Donegal Daydreams 2

Donegal is like one of those boys your mother always warned you about.. moody and unreliable, glorious one moment, dumping on you the next, but always, irrisistable.

It's the same as it always was. I came here every year as a child, so many memories merged into one mish mash of feeling and nostaligia. I can close my eyes and see the rugged mountains and coastline, taste the chicken maryland we had as a treat every holiday in the Nesbit Arms Hotel, smell the turf, hear the silly names my brother and I gave all the funny sounding Irish places. But mostly I remember my mum's white tupperware box, always full of her fudge squares and caramel squares she had made the night before we left. The glorious days on the beaches, the long walks as my dad dragged us over 'just one more hill', the interminable days inside the smokey cottage as the rain lashed outside.

Donegal has a personality complex. When the weather is clear, the horizon is further than anywhere I've ever been in the world. The sky seems endless, life is limitless. But when the dark clouds brood and close in, spewing torrents of 'wet rain' like sheets of water, the sea mist creeps around until there is nothing in your vision at all - just you, your house and if you're lucky, the end of your path. No sky. No mountains. No road. Donegal can make you feel tall and small in one day.

The smell of turf burning takes me back 30 years in an instant to my family sitting round the fire, life at it's most basic, the rain thrashing the windows as the clump of the tupperware lid opened and our family hands tangled in desperation as we grasped mum's chocolate treats.

And so here I am again. I am the mum now. The schizophrenic weather has us changing clothes three times a day. Last week I burned in the sun, the beach so vast, skies so wide it felt unwordly. And today, rain is so dense, the weather so close, we can't see past the wall. My mum and dad were meant to be with us this week, and I know without a doubt, that if she had been able to come, the tupperware box would have been on her knee as the car drove up. So, with a heavy heart, and a happy memory, I opened up her recipes, and I made her fudge squares. My girls now love them as I once did, and so it continues. My mum will never share a holiday with us again, but we sit in the turf-smoked room, the rain dancing furiously outside, and the clip of my new tin opens, and our family hands tangle as we reach for my mum's chocolate treats. Like Donegal weather, life is unpredictable. You never know what's around the corner. But like Donegal, it is the things that stay the same that keep life going. I miss you mum. But I'm creating new memories in your shadow. Memories I hope my girls will take through their lives as mine still take me.

Tap Tap

I don't know about you, but 6 years and three children in, I still look over my shoulder occassionally to see who might be coming close enough to tap me on the shoulder and tell me I'm not a real mother, please move along. If only there was a manual - one that doesn't tell me to listen to my inner gut which frankly only tells me I ate too much chocolate and drank too much wine last night, or one that tells me exactly what time I can eat a slice of toast (honestly, one does) and lays out my parenting tasks like a military opertion - with as much loving as that would entail. No, we just have to muddle through, hoping against hope that we aren't on the social services list for mad mothers, and gaining strength in numbers by hanging out (or blogging alongside) other mad mothers, in every form the word mad entails.

And just when I think I'm really not very good at this (last week my 6pm phone call to a friend went like this: 'is it ok to open a bottle of wine before the kids go to bed?' My friend replied, 'well, what are they doing?' to which I confessed they were eating chocolate and watching TV. 'Oh you're way past wondering if drinking before their bedtime is ok!" she replied) my cohorts in co-parenting (for that is what friends are), boosted my confidence by confessing their own wayward ways. There is nothing like someone else's badness you make you feel good.

On Friday night, during a much needed girlie night drinking wine (it was after the kid's bedtime!) my friend and I decided to watch our favourite girlie night DVD. Oh come on! We are grown women but admit it - we all love a teenage vampire! After fiddling with the controls for a few moments, she announced she was off to get her daughter up. "But she's been asleep for two hours!" I gasped. "Yes," she said, as she carried her sleepy 8 year old into the room, "but she's the only one who can work the DVD player."

Did that make me feel good or what! Then, at a lovely afternoon tea with some other girlfriends the next day (it's been an amazing rare, but gorgeous friend-filled weekend) my child pyschologist friend - who for years has been guiding parents on how to bring up their children, confessed she's too confused and traumatised with her own two children to follow her own advice. "I used to be a parenting expert until I became a mum," she wailed as we all smiled and consoled her with the reminder that we had never been parenting experts. And maybe that's the point. We do the best we can..... with a little help from our friends. Thank you mad mothers everywhere for living in my world.

