Boy, Does it Suck

In our NCT class for our firstborn, was an exercise involving the teacher reading out statements. We were asked to stand by the wall if we strongly agreed, or by the window if we strongly disagreed. Since partners were free to choose independently, it mostly unearthed pre-parental panic that one's Other Half was more often than not at the complete opposite end of the room.

One of the statements was 'I will consider giving my baby a dummy'. On hearing it, I was so far at the window end I was practically on the street. Luckily The Husband was with me on that one and we stood united in our judgment: we thought they were ugly, we thought they were chav, we thought they were cheating.

Fast forward to our son at age 4...still needing a dummy to get to sleep (ahem).

In yer face Judgement. Hello Irony. So how did we get from our slightly smug A to such an unlikely B?

Well...our boy was not the best sleeper, and beyond six months old was still having to be jiggled, rocked or paced about with if there was any hope he’d drop off – not the best for the old lumbar spine given that he was off the percentile charts in the first place.

One particularly bloody awful Saturday, sleep deprived, ratty and minus The Husband who was gallivanting in North Wales on a stag do, I spontaneously U-turned my Maclaren - and its screaming contents - into a Boots I happened to be passing and bought a dummy there and then. I ripped open the packaging and popped it in, fully expecting there to be some weaning onto it required. Apparently not. He took hold of it like that baby out of The Simpsons and for the next 20 minutes he sucked so hard he created a ring of redness around his lips. But he was quiet and he was happy. And so was I – apart from the lurid ugliness of the darn thing. So, I texted The Husband to inform him of my Executive Decision and its happy conclusion (who incidentally didn’t give a toss since he himself was merrily pacified with around eight pints at the time) and from then on in we enjoyed weeks, which became months, which became years of really quite manageable bedtimes.

We swore we'd wean him off it at two. And then our daughter was born (so instead we just gave her one as well). We promised we'd do it at two and a half, then three then every month after that, but each time something would pop up on the calendar which made it a tad inconvenient to fit dummy weaning around, so we'd put it off again. The Husband and I were all too aware this was now as much of a crutch for us as it was for the boy, but we were addicted to the easiness. For under a fiver it bought us all sanity and none of us were willing to go cold turkey.

But a couple of weeks ago, we DID do it. And Irony came back to say Hello. Because it was really pretty easy. And of course I'm delighted, I feel free, I feel a big box ticked.

But most importantly, this little 4 year experience has taught me:

• I must try not to judge
• Smugness comes with karma
• I must try not to worry about things before they've happened (the day I nail this one, The Husband will reach a state of über happiness)
• If we have another child I must, without question, give them a dummy from the off

Going Potty.

I am about to start potty training my daughter.

My first attempt at potty training my son drove me to an entire bottle of Merlot and an emergency rollie on night one.

I later heard that a ‘Down-to-business, control-freak mum’ (check) and a ‘Laid-back-chilled-out boy’ (check) are the worst possible combination when it comes to successful potty training.

No shit. (Well, quite).

I was following Gina Ford’s book (regular readers will know I can’t stand the woman, but someone I trust had promised me it was the quickest route). In hindsight it was ridiculous, because my son did absolutely nothing the book said, despite scoring full marks in the little ‘Are they ready’ quiz. He is a child who does very little ‘on-time’, in a text-book fashion, the way he’s ‘meant’ to. When I explained to The Husband how I was approaching it – waving Gina Ford at him manically - he just shot me a puzzled look and said’ Have you met your son?’

It was a horrible few days. He didn’t and wouldn’t and couldn’t ‘go’. It was a mixture of fear, confusion and downright stubbornness because he knew I wanted him to jump through Gina’s little hoops. So I spent hours having to watch him squirm with pain until his bladder would eventually burst and I would react with either comfort / anger / sympathy / frustration depending on what time of day it was and how many biscuits I’d eaten.

I would comb forums desperately looking for a chink of hope that would tell me it’ll pass and he’ll eventually get it. And then I wouldn’t believe it anyway. I kept telling myself that even Wayne Rooney had managed to get out of pull-ups so surely there was hope for my boy.

He did, of course, eventually get it. But I did not emerge mentally unscathed.

So this time round my approach is going to be different.

1.     Flush Gina Ford’s book down the loo.

2.     Pour a glass of Merlot.

3.     Follow my instincts.

Wish me luck.

