I could go back to my younger self and show her this strategy. But I can show it to you. And if you feel more joy, more confidence as a mother – and your family has more fun – my job is done.

The morning goes like this.

Eight minutes ‘til the bus. Where are my keys?

“Finish your breakfast.”

These pantyhose look snagged. Pull that bit around the back. No-one will notice. Diary, charger, pens, forget lunch, I’ll buy something there, bus card, oh no, I didn’t top up.

I put my notes down somewhere safe and now I can’t find them.

“Put your coat on. Yes, it’s raining. Tie up your shoes. Tie up your shoes. Here, I’ll tie up your shoes.”

I’m sure my keys are in my bag. It’s pitch black in there. I can’t see a thing. Stand under the light.

“Coat. On. Now. I mean it.”

Give it a shake. I can hear keys rattle. Must be them. I need one of those things that when you say ‘Keys’ it whistles.

“What do you mean, toilet? Didn’t you go when you brushed your teeth? Okay, go. Hurry. Come on, come on. Hurry up!”

Here’s my notes. I hope it’s all of them. I’ll arrange them on the bus.

“What are you crying for? I’m not shouting! Sorry, sorry, here, have a cuddle. I’m sorry.”

I was shouting.

“Please put your coat on because we have to catch the bus, and it won’t wait. Okay? Okay, you can carry it. If you put on this hat. Here’s a tissue.”

Give the bag a shake. I can hear them. I’m sure they’re in there. Phone, purse, packet of hankies, I know I’ve forgotten something.

“Never mind, we have to go. Quickly, out the door, skippety skip.”

Good hard slam, now we’re off. … oh no.

House keys are on top of the fridge. These are car keys.

I feel sick. The landlady is going to think I’m a crazy tenant if I ring her again.

“Mommy is not crying. It’s just the rain.”

What would happen if the night before, I set the timer for ten minutes?

Just ten minutes. In an ad break. Mute the television.

Empty out my bag (with the pitch black interior), and put it on the coffee table. Line up meeting notes, phone, charger, diary (check what’s happening the next day – just run my eye over it, no drama). Keys. Tissues.

Lay it all out. Look at it. Think about it. Gently. Very gently.

If I was being Super Corporate Mom, put in a spare pair of pantyhose.

Mentally run through the day. Is there anything missing? Is there anything that I can add that will make things run smoother? Even, fun? Nice hand cream. A new pen. Lip balm. A snack bag of nuts and dried cranberries.

Don’t say a word. Slowly, quietly and gently, under the fascinated gaze of the child(ren), pack it all.

Small things tucked in the side pockets, the folders flat. Zip it up. Put it by the door. Ready to go. Just like a bought one.

The keys safe in the side pocket.

The timer buzzes. Done and dusted. TV unmuted.

The next morning, observe. See if there’s any difference.

Super Mom strikes again.

The reality is, I can’t ‘multi-task’.

No-one can. It’s a myth.

Every time I start something new, my productivity drops. By trying to focus on many things, I end up focused on nothing. The day ends in an unconscious blur.

So. I sit down to pay the bills online. What’s my bank balance? Ouch. Check my email. That’ll cheer me up. Oh, great, a cat video from my daughter. Hilarious. We love lolcats. She knows exactly how to make me laugh. What’s she doing on Facebook? Lovely photo. She’s so beautiful. I’m so proud of her.

Oooh, a message. Want to go to a movie tonight? Cool, fancy a girl’s night out. One problem. She likes art house, and I feel like explosions and car chases. Ryan Gosling. Mmmm. Johnny Depp. Clive Owen. Daniel Craig. I wonder what he’s working on now? Check imdb. The thinking woman’s crumpet. Just crumpet, I reckon. Never mind the thinking.

Next thing, I notice that it’s getting dark. I’ve spent two hours looking at animals and talking babies on YouTube.

And the bills still aren’t paid.

So, how will a tomato save the day?

Enter my saviour – the humble kitchen timer. In the shape of a tomato. I turn it to twenty-five minutes, and then do one thing – and only one thing – for twenty-five minutes. Then stop, and rest for five minutes. Stand up, stretch, quick cup of tea. Then on to twenty-five minutes again, and back into it. Either the same task or the next one.