Birthday love

Today is my mum's birthday. As she lies locked in her body and mind in Belfast, for the first time in probably 15 years I won't be spending the day with her. Since I had children, she would come down to Dublin and I would take her to Avoca for lunch... we would while away a couple of hours nattering about nothing and everything, sharing each other's lunch, and always, finishing up with a 'goodie' with our cuppa. Then we would come back to mine and I'd throw a birthday teaparty for her with the girls. They would make buns and they'd sing happy Birthday till they were hoarse.

Then she would help me with Poppy's birthday party two days later, blowing up balloons, making marshmallow Top Hats, clearing up exhuberant princess spills and smiling at the mess a bunch of toddlers can make. Poppy will be four, and tomorrow's Princess Party (very important distinction!) will be her first without Nanna. Every 'first' cuts like the first cut - her stroke. A body blow, painful and bruising. The memory of last year so sharp, it cuts into the wound afresh.

But. Among all the firsts, there is also a comforting constant. The next day after Poppy, it's my Hubby's birthday. (May is the triple wammy!). He may be the one celebrating, blowing out candles and getting birthday cuddles, but I am the one that is lucky. I am the one with the best present of all....him. He looks after me, quietly, dilligently, without fuss. I've noticed him staying an extra 5 minutes in the morning even though I know he is so pressured at work, just to help me out because I'm struggling. He holds my hand in the dark of the night. He tells me dinner is gorgeous even if it looks like a bowl of cat food (lentil roast is not my forte). He doesn't take lunch so he can come home early on Monday to let me out to pilates, and never complains. He loves me. Simply and beautifully.

So I'd like to add a bit to my previous post - the sandwich filling. I am the filling. My girls and my mum are the bread. But he is the relish. He is the flavour. He is the part that makes it all worth while. Happy birthday hubby.

Pain and pleasure

We've just returned from our family week in Ballyvaughan in the Burren on the West Coast of Ireland. The family week we have every year with my mum and dad, my brother and his family, and me and mine. The family week mum and dad organised last summer before my mum's stroke. The family week that no longer involves my family. Not as it was anyway.

This time last year I was there with my mum. We pottered on wild west beaches, collecting shells with the girls, enjoying choccy buns with our tea, sitting side by side with our faces to the sun. This year, her absence was present everywhere. I never knew it was possible to feel so much pain without bleeding. The pain continues, as the realisation dawns that the trauma will not end. The trauma is constant. As my three girls delighted in the company of their cousins, the house was filled with their laughter, the laugher that made my mum's life happy. But she wasn't there to hear it. And amidst the noise of childish chatter I would be suddenly struck down, paralysed on the spot, cup in hand, children scampering around me, lost in my loss. While the world went on around me, I was still. And in my stillness I could see her. Her blue fleece walking along the beach, her white T-shirt soothing Ruby's screaming teeth, her sun hat tilted back as the sun scorched our skin as the view scorched our eyes with its beauty. A bloodless coup has taken place, not a mark on my body but my head and my heart beaten and bruised.

It was possibly the hardest week of my life after the two following her stroke, made more intense by the beauty of the landscape and the glorious weather, both of which my mum appreciated more than anything. People often use the phrase 'breathtaking' to describe a stunning view, but the beauty of the Burren is breath-giving. The expanse inflates your lungs, the beauty makes you breath deeper, sucking it in, absorbing the glory of the landscape into your bones, as if your eyes are not enough to capture it all. It gave me the strength to carry on, to enjoy the moments of pleasure as we all pottered on wild west beaches, collected shells with my girls, ate choccy buns with our tea, and sat with our faces to the sun. And feeling her with me still.

Lasting Firsts

Like everything in my life at the moment, two ends of the spectrum run in parallel - sometimes so close, the lines lie against each other, indeterminate, entwined, indistinguishable. My mum needs caring in the same way as my baby. My girls teach me as much as I mother them.

