Is It Just Me? by Chrissie Swan

not dissimilar to those wildlife warriors who try to tag crocodiles. Those tyres sure do put up a fight, by the looks of things. But Paul got me all sorted out. He even called his mate at the local tyre shop, so when I arrived there they knew what sort of tyre I needed and I was fixed up and on my way in no time.
    I was actually teary when I thanked Paul for his kindness. It was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for me.
    Until a week later, when I was turning into an eight-lane freeway and I heard a bang. My first instinct was to check my head for a bullet hole (don’t you worry, I’ve seen Underbelly ). My second was to utter under my breath, “Not another tyre!”
    So there I was, stranded again for the second time in a week with a flat tyre and no idea. I should have paid attention to Paul, but I seriously didn’t think I’d need to so quickly.
    However, within five minutes a handsome fellow with a ten-year-old son had pulled over, taken my keys and was reversing my wonky vehicle into the service road. Again, I pushed aside the rubbish in my boot to reveal the by-now well-worn emergency wheel and he set about changing it for me.
    This time he made me work for it a little bit, and I had to loosen a nut. This involved me bending over, bottom in the air, whispering “Righty tighty, lefty loosey” at the rims so I’d get the direction right. Eventually, the wheel was changed and I was on my way. I looked at the handsome man’s son and said, “Your dad is a hero, you realise?” He just shrugged and went back to playing his Nintendo DS.
    What struck me about the kindness of these two gentlemen was that they absolutely did not have to help me. They both had things they were doing and could have easily just stuck to their schedules. I’ve done that. Plenty of times. I’ve seen someone in a broken-down car looking frantic and I’ve thought, “Well … what can I do?”
    Now I’m paying it forward. I paid a lot of attention when the handsome stranger was changing my tyre and, having also done a crash course on YouTube, I’m confident I can now change a tyre without creating a dangerous situation à la Wacky Races .
    And next time I see a woman with a flat tyre, gesticulating wildly while on the phone to someone, I’m going to pull over and change her wheel. I bet it’ll feel really good.
    Â 
    14th October 2012

Raising boys
    I think I’m onto myself. Yep, the jig is up, as my gran used to say. I have, I believe, taken the easy way to parenthood by being a mother to boys and not girls. In fact, I think that if I ever have a third child and it is a girl, I will fully lose my mind.
    I wonder if other mothers of boys are thinking the same thing I am.
    I have friends with little girls. I feel like they know I don’t really know what I’m doing in the parenting stakes. And I’m talking about the kids, not their parents. Little girls just seem to have my number. They are all-knowing. They are serious and smart and switched on. They seem to know I have no idea.
    I was eavesdropping on a conversation the other day between my six-year-old god-daughter and her grandpa. The lovely old fellow was talking to her about party food and how if she ate too much she’d get a tummy ache. She fixed him with a withering stare and said, “Don’t patronise me, Grandpa.” Boom!
    I have two sons and sometimes I think this is God’s way of acknowledging that, as a parent and as a person, I mean well but am generally too goofy to be trusted with a proper responsibility.
    Raising a daughter seems so … complicated. It scares me. How could I possibly navigate the scary minefields of self-esteem and eating disorders so prevalent in the lives of girls? How could I ever live with the guilt if I got it all wrong?
    I have a very clear idea about the kind of men I’d like to raise. I’m raising them to be kind and respectful, with