It’s called ‘The Pomodoro Technique’. There’s a whole heap of science behind it. And I swear by it. It’s a complete game changer.

You can do anything for 25 minutes.

When I came across this, in my endless search for strategies, I thought “Nah. Too easy.”

Eventually, I gave it a try. Quite certain that I’d be the one to prove it didn’t work.

I was deliciously, delightfully wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. And so glad to be wrong.

If it works for me, the Universal Grand Pooh Bah of Procrastination, it will work for anyone.

It works for my students. “Turn off your phones”, I tell them. They fight tooth and claw, kick up bobsy die. “Now stop talking.” They stare at me as if I’m something disgusting in the bottom of the bin.

We count down together and click ‘Start’ on our timers. Silence falls. The sound of breathing, tapping.  I warn them, ‘Five minutes to go … Three minutes … Stop!” All over the class, alarms go off.

I have to shout to make them stop. “Stop! Stop Now! I mean it! Stand up and stretch! Stoooop!” They want to keep going. Then they want to do another one. Then they confess, “Miss, I got heaps done.” I nod sagely.

Warning! If you use this technique, you will get really excited and want to keep going, without a break.

Do Not Keep Going!

That leads to burn out, and eventual discouragement. You must stop for the five minutes. It paces your mental effort.

It works at it’s very best if you have a steady rhythm. Work, rest, work, rest. It’s amazing what you will get done.

It works for all those jobs that I avoid. Paying the bills, cleaning the oven, tax returns, vacuuming (a pet hate), folding the wash, ironing, data entry, sorting paper, quick house clean up.

And it works for fun things, too.

I was always so organised in my job, my professional role. Even carried spare pantyhose in my briefcase in case of a snag. But that stopped at my front door, and then it was a case of kicking my way through the mess to reach the kitchen bench and cook some dinner for my starving kids.

At work, I had separate coloured plastic files for each project labelled and lined up on the desk. People would laugh when they saw them. I carried a project journal that captured every thought, idea, issue, task and all minutes of meetings. I joked that if I ever got hit by a bus, someone should make sure they grab the project journal.

And then there were nights when the power was cut off at home because I hadn’t got around to paying the bill. We ate pizza by candlelight and built rug forts to sleep in, but I had to pay penalties when I rang up the power company next morning. That’s if I could find the bill.

Why is it so easy to get organised at work, to stay on top of the detail? And why is it so hard to get my home life relaxed, gracious and ordered? Some days I felt relieved to get to work and be away from the chaos. To be somewhere where everyone knows what they have to do, systems work, there’s a place for everything and we’re all working towards the same goal.

Seems obvious, doesn’t it? Get a system.

Card system. Tried that. Clunky, unresponsive, spent all my time figuring out what to do and shifting cards around.

Lists. They morph. Breed. There’s sub-lists, addenda, master lists and appendixes. Still too cumbersome.

Diaries, personal organisers, yellow stickies, reminder notes, star charts, grading priorities by A, B, C, sub-routines, journals – everything lasted for about a month and then fell over. Too complicated, too rigid, too dogmatic.

I needed something fun, responsive, robust and adaptable. I needed something that would help my pain now.

It came to me on a plane. The safety instructions video. There’s the cute strip lights, showing the exits. There’s the life jacket, hidden cleverly under the seat. There’s the oxygen masks, merrily popping down with the loss of altitude. There’s the mother, putting her own mask on and tightening the straps, then turning to her smiling, relaxed child. To put on the child’s oxygen mask.

And the voice over. “Put your own mask on first, then attend to your child.” And a light came on in my brain.

If I am the hub point of the household, the main organiser, the one who keeps things turning around, start with me.

What very small, but very potent change can I make in my daily routine that makes life easier for me? And what ripple effect will that have on my home, my health, my children?

So I began very, very small.

Just one task.

I cleared the bench before bedtime, filled the kettle and put out my tea bag, cup, bowls, spoons and cereal for breakfast. That’s all.

A tiny, tiny change. Ridiculously small. But it gave me the tiniest edge. And that was all I needed.

Here’s an idea.

Don’t try to fix everything. Pick one small change that will make you feel better. And only do that. Keep doing it.

How does it make you feel?