There's meant to be an 'up' in that phrase but i'm finding it hard to find the up these days. It seems to be downshill all the way at the moment. Depression is a bit like a coldsore. It's there all the time, in me, just beneath the surface. But much of the time it can be hidden, albeit under the surface, but away from public view.... in my system. Then, a small itch bubbles up. A weird feeling that something is wrong but nothing to see for it. It broods and boild and then, erupts. It erupts so venomously, so viralantly, that although just a small part of me, it takes over complety, and I walk round as if it is covering my whole face. And like a coldsore, you just have to bide your time.
Everything is hard these days. Making the breakfast. Wiping Ruby's uneaten breakfast off the floor. Getting four of us dressed, fed, and out the door every morning. Getting my work down while Ruby sleeps. What to make for lunch. Making lunch. Wiping Ruby's uneaten lunch off the floor. Endless car seat manoevers endless times a day. What to make for tea. Making tea. Wiping Ruby's uneaten tea off the floor. Bedtime routine. Finding the energy to work in the evenings, deadlines looming, bed calling.
So soon after stinging me with her last slap in the face, Daisy threw me another punch. This time I was giving out about something and she just walked off saying 'blah, blah, blah'. That's what my voice sounds like to them now - white background noise. blah, blah, blah. Everyone talks about the joy of parenting. Everyone talks about the sense of achievement, and the sheer pleasure of children. No-one talks about the bone-crushing monotony. The nerve-wrecking lack of validation. The hurt, the frustration, the feeling of failure, the despair, the constant questioning of your parenting skills, the punches, the lack of time to be yourself. And then you wake up the next day and try and start it all over again, trying to make it better, trying to make yourself better and the sheer uphill exhaustion of doing it all again, but better, and getting to the end of the day more times than not feeling you fared worse.
I have three amazing children. I want them to be amazed by me. I want my voice to be something of a building block in their lives. I want them to see how to live by watching me. I'm not doing any of things right now.
And then I watch something like this - the last Lecture by Randy Pausch and I realise I have a choice. To live or to die. To be Tigger or Eyore. To engage or disconnect. To fight or run. To give them a legacy or fade away.....
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ji5_MqicxSo
So, tomorrow is another day..... to start living my childhood dreams and making sure my girls have dreams worth wishing for...
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Things I'd forgotten about toddlers
The human body really is an amazing thing. In the days after my three caesareans I thought I'd never feel whole again - now I can't even remember the pain. And our brains? They have an amazing capacity to remember the great stuff (the smell of a newborn head, the sound of that first gurgle) while blotting out all the hideous, death-defying stuff like torturous sleep deprivation, excrutiating nipples, baby smelly poos that push the boundaries of acceptability. And so it is, that as Ruby launches into her second year with a gusto that frankly I left behind in my thirties, I am shocked, stunned and a little put out by all the stuff I'd forgotten (or my brain happily sent to the slush pile.)
1. She is soooooooo rude! My lovely girls say please and thank you, they go to the toilet, and have some level of decorum at the dinner table. I've been lulled into a false sense of social grace. Ruby is just rude! She screeches her demands like a demented banshee without so much as a by your leave, she throws her food on the floor when it no longer holds her attention, she lets go of the smelly stuff at the most inopportune times, and frankly thinks she rules the roost.
2. She makes so much mess. I mean, seriously, inconceiveable mess. It's like her saliva contains a food-reproduction germ than means there is three times as much Weetabix on the walls and floor than was ever in her bowl. I can't believe she's thriving as none seems to go into her mouth - her ear, yes. Her hair, definitely. My clothes, absolutely.
3. She clings to my leg like a fully packed rubgy scrum. I literally have to cook with her climbing up my trousers, hoover with her under one arm, and apply mascara with her poking me in the eye. She even tries to get in the shower with me. I love her dearly, but PLEASE can I pee by myself!
4. She makes more noise than the other four members of her family put together. And then some. From the moment I am yanked from my sleepy slumber with her 6.30am screeching, to the moment I rock her with her night-time bottle she screams, yells, sings, cries, gives off, gives out, until I give in and pick her up, feed her, hold her, or whatever it is she wants. I am a hostage to a scream.
5. She doesn't listen to me. I was so over that phase and now it's quite a shock to realise that when I scream "NO!" as she waddles over to the moving escalator in the shopping centre, she isn't going to stop, turn round, and say, 'Oh, OK mum." No, she speeds up, laughs and keeps going. The word 'No' is a game to her. If I say no, it means she does what she was doing, only louder, faster and with an even minxier face than normal.
I'm dreading the Terrible Two's as I know I have abject amnesia from that time. Where's the gin?
1. She is soooooooo rude! My lovely girls say please and thank you, they go to the toilet, and have some level of decorum at the dinner table. I've been lulled into a false sense of social grace. Ruby is just rude! She screeches her demands like a demented banshee without so much as a by your leave, she throws her food on the floor when it no longer holds her attention, she lets go of the smelly stuff at the most inopportune times, and frankly thinks she rules the roost.
2. She makes so much mess. I mean, seriously, inconceiveable mess. It's like her saliva contains a food-reproduction germ than means there is three times as much Weetabix on the walls and floor than was ever in her bowl. I can't believe she's thriving as none seems to go into her mouth - her ear, yes. Her hair, definitely. My clothes, absolutely.
3. She clings to my leg like a fully packed rubgy scrum. I literally have to cook with her climbing up my trousers, hoover with her under one arm, and apply mascara with her poking me in the eye. She even tries to get in the shower with me. I love her dearly, but PLEASE can I pee by myself!
4. She makes more noise than the other four members of her family put together. And then some. From the moment I am yanked from my sleepy slumber with her 6.30am screeching, to the moment I rock her with her night-time bottle she screams, yells, sings, cries, gives off, gives out, until I give in and pick her up, feed her, hold her, or whatever it is she wants. I am a hostage to a scream.
5. She doesn't listen to me. I was so over that phase and now it's quite a shock to realise that when I scream "NO!" as she waddles over to the moving escalator in the shopping centre, she isn't going to stop, turn round, and say, 'Oh, OK mum." No, she speeds up, laughs and keeps going. The word 'No' is a game to her. If I say no, it means she does what she was doing, only louder, faster and with an even minxier face than normal.
I'm dreading the Terrible Two's as I know I have abject amnesia from that time. Where's the gin?
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Party politics
It has begun. Party politics..... at six. Daisy's forthcoming birthday party is turning into something akin to a CIA secret mission - we have subterfuge, secrecy, leaks, plots, diplomacy and coverups.... and that's just the invitations. Last year it seemed so simple. She invited her friends, I made princess magic mirror invites, everyone dressed in varying shades of pink, and the place was awash with Princess themed decor, food and games. This year, she wants a Fairy Party. I thought 6 year olds were over fairies. I was wrong. Children have been discussing their outfits with me for weeks! I have designed the cake, thought up the themed games and decor and we made 16 glittering winged fairy invites.