And so I constantly memorise every 'last' situation with my mum - her last kiss to me as she said goodbye after visiting me in hospital with Ruby; our last phonecall just three hous before her catastrophic stroke, how happy she'd been; our last hug; our last fight. Everyday moments in our relationship, forever now memorised as momentous.

And alongside that, all my new firsts with Ruby. Her first smile three months ago, like a rainbow after a storm. Her first giggle, a trickle that has gushed into a flood. And now, her first solid food - her surprise, my delight, her excitement, my satisfaction, from those first tentative tastes of rice, to my freezer bursting with bags of heart shaped frozen cubes of steamed sweet potato, brocolli, carrot, pear and apple. I spoon feed my mum - favourite flavours no longer lighting up her eyes, and I spoon feed my new baby, marvellous mouthfuls of taste, surprising and lighting up her face.

Different ends of the spectrum. Same love.

Grown up love

I'm so proud of them. No, I'm not talking about our girls - although they make me so proud there isn't a blog host or an internet range large enough to hold the stuff I could write about them. No, I'm talking about my other family - my mum and dad and brother. I know this is not normal. We spend most of our lives being embarrassed or pissed off, or more often than not irritated and frustrated with these strange people who are so familiar they're like our skin, yet so alien to us, they feel like a rash on that skin. And I've often felt all of those things.

Like most families, mine has had its fair share of dramas... but despite the sparks and the strifes, we've shared time, willingly and with pleasure. Despite branching out in our own lives, in the last ten years my brother and I have found ourselves coming together to holiday with mum and dad, and strangely our family strengthened instead of weakened as we married and grew. My mum was the central nervous system - the magnet which pulled us all together no matter how far apart we were. And in the awful days and nights after her catastrophic stroke, my dad, my brother and me - supported by my sister-in-law and husband - formed a vigil, a protective presence, a desperate determination that she would never be alone. As the weeks have slowly drifted into months and decisions were made, plans put in place we did so as a family - as she would have wanted. We are the family she taught us to be - strong in support, united in love.

My dad has been outstanding. He is 74 and caring full-time for my mum now. Most men his age couldn't cope on their own for a day. He cares for her - and himself and does it with extraordinary competence. I don't just mean he copes with the house and manages the washing. When I went up to visit last weekend, we had homemade soup for lunch - with homemade bread, and a stupendous homemade fish pie for tea. It was a sunny spring day so we got mum into her wheelchair and wrapped her up and took her round the park at the end of the road. The first crocuses of Spring were waving hello in the grass and we stopped to feel the sun on our faces for a moment. It was almost bearable. Because we were still together.

My mum is in a terrible place, but while she is there she is being wrapped in love. She taught us that and I hope we are making her proud. For I am proud of them - my mum, my dad, and my brother. So proud that my life has been shared with them, through the good times and the bad.

Life on the edge

As I cling to my new baby's life, I watch my mum's old one slipping away. Old, but not done. Not by a long shot. She may have been in her 70's but she was as lively and vivacious as always. She did water aerobics twice a week, walked very day, did the crossword and had a more active social life than me. Always glamourous, she never left the house without lipstick.

I am a young mum, and am too young to loose my mum.
Who will call me every morning to see how my night has been?
Who will I call every afternoon to hear how her day has been, and be told how cold it is, even when it's 20 degrees?
Who will call me every evening during the kid's tea, saying "I know it's a bad time, but...."?
Who will fix my knitting?
Who will turn their face to the sun with me as we sit outside and watch the girls play?
Who will hold my hand, despite me being 40 years old?
Who will stroke my face?
Who will tell me I'm talented and amazing?
Who will tell me I'm spoilt and need to grow up?
Who will help me make all the forthcoming birthday cakes?
Who will I call when I can't make gravy?
Who will I want when I'm ill and no-one will do but her?
Who will I share all my joy and pain with?
Who will I share my everyday moments with over a cup of tea and a chocolate ("You can never have a cuppa without a bite of chocolate")?

The void she is leaving is too dark, too deep, too dangerous, too frightening to behold right now. All I can do is hold her hand. I suspect my three girls will hold me back from the edge.

I hold her hand every day, a hand that has touched and guided me my entire life.
I stroke her face, a face that has filled my vision more than any other face in my life.
My heart is breaking, and the person I need to fix it can't help me any more.

