Of Alarm Clocks and Accusations.

We've overslept.

All three of us, somehow, have miraculously ignored our various body clocks as well as the gradual increase in daylight filtering through the cracks in our curtains.

I often wonder how many horrible days have begun with a missed alarm clock, a malfunctioning mobile, an unheeded call to arise from bed.

Today, I was sure would be one of those days for us.

Out of bed with only an hour before I should have been physically walking out of the house on the way to take DS to preschool. Only an hour in which to wash/clothe/feed/brush/preen and otherwise appropriate ourselves to social norms.This was not to be sufficient.

DH had to use the bedroom, door closed, off limits, for a Skype session with a client, while I hurriedly played the latest game in which I pretend to be nonchalant about this food I have made for my toddler, so that he doesn't twig on to the fact that I am actually very anxious for him to take an interest in his food. My whole world's happiness is tied up with how much gluten free pancake he consumes within our limited time allowance. He's the 'seagull' and I am the 'seaside tourist' enjoying my food while he attempts to 'swoop in' and 'steal it.' But, this is a lot of subtext for 8AM. I am not very method with my acting, and he doesn't appreciate that I don't take the game seriously.

While I make many great speeches on my new 'plan' to 'foil' the 'seagull' I am internally calculating just exactly how long I have until it is absolutely necessary to start getting the school outfit on, and then, while the 'seagull' 'steals' yet another gulp of 'my' breakfast, I am really wondering if I will have time for even a 60 second shower. I didn't take the bath last night when I could have. It's a rookie move, you hate to see it.

He can see I'm distracted, so he demands that I craft yet another 'plan' for the 'seagull' and his thievery.

I see an out and I bloody take it - 'Okay,' I begin cheerily, steeling myself for what happens once the other shoe, or rather the second half of my coming declaration will bring, 'one more plan then we have to dress seagull in his jumper!'

I wait with baited breath. I check the markers of each part of his little face as he processes what I've just said is to the next phase of our morning plan. A phase for which he was most assuredly not consulted.

'Okay!'  comes his reply. He must have been satisfied with my performance, as he accepts reality without any kind of protest.

I'm not sure how, but I am now aware that it is half past 8. I have managed to get all the breakfast in him, the school clothes on him, and the coffee and small breakfast in me. I feel like a champion, I really do. At least, for exactly as long as it takes for me to realise that while DS is out in the lounge, happily watching Peppa, fed, dressed and with a school bag at the ready - his shoes, my clothes, my shoes, our coats, are sealed in what may as well be outer space - The Bedroom Where Daddy is Working.

New calculations are flying through my brain.

Can we walk to preschool, if we leave the house by 9:10, and hurry really fast, and manage to get there in time?

Would it be quicker to bring the buggy, so I don't have the factor in the little leg variable? Then of course, I need to consider how much of the time we save by buggy will be burned on the first gentle attempt and subsequent knock down drag out fight to get DS strapped into the buggy. 

And well, it needs to be said Mummy, that none of this is going to matter if you can't fashion some kind of primitive yet fashionable footwear and clothing combination that comprises slightly more than the thin Lonsdale yoga pants and off the shoulder sweatshirt you're currently sporting.

If there were ever a time I wished I was a whiz at word problems, it was now.

Finally, I am resigned to the fact that I simply can't move until DH is done in the bedroom. And since his computer failed him for the first thirty minutes, he definitely won't be done until ten minutes after the absolute last possible time I could see leaving the house AND making it on time, even with forgoing the social niceties of personal hygiene.

I make DH lunch. I make him some pancakes that he can easily shove down his gullet, as he too, is now very late for work.

I think, yes, I am now zen.

But then something happens. The momentum which I had put away with my happy resignation was picked up again as the bedroom door was flown open. Somehow in the space of 30 seconds, I found myself dressed and with a coat and shoes and a new mission: GET TO PRESCHOOL ON TIME.

DS was naturally ignorant of the sequence of any of these events. He didn't know anything had gone wrong. He wasn't aware that his mother and father were presently running around like decapitated chickens, ruing the day they weren't made omniscient so they could ensure this sort of thing could never ever ever happen to them ever again SERIOUSLY.