Kid Wife Crisis.

I am writing this wearing a pair of maternity jeggings. I am not pregnant.

In the last 24 hours, I have been told ‘You’s got hairy bottom’ by my two year old and ‘Your teeth are yellow (when actually mummy, they should be white’) by my four year old.

Nothing like children to take a sledgehammer to your blissful ignorance.

I’m feeling frumpy. I’m feeling fat. I can’t fit into any of my pre-Christmas jeans. I’m not even sure how to dress myself anymore (is it too shiny / too glittery / too hipster / too short for my late-30s?). I’ve tried canvassing The Husband, who just says encouraging things like ‘I think you’re gooooorgeous’ (sub-text: ‘Fancy a shag?’) whilst squeezing my sagging bottom like a stress ball, which ironically just makes me feel fatter. So in order to assess how much of my body blues are down to time-of-the-month hormonal nonsense (please God let it be water retention) and how much is reality, I asked one of my closest friends for an honest opinion, to which I got ‘You’re chubbier than I’ve ever seen you’ and ‘Stop shopping in New Look, you’re too old’. Right. Good job I love her so much.

I know at 37 I should have grown out of this (at University, The Husband used to point out that I would grow old spectacularly ungracefully). He’s right – to a point – but it’s not so much the wrinkles I have an issue with.  Nobody managed my expectations that childbirth would turn my stomach into playdough and replace each of my tits with a marble in a sock.

I know I should wear these body ‘scars’ with pride, like Badges of Motherhood, but I still can’t help feeling envious of those pert 20-somethings with their bumpy midriffs and tiny thighs.

And then the conundrum: I could do something about it. I could log every calorie and spend any glorious free time chasing pavements in lycra. And I would eventually get back to 9 stone. But is it a hollow victory? What am I expecting from this body equivalent to a Porsche? Am I just in a text-book middle-aged place, yearning for years gone by? Will being thinner change anything or make me happier? Really? I’m more fulfilled than I’ve ever been. I have a brilliant family who make me laugh daily and love me unconditionally (hairy bottom, yellow teeth, sagging arse an’ all). Why do I still want to be a size 8?

The Jury in my head is still out. Which is why, for now, I am finishing writing this - still in my maternity jeggings - with a large glass of Shiraz (that’s 170 calories for the record).

From 10 to 1 and back up again...

So, I’ve decided to start the New Year by introducing some more rigid boundaries for my children. I announced this proudly to a good friend the other day, who politely pointed out that as my eldest is four, perhaps four years ago would have been the time to start thinking of boundary introduction. A fair point.

Don’t get me wrong, I do have some. Like they’re not allowed to eat upstairs and they can only watch three episodes of Peppa Pig in a row in order to keep me out of a mental institution. But certain things have slipped of late, meaning that my son is frequently found snoring in between The Husband and I at 3.30am and my two year old daughter often addresses me like I’m a sista from her ghetto.

So this week I have dusted the naughty step, ready and waiting for tiny bottoms to perch on it.  Mwah ha ha….

Trouble is, my son is exceptionally laid back, reasonably bright and – it turns out - rather manipulative. And what happens is this:

ME: ‘If you don’t go and clean your teeth now I will take away your fire engine’.

HIM: (Nothing).

ME: ‘I’m going to count to 10’

(I know most kids get three, but he needs 10 – purely because it takes until I’ve got to three for him to even notice I’ve started to count).

HIM: A fixed look, right into my eyes of – I’m not even sure what – just chilling in da crib, boredom, exasperation, puzzlement and, above all, stubbornness.

At four, he knows exactly what’s going on here and he knows exactly what the consequences are.  He just doesn’t care. You can almost see his little brain through the backs of his eyes, working it all out and saying to itself ‘You know what? Fuck the fire engine’.

And when they genuinely don’t give a shit, it’s kind of hard to know where to go with the discipline isn’t it?

To add insult to injury, there was a fight in the bath last night as he wouldn't share the toys when asked nicely by his little sister. As I go to fetch a towel I hear a clumsy little toddler voice say ‘You do your told, I count to ten…one….two…three’. Brilliant, now my two year old daughter is taking the piss out of me.

And you know what? He bloody well did as he was told.