Pretty in Pink

When I had two little girls I did think my life would be viewed through the rose-tinted glasses of princesses and girlie things. Little did I know though, just how pink it would get. I’m currently at risking of drowning in a sea of pink. My eldest daughter is two and a half. Just two and a half. I thought she would be at least five before my fashion advice was no longer required and an independent princess would emerge. But no, the Pink Revolution has arrived and it’s taking no prisoners. I’ve been punked. Or should I say, pinked.

The princess is a tough cookie and has very high pitched demands. To do a quick inventory of the latest pink accessories, we have shoes (all pink, every single pair, including wellies), pants, dresses, bags, doll’s pram, coat, clips, ribbons, pens, chalk, and blankets. And it doesn’t end there. No, no, no…. the pink pound knows no limits. Out shopping recently in the supermarket, she spotted some pink loo roll. Clutching the packet to her chest like a box of treasure, she carried it down all the aisles until the checkout. Now, while the rest of us use white, but she will only perform if there is pink to wipe up with. Her favourite poem is about a Pink Yink who likes to wink while drinking pink ink. Enough I thought! But no. If you can’t stand the pink, get out of the kitchen. At a recent picnic I asked her what sandwiches she wanted – Egg? Peanut butter? Chicken? Ham? “Pink” was the answer. Ham it was then. She will only eat pink yoghurt and drink raspberry smoothie. Surely things have gone too far when her favourite food has nothing whatsoever to do with taste??

But the thing that tickles me… well, pink… is that this is not nurture – this is pure nature. Somewhere deep inside her genetic make-up, a pink princess has burst free. I always dressed her in trousers and although I bought the odd pink item, they were outnumbered by a rainbow of greens, reds, blues, purples and orange. The pink has come from within – the pink link of genetics.

Last week a new development took place. The princess has become a warrior. She now refuses point blank to wear trousers. Only “pretty skirts” and “pretty dresses” which, of course it goes without saying, are pink.

And so I sigh and give in. I fought a good fight, but I now concede defeat. Pink is the new black. The new blue. The new red. Pink is powerful and pink has won. So I must take my pink princess and march forward enjoying the innocence of such a glorious colour….. no doubt I’ll be wanting it back when the black days of Goth descent upon us…

(c) AKG 2008

Happy 1st Birthday

My baby is one. Last night I held you when you woke up and cried in the middle of the night… you were just hours from being one and I sat in our rocking chair in the dark holding you in my arms and wondered at the fact I had been holding you for a year. A whole glorious year. And that wonder wandered to a question I just can’t answer. What did I do before you? What did I do when I woke during the night before you and Daisy came along? How empty and lonely the dark of the night must have been. I have only held you in my arms for one year of my 38 years and I cannot for the life of me think what I did before. Holding you is so real and complete that it is hard to imagine my life had any real meaning before you and Daisy filled my arms, and my heart. A year ago I didn’t know you. I loved you of course, loved your swell in my belly, and your kicks under my ribs. But I didn’t know you. I couldn’t wait to meet you but I could never have known the beauty of you. I could never have imagined your serenity and your twinkle. I would never have thought you up, because you are beyond all expectations. I could never have imagined how special you would make me feel.

Only one year and I have become a better mum, a better person, a better woman, a better writer and all because of you. Happy 1st year my precious girl… and thank you in advance for all the wonderful years ahead… so many adventures together, so many hugs, and smiles and belly laughs. What did I do before I held you at night? I just don’t know. But I’ll hold you every night in my heart for the rest of my life.

(c) AKG 2008

Standing Up For Routine

There has been a lot of debate recently – in fact, there has probably been arguments since the first homo sapiens were born – on the best way to bring up a baby. Recent rantings have escalated in no small part to the C4 documentary series Bringing Up Baby last autumn, which followed three methods of childrearing with a view to exploring which was best. Naturally they couldn’t come to a conclusion because at the end of the day, different approaches suit different people. But sadly it also failed because – in the interest of TV ratings no doubt – it focussed on the extremes of each method which was pointless because as everyone knows, no baby is text book and all the ‘rules’ out there are to be used as guidelines to be adapted to fit in best with your situation. Scandalously though, to some degree, it also involved child cruelty – and I point the finger here not just at Truby King leaving hungry babies to cry, but to the continuum method which seemed to stifle infant’s need to exercise their limbs, and, worse, encouraged children aged two to play with knives!