All he knew, all he should have to know, is that he had a nice lie in, we had a nice game of breakfast, and he was kicking back, waiting for the next adventure to start.

We were so far away from each other, the three of us, in our respective headspaces, I should have known it was going to escalate.

I am dying to leave the house, dying to avoid declaring myself a time failure, I could make it, we could be there on time still, if only we could leave right now. He was so compliant with the food, the school jumper, the teeth brushing, he fooled me into thinking I need only sweetly gesture to him with his jacket before he came bounding up to me and enfolding himself inside it and then we would be skipping down the road to a better, more perfect day.

This did not happen.

But you knew that already, didn't you?

DS laid down on the hall floor, picked at some dried mud that had fallen off my impatient boots and bemoaned -

"I'm tired."

"But we have to go now. We're going to be late. Come on sweetie."

"I'm tired and I don't want to get up. What's this?"

"That's just mud from my shoes, don't touch it. Don't touch it. Don't touch it. Come on, we have to GO."

The last word was a bit forceful, but I had, as yet, to lose it.

"No. I don't want to."

And that was it. I shouted at him, I said okay, bye I am going then, I went halfway down the stairs and he started to sniffle.

"No. Mummy. Don't be angry Mummy."

And suddenly, I was back.

Feeling horrible and guilty and ashamed of shouting at my three year old son because of things that were entirely nothing to do with him. I gave myself approximately 5 seconds to blink, shed exactly one tear, and then I apologised.

I told him I was sorry, that it wasn't his fault, that I wasn't angry, I was frustrated that we might be late for school. I asked if he forgave me. He smiled simply, threw his arms around me, held my face close to his face and said. "Yes."

Then it was over for him, he wasn't holding any grudges. All that he knew was right again, and he was ready to leave now, and so we did, and we got there on time.

I was left thinking about it as I walked away from dropping him off. There were times I would have terrorised myself for weeks at how failed a mother I was. Or worse yet, I would refuse to acknowledge that shouting at him was wrong, that "kids need to learn" and that "I was in charge."

Here is the thing though. He wasn't questioning my authority. I remain 'in charge' whether I shout at him to hurry up or not. More to the point, he wasn't telling me I was a rubbish mother who was ruining his life. He was asking me not to be angry, because he didn't want me to be, because he loves me.

I was questioning my authority. I was telling myself I was not in charge. I was shouting at myself, as loudly as I was shouting at him, that I was a rubbish mother. I was 'doing it wrong'. And as so often is the case with uncomfortable truths, rather than looking inwards, we explode outwards.

In every moment of frustration, of anger, of self accusation that I face as a mother - I am presented with a choice; to turn inwards, to breathe, to address it with myself, the adult and to keep it from himself, the child or, to explode, to demand unquestioning obedience without explanation, to be irrationally annoyed that a human who has been on Earth for 3 years doesn't know how to behave as I have learned in my 26.

I chose wrong this morning. I allowed a moment to berate myself for failing to be Perfect Mum, yet again. I moved on. He moved on, almost instantaneously.

And I know there are plenty of people who make different decisions, who have different styles, different belief systems about how they parent. That's cool, that's fine, it is okay. I am only one woman and my son is the only one of his kind that will ever be, and you're never going to be his parent, vice versa, etc, the end. But I know that it matters that I apologised to him, and I will tell you why.

I will share with you what I have left of what once was something that happened to me when I was little, a hazy fragment of half-memory, which has somehow clung onto life within the recesses of my brain and serves me with the knowledge that I serve others with. I have no idea how old I was when this happened, I don't remember what day it was, season, year, no details remain, except the way the sun came through the glazing on our front door, and the way the terrycloth of my mother's robe seemed just as tattered and tired and soft as she always did. She'd loved too much, she'd seen too much, and she ached to love and see so much more. I understood this from infancy, even if there wasn't any reasonable way I ought to.