And then the trouble began. As we made out our list, I realised there were a few key friends missing. I asked why so-and-so and what's-her-name weren't invited. "They're too bossy," came the reply. "But they're you're friends and they invited you to their parties," I replied slightly preturbed how my own parent politics was going to deal with this as I met the mum's at the gates. A stubborn refusal was my answer. I left it, carried on sticking feather hair onto the fairy invites ("purple please, so they look like Katy Perry"). We talked about it a few more times, but she was resolute in her decision - she only wanted 'nice' people at her party. In the end I have decided to let her play it out.... I've warned her of the consequences, given her an aliby (I'm only allowing her 10 guests), and am secretly a little proud she is standing firm not to invite the 'popular, loud girls' but just the ones she really likes. But this is were the Mission Impossible begins. Try giving out invites to some parents and not others as we wait for the school doors to open (there is a school policy of not letting kids give out invites in class, for this very reason I suspect.) I've been so stressed this week, trying to whisper "pssst, it's an invite", while smiling at the mum across the yard who's daughter's not invited. It's taken 4 days to get them all delivered, and I'm worn out before I've even stuffed the goody bags. Three daughters, 18 years of parties ahead of me.... I'm off to buy some decent anti-wrinkle cream.Friday, August 12, 2011
The Payback begins...
It would not be an understatement to say it hasn't been a struggle. Six pregnancies, three children under six, and several life-changing events, untold dramas, adventures and crises. Then let's not forget the mundane - the endless, endless, endless, endless, endless, endless meals to be planned, bought for, prepared, force-fed (ahem, gently coerced), washed up, wiped up; the countless, countless, countless, countless nights of vomiting, crying, nightmares, wet beds, 'I want a hug and I don't care that it's 3am'; the various hideous child-related tasks that NO-ONE warns you about - lice, worms, leaking nappies, leaking nappies that defy belief as it creeps up their back and down their arms, children who walk slower than a snail; the relentless, relentless, relentless picking up of other people's clothes, especially when with three girls and multiple changes per day, this can amount to a full time job. Ok, so I'm omitting the wonderful too - their beauty, their exhuberance for life, their wonder, their belief in you, their expressions, their cuddles.
But.. last night, the payback really began. All those nappies? Forgotten. All those wretched meals left uneaten? Almost forgotten. All those early mornings? Forgotten. Why? Because last night, after I'd put Ruby to bed, I was indulged in the most perfect 15 minutes of my life..... Daisy gave me a foot rub with baby lotion, while Poppy brushed my hair. It just doesn't much better than that.
But.. last night, the payback really began. All those nappies? Forgotten. All those wretched meals left uneaten? Almost forgotten. All those early mornings? Forgotten. Why? Because last night, after I'd put Ruby to bed, I was indulged in the most perfect 15 minutes of my life..... Daisy gave me a foot rub with baby lotion, while Poppy brushed my hair. It just doesn't much better than that.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Who's the Mummy?
I've written before about that fuzzy old line that defines (or not) who is the child and who is the parent. In the last four months as my mum lies permanently entangled in her half-life post-stroke, I spoon feed her, change her, wash her and stroke her face, the line has disappeared as my actions mirror exactly those that I perform for my newborn baby. The child and parent in one.
But yesterday the line was broken again by my five year old in that 'slap in the face' sort of way. They say you should never work with animals and children, but I say everyone should have a child's perspective on life kept handy - there is no better way to see the world than through the innocent, uncynical eyes of a child. They have that ability to stand on that box and see inside and out of it. Recently I asked who or what she thought god was. "Is he the police? Because he likes to help people?"
So how do I take her recent golden nugget of observation? I asked her to stop jumping on the sofa and when that was met by a higher leap and a defiant eye I enquired as to who owns the sofa. She slapped that arguement away like a lion brushing a fly off his back with his tail. "Daddy does. He goes out to work. He earns the money. He owns the sofa!"
A very loud silence filled the space between her defiant eye and my horrified face. I decided she could never know the impact of those words. "I own the sofa too."
"No, you do nothing!"
That loud silence was now filled with the cries of sacrifice in my head - I gave up my career for you! I work so hard I can hardly stand some days.. all those organic pureed foods, all those hours of singing Wheels on the Bus, all those days of playing, all those nights of cuddles, ALL FOR NOTHING!!!!!!
Instead I put my sweetest smile on, reinforced with steel, and said in a tone that allowed no misinterpretation of who is the boss, "My sofa. My rules. OFF!"
She deferred to her better judgement and quietly left the room, while I lay stabbed and bleeding by her cutting remarks. That night at 2am, she whispered into my dreams "mummy, I need you" and I lay for a moment, tempted to say, "your dad earns the money, go wake him!" But that would have been childish wouldn't it? Instead, I pulled on my mummy face and cuddled her up and put her back to bed. After all, abject rejection and total confidence annihilation are just part of the (yes, unpaid) job description. But it made me realise that I have to step away from my post-traumatic lethargy of loosing my mum and having a baby at the same time, and reawaken the woman I am - a proud mum, an aspiring novelist and a freelance writer - and get back in the game. My five-year old daughter gave me the pep-talk I needed. The child and parent in one.
But yesterday the line was broken again by my five year old in that 'slap in the face' sort of way. They say you should never work with animals and children, but I say everyone should have a child's perspective on life kept handy - there is no better way to see the world than through the innocent, uncynical eyes of a child. They have that ability to stand on that box and see inside and out of it. Recently I asked who or what she thought god was. "Is he the police? Because he likes to help people?"
So how do I take her recent golden nugget of observation? I asked her to stop jumping on the sofa and when that was met by a higher leap and a defiant eye I enquired as to who owns the sofa. She slapped that arguement away like a lion brushing a fly off his back with his tail. "Daddy does. He goes out to work. He earns the money. He owns the sofa!"
A very loud silence filled the space between her defiant eye and my horrified face. I decided she could never know the impact of those words. "I own the sofa too."
"No, you do nothing!"
That loud silence was now filled with the cries of sacrifice in my head - I gave up my career for you! I work so hard I can hardly stand some days.. all those organic pureed foods, all those hours of singing Wheels on the Bus, all those days of playing, all those nights of cuddles, ALL FOR NOTHING!!!!!!
Instead I put my sweetest smile on, reinforced with steel, and said in a tone that allowed no misinterpretation of who is the boss, "My sofa. My rules. OFF!"
She deferred to her better judgement and quietly left the room, while I lay stabbed and bleeding by her cutting remarks. That night at 2am, she whispered into my dreams "mummy, I need you" and I lay for a moment, tempted to say, "your dad earns the money, go wake him!" But that would have been childish wouldn't it? Instead, I pulled on my mummy face and cuddled her up and put her back to bed. After all, abject rejection and total confidence annihilation are just part of the (yes, unpaid) job description. But it made me realise that I have to step away from my post-traumatic lethargy of loosing my mum and having a baby at the same time, and reawaken the woman I am - a proud mum, an aspiring novelist and a freelance writer - and get back in the game. My five-year old daughter gave me the pep-talk I needed. The child and parent in one.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Snooze Button Defect
Kids just don't get the concept of snoozing. It's 'awake' or 'asleep' - no warm, fuzzy, lazy lazing in bed, eyes closed, thoughts open, aware the day has begun but not quite ready to face it.
That bastion of parental fantasy, that adult pleasure that is free and legal, that loss so keenly felt when it is violently ripped asunder by curious little people.
Daisy is a fabulous sleeper. I am praying to all my non-religious icons that this baby who will shatter my dreams and well as my snoozes in 5 weeks will take after her biggest sister. Daisy falls asleep mid-sentence, sleeps like the dead for 12 hours, then wakes up as brilliantly as a light being switched on and jumps out of bed, happy never-ending sunshine and bouncing for the next 12 hours. There is nothing inbetween.