The greatest damage though I felt was the impact it had on modern routine methods. Sadly all ‘routine’ methods are now being lumped together when in reality the Truby King’s militant approach bears little relation to any other book I’ve read on the subject including Gina Ford.

Now I’m going to do something I don’t normally do out loud. I’m going to stand up and confess “My name is Alana, and I use Gina Ford’s Contented Little Baby book”. Why am I normally a little reticent about this? After all it’s one of the best selling books on the subject of childrearing, and in my experience, it works (and by ‘works’ I mean developing a very contented little baby). What I have noticed is that people who use a routine method pass no judgement on those who don’t – merely shrug with a ‘there but for the grace of god go I’ as mothers talk of sleep resistant babies, whereas people who don’t use the routine method – and I would vouch have never even read the book – seem to feel they have the right to criticise us who do. So I want to start a revolution. I want to stand up and be proud and urge all you who quietly follow Gina, to scream it from the rooftops.

So why am I an advocate? Because for me, and lots of my friends, it works. I accept that it might not work for everyone, and pass no judgement on how other parents bring up their children as long as everyone is happy and the baby - and family and marriage - is thriving. For me, following a routine has made my baby rearing enjoyable, satisfying and fun, and more importantly, I have two very very contented little babies, and one very happy family.

I’m the kind of person who lives by lists, and I personally love routine. When I had my first baby two and a half years ago, I was overwhelmed - with love, and with fear. And while I was a very competent adult who had backpacked the world and reached the top of my career, I was pretty clueless with the little bundle of joy who, without having to pass any sort of test, and with no instruction manual, I was allowed to take home from the hospital. And so I read some books. Actually I read a lot of books. And I decided to follow the one that seemed to fit my personality, and our family’s needs, the best. I don’t agree with those people who rubbish the use of books and say it should all be instinctual. Personally I felt like I’d had a lobotomy and could hardly remember my name, so trying to find, never mind rely on my instinct was too frightening for words and I know most mothers feel the same. Also, what is wrong with reading books? In ‘the good old days,’ mothers probably didn’t need to read books on childrearing because they were surrounded by their mothers, grandmothers, aunts and a close-knit community. Certainly in the West, those days are gone, and so of course we seek out advice. When we learn to drive, we read up on the road codes, take driving lessons and pass a test. When we buy a computer we read an instruction manual. Why on earth, when we do the most important thing we’ll ever do, would we not consult the experts?

Routine methods are criticised because they organise children to fit into our Western lifestyle. I’m unsure why this is seen as a negative. Surely it is an essential! The continuum method – where the baby is physically attached to the mother or father for the first six months of its life, including sleeping in the marital bed – is apparently based on a tribal method. I worked for UNICEF for years and travelled to several African countries where indeed the women carried their babies around with them all day, strapped to their bodies. Why? Not because they had debated the best way to bring up a baby! But because that was essential to their culture and way of life. Those women had to carry the babies with them as they worked in the fields, or ground corn or walked miles for water. They didn’t have crèches and they breastfed. They don’t sleep in the same room as their children because that is what some expert tells them. They do it because they don’t have lots of bedrooms! They bring their babies up in the manner that suits their lifestyle, and we should do the same. What is best for the baby, and its family, is surely what enables the baby to thrive best in its actual situation.

Routine works for two reasons – it benefits the baby and the family. Firstly, children thrive on the familiar. As a baby, the routine is developed to ensure she is never hungry and never over-tired. As she gets older, the same daily patterns of food, play and sleep, food, play and sleep gives the child comfort and security, no matter where they are or what they are doing. My two year old finishes her lunch and pulls me to the stairs to take her up to bed because she knows she is going to have a lovely lunch-time sleep. If we are out, I put down the buggy seat and she goes to sleep there. Every single night of her life she has had the same bed-time routine – tea, play, bath, books and bed. It means she is secure in the knowledge that while so much changes around her, there is comfort in the familiar. We can travel anywhere and as long as we can give her the comfort of the same bed-time ritual, she is happy to sleep. Both my toddler and one year old old baby have developed great sleep patterns, sleeping through the night, and eating well, (of course they have their off days like everyone else – they’re not Stepford children!)