'Tis the Season to be Trollied

Lately I have been a BAD blogger. I have barely posted, I haven't replied to comments, I've not even acknowledged awards some kind people have given me. Please don't give up on me, thank you for sending lovely comments and emails and, come the New Year, I'll be back on it with both cylinders. Promise. Until then, I apologise for my bad blogging behaviour and consider myself well and truly put on the naughty step.

Truth is, despite having TWO of the X chromosomes, I seem to have lost my ability to multi-task. What with both our children's birthdays within a month of Christmas (bad family planning, we know), a change of childcare, a demanding freelance job, a zillion illnesses and the eldest coming into our bed every two minutes, my coping mechanism over the last few weeks has generally involved at least half a bottle of red per evening, with the occasional hot spicy cider thrown in for festive measure. Our recycling box is such an embarrassment in our well-heeled neighbourhood, The Husband has to take it out after dark and place it down gingerly to avoid the 'clink' factor. Last week we had more bottles than next door's flats put together. Oops.

All this does of course is result in 'duvet brain', more tiredness and a greater relaxing of parenting boundaries, because I'm too knackered to give a shit. I know supernanny would have me trotting my 4 year old back to his bed 15 times a night but frankly I'd rather spend that time trying to get back to the dream about me and Spencer from Made in Chelsea.

As The Husband has taken on a new 'stressful' job, I'm also in charge of all the Christmas shopping this year, which basically means wasting a great deal of my life saying the words 'Do you take American Express?' It was an idea of The Husband's that, since we were caning the credit cards, we might as well make money out of it, so he's switched us to some scheme where we clock up free air miles every time we chip and pin it. Last night he proudly announced we'd racked up enough to get us somewhere in Europe. I started mentally planning a Gite in the Loire Valley or a pretty yellow villa in Tuscany. Only to learn that apparently it's only enough for one. One way.

So it turns out The Husband is planning his quiet Christmas somewhere over the Channel, and I shall continue my wine-based meltdown towards the 25th, hoping I get there with enough brain cells still intact to play Cranium with my in-laws (or, God forbid, Trivial Pursuit...when will they bring out a celebrity gossip version?!) 


Merry Christmas fellow bloggers and faithful followers. See you on the other side x

iNight

The last few weeks have been a bit nuts:

The Husband has left his secure job of 15 years - in the middle of an economic crisis - to go contracting.

The children have been on a quest to catch every illness going - the usual coughs and colds, some weird stop-start vomiting bug, hand foot and mouth...suffice to say, this month I have 'got' MANY T-shirts and we are now buying Calpol in bulk at CostCo.

I have 'returned to work' freelance stylee which has generally involved Insecurity and Confidence having a bit of a grapple and Insecurity typically punching Confidence's lights out. And then Guilt popping in to say Hello several times a day because the children think their mother's face has been replaced with an iPad.

I am not looking for sympathy because I am well aware there are many marvellous mothers out there who are juggling a whole lot more than this. Instead, I wanted to share a little insight from my better half who suggested a solution to our recent Ships-Passing situation.

The Husband has come up with a concept which he has called iNight. (I should explain, he loves the Apple brand and everything it stands for. The day we lost Steve Jobs made for a solemn breakfast in our house, I can tell you. I think he believes one of the big cheeses within the Apple empire might eventually buy iNight for a large sum). He's even got a strap line: 'iNight - it's MY night'. God love him.

So, I'm going to share this with you all. iNight is a bit like Date Night. But better. (You're probably starting to see how it was pitched to me...). Rather than each planning a night once a month or so, where you go out for dinner, try not to talk about the children but end up talking almost entirely about the children and then having predictable sex, iNight breaks all those rules and tears them up. Oh yes. With iNight there are NO rules, simply that one person is entirely in charge of the evening - the food, the entertainment, the drink, everything (I refer you back to the strap line, see). The main thing is that it's just about the two of you, and it may perhaps encourage each of you to enjoy things you may not otherwise choose (for The Husband: getting me to watch an entire subtitled film, for me: relaxing in the bath with his and hers trashy mags). So, because the options are endless, you could just choose to get takeaway and watch TV or you could arrange a babysitter and some fabulous surprise night. Them's the rules: no rules.

