Secret Lives: The Mystery of Childhood

There have been times of late when I have felt that there has been an almost imperceptible shift in my family. It took some time for me to put my finger on precisely what had changed but I felt like I woke up one day and everything just seemed that little bit easier; that little bit less of a struggle. There was a little more time to put the dinner on, put the clothes away and get the hoover out. Fortunately, I managed to restrain myself from doing any of those things. Sure, I am still answering copious summons to the toilet where I am often greeted by a bare bottom being thrust in my direction thereby allowing me to “check” that the use of the first half of the toilet roll was sufficient but the other needs, whilst still plentiful, are not relentless in the way they once were. My children are discovering their independence and I am celebrating and lamenting in equal measure.

Where are you going? 

For the first born, the start of school has heralded a change in our relationship as she now spends the majority of her waking hours during the week away from me. I realise that the concept of school is not a new one and I probably should have been prepared for this but I don’t think I was ready for the her having a whole world away from me and for me to know so little about it. Don't get me wrong, I ask lots of questions, of both her and her teacher to try and gauge the pivotal moments from the day but the answers often just act to generate more questions. "Is she happy?", "Is she popular?", "Is she confident?" "Did she actually eat those peas she said she did at lunchtime?" I suspect I know the answer to the last one.

The school girl 

Meanwhile the youngest, while still having a temper like a bear with a migraine is, on occasion, to be found entertaining himself in his bedroom when his sister is not in the house. He can largely communicate to us what he wants (or "neeeeds") and whilst it may generally incur a negative parental response the resulting tantrum is half hearted and short lived. 

His two days at nursery are the highlight of his week but once again, due to his ability to mingle reality with a Paw Patrol storyline and his inability to understand the concept of time, his day often remains a mystery too.

He spent the day in a stab proof vest.
A STAB PROOF vest people!

It would seem that my babies are forging their own paths (albeit not too far away) and have elements of their own lives in which I am not allowed to partake. This theme seems to extend to their own sibling relationship. I longed for the day that I would take on the role of understudy; no longer being roped into playing pretend and having to act out multiple scenes from various Disney films but when I chance upon them playing together and hear the resultant peals of laughter I desperately want to join in. Unless, of course, it is Peter Pan then, quite frankly, they are welcome to leave me out of it.

The thing that I am struggling to define is exactly how I feel about it. I swing from the ache of a huge void that must be filled to relishing the freedom to pretend that I am doing the laundry when I am really scrolling down an Instagram vortex. Whilst I am (extremely) tempted to start the process all over again I am not sure one more child would ever be enough for me and that is ignoring the fact that with the life choices we have made we can barely afford the two we already have.

My friend once said that she often heard of someone with two children debating the third but rarely heard of the parent of three debating a fourth and therefore we must deduce that the third is one too far. However, she then went on to have a third so I don't listen to her anymore.

I think for now I am going to enjoy the minutes of freedom that their nugget of independence affords me and open a book or run an extra mile. I might just savour the relentless having relented even if only for a moment and spend a little more time choosing to ignore the housework rather than having to.

They still hold my hand... For now. 

Where Do You Go To My Lovely: The Absent Mother

I am as stressed as an anxiety riddled dog on a battlefield on bonfire night. Despite consistently being reminded on all fronts that this is, in fact, the season to be jolly I am merely heaving myself from one day to the next whilst spinning more plates than a state banquet at Buckingham Palace. I am a mess.

Stressed

You see it all started with a rare work trip abroad requiring me to leave my children for 5 days. This would be my inaugural work trip as management and whilst there was no pressure being put upon me by anyone other than myself, I was keen to appear effective and knowledgeable with an air of capability. Following several IT disasters, a plethora of mosquito bites and a sheer inability to master the buttons on the elevator in our shared hotel, my appearance was less die hard professional and more bumbling baffoon. Adding on to that a myriad of failed meetings and a thick layer of maternal guilt meant that by the time I returned home I felt that I had short changed everyone involved and all that my trip had served to do was allow me to selfishly spend time not having to be responsible for the offspring.

I did enjoy that.

I mean when you are dining out in places like this... 

Then I found myself liking it and was consumed by self loathing.

It was a complex battle of emotions.