The second reason it works is that it helps a mother’s sanity and compliments the family dynamic rather than disrupt it. I know when my babies will sleep; I know when they will want to eat. I’m not trying to second guess their needs, and I can arrange our days accordingly. I’m not saying it’s easy – it’s bloody hard at first but the benefits are worth it, a hundred times over. Every night since Daisy was born she went to sleep at 7pm. Even in the early days of initial parenthood my husband and I were able to sit down together in the evening and take stock. Now, both of them sleep through the night from 7pm and, having devoted ourselves to them all day, we now devote time to each other, sitting down together every night for a meal and a chat. My babies are happy and sleeping well, and we as a couple are happy, still able to spend essential quality time together. Our children are the centre of our world – but they don’t rule it. We are the parents and it is our responsibility to set the boundaries. I’m aware that what has worked for me and others like me, won’t work for someone else. That’s as it should be – life would be very dull if we were all the same. My children will be no cleverer or happier than someone who takes a more instinctual approach – what works is what makes the family happy. But for those who do follow Gina Ford, or routines like hers, please, stand up and be proud. Be content, and enjoy your contented little babies.

© AKG 2008
Published in Spring issue 2008 Modern Mum Magazine

Driving me Potty

Potty training. A mental and physical challenge that requires uber-human degrees of patience and endurance. Tested to the limits, it demands a seismic shift in perspective, and a complete overhaul of the world as it’s been known. It necessitates tireless concentration, methodical application, and in fairness, it’s quite tough on the toddler too.

I have never been so mentally exhausted since, well, probably I learnt to use the loo myself. But the worst of it is, that the tiny strain of independence my child and I had taken from each other, has now been catapulted back so we are suctioned together like unlikely peas in a pod. From having to hold her as a newborn, to having her sit clinging desperately to my leg as a wobbler, to tentative crawls around me, to exuberant walks away from me, to actually staying in the playroom while I make a cup of tea in the kitchen (such little but such enormous milestones!) we are now back to square one. We are now constantly only a potty distance apart as I chase her round the house like a demented Desperate Housewife asking manically “Do you want to use the potty????” every time she moves. “Step away from the carpet” is my only other speech these days.

I cannot leave the room. Not for a second. The minute I do she wees on the floor. The actual minute. I cannot leave the house. Despite setting her on the loo before leaving, the minute we leave and get into the car she does a wee. The actual minute.

Every time she successfully deposits a wee or a poo in a myriad of receptacles dotted strategically around the house and garden I jump up and down whooping like a hyena, hugging and kissing her, shouting Hooray as if she’d in fact laid a Golden Egg. The Golden Egg of my independence. One less nappy change I surmise … I have a baby with a fully functioning toilet system so some days between the two of them it’s just a constant stream of reeking and rancid wiping. However, now nappies seem so sanitary compared to the steaming puddles on the floor and smelly squidgy pant packages.

We’re 5 days in and are both low on enthusiasm. My Potty Chart is a depressing reminder that there are still more misses than hits. The house reeks of Dettol and wee. But as the man of the great challenge program proclaimed, “I’ve started so I’ll finish.” We shall continue our quest, my daughter and I. And until our independence is reached we shall travel this epic journey together and just hope a Smartie at the end of each success is enough to keep us both going!

Copyright Alana Kirk-Gillham 2008

Is she demented?

Not a good start to the day. 6.05am and Daisy’s dulcet tones rudely stir me from slumber. I don’t know about any worms, but the only thing this early bird caught was a ratty retort from her cranky mum. She whined, I whinged and by 6.15am we were already in a full scale battle.