On this day I was playing with my younger brother. We were being loud. My mother was downstairs. My brain tells me she had a migraine. We were meant to be quiet. We weren't. She had really had enough. She came upstairs. It wasn't me who had made the particular noise which signalled Enough, it was my little brother. The blame was assigned to me, she shouted at me. I don't remember if I received a spanking. I remember the absolute terrible feeling of childhood injustice though. The heartbreak you feel when you feel rejected by your parent. Back when you're naive enough to believe that the world must be fair, to be on the receiving end of direct proof to the contrary is a cold and sobering experience, indeed. The image flickers a bit. Then I am in my room. My mother enters a time later. She tells me that she is sorry, because she knows it wasn't me who made the noise. She is sorry.

Whatever silly animosity I had felt, whatever sick sense of malice was beginning to develop, that apology snuffed it right out. I loved her and she loved me, and she was just a human, same as I was. Her terrycloth robe and the way it smelled of love and hope when she wrapped her arms around me, and put her face to my face, that was all there was in the world, and all of it was right again.

This is how I know these moments are defining. They have defined me, and I will use them to guide me away from the self destructive guilt that comes so easily with raising your own little person.

I will use them to guide me home.

It's a Cruel, Cruel Summer.

Do not be misled by the title of my blog post. It was not, in fact, a cruel summer. We were certainly braced for another 12 months of non stop rain and The Endless Grey. We had to be, to hope for anything more would be decidedly UN British. And foolish, given the past couple of years. But we had a heatwave! It was like being in Florida! It was great!

.......and it kept being hot! And no one has air conditioning! Forget the Tube or the bus! It was some kind of face melting wonderful on board public transit! Seriously, can we be England again?!

DS, my mother in law and myself spent the morning at Ruislip Lido. We had a picnic, there's something that everyone has decided to call a 'beach' even though you're to steer clear of the 'water' at the 'beach, a brand new cafe has started up which does pretty good coffee, and there's even a water park and little train station. Oh, yeah, and HORDES OF WASPS. EVERYWHERE. BEING REALLY AGGRESSIVE. HUNTING YOU DOWN FOR YOU SWEET SWEET HUMAN FOOD.

That's when I realised that enough was enough. I am ready for Autumn. I want to bust out the cinnamon scented candles, the huge knit jumpers, the tartan scarves and matching gloves, and I want it to be socially acceptable to load up a new pin board for Christmas, dammit.

We've done pretty well this year, we've all got tans and are busy scrubbing months of accumulated sun cream out of our pores. Sure, the odd rainstorm or two has served to remind us of our place in the worldwide weather lottery, but I think we should just quit while we're ahead and embrace the Gloom, will it to come even! I'm currently working on a rain/grey dance routine, and am happily accepting any volunteers into my troupe.

But, I digress. I really wanted to start this entry to express how caught up I get sometimes in being stressed, that I forget to live in the Now. I think most people alive today don't live in the Now. It's far too easy to be looking ahead, planning the next big life event, work project, home project, or counting down to when Sherlock is going to be back on the telly, already. Thankfully, I have this great little In The Now alarm system. It's called a near three year old. His whole day is the Now. He's the mayor of Nowtown. He reminds me when I'm caught out worrying about what time I should be preparing the evening's dinner so that I can finish that load of laundry in enough time to hang it out to dry so I don't have to clog up my kitchen with the clothes horse, and if that's there then I won't be able to hoover or mop it either - MUMMY - COME SEE - THERE'S A KITTY CAT OUTSIDE - MUMMMMMMMMMMMY!

Oh man. It's only 8 am, what the heck am I doing, oh yeah, righteous, cat. Sweet, thanks son.

Nothing in my list of things I was obsessing over could possibly  be as important to me as seeing that kitty cat is to him. Not only seeing the kitty cat, but sharing the moment with me. 

There we are folks.

That is the Now.

I was in the Now today at the Lido as I watched him prance around the water park, surprised and amazed each and every single time the water spouts popped up in a new place (of about 6 possible places that they pop up at in a loop). He squealed with delight, his skin shone in the mid afternoon sun, slick with cream, water and that special childhood glow; a mix of exuberance and absolute unchecked joy.

He doesn't care how he looks when he slips, half skidding into a crouch to break his fall, he doesn't mind who might see his trunks ride up, or if he skins a knee, or two. There is water! There are other kids! There is Mummy! All is right with his world (and mine), as he knows it.