My initial approach was to avoid contact with their little faces and the news of cherished mundane goings on at home. My 5 hour time difference and a hectic schedule of meet and greets meant my plan was fool proof. While my boss was constantly stepping out to call and check on how things were going at the homestead, I was sending a daily text as proof of life. You may think me callous but at no time was I concerned as to the welfare of my children, they were with two of the best and caring human beings in existence. I knew that when they asked about me (which they would), their queries would be met with a such a strong, and resilient reassurance of my love that they would feel infinitely more comforted than they would having heard my tear strained voice through a long distance phonecall. I found the easiest way to avoid the ache was to avoid thinking of them in their entirety and before I knew it I was enjoying my new sense of freedom. There were no lunches to be packed, no squabbles to referee and no wriggly, resistant toes to be dried after bathtime.

Not everyone is as anti-bathtime as me... 

I couldn't physically be with them and there was no early return available so I had to cope. We had decided as a family that saying yes to this trip was the best decision in the long run but being the "primary caregiver" acknowledged that it was going to be a wrench for everyone involved. I was prepared for the angst and the guilt (suffered from the comfort of business class) but what I hadn't expected was to feel a world away from the person I am on a daily basis. All of a sudden I wasn't rushing away to do the school run or collect the poorly child from their alloted care provider; for the four days I was only responsible for myself. I was effectively 24 years old again.

When I eventually did return I was met with a hero's welcome. There was a banner telling me how much I had been missed and long, heartfelt cuddles where I felt like I might never be released. Then after I got past the husband the children were pretty pleased too. I felt awful. I felt that I had not achieved enough on my work trip to justify either their distress at not having me or the expense to the company for taking me.

My welcome home... 

This sense of having disappointed on all fronts has resulted in my working during my unscheduled hours upon my return but being wholly distracted by an all-consuming guilt for doing so being that I am not devoting my time to the children whom I have abandoned so recently. I am pleasing no one.

Factor into this the upcoming nativity, Christmas shopping, hospital appointments for just about every member of the family, work deadlines and a stack of unwritten Christmas cards which are due to friends I have not had the chance to WhatsApp (never mind chat to) in the past few months means that I am an utter wreck.

Is there ever the right balance? Can it "all" really ever be had? What colour of tights do angels really wear? 

Answers on a postcard... 

Some Day I'll Be Saturday Night: The Week That Never Ends

Well it has been quite the week on the rodeo of life that is parenting small children. The universe seemed to delight in making the stars align in such a way that an astrological apocalypse was created, if you believe in that sort of thing, interfering with my week as a working mother of two young children.

Let me walk you through it:

Monday

As we were on the 2.5 mile round trip to school, the wheel of the pram (and sole transportation device for the highly time pressured morning drop off) snapped beyond repair leaving it to limp sadly along the road with an air of Del Boy's Reliant Robin. Having coaxed it back down the hill and waved my husband and the The Toddler off to coax it home, I headed into the office to start my working week. As I settled myself down to work, opening my laptop and passing some light chit chat with my colleagues about the weekends events (theirs lavish and fun-filled, mine protracted and potty-based) I answered the phone to a rather distressed husband who, upon returning home had discovered that we were imminently about to be revisited by all of our son’s contributions to the family reunion in Pooland and was requesting the number of a "decent drain man". I have quite the little black book, clearly.

Tuesday

I woke with renewed optimism as the drains had been remedied and a new wheel was winging its way to us in the post. This was extremely fortunate as it was a day when optimism would be crucial as I had to run the gauntlet that is swimming lessons; solo. Now you may think that I am being overly dramatic and I am sure that there are parents in their droves who routinely deal with two small children in a swimming pool without too much anguish whatsoever. However I am not one of them. Dealing with two hungry, grumpy, slippery dictators who are reluctant to leave the fun of the pool never mind help in their drying and dressing is akin to wrangling a lubricated, enraged octopus into a leather one piece. Twice.

In all honesty though, the ordeal of swimming was merely the cherry on the top of this day following our impromptu voyage into town after the school drop off. Mixing a borderline potty trained toddler who has a penchant for trying out all the local facilities available to him with the first real cold snap of the year (rendering his bladder overactive and thimble sized) was, perhaps in hindsight, a touch cavalier but you will recall that I was feeling somewhat optimistic that morning. Having merely vacated the third premises a matter of moments earlier, the toddler emitted a shriek for "potty!" at such a pitch that it would have been injudicious of me to ignore his plea. The nearest convenience was (inconveniently) four floors above and only accessible by a single lift which moved at the pace of a fatigued snail so by the time we reached our destination the toddler was shedding clothes at a terrifying rate of knots as he ran towards his target. I too, ditched everything I was carrying in order to airlift him onto the receptacle in time.