Poppy on the other hand has many wonderful qualities. Sleeping is not one of them. Sleeping late does not register at all on her scale of important things in life. So it is at 6.30 (A - OMG - M), I am woken by the gentle stroking of my arm and the soft words ,"mummy, I need to do a wee wee." After I blindly put her on the loo, I urge her back to bed to no avail. In she creeps with me, and I snuggle down, her encased in my arms, and hope, just this once, she'll fall back to sleep.
But two minutes elapse (during which time she has kicked me several times, and my baby kicks her back so I feel like a football pitch) and turns to me and whispers,
"But mummy, is it morning?" On these summer dawns, it is hard to lie.
"Yes, lovely, but we're going to snooze for a bit. It's a bit early."
More football.
"But mummy, it IS morning?"
"yes...."
"So can I have a story?"
Twenty minutes later we are joined by her sister, all sunshine and bouncing, and we face the day whether I like it or not.
I know teenagers have a reputation for never getting out of bed. Can someone please tell me I don't have to wait another 9 years??? When does the Snooze Button start functioning? In the meantime, I suppose cuddles and stories aren't a bad way to start the day.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Fabulous Forty - Part 2
Sorry - that was a long intermission. The nausea fog is clearing, but the clouds of exhaustion still hang low.... anyway, back to my list. My Forty Fabulous Things I Love about Life (in no particular order) Part 2:
- The colour purple
- The way Poppy looks at me when she is naughty
- Lists - making them, colour coding them, crossing them off
- Planning and organising.... it's an affliction I know...
- The crackle of a fire and the heat from the blaze on a cold windy night
- A heartbeat at that first scan
- When a little hand reaches up into mine when I'm walking down the road
- My husband's laugh
- Daisy's goodnight kisses
- Stepping off a plane on holiday and feeling a foreign sun welcome me
- Green chicken curry
- Sunday's at home, pottering in a sunny garden with the girls running round throwing sand on the lawn.
- Disappearing into a book and feeling like I live there on the pages
- Every single thing about Christmas
- Driving in the car (alone) and listening to music (other than the Wheels on the Bus) very very loudly
- Colin Firth as Mr Darcy jumping into the lake
- Saturday morning cuddles in bed with the girls, all warm and entangled
- My family - and the fact that 40 years on I still want to spend time with my mum, dad and brother
- The knowledge that the first half was great, and the second half will be even better because I will get to watch the best show on earth - my girls growing up
- The thought that I'm going to spend the next 40 years of my life with him and them
So there we are. The celebrations are over, the presents unwrapped, the balloons burst. Back to getting on with this 40 year old life.... and just so I don't get carried away with all the love and affection I've received the last week, my girls know just how to keep me grounded. When I told Daisy I was forty last week, she was quiet for a moment and then looked at me forlornly - "That's old. Are you going to die?"
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Certainties of Parenting
It’s a new year and that means lots of reassessment, fresh ideas and approaches. Eat less, exercise more, write a lot, and watch TV less. Mmm, sounds worryingly like last year’s list… and the year before. And actually a lot like the year before that. Less new and fresh, more rehashed and recycled. Maybe it should be called Try It Again Year?
Lots of “oh, I’m going to plan my weekly menu every Sunday so I know what I’m cooking all week”s, and a few “Right, no more chocolate Monday to Friday”s and even a couple of “right, I AM going to get up at 6am and go for a run”s. But while we are busy renewing ourselves, the reality that January 1st is in fact just another day with no actual seismic shift in the universe is demonstrated by our children and the ever constant certainties of parenting that show no regard for new years, never mind new decades.
Despite all my resolutions, the revolution of parenting remains as dormant as the snowdrops. As I contemplated the ten new things I was going to change this year, I realized they have no impact on the ten old things that will stay exactly the same:
1. There will always be another poo-ey nappy to out-stink the one before. It will always be done seconds before you leave the house.
2. Kids will ALWAYS get sick on a bank holiday when the doctors are closed.
3. Kids will always get sick – and pass it on to you – when you have visitors so they all get sick and you get labeled the House of Pestilence.
4. There will always be some smug single man who designs children’s toy packaging for a living. He may even do it as a hobby, since only someone with a passion for destroying the fraught mind and fingernails of mothers everywhere can come up with the engineering feat that requires a screwdriver (I kid you not) to unpack a Peppa Pig toy from the packaging.
5. They will always wake up before me, and I will always want to go to sleep before them.
6. They will never eat their home cooked tea with same wild abandon they eat chocolate and sweets. I will never get over this.
7. There will always be dishes to wash. Always.
8. They will always start screaming and fighting as soon as I start talking on the phone.
9. They will always show up the child in me. The petulant, tantrum throwing, sulky, “It’s MINE!” selfish child that is.
10. They will always make me smile. Even through gritted teeth.
So, five days in, and the hinge has fallen off the chocolate cupboard so often has it been raided in its groaning post-Christmas splendour; I haven’t managed to actually leave the house, let alone go for a run (I’m blaming the pestilence and the snow)…. (and the large amounts of left over chocolate); this is the first thing I’ve written in 5 days (see next excuse); and I’ve got stuck into The Wire series 4 boxset with such vigour the TV is smoking. So on the whole, my Try Again Year has already sludged down the slippery slope to Same Old, Same Old Year. Good to know some things never change. Even in a new year.
Lots of “oh, I’m going to plan my weekly menu every Sunday so I know what I’m cooking all week”s, and a few “Right, no more chocolate Monday to Friday”s and even a couple of “right, I AM going to get up at 6am and go for a run”s. But while we are busy renewing ourselves, the reality that January 1st is in fact just another day with no actual seismic shift in the universe is demonstrated by our children and the ever constant certainties of parenting that show no regard for new years, never mind new decades.
Despite all my resolutions, the revolution of parenting remains as dormant as the snowdrops. As I contemplated the ten new things I was going to change this year, I realized they have no impact on the ten old things that will stay exactly the same:
1. There will always be another poo-ey nappy to out-stink the one before. It will always be done seconds before you leave the house.
2. Kids will ALWAYS get sick on a bank holiday when the doctors are closed.
3. Kids will always get sick – and pass it on to you – when you have visitors so they all get sick and you get labeled the House of Pestilence.
4. There will always be some smug single man who designs children’s toy packaging for a living. He may even do it as a hobby, since only someone with a passion for destroying the fraught mind and fingernails of mothers everywhere can come up with the engineering feat that requires a screwdriver (I kid you not) to unpack a Peppa Pig toy from the packaging.
5. They will always wake up before me, and I will always want to go to sleep before them.
6. They will never eat their home cooked tea with same wild abandon they eat chocolate and sweets. I will never get over this.
7. There will always be dishes to wash. Always.
8. They will always start screaming and fighting as soon as I start talking on the phone.
9. They will always show up the child in me. The petulant, tantrum throwing, sulky, “It’s MINE!” selfish child that is.
10. They will always make me smile. Even through gritted teeth.
So, five days in, and the hinge has fallen off the chocolate cupboard so often has it been raided in its groaning post-Christmas splendour; I haven’t managed to actually leave the house, let alone go for a run (I’m blaming the pestilence and the snow)…. (and the large amounts of left over chocolate); this is the first thing I’ve written in 5 days (see next excuse); and I’ve got stuck into The Wire series 4 boxset with such vigour the TV is smoking. So on the whole, my Try Again Year has already sludged down the slippery slope to Same Old, Same Old Year. Good to know some things never change. Even in a new year.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Role Reversal
The girls may be responsible for most of my exhaustion (indirectly at least), but they also are my rainbow at the end of a crap day.