We had a cracking day, you know. Often, as is my custom when I have cracking days, I think about the life I very easily could have led, back in my homeland, slaving away at a job that I hated, settling for someone who wasn't my soul mate, not seeing Paris, London, Finland or the other amazing experiences I have had and will get to have now that I am amongst this beautiful life, with beautiful people who I adore.

Very bloody fortunate is how I feel. A little girl from Appleton am I no longer.

These truly are the best years, as hard and complex and agonizing as it may be to raise a tiny human into a responsible adult, as much as you think you are screwing it up (you probably aren't, but I have yet to meet a mother of a small child(ren) who doesn't think she is more or less just stumbling around blindfolded in the woods during a hurricane, trying to thread many needles), as many seconds-minutes-nights-days pass without restful sleep, it is being in the Now with your child, with your loved ones, that you realise, it will never be better than this.

I know this down to my bones.

I will summon this knowledge on the less than cracking days; after the third change of pants in as many minutes, the second missed bus in the pouring rain, the first heartbreak, the innumerable amounts of questions that I will struggle to both understand and answer during my lifetime tenure as Mum.

So next time you find yourself cursing under your breath, shaking with fright, rage, or sadness. Think of something like this day, or your best version of it. Then take a deep breath, breathing is good.

And release.

X



 

Mommy had a birthday and her head popped off.

Well, no, my actual head did not actually pop off. It certainly felt like a milestone though. I turned twenty six years of age on the nineteenth day in the seventh month of the two thousand and thirteenth year of our Lord.

See, it sounds so hallowed and important in old timey speak!

Seriously, though. It was a great time. Birthdays have carried a certain amount of pressure for me since I was allowed to celebrate them, due to the lack of celebrations in my formative years, which I'm sure is something all my nearest and dearest are terribly sick of hearing about. In fact, right now, I reckon they're all in a corner gagging themselves with spoons. However, be that as it may, every birthday gets built up in my head to impossible ivory tower standards, which, if you follow, means every birthday induces some level of self deprecating disappointment.

Hurray! Who is ready for cake? A cake that you will squirrel away into the dark corner of a bathroom somewhere and fork rabidly into your mouth while you sob all over your sparkly glitter based make up, cheered only by the discovery that your salty tears are a really nice balance to the chocolate ganache.

I am happy to report that this year was not anything like the scene above. The day before me and my best girlfriends went out on the town  IN HEELS AND DRESSES and ate our weight in all-you-can-(not should, CAN)-eat sushi, had an inappropriately surreal experience at a local restaurant in which a waiter seemed to materialise from nowhere, only to become a stripper of the absolute worst level of aptitude. And to think we had only ventured there to devour dessert and coffee(and eventually a dessert wine which I suspect was actually just children's cough syrup from the local Boots), NOT BE SEXUALLY HARASSED OKAY. Oh patriarchy, you so crazy. Of course a table full of attractive women who are enjoying each other's company are CLEARLY in want of a man to sort them out, right?

That aside, I had a great time, and my actual birthday brought more wondrous things, like a surprise manicure (my girlfriend took time out of her busy schedule of setting up HER SISTER IN LAW'S WEDDING THAT WAS THE NEXT DAY and oh the small thing of having three kids and generally being always everything everywhere to treat me, and that was truly touching.) a romantic dinner with my husband that evening with the most gorgeous food I've ever seen, and a cheeky pint at a pub we'd never tried before.

It was really the best, and DS got a kick out of my balloons, and on most mornings since has woken up with a resounding, "Happy Bersssday Mummy!!!"

Who has got 2 thumbs and amazing friends and family? This gal.

X

Serenity Now!

I always  knew exactly the kind of mother I was going to be. I knew all the things I was going to do, how to handle every delicate situation and, it has to be said, was very certain how to handle even the dreaded Terrible Twos. I would do it all with grace and composure and I would make it look easy. Then, I would sit down for a brief repose, clutch my pearls, smooth my dress, and perhaps do a spot of light baking to revel in my triumph of the Maternal and Domestic realms.

Then I had a child, and that stuff all hit the fan.

I am not sure there is a way that one can convey to a person who has never had children, or had to look after children, or perhaps (I am told there are even some who) have never met a child the absolute chaotic mess of feelings the little beasts can create in you. However, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in possession of a small child must be in want of a holiday.