We made it. My phone? Not so much.

Wednesday

Wednesday was a fiasco from beginning to end. My mother routinely treks across the country to provide childcare for us on a Wednesday thereby allowing me to hold down some form of employment without bankrupting ourselves on nursery fees. Today however, an ill judged petits four after lunch with the girls on the preceding day had resulted in a fractured front crown and a trip to the emergency dentist which meant I was left to partake in a business call with my youngest attempting to sit on my head. Totes profesh.

Thursday

Thursday was doomed before it began. I returned from a late hospital appointment the previous evening to the news that The Toddler was lurgy filled, spiking a temperature, intolerant of everybody and everything and, as a result, had taken to his bed at an unprecedented early hour. We settled on half hourly checks (never ones to overreact) and my mother called at half past ten to relay her concerns of meningitis. Needless to say sleep was sparse. It was determined prior to his waking that a GP visit was essential so the husband delayed his own GP duties to drop the Big One off at school to allow me to partake in the ridiculous system that our medical practice operates whereby patients must present on the morning to be seen as part of a triage system. With a two hour wait ahead of us (and a mandatory training course on the other side of the country beckoning) I was a touch frustrated to see the toddler terrorising the rest of the waiting room as "Spider Max" showing no signs of being anything other than brimming with health and vitality.

Damn you child.

Friday

Husband had to go away for the weekend and I was entirely understanding right up until the point that there was a double danger nap. At five o'clock. Enough said.

Saturday

Today is still ongoing and whilst I generally like to remain open minded, being that this day started at four thirty and has involved liquid poop I feel that perhaps I should just submit and wait until the stars shift or Mars does its retrograde thing.

Tomorrow is a new day.

Get Back Up Again: When Parenthood Doesn't Go To Plan

Now I know I said I was going away for a while and you may be thinking that that initial declaration was somewhat insincere being that I am now here again a mere two weeks later but, much like an aged rocker answering the call to play his greatest hits, I am back but this time on request from one of my favourite people on the planet. You see, as a family we have been dealt a rather cruel hand of late and whilst the details of this particular person's predicament are not mine to tell they have occupied my thoughts and tainted my daily experiences to such a degree that my tales of merely surviving parenthood seemed to fade into a banal triviality. There seemed little point and an overriding sense of self indulgence in sitting down to write about my toddler's unwillingness to reunite his poo with its long lost family who reside in the sewars of Edinburgh (we'll get to that) when I could have been spending my time worrying (with its proven innate protective powers), consoling, falsely reassuring or researching the many methods in which to restore this person to her previous salubrity.

Superhero he may be... 

However, this weekend I took an enforced leave (by my husband) from parenting my own children and went to see her hoping to assuage my own concerns and dole out some intense, medicinal hugs. We talked, we laughed (probably harder than our pelvic floors were prepared for), we ate (a lot of superfood based meals) and we identified at least sixty two examples of her three month old's intellectual prowess. Parental leave well spent.

Time spent squeezing babies is always time well spent

Now whilst I cannot begin to compare any experience that we may have had as parents to what she is currently going through there are elements of her current situation which bring rather unsettling memories to the fore.

Feeling Short Changed by Life

When we learned of the complications of our first pregnancy and the ensuing differences that my daughter was going to have to live with for the rest of her life, I distinctly remember feeling like we were incredibly hard done by. We had done everything right. We had waited for (almost) the right time financially, we had been living a healthy lifestyle at the time of conception (although maybe not by Gwyneth Paltrow's standards) and we had a strong track record of robust health on our side. 

Complications in pregnancy were minimal in the family tree and there was certainly nothing beyond the point of getting those two pesky precursors to unite so with that first blue line in the all important window there was part of me that felt we were home free.

So when it all began to unravel I felt cheated. I felt angry. I felt like we were undeserving of such a cruel turn of events. Why us? What had we ever done to deserve this?

The harsh truth of the matter is nothing. We had done nothing wrong. It wasn't right, it wasn't fair and we definitely didn't deserve it but life doesn't dole out your allotment based on what is right or what is fair. As it turned out, we were merely asking the wrong question of the universe. Rather than asking why it was us we should have been asking why not us?