Yesterday I hit the wall. Up again most of the night with various coughs and complaints (and one lost Pinkie, Poppy’s can’t-sleep-without-toy) I could barely muster the energy to get out of bed. This has probably only happened about 3 times in my life. When daisy announced she was too sick to go to school, I jumped at the chance and jumped back under the duvet. Our usual morning military mania is up at 7, downstairs (me dressed) by half past, breakfast and cleared up by eight, dressed and teeth cleaned by twenty past, coats on and pram out by half past and walk to school in 25 minutes. Exactly. Instead this morning, the girls clambered into bed with milk and breadsticks (and a nice cuppa for me, thanks hubby) and we read stories for a while before breakfast. I cancelled everything. All my manic plans for school, Claphandies, dance class, visiting, shopping, and posting all postponed. I haven’t left the house. In truth, I actually couldn’t leave the house. I’m tired to my very bones. When hubby kindly offers me a night in the spare room so I can sleep, I feel like yelling “this is not a one-night’s sleep tiredness!” This is three miscarriages in a row, months of early pregnancy exhaustion, Christmas carryon, endless hospitality, chronic sleeplessness, and two lively girls who hang off me every second of the day and most of the night tiredness. I cook and bake and clean and shop and wrap and plan and wash and tidy and write and play and read and draw and paint Santas because if I stop the cog for one second, I might just fall apart in the vacuum. Every minute I am aware of the missing stockings that should be hanging on the mantelpiece.
And so as I lay in bed this morning, my eyes leaden and laden with exhaustion, I suddenly felt a little butterfly on my cheek. I opened one eye to find Poppy stroking my hair, smiling and whispering “There there mummy, it’ll be ok”. And she kissed me again. She then hugged me and stretched over to get my brush and began brushing my hair. I closed my eyes, the love from her overwhelming me, until I felt something soft being nestled under my arm. My other eye opened to see her giving me Pinky to cuddle. Her Pinkie. The most precious thing in her life. Then Daisy got her medical kit and checked me over – my reflexes, my ears, my tongue and finally she listened to my heart. I’m not sure what my heart told her, but she seemed very clear about what I needed.
“Mummy, you are very sick, and you need 20 years in bed with us.”
I think she might be right.
Yesterday I hit the wall. Up again most of the night with various coughs and complaints (and one lost Pinkie, Poppy’s can’t-sleep-without-toy) I could barely muster the energy to get out of bed. This has probably only happened about 3 times in my life. When daisy announced she was too sick to go to school, I jumped at the chance and jumped back under the duvet. Our usual morning military mania is up at 7, downstairs (me dressed) by half past, breakfast and cleared up by eight, dressed and teeth cleaned by twenty past, coats on and pram out by half past and walk to school in 25 minutes. Exactly. Instead this morning, the girls clambered into bed with milk and breadsticks (and a nice cuppa for me, thanks hubby) and we read stories for a while before breakfast. I cancelled everything. All my manic plans for school, Claphandies, dance class, visiting, shopping, and posting all postponed. I haven’t left the house. In truth, I actually couldn’t leave the house. I’m tired to my very bones. When hubby kindly offers me a night in the spare room so I can sleep, I feel like yelling “this is not a one-night’s sleep tiredness!” This is three miscarriages in a row, months of early pregnancy exhaustion, Christmas carryon, endless hospitality, chronic sleeplessness, and two lively girls who hang off me every second of the day and most of the night tiredness. I cook and bake and clean and shop and wrap and plan and wash and tidy and write and play and read and draw and paint Santas because if I stop the cog for one second, I might just fall apart in the vacuum. Every minute I am aware of the missing stockings that should be hanging on the mantelpiece.
And so as I lay in bed this morning, my eyes leaden and laden with exhaustion, I suddenly felt a little butterfly on my cheek. I opened one eye to find Poppy stroking my hair, smiling and whispering “There there mummy, it’ll be ok”. And she kissed me again. She then hugged me and stretched over to get my brush and began brushing my hair. I closed my eyes, the love from her overwhelming me, until I felt something soft being nestled under my arm. My other eye opened to see her giving me Pinky to cuddle. Her Pinkie. The most precious thing in her life. Then Daisy got her medical kit and checked me over – my reflexes, my ears, my tongue and finally she listened to my heart. I’m not sure what my heart told her, but she seemed very clear about what I needed.
“Mummy, you are very sick, and you need 20 years in bed with us.”
I think she might be right.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Accepting acceptance
For someone who rushes everywhere at warp speed – I’ve even been known to eat my breakfast and clean my teeth at the same time - I realised recently I’m actually a bit slow. Daisy starts school next year but it’s somehow taken me 4 years and 30 days to really come to terms with the fact that I’ve become a mum. Like I said, a bit slow.
Despite my kaleidoscope of colour coded charts, my litany of lists, and my plethora of plans, I actually didn’t see the wood for the trees – or to be more specific, the news for the nappies. I’m a mum. A walking, talking, baking, cooking, smiling, yelling, singing, driving, bum wiping, work-at-home mum. I fought a good fight, but I finally surrender… and of course, wonder why I bothered to fight at all.
One of my favourite authors, Alice Walker, wrote a disturbing but incredible book called Possessing the Secret of Joy. All the way through the story, the main character ponders the assertion that black people possess the secret of joy. At the end of the book, in heart-stopping drama, she is finally given the answer. Resistance is the secret of joy. And maybe subconsciously I adopted that because I did a pretty good job of resisting my maternal mantel – and despite never being happier, never complained more.
But I realise now, for me at least, that my secret of joy is not resistance. My secret of joy is acceptance. I like this life. Accept it. I thrive in this life. Accept it. Damn it, I think I’m even good at it. Accept it.
And the reason all this has come into my thoughts was reading so many of my fellow mummy bloggers and the recent chat about why we write our blogs. I write mine to use my brain other than for calculating the salt content in Barney crisps; to capture moments in time because said brain is like a sieve; to remind myself in the future how I felt; to remind myself now how I feel. Because writing is like therapy… and like all good therapy it takes a while to work through the crap and see the smiling baby shining down at you all the time. So writing has helped me accept the change that children brought to me. And finally I write because I very much like my blogging mummy friends….. and accepting that I’m not the only one enjoying this gig – but struggling with the washing, cooking, cleaning, time suction and other ranting that we share with each other…. Among many other things.
So here is to acceptance. And accepting friendship in cyberspace. In particular I’d like to thank a few fellow fighters who have helped me work through the therapy!
Hot Cross Mum
Sleep is for the weak
Who’s the mummy
Musings in Mayhem
Re-writing motherhood
Despite my kaleidoscope of colour coded charts, my litany of lists, and my plethora of plans, I actually didn’t see the wood for the trees – or to be more specific, the news for the nappies. I’m a mum. A walking, talking, baking, cooking, smiling, yelling, singing, driving, bum wiping, work-at-home mum. I fought a good fight, but I finally surrender… and of course, wonder why I bothered to fight at all.
One of my favourite authors, Alice Walker, wrote a disturbing but incredible book called Possessing the Secret of Joy. All the way through the story, the main character ponders the assertion that black people possess the secret of joy. At the end of the book, in heart-stopping drama, she is finally given the answer. Resistance is the secret of joy. And maybe subconsciously I adopted that because I did a pretty good job of resisting my maternal mantel – and despite never being happier, never complained more.