I am that woman today. I have abandoned all my high ideals of discussing feelings, and explaining action and consequence and I am just a bundle of nerves which had been tread upon almost to breaking.

But.

It's okay.

That is allowed.

If you're going to try to raise a human being, you need to realize that you are not perfect, you have little more than instinct and personal judgement to guide you, and you will mess up. The best we can hope for is to have a well intentioned syllabus of sorts, and love. Your child will always know they are loved. Similarly, they will certainly know when they are not. Even when you're red in the face from snapping at them, surveying the disaster area that was once your home, and wondering WHY DID I DO THIS TO MYSELF I COULD LITERALLY BE ANYWHERE ELSE RIGHT NOW, they will look at you with their little eyes and communicate something entirely without words.

You are mine. I am yours. I love you forever, okay?

For better or worse, this is the deal that we have struck.

So when I find myself as that big bundle of nerves, I take a couple of deep breaths and I let it wash over and under and away from me, and I continue on. So very little of DS' life is going to revolve around me, I shouldn't resent that all of it does right now. Thus goes my mantra.

Though, I do wish he would heel a little better on his leash...

I was never going to be a mother with a child on a leash, but I never counted on being the mother of a six month old who became adept at scaling the sides of his cot and lunging outwardly, in lieu of sleeping. As he got older, he got bolder, and seemingly less able to appreciate mortal danger. Coincidentally, I became more able to appreciate that much of my motherly role was to keep DS from killing himself.

And that's about the long and short of every day in the Terrible Twos. He's like your drunk friend at the end of the party. You know he should leave, you're tired, he's tired, and he's off his face - so you need to get him home, stop him from insulting people or getting in their way, and hope all the while that he doesn't puke over your new sweater. You just got this sweater, and if he does puke on it, you're just going to kick yourself and think, 'Obviously, Self, this is why we can't have nice things.'

X

Dun dun dun.

When I was a teenager, I used to spend hours drawing and painting and making collages from cut out bits of Rolling Stone and thought it was oh so important to be fulfilling my artistic needs. It is in that spirit that I say:

Let me paint you a picture! 

My dining room table is piled high with clothes (but they are neatly folded), my sink is piled with last night's dishes (but I went round my mother in law's and did all hers), and I am piled all into my office chair, sitting in the dark, in my own room, ruining my eyes with the light of my laptop because if I turn on the actual lights, then it might wake the dragon (AKA my two year old son).

He is sleeping comfortably in our large bed, as is his custom, and I respect that. I mean, he's a person and he likes to be amongst other people. I have a really hard time sleeping on my own, and I'm (nearly) an adult. So I leave him there, and I live around him, because it's the only time in his life he's going to want me this much.

So it's cool. Right?

Yes. It is. I am sure of it.

There are a lot of things I should be getting on with. There are always things to be getting on with. My laundry hamper possesses a fertility unknown to mankind - I mean, I certainly don't change my food stained, torn, stretched from the incessant toddler manhandling, and very much comfort-over-style wardrobe more than once a day, and yet - the hamper -  it waits there in the corner, always full, always beckoning, always mocking me in my attempts at making it EMPTY.


Mainly, I suppose I would start by folding away the buggy, but not before emptying it of the shopping. I would have done that straight away, but I thought about it, and there wasn't anything for the freezer in there, so, after checking with me, I was okay with just leaving it in the hallway.

Then, I guess I could wash the dishes, but it's 8:34 PM on the night of the day where DS (Dear Son, as I will refer to him hence forwards) did NOT nap, in spite of my thrilling miles long walking tour of our village. I guess he just doesn't appreciate the significance of a high street that's so well preserved and loaded with listed properties, yet.

 It's funny, really, how I started it to make him knacker out and sleep, so I might like, sit, still, without whimpering - and what really happened was he stayed awake and I wore out my back and didn't get to sit still, and there was so much whimpering. From me. On second thought, that's not terribly funny.

What I really wanted to say in this whole entry was WELCOME! I will be entertaining you with my tales of love and woe and WHOA what does that scale say, and so much other yay.

I hope you enjoy reading.

X