As it was his idea, The Husband got to kick off with iNight launch (it was on the calendar and everything). Given I was fully expecting to be watching Arsenal's Top goals whilst eating orange doritos out of the packet, I was pleasantly surprised to be presented with a square meal and The Last King of Scotland on DVD. And you know what, it was a thoroughly enjoyable night - because it's not what I would have chosen to do. And that's the great thing about it. I definitely have interest boundaries which could do with being pushed, and who doesn't hanker after a bit of surprise and spontaneity in a long-term love thang?

So, why not try it?! Launch iNight in your lives. I'd LOVE to hear what you all get up to! And you never know, perhaps The Husband will get his global branding after all : )

And Ps. Next week it's MY night! I wonder...Singalong Sound of Music or ice skating...?

Mumupmanship

Throughout both my pregnancies other mothers felt it necessary to comment on my size in the way that is almost obligatory when you are ‘with child’. Under no circumstances would a stranger brazenly march up in Sainsbury’s and remark on how large your arse is, but it seems that bumpism is fair game. Mine was apparently ‘extremely small’ which of course had me free-falling into a worry pit and Googling into the early hours, accompanied by much eye-rolling from The Husband.

When my children were born, they were both enormous babies. Huge doughballs with several chins, and cheeks so pendulous they practically dragged along the floor. At my son’s first trip to baby clinic, the Health Visitor carefully plotted his weight on the percentile chart and I watched as her pencil headed into a blank wilderness somewhere above 99.6th. Apparently there was no baby on record bigger than mine. Other mothers would look on wide-eyed as they cradled their neat little bundles, and say helpful things like ‘Wow, he’s a whopper’ and ‘Did you crave a lot of cake in pregnancy?’. Ironically (and downright ridiculously) my ‘too small’ had apparently now become ‘too big’, which had me straight back in the worry pit, all over Google again and The Husband probably on the phone to the Lawyer citing irreconcilable differences.

I can see the silliness in this more clearly now, with the cynical-tinted glasses of four years later. But my concern, paranoia and self-doubt at the time was largely a result of comments and comparisons made by other mums. Surely we should all know better?

As I went on to discover, it only got worse as the babies shed their sleepy newbornness and started to actually do some stuff. Fortunately as it turned out, my firstborn stamped out any chance of me joining any games of mum-upmanship in the early years by being the laziest child when it came to any developmental accomplishment. He viewed each ‘next stage’ less as an exciting milestone and more as another tiresome hurdle. Consequently, I had to endure months of fever pitch excitement from other mothers proudly logging First Word, First Sitting Unaided, First Steps…whilst mine was still just sliding along the floor like a slug.

When he did eventually decide that being vertical was more interesting, we walked to the park one day and bumped into a mum I vaguely knew. She was one of them: A Smug Mother. I suspected as much when she started cross-examining me on exactly when the boy had started walking and whether or not he was yet able to run. She was satisfied to hear that ‘No’ he could not yet run, which therefore meant that her son, who could, was better. She was then compelled to add that he was also – aged 21 months – taking French lessons. Well of course.

Why do us mothers do this to each other? What is the point? We are all in this game together, with no rules and several opponents (most of them under 3ft tall). Yet, at times we still try and outrank each other. I know in theory we should all be batting for the same side, but sometimes I’m really not feeling that Sisterhood thing.

We’re a funny old mix, us mums. Sometimes we can be so supportive of each other and other times not at all. There are some fantastic networks, yet there are so many cliquey groups. There is a sea of mothers feeling the same insecurities, yet so many try to hide them for fear of admitting they might need a life-raft sometimes. There is so much honesty and yet still so much pretence.

Having spent many a night pondering the point of mum-upmanship with a large glass of red, my belief is that if mothers pass comments and make comparisons about their child and yours, it has nothing to do with your child. As women, we tend to seek validation for our decisions and we need to know where our own triumphs and failures measure on the overall scale of mummydom. So perhaps some mums are making themselves feel better about their choices and using yours as a benchmark. So what? Just try and consider it a jolly beautiful benchmark. Let’s be honest, we all pass occasional judgement about other people’s offspring and different parenting styles and we believe our own children are completely brilliant. The trick is to just keep your bloody mouth shut about it.

Without sounding cheesy here, The Husband and I just want our children to be happy above all else. And if that means they come last at sports day or need some extra help with fractions or don’t turn out to be the high flying executives we’re planning to retire on, then that’s just fine by us.