But I realise now, for me at least, that my secret of joy is not resistance. My secret of joy is acceptance. I like this life. Accept it. I thrive in this life. Accept it. Damn it, I think I’m even good at it. Accept it.
And the reason all this has come into my thoughts was reading so many of my fellow mummy bloggers and the recent chat about why we write our blogs. I write mine to use my brain other than for calculating the salt content in Barney crisps; to capture moments in time because said brain is like a sieve; to remind myself in the future how I felt; to remind myself now how I feel. Because writing is like therapy… and like all good therapy it takes a while to work through the crap and see the smiling baby shining down at you all the time. So writing has helped me accept the change that children brought to me. And finally I write because I very much like my blogging mummy friends….. and accepting that I’m not the only one enjoying this gig – but struggling with the washing, cooking, cleaning, time suction and other ranting that we share with each other…. Among many other things.
So here is to acceptance. And accepting friendship in cyberspace. In particular I’d like to thank a few fellow fighters who have helped me work through the therapy!
Hot Cross Mum
Sleep is for the weak
Who’s the mummy
Musings in Mayhem
Re-writing motherhood
Saturday, November 7, 2009
How did I become that woman?
For someone who never wanted the traditional family life, I sure as hell pursued it with a passion. In my youth, I craved excitement, not commitment; I sought travel, not stability; I choose freedom, not responsibility. But then I met someone who made my world turn on its axis – someone who was following all these paths too it has to be said – and somehow together we wanted something different. Something more.
And so, before I really knew what was happening, I became a wife, and a mother and – still shaking my head in disbelief – a stay at home mum. I went from travelling to Iraq to witness the impact of the oil-for-food programme on children with UNICEF, to travelling to the toilet to witness the impact of date and banana smoothie on my children. And although it took me time to adapt, despite the shock, it actually felt like coming home. It felt right.
So how suddenly has my life become so wrong? Two days ago I lost my 5th baby, my third miscarriage. How did I go from the person who had two glorious girls, just like that, without really thinking, blinking or winking an eye. And then the next page turned in my book of life but this chapter feels like it’s been ripped out of another book and doesn’t belong to me. It doesn’t feel right.
How can I go from happy new mum to two toddlers to woman with 3 miscarriages in 18 months? How did I go from mad mum with two glorious girls to devastated woman with three terrible tragedies? I’ve now had more miscarriages than children and I have no idea how that happened. How did this happen? Why did this happen? How have I become this person? Why oh why oh why oh why oh why oh why oh why? I am writing this because my anger has consumed my grief. I have cried so much for my last two losses (cruelly, my last baby was due this week) and now, to be devastated and disappointed again is too much. How can I turn back the page to the woman who had it all and no fear about having another baby? I don’t want to be this woman who is scared, and unsure, and lost, and bereft, and desperate, and disappointed, and shocked. For someone who never wanted the traditional life, I now need it more than anything in the world – I desperately need a happy ending.
And so, before I really knew what was happening, I became a wife, and a mother and – still shaking my head in disbelief – a stay at home mum. I went from travelling to Iraq to witness the impact of the oil-for-food programme on children with UNICEF, to travelling to the toilet to witness the impact of date and banana smoothie on my children. And although it took me time to adapt, despite the shock, it actually felt like coming home. It felt right.
So how suddenly has my life become so wrong? Two days ago I lost my 5th baby, my third miscarriage. How did I go from the person who had two glorious girls, just like that, without really thinking, blinking or winking an eye. And then the next page turned in my book of life but this chapter feels like it’s been ripped out of another book and doesn’t belong to me. It doesn’t feel right.
How can I go from happy new mum to two toddlers to woman with 3 miscarriages in 18 months? How did I go from mad mum with two glorious girls to devastated woman with three terrible tragedies? I’ve now had more miscarriages than children and I have no idea how that happened. How did this happen? Why did this happen? How have I become this person? Why oh why oh why oh why oh why oh why oh why? I am writing this because my anger has consumed my grief. I have cried so much for my last two losses (cruelly, my last baby was due this week) and now, to be devastated and disappointed again is too much. How can I turn back the page to the woman who had it all and no fear about having another baby? I don’t want to be this woman who is scared, and unsure, and lost, and bereft, and desperate, and disappointed, and shocked. For someone who never wanted the traditional life, I now need it more than anything in the world – I desperately need a happy ending.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Love Hurts
So today I felt that parental pain like no other – pain worse than my own, the pain of watching your child suffer. It’s pretty depressing when your child ends up being more heroic than you…
There we were, monkeying around at the zoo, having a whale of a time, when Bang! A wobble, a topple and a thud, and our day tumbled upside down. I knew the minute she hit the floor that Poppy was hurt. Badly hurt. The cry was pitched just that octave above normal, her eyes wide with shock rather than that wide-through-the-crying-look while trying to assess if I was watching enough and needed to upscale the wailing. There was no faking this time.
As I ran with her to the First Aid booth, I knew her arm was broken and the first thing I screamed at the nurse (I’ve given up trying to pretend I’m calm in a crisis) was, “Painkillers! Give her some pain killers!” Naturally enough she did no such thing. But all that time… all those ticking moments that she examined, assessed, asked questions, wrote down details, my child screamed. And while I answered and nodded and gave out my telephone number, I screamed too, inside. “Just take the pain away! TAKE IT AWAY!”
But all I could do was hold her, knowing there would be no pain relief while we waited for the ambulance, no pain relief as we rode to the hospital and no pain relief until she had been poked and prodded by a doctor. A whole horrible, hideous half hour of pain. And it made me want to actually vomit, knowing I couldn’t take it away. But worse was still to come. The X-ray showed it wasn’t broken. Instead, her elbow had popped out of its socket. Turn away now if you are squeamish. I had too. Yes, the doctor took my little 2 year old baby’s twisted arm, pulled it out and wrenched it around until he got it back into position. Poppy hit the roof, and I hit the floor. Hubby had to carry both of us out of the hospital.
Poppy and I spent the afternoon under a blanket on the sofa, recovering. She’s finally asleep now, plied with as much medicine as I can legally give her. I’m not sure I’ll sleep though, no amount of medicine can take away the sickness in my stomach. One painful afternoon and I’m drained. So this is a tribute, a hug, a tip of my cap, a salute to the brave, incredible strong parents who have to do this on a daily basis. To parents whose children are ill and have long term pain. I do not know how you do it.
There we were, monkeying around at the zoo, having a whale of a time, when Bang! A wobble, a topple and a thud, and our day tumbled upside down. I knew the minute she hit the floor that Poppy was hurt. Badly hurt. The cry was pitched just that octave above normal, her eyes wide with shock rather than that wide-through-the-crying-look while trying to assess if I was watching enough and needed to upscale the wailing. There was no faking this time.
As I ran with her to the First Aid booth, I knew her arm was broken and the first thing I screamed at the nurse (I’ve given up trying to pretend I’m calm in a crisis) was, “Painkillers! Give her some pain killers!” Naturally enough she did no such thing. But all that time… all those ticking moments that she examined, assessed, asked questions, wrote down details, my child screamed. And while I answered and nodded and gave out my telephone number, I screamed too, inside. “Just take the pain away! TAKE IT AWAY!”