Everything Will Be Alright

The Lost Maternity Leave

After my daughter hurled herself from the womb two weeks early, undersized and brandishing her nine fingers and ten toes in our general direction we were immediately treated differently. We were whisked into a side room and striked from the list of routine post delivery checks to be performed by the junior doctor and etched onto the much shorter list for the consultant paediatrician to perform where the assessment would be carried out in the most painstaking and methodical manner.

All the plans for baby classes and mummy groups were instantly discarded and replaced with doctors appointments and dates with scanners. Development milestones loomed in the distance with an aching desperation, not for her to excel but for her to merely attain within an acceptable window of time. Baby clothes were not purchased based on their aesthetics (except by my mother) but for their ability to provide easy access to her various bandages and equipment. Sleep was lost, not solely based on her partiality for nocturnal activities but due to the terrorising worries that would pervade my mind in the small hours of the morning.

It was only when the date for my return to work appeared on the calendar that I realised my maternity leave had ended before it had even begun.

Back to Work 

The Cruelty of Genetic Testing

When the first mutterings were made that there may be a possible genetic cause for my daughter's differences, we were struck dumb. To learn that the essence of your being, the part of you that made you who you are before you were even a person, may have been predestined to sabotage you and those you love in one of the worst ways imaginable is a horror that I would not inflict on my worst enemy.

Although we learned (when our daughter was 3 months old) that there was no obvious genetic cause for her individual handprint the intervening period was quite possibly the greatest test our marriage will ever have. My husband and I recently discussed this time in our lives and found our experiences to have been significantly different. Where a positive (in the worst way possible) result would likely lead to our daughter either having profoundly increased needs or a dramatically shortened lifespan my husband envisioned us remaining a stoical family of three; standing strong together and enjoying the time that we had to the best of our ability. In stark contrast, I couldn't envision how we could possibly stay together in the knowledge that our genetic make up had come together to punish our daughter in such a cruel fashion. What would we do if it happened, albeit accidentally, again? 

I can honestly say that I have always loved my husband but I seriously contemplated divorce at this juncture. I don't think either of us was right or wrong and neither of us are more invested in this marriage than they other it was just an instinctive reaction to an unprecedented turn of events.

Hey ho, it was negative. So married we stay.

Marriage: The Ultimate Test

The Test of Friendship

No one should ever feel tested as a friend but unfortunately there are occasions in life when friendships will be truly tested and, hopefully, forever cemented by the shared experience of something truly awful happening to one party and I choose to find something rather heartwarming in this. When the worst happens the nature of the human condition is to expose their true self and act on their gut instinct. People either prove themselves to be the best of friends, surprise you with a devotion that you didn't know they felt or leave you feeling a little disappointed in their lack of understanding or empathy.

Sometimes the worst times of our lives bring out the best people we never truly knew we had and whilst I would never chose to have gone through what we did I do appreciate everyone who helped us on the way.

Every cloud and all that

Big Green Country: An Irish Holiday

Dear Papa

I just wanted to thank you for having us to stay at your farm. Ireland has a lot more sheep and tractors than I anticipated but they seemed to keep my little brother happy so I definitely wasn't disappointed. 

Mummy had warned me in the weeks running up to our visit that I should soak up the sunshine in Scotland (not something anyone has ever heard before) as it was likely to rain so I was well prepared for the daily downpour but to be honest I barely noticed as I tended to be wet from other activities and it merely gave me a chance to test the integrity of my wellies. Note of warning, I would shop Primark for style, not substance. 

The Green, green grass of your home

If I were to cover a few highlights of my week they would include (but not be limited to):

1. Culdaff Beach
Daddy said something about blue flags but I didn't see any. What I did see was our kites flying higher than anyone elses. I know Little Brother's stayed in the sky for longer but I really enjoyed when Mummy was in charge of my unicorn and she pretended to lose control and nearly take Moomie out. That was hilarious. Moomie's face was a picture. 

I also enjoyed the water. Daddy kept complaining about the temperature and mentioned something about the "Atlantic" and icebergs but I wasn't really listening, I was too busy chasing the waves and Little Brother was putting the sand back in the sea. He really was quite worried that there wouldn't be enough in there. 

I have always wanted to go to New York and Mummy said I was nearly there at one point, I grant you she didn't look too happy about it but I think that was because she stupidly waded in fully dressed to hold my hand. Next time!

Next stop: New York.