Something has possessed my two and a half year old. My angelic delightful Daisy seems to have vacated her body and the Omen’s devil Damien has taken residence. I’m sure her head even spun 360 degrees during yesterday’s tantrum. Where has my sweet girl gone? I can’t cope with this deranged monster that is now dominating every moment of every day. Her little sister has just cut her first tooth and crawled her first wobbly movement in a forward direction. What did she get for her efforts? A quick yelp of praise from me as I carried my demon daughter to the worn out naughty step. I wracked my weary brain for some sign, some planetary shift, some scientific explanation for what has caused this chaotic conversion from sweet to sour, from terrific to terrible, from amiable to angry. But as I checked the fullness of the moon I realised with a shock – all that’s happened is I’ve entered the scary sceptre of terrible Two-dom.

It’s now a daily battle of her will against mine. Daughter pitted against mother. Peace versus chaos. And I’m stumped. I’ve managed teams of ill-suited people. I’ve out-manoeuvred testy Boardrooms. I’ve survived bitchy bosses. But this? A two foot bundle of over-wrought emotion? I’m outwitted and out-energised.

Motherhood is all about climbing the slippery slope of experience until occasionally you get a foothold where you can catch your breath and look down to see how far you’ve come (never look up to see how far you have to go – that’s a vista too far). But this? I feel I’ve lost my footing and slipped right down into the black abyss of ignorance, where I know nothing. Where’s the god-damn manual?? Where are the instructions? I spend so much time on reward charts, naughty steps, counting methods, shouting, begging and ignoring, I haven’t the energy to just run away.

My mum is visiting and as my child clamps her iron lips together refusing her breakfast, lunch and dinner, I notice my mum look away before I see her amused smile break into a full-blown smug grin. I made her life hell when I was two. This is her revenge. We reap what we sow.

I’m really not looking forward to the teenage years…

Forget multi-tasking - we're multi-careering!

The other night my husband asked me why I was tired. He knows this question is grounds for divorce but he seems unable to stop himself. I gave him a withering look and explained calmly: “I’ve been in peace negotiations since 6.30am this morning. Between conflict resolution and crisis management I have not had a break and it’s now 7pm. If I was part of the Israeli – Palestinian peace talks – something for which I am highly skilled – I would not now be standing making your bloody dinner.” That ended that particular conversation.

And so when we went on holiday recently and, as I have frequently done since resigning a high-powered job to look after my two babies, I hesitated insecurely over what to write on the landing form’s ‘what do you do?’ section. I looked at my clan who were imploding around me and quickly scribed “chief negotiator", extremely pleased with myself. Now I look forward to filling in those wretched forms. The other day I decided to be ‘project manager’ – organising the lives of a two year old and a baby requires titanic skills in that area.

I had thought when I took time out (note I’m not saying time off) from full-time employment that my CV would start looking a bit threadbare when I emerged from the posit lined clouds of early motherhood. But I have to say I’m now rather pleased with it. I reckon by the time I’m ready to face the weary world of work again I’ll be up for any job.

I am top management material with my negotiation, conflict resolution and crisis management skills, ability to work weekends and availability for on-call duties 24 hours a day. I’m a people person; albeit a Little People person. I can also add Structural Engineer to my portfolio having emerged relatively unscathed from the what-appears-to-be-deliberately-so-frustratingly-stupidly-designed-this-had-to-be-invented-by-a-man array of baby and toddler items that needed assembling. I hadn’t cried for years before I had to put together our first baby’s pram.

Naturally I am a highly trained nurse who not only can apply Poo Bear plasters with ER precision but can now calculate a temperature with a mere hand-to-head swipe. I am Teacher, often of things I never knew I knew! I am Inventor, Artist, Masterchef. I am Pillow and Punching Bag. I am Cleaner and Chauffeur. I am Hairdresser and Bodyguard. I can speak when sleep-deprivation has sucked all words from my brain. I can sing while stirring the soup and writing out the shopping list.

Finally I am a Diplomat. In the midst of recent potty training Daisy decided she wanted to wear pants to bed. Clearly a straight no was not an option: she’d cry, and I’d get annoyed and who needs that when the clock is ticking down to “MY TIME”. It had to be a yes that satisfied all parties. So now she leaps into bed at night with her pants over the top of her sleep suit like SuperToddler. And you know what? Surely that makes me a SuperMum? Must add that to the CV…. Now, who wants me? And what are the holidays?

(c) AKG 2008