But all I could do was hold her, knowing there would be no pain relief while we waited for the ambulance, no pain relief as we rode to the hospital and no pain relief until she had been poked and prodded by a doctor. A whole horrible, hideous half hour of pain. And it made me want to actually vomit, knowing I couldn’t take it away. But worse was still to come. The X-ray showed it wasn’t broken. Instead, her elbow had popped out of its socket. Turn away now if you are squeamish. I had too. Yes, the doctor took my little 2 year old baby’s twisted arm, pulled it out and wrenched it around until he got it back into position. Poppy hit the roof, and I hit the floor. Hubby had to carry both of us out of the hospital.
Poppy and I spent the afternoon under a blanket on the sofa, recovering. She’s finally asleep now, plied with as much medicine as I can legally give her. I’m not sure I’ll sleep though, no amount of medicine can take away the sickness in my stomach. One painful afternoon and I’m drained. So this is a tribute, a hug, a tip of my cap, a salute to the brave, incredible strong parents who have to do this on a daily basis. To parents whose children are ill and have long term pain. I do not know how you do it.
Monday, September 21, 2009
It's a Number's Game
Here was my day:
Number of miles walked taking Daisy to school – 6
Number of shopping bags carried home from supermarket – 3 (one a rucksack on back, two in pram squashed behind a crying Poppy)
Number of cottage pies I made? – 8 (2 large, 6 small)
Number of vegetables chopped for above Cottage Pie – 4 carrots, 2 onions, 4 courgettes
Number of buns made (for play date tomorrow) – 12 (with a strawberry on top)
Number of rooms hoovered – 11
Number of corners cut – 23
Number of toilets cleaned – 3 (plus one bath and 2 showers)
Number of trousers ruined by toilet bleach – 1
Number of items arrived from Boden (Hip hip Hooray) – 1
Number of nappies changed – 6 (3 of which would be biologically referred to as rancid)
Number of loads of washing – 2 (including emergency load at 4am after Poppy puked over everything in a 3 foot radius)
Number of emails sent – 5
Number of proposals sent – 1 (number of times checked for spelling – 17)
Number of items not ironed in basket – 63
Number of phonecalls made / taken – 5 (this includes 3 (yes, three) from my mother)
Number of apple pies made – 1 (didn’t want to but had to use last of apples from garden)
Number of rows knitted – 8 (had to watch Land Before Time with girls as they were scared)
Number of ‘I love you’s’ said – 5
Number of jigsaws assisted with – 4
Number of times I shouted at my girls to go to sleep while I wrote this – 5 (not sure if the last one would be classified as a shout or a scream)
Number of blogs written – 1
Number of Gin & Tonics I plan to have now – who’s counting?
Number of miles walked taking Daisy to school – 6
Number of shopping bags carried home from supermarket – 3 (one a rucksack on back, two in pram squashed behind a crying Poppy)
Number of cottage pies I made? – 8 (2 large, 6 small)
Number of vegetables chopped for above Cottage Pie – 4 carrots, 2 onions, 4 courgettes
Number of buns made (for play date tomorrow) – 12 (with a strawberry on top)
Number of rooms hoovered – 11
Number of corners cut – 23
Number of toilets cleaned – 3 (plus one bath and 2 showers)
Number of trousers ruined by toilet bleach – 1
Number of items arrived from Boden (Hip hip Hooray) – 1
Number of nappies changed – 6 (3 of which would be biologically referred to as rancid)
Number of loads of washing – 2 (including emergency load at 4am after Poppy puked over everything in a 3 foot radius)
Number of emails sent – 5
Number of proposals sent – 1 (number of times checked for spelling – 17)
Number of items not ironed in basket – 63
Number of phonecalls made / taken – 5 (this includes 3 (yes, three) from my mother)
Number of apple pies made – 1 (didn’t want to but had to use last of apples from garden)
Number of rows knitted – 8 (had to watch Land Before Time with girls as they were scared)
Number of ‘I love you’s’ said – 5
Number of jigsaws assisted with – 4
Number of times I shouted at my girls to go to sleep while I wrote this – 5 (not sure if the last one would be classified as a shout or a scream)
Number of blogs written – 1
Number of Gin & Tonics I plan to have now – who’s counting?
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Back to school
With much wailing, knashing of teeth and beating of breasts, the time has come to acknowledge that summer is finally over. School is starting and the depression has sunk in. I’m talking about me of course. Daisy is fine… my little ray of sunshine actually told me the sun was shining inside her tummy she was so happy. It was me that was wailing and knashing and beating. My long lovely summer of lazy mornings in bed (reading to the girls I hasten to add, lazy mornings in bed by myself are a long lost lament..), lazy breakfasts in our pyjamas, picnics in the park, playdates and playgrounds has drawn to a chilly conclusion, and this morning’s early alarm clock declared my rude awakening that autumn is here and routine has come home to roost.
But it seemed there was another reason I was in my reluctant to return to school mode… I trussed her up in her new clothes and with one final lingering hug I tried to reassure her about her new playschool. “Come ONNNNN mummy!” she yelled impatiently and she struggled from my strangling hold, “I want to go, I want to go, I’m starting a new school!!” I washed over the table top again, I had another toilet trip, I tried to put the washing out …. “Come onnnn” she said through gritted teeth as she hurried me out the door. She skipped down the road and I dragged me feet. “Come Onnnnnnn mummy, I want to meet all my new friends!” I hung my head in dread. I was beginning to realise that this wasn’t the way it was meant to be playing out. Wasn’t I meant to be the happy one? Wasn’t SHE meant to be dragging her feet?
I had to finally acknowledge that it wasn’t just my fear of her starting a new playschool – my chats over the summer to explain that she wasn’t going back to her old playschool because we’ve moved house obviously doing the trick because she didn’t have one millisecond of doubt about starting all over again with new friends. With a shock I realised it was MY reluctance at having to make new friends all over again. It’s ME that has to make new friends with all the parents, remembering their names, their children’s names, their children’s sibling’s names, their husbands (wives) names – not easy when I can currently barely remember my cat’s name! It’s ME that has to look like a good calming, responsible parent rather than the chaotic, holding-it-together-by-a whisker wreck I normally am so that they will trust me with their children. …… so that I can leave MY children with THEM! You see, if I don’t make friends, then I don’t get to arrange playdates with like-minded good-parents-in-disguise, I don’t get to watch my child flourish in fruitful friendships, I don’t get to build those essential “can you pick Daisy up for me, I’m stuck in town” relationships that make life bearable! She’ll be a looser with no friends and it’ll be my fault and she’ll blame me for ever, and never speak to me, and end up putting me in a home when I’m old and frail. Forget exam pressure - parental pressure is much worse! Anyway, can’t hang about writing this. Must have a bath, wash behind my ears and go to bed early. It’s a school night.
But it seemed there was another reason I was in my reluctant to return to school mode… I trussed her up in her new clothes and with one final lingering hug I tried to reassure her about her new playschool. “Come ONNNNN mummy!” she yelled impatiently and she struggled from my strangling hold, “I want to go, I want to go, I’m starting a new school!!” I washed over the table top again, I had another toilet trip, I tried to put the washing out …. “Come onnnn” she said through gritted teeth as she hurried me out the door. She skipped down the road and I dragged me feet. “Come Onnnnnnn mummy, I want to meet all my new friends!” I hung my head in dread. I was beginning to realise that this wasn’t the way it was meant to be playing out. Wasn’t I meant to be the happy one? Wasn’t SHE meant to be dragging her feet?