2. Horse Riding at Tullagh Bay 
I know that I said I wanted to ride a horse but I will let you into a secret: I was terrified! I couldn't understand why my parents would think someone who cannot sit through The Gruffalo would be contented sitting astride a mammal four times her size. They really are silly. The thing is though I actually loved it! My pony, Sally, was handpicked for me and had the loveliest temperament (until another horse sniffed her bottom, which is entirely understandable, I think.) Even Little Brother got a ride, which I was told he shouldn't have as he was so small but his petted lip was so prominent that they couldn't say no. That boy has skills!

That boy has skills

3. Beaver Spotting with Moomie
My Moomie is insane. Maybe that is why we called her something different. I swear she is three shades of crazy. She travelled in the back seat between my little brother and I ALL of the time and told us that we had to shout "Beaver!" everytime that we saw the first horse of the journey. In hindsight, I am not sure that Little Brother really understood as he seemed to shout it an awful lot at what Mummy said was "inappropriate" times. I thought it was hilarious! The priest didn't seem quite so amused. 

Lols 

4. Learning to Swim
The intermittent inclement weather merely gave me time to focus on my water sports. Mummy and Daddy had been molly- coddling me for too long. Two minutes with my Moomie and I was thrashing about like no one's business. Arm bands are for losers. Sure, Mummy thought I was drowning being that there was little coordination and more splash that Pavarotti doing a belly flop but I was on the move. Frankly Papa, I nailed it. Mummy now calls me Becky but says it is hyphenated? Adlington, that's it!


5. Driving Papa's Car
I know my brother's enthusiasm may have been exponentially more evident being that he spent most of his time on the farm being resident in your car, experimenting with the various knobs and buttons that you may not have known existed but I too loved every moment of driving through the fields. I am glad that the sheep remain in fine fettle as I was a tad concerned about the one who tried to leap head first through the fence on my approach. There was plenty of room, I swear! Survival of the fittest I say.

Toddler Driving: Sheep Beware!

All in all we had the best time and I will be telling all my friends about it. My Mummy says it is perfect for toddlers as they don't seem to notice frizzing of the hair? I don't know what she means, it seemed to work wonders for my curls!

Till next time Pappy

Lots of love

Bear x

You Win Again: The Battle for the Third Baby

I appear to be surrounded. I am not exactly sure when it started but I am aware of it now. Everywhere I turn, there they lurk. I cannot seem to escape them. I am talking about pregnant women but not just any pregnant women, I am talking about the ones who are “going again”. 

I see them absent mindedly rubbing their swollen midriffs whilst gazing lovingly at the animated toddler who pulls excitedly at their hand while they wait for the lights to change at the crossing. I hear them chatting to the other mothers about how they don’t know what came over them; about how they just don’t know what they were thinking; about how their families had just not felt complete before laughing about how they are planning to march their other halves straight to the vasectomy clinic after this one comes along.

I don’t believe them. I mean I wouldn’t feel confident enough in their deceit to suggest that any male reader should put his knapsack on the line by playing the double bluff but I believe that they are sticking to “the plan”. "The plan" would have been formulated in their childhood, likely long before they ever met their significant others and probably influenced by their own number of siblings, whether positively or negatively and potentially by the number of siblings whom they actually like.* Sometimes another one is just one too far.

I myself was one of 3.
"Best till last" sort of situation.

It's no secret that, were the circumstances different, I would go again in a heartbeat. Husband, on the other hand, believes that I recall the entire pregnancy business through rose tinted glasses and am merely a slave the basic human instinct to want what I cannot have but then he is always fun like that. We see the prospect of another child entirely differently and on further probing (of the questioning variety) here is where I think we differ:

Me: If I were to be pregnant again I would know that this would be the last time so I would cherish every single moment. I would delight in the warm fuzzy glow that I would undoubtedly feel on seeing the glimmer of a blue line on the first positive pregnancy test, incredulous that it has actually happened to me. I would be reassured by the waves of nausea overwhelming me in the first trimester, safe in the knowledge that this is just a sign that the pregnancy was progressing as it should. I would wonder at my body's transformation as my tummy swells and my flat chest blooms in answer to its call to action; one final time into the fray dear friends. I would lovingly caress the bump; charting its movements and marvelling at how it manages to express its personality from within the confines of my womb.