I had to finally acknowledge that it wasn’t just my fear of her starting a new playschool – my chats over the summer to explain that she wasn’t going back to her old playschool because we’ve moved house obviously doing the trick because she didn’t have one millisecond of doubt about starting all over again with new friends. With a shock I realised it was MY reluctance at having to make new friends all over again. It’s ME that has to make new friends with all the parents, remembering their names, their children’s names, their children’s sibling’s names, their husbands (wives) names – not easy when I can currently barely remember my cat’s name! It’s ME that has to look like a good calming, responsible parent rather than the chaotic, holding-it-together-by-a whisker wreck I normally am so that they will trust me with their children. …… so that I can leave MY children with THEM! You see, if I don’t make friends, then I don’t get to arrange playdates with like-minded good-parents-in-disguise, I don’t get to watch my child flourish in fruitful friendships, I don’t get to build those essential “can you pick Daisy up for me, I’m stuck in town” relationships that make life bearable! She’ll be a looser with no friends and it’ll be my fault and she’ll blame me for ever, and never speak to me, and end up putting me in a home when I’m old and frail. Forget exam pressure - parental pressure is much worse! Anyway, can’t hang about writing this. Must have a bath, wash behind my ears and go to bed early. It’s a school night.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Mini-me bites back
The mirror can throw back some pretty ugly images – especially on a bad hair day. But the mirror of motherhood can throw back some pretty shocking reflections too - especially on a bad mother day.
I will never forget the first time I saw Daisy act out an imaginary scene. She was playing with her doll and I started to watch, entranced by my baby’s transformation into a little girl. My enchantment was short lived when I realised what she was doing. Dolly was firmly placed on the naughty step and being boldly admonished by her ‘mummy’. I was absolutely gutted! All my loving, all my attention, all my teaching and singing, all my playing and reading – and the one bloody thing she copies is me being horrible! Thankfully though as time went on, and especially after I had Poppy, she acted out lots of the good mummy stuff too. I thought all my stitches would come out one day when she tried to breastfeed her dolly!
But suddenly in a burst of déjà vu, she seems to be talking back to me – in MY language.
“I’m not happy with you mummy!” was sternly thrown at me last week. As I tried not to laugh and nod solemnly at my bad behaviour (I had insisted she not wear a dirty dress) I wondered how often I say that? (let’s face it, it’s not that nice).
“What do you say?” she asks me with a superior but very sweet raised eyebrow if I give her a hurried command while forgetting my manners.
“Please,” I say sheepishly. Ah yes, it’s all coming back to haunt me.
And poor Poppy. Not only does she seemingly get it from me, she now also gets it from her big (3 year old!) sister. I’m mesmerised when I hear Daisy talking to Poppy like a little mini-me. “Now Poppy, you really are a silly billy. What are you? A silly sausage. You are not allowed to draw on the walls. Poppy? That’s a one. That’s a two. If I get to three there’ll be no Dora later!” Dear god – the mirror can be harsh!
But then there are the other times, the moments when the mirror on wall says I’m the fairest of them all and I bask in a fleeting moment of positive feedback. “It’s alright darling, everything will be ok. I love you Poppy,” I hear her say in the dark of their shared bedroom when her sister cries. “You need a big sleepy sleepy Poppy, it’s a big day tomorrow.” And I lie in bed and smile a huge heart-bursting smile.
I will never forget the first time I saw Daisy act out an imaginary scene. She was playing with her doll and I started to watch, entranced by my baby’s transformation into a little girl. My enchantment was short lived when I realised what she was doing. Dolly was firmly placed on the naughty step and being boldly admonished by her ‘mummy’. I was absolutely gutted! All my loving, all my attention, all my teaching and singing, all my playing and reading – and the one bloody thing she copies is me being horrible! Thankfully though as time went on, and especially after I had Poppy, she acted out lots of the good mummy stuff too. I thought all my stitches would come out one day when she tried to breastfeed her dolly!
But suddenly in a burst of déjà vu, she seems to be talking back to me – in MY language.
“I’m not happy with you mummy!” was sternly thrown at me last week. As I tried not to laugh and nod solemnly at my bad behaviour (I had insisted she not wear a dirty dress) I wondered how often I say that? (let’s face it, it’s not that nice).
“What do you say?” she asks me with a superior but very sweet raised eyebrow if I give her a hurried command while forgetting my manners.
“Please,” I say sheepishly. Ah yes, it’s all coming back to haunt me.
And poor Poppy. Not only does she seemingly get it from me, she now also gets it from her big (3 year old!) sister. I’m mesmerised when I hear Daisy talking to Poppy like a little mini-me. “Now Poppy, you really are a silly billy. What are you? A silly sausage. You are not allowed to draw on the walls. Poppy? That’s a one. That’s a two. If I get to three there’ll be no Dora later!” Dear god – the mirror can be harsh!
But then there are the other times, the moments when the mirror on wall says I’m the fairest of them all and I bask in a fleeting moment of positive feedback. “It’s alright darling, everything will be ok. I love you Poppy,” I hear her say in the dark of their shared bedroom when her sister cries. “You need a big sleepy sleepy Poppy, it’s a big day tomorrow.” And I lie in bed and smile a huge heart-bursting smile.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Nature versus Nurture
I spend a lot of time trying to analyse my children’s quirks and mannerisms – a self-indulgent attempt to identify some chink in their DNA chain that came from me. Like a charm bracelet, they throw little gems of personality that dangle and dazzle, like flashes of silver lining in the cloud of nappies and toddler emotional outbursts. What chinks of charm have come from me? What jewels of high jinks came from my hubby? What treasure trove of theatrics come from our families? Like Daisy’s shy performance of an acorn growing into a sycamore, I reconstruct our family tree from their blossoming traits.
And while I can often place their quirky origins with a jubilant yelp of “Oh, she’s just like my mum!”, and “Oh, she gets that from you!” – every so often they laugh in my face and trump my house of cards with an ace of their own, a gem on the bracelet that is all their own. New additions to our family collection of traits, a new leaf on their own branch. And it makes me smile as I ponder the nature versus nurture thing. I was recently reminded that it also applies to me, but in a slightly different way. Where nature is all instinct, nurture is all learned, and sometimes you have to remember which is which.
Last week I got knocked off my mothering perch – one I had perilously climbed to sit high and safe in contentment and some satisfaction that I’d finally worked out how to do this gig with some semblance of sanity and success. For a little while I forgot how precarious that perch can be.
One night, Poppy went into melt-down and a few days later, I followed suit. She started crying hysterically when I put her down at night, to eventually fall off some hours later exhausted. Just as I would carry my weary self to bed, she would start again, rejuvenated for another few hours of screeching unless I was with her. After a week of this I was beside myself and no longer mother-in-charge. I shouted, I panicked, I lost my nerve. I tried various ways to stop her – soothing, ignoring, surrendering. No consistency, just chaos. No plan, just panic. No mothering, just madness. I read the books and begged my friends for advice, and they all told me different things. And so was I...
My heart was telling me she needed me and I should just be with her no matter if I never slept. My head (and all my friends) told me to be firm, and strong and don’t give in, we had to break this ‘habit’. Then one morning, her ‘habit’ broke out in spots all over her body. Poppy had chicken pox. She hadn’t been trying to ‘get her own way’, she had been sick. And so was I. Sick with guilt. That night I took her into bed with me and we all slept for the first time in over a week. She had needed me and I had ignored my instinct to respond the way I should. (Luckily she fell out of bed at one point which I wisely reminded her of the following night, so no issues of her demanding a repeat for eternity!).
And so I go back to basics…. Instinct is there for a reason. They are what they are – charming charms on their bracelet of life, some are given and some are grown – and I need to be what I need to be to make sure all their charms are the most precious they can be. I need to trust my nature, so I can nurture them effectively.
That said, its not abnormal for my instinct to tell me to run to the hills, so I’d better chuck in some common sense too!
And while I can often place their quirky origins with a jubilant yelp of “Oh, she’s just like my mum!”, and “Oh, she gets that from you!” – every so often they laugh in my face and trump my house of cards with an ace of their own, a gem on the bracelet that is all their own. New additions to our family collection of traits, a new leaf on their own branch. And it makes me smile as I ponder the nature versus nurture thing. I was recently reminded that it also applies to me, but in a slightly different way. Where nature is all instinct, nurture is all learned, and sometimes you have to remember which is which.
Last week I got knocked off my mothering perch – one I had perilously climbed to sit high and safe in contentment and some satisfaction that I’d finally worked out how to do this gig with some semblance of sanity and success. For a little while I forgot how precarious that perch can be.
One night, Poppy went into melt-down and a few days later, I followed suit. She started crying hysterically when I put her down at night, to eventually fall off some hours later exhausted. Just as I would carry my weary self to bed, she would start again, rejuvenated for another few hours of screeching unless I was with her. After a week of this I was beside myself and no longer mother-in-charge. I shouted, I panicked, I lost my nerve. I tried various ways to stop her – soothing, ignoring, surrendering. No consistency, just chaos. No plan, just panic. No mothering, just madness. I read the books and begged my friends for advice, and they all told me different things. And so was I...
My heart was telling me she needed me and I should just be with her no matter if I never slept. My head (and all my friends) told me to be firm, and strong and don’t give in, we had to break this ‘habit’. Then one morning, her ‘habit’ broke out in spots all over her body. Poppy had chicken pox. She hadn’t been trying to ‘get her own way’, she had been sick. And so was I. Sick with guilt. That night I took her into bed with me and we all slept for the first time in over a week. She had needed me and I had ignored my instinct to respond the way I should. (Luckily she fell out of bed at one point which I wisely reminded her of the following night, so no issues of her demanding a repeat for eternity!).
And so I go back to basics…. Instinct is there for a reason. They are what they are – charming charms on their bracelet of life, some are given and some are grown – and I need to be what I need to be to make sure all their charms are the most precious they can be. I need to trust my nature, so I can nurture them effectively.
That said, its not abnormal for my instinct to tell me to run to the hills, so I’d better chuck in some common sense too!
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Jingle Bells
“Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells” and so sings my three year old morning, noon and night. The fact that she’s not blessed with dulcet tones makes it even funnier. An off-key screech greets us in the morning, and a hushed hum lacking harmony filters down the monitor in the evening. This is it. My first Christmas in 32 years that Santa will Ho Ho his way down the chimney again and I’m as excited (possibly more so) than my apoplectically animated daughter who has been wearing her Santa dress every afternoon for 5 weeks in eager anticipation. We’ve just put the finishing touches to Santa’s cookie which we made (looking forward to that I must say!), and have decided which carrot to leave Rudolf. Somehow she’s got it into her head that it’s Santa’s birthday tomorrow and Christmas is his party – and who am I to rain on her parade? So apart from Jingle Bells we have to sing Happy Birthday to Santa on a regular basis.
We’ve given them their stockings which we’ll hang with great ceremony at the fireplace before they go to bed – although my 18 month old, Poppy, has gotten into hers and refuses to come out.
I think more than any other part of Christmas (apart from creeping downstairs in the morning with them to see if Santa has made his delivery of course), is putting them to bed tonight, whispering excitedly about Santa coming down the chimney (I love the fact she has accepted this with absolutely no doubt, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world) and then hubby and I will open a bottle of wine and wrap their presents and fill their stockings (and eat the rather yummy looking cookie). I am so excited I actually feel giddy.
It’s like the Christmas day of parenthood. This is what it’s all about. This makes the unendurable nights, the torturous tantrums, the frustrating suction of any sort of ‘me-time’ from my life worth it. This is the pay-off. The bells are jingling, and I can almost hear the sleigh bells above our house. Ho ho ho, and a merry Christmas to everyone. And for once, I won’t be grumbling when I hear jingle bells beside me at 6.30 am.
We’ve given them their stockings which we’ll hang with great ceremony at the fireplace before they go to bed – although my 18 month old, Poppy, has gotten into hers and refuses to come out.
I think more than any other part of Christmas (apart from creeping downstairs in the morning with them to see if Santa has made his delivery of course), is putting them to bed tonight, whispering excitedly about Santa coming down the chimney (I love the fact she has accepted this with absolutely no doubt, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world) and then hubby and I will open a bottle of wine and wrap their presents and fill their stockings (and eat the rather yummy looking cookie). I am so excited I actually feel giddy.
It’s like the Christmas day of parenthood. This is what it’s all about. This makes the unendurable nights, the torturous tantrums, the frustrating suction of any sort of ‘me-time’ from my life worth it. This is the pay-off. The bells are jingling, and I can almost hear the sleigh bells above our house. Ho ho ho, and a merry Christmas to everyone. And for once, I won’t be grumbling when I hear jingle bells beside me at 6.30 am.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Miscarriage of Justice
The last of the summer butterflies dance in the garden, fragile and beautiful.
Like a butterfly, my little baby was not destined for a long life. It’s time was measured in weeks, like a butterfly. And like a butterfly, she caught my breath as she danced and dipped into my dreams, fluttering and fragile… on her way out as soon as she began.
The moment I saw the scan I knew it was over. I knew my dream had died.
And like all things parenting, so little was in my control. Several days later, my body went into labour. I cried out in pain, I bent myself double and with the same horrific ease that you came to me, you slipped from my body, and fluttered away.
I still don’t know how to grieve for you. I still don’t know how to recognise you and live my life without you.
But for some reason, every time I see a butterfly I think of you and smile. And so it seems, you have shown me yourself. We already have two beautiful flowergirls, Daisy and Poppy. And just as our house jingles to the jangle of their laughter, so our garden sways in the splendid colours of red and pink and white and purple as daisies and poppies dance in the breeze. And I see a beautiful butterfly dance among them and I know you will always be with them. And I with you. My flutter butterfly.
(c) AKG 2008
Like a butterfly, my little baby was not destined for a long life. It’s time was measured in weeks, like a butterfly. And like a butterfly, she caught my breath as she danced and dipped into my dreams, fluttering and fragile… on her way out as soon as she began.
The moment I saw the scan I knew it was over. I knew my dream had died.
And like all things parenting, so little was in my control. Several days later, my body went into labour. I cried out in pain, I bent myself double and with the same horrific ease that you came to me, you slipped from my body, and fluttered away.
I still don’t know how to grieve for you. I still don’t know how to recognise you and live my life without you.
But for some reason, every time I see a butterfly I think of you and smile. And so it seems, you have shown me yourself. We already have two beautiful flowergirls, Daisy and Poppy. And just as our house jingles to the jangle of their laughter, so our garden sways in the splendid colours of red and pink and white and purple as daisies and poppies dance in the breeze. And I see a beautiful butterfly dance among them and I know you will always be with them. And I with you. My flutter butterfly.
(c) AKG 2008
Thursday, June 5, 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
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
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
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
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
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