I would not miss the things that I could not have or could not do. The soft cheeses, rare meat, wine and exercise would merely be things to look forward to in nine months’ time. They would wait. After all, it’s not forever. Just this one last time.

"That" feeling comes second only to meeting the baby.

Him: If you were to be pregnant again it would be a bloody nightmare. Sure, we would be delighted at the prospect of another child to add to the brood and that feeling would last approximately 24 seconds before you started reeling off the number of things that could possibly go wrong. Your face would go that green way whenever I suggested anything beyond toast for dinner and you would have to instigate “lying down games” with the other two who would politely ignore your requests not to be used as a climbing frame. When the activity and nausea took their combined effect the current offspring would then follow you to the toilet, refusing to allow you to hurl your guts up in the privacy of a locked bathroom, viewing it to be something of a spectators sport.

Then the “thickening” would start. You remember don’t you? Just before you actually look pregnant but you just lose the definition around the waist and you feel bloated and spotty. You'll tell me how "fat" you feel and remind me about the lecturer who described a human foetus as "the most efficient parasite known to man". You will shoot daggers at me when I mention exercise in which I may have partaken and want to discuss, at length, the statistical chance of actually infecting the unborn with Listeria from ingesting any of the foods on the NHS naughty list before deciding that you would never forgive yourself if you did and would therefore go without. You will then get annoyed with me for eating or imbibing anything on the pregnancy blacklist before muttering something about “solidarity” under your breath.

You will blossom, that is for sure and you will look great but you will not believe me when I tell you. You will, however, believe every non-medically trained stranger who tells you that your bump is “big” or “small” setting off a cascade of worry about how there is something wrong with the baby and demand that I check the size of your bump with a measuring tape from our non-existent sewing kit. But yes, "magical" is how I would describe it too.

So he may have a point(s) but they are still really cute.

Who wouldn't be tempted?!

*I do realise that not everyone bases their number of children on their own family and some base their decisions on far more practical things like cars, holidays, risk of multiples, houses, ability to cope with vTech for another 3years etc.

Come Together: Selling the Idea of Group Parenting

Now I don't want to make anyone nervous or fear that I am trying to indoctrinate you into some sort of cult which requires the sacrifice of a first born at every new moon but I have recently been thinking about the advantages of communal living. Bear with me.

We have been staying at my in law's house with my sister-in-law, her husband and their newborn daughter. Now, a hyperactive 4 year old, a somewhat impassioned 2 year old and an infant who is trying to come to terms with not being physically cocooned within her mother being couped up in the one house may seem, from the outside, chaotic or perhaps even a tad stressful. Honestly though, it wasn't. In this situation the adults far outnumbered the children and there were six pairs of hands to three demanding bodies which meant that adult ablutions could be done in private, hot drinks could be consumed whilst still above room temperature and role play could be evenly distributed thereby reducing any one person's suffering to tolerable levels. 

Many hands make less role play

Communal living meant that my husband and I could run together for an hour everyday. Now I realise that this might not be everyone's chosen activity when given a hour to one's self so replace "run" with "soak in the bath", "reading a book" or "catching up on the side bar of shame" if that's your bag, but it gave us the chance to chat, shoot the breeze, wax lyrically about our amazing children like we actually loved them and not through gritted teeth. Living with other people gives you the ability to do these things. Every single day! 

It also allowed me to take the edge off my ever present craving to "go again" by inhaling the newborn's scent and stroking their tiny, hairy limbs whilst they slept in a frog like position on my chest. I had all the joys of an infant without the torturous sleep deprivation, swampy feeling around the chesticles, drenching night sweats and tender undercarriage of days gone by. The new parents also got the opportunity to savour naps during the day, safe in the knowledge that, should their beloved progeny stir, there would be a number of loving bodies vying for the position of Chief Cuddler until they awoke from their slumber.

Just taking a big whiff...

The children seemed to thrive too. They soaked up the various sources of attention as efficiently as my socks soak up the errant urine around the toilet bowl whilst my son potty trains. In other circumstances when we have lived with other parents whose children are of similar ages and temperaments there have even been brief periods where we have been left to, hold on to your hats people, chat. 

The negatives (and we always knew there had to be some) would be rather vigorous selection process that would be involved. Your parenting prowess would need to be on par as you couldn't have Nigel and Bev from NCT consistently showing you up with their prodigy who has slept 10 hours a night since conception, gifts his finest cuddly toys to the local dog shelter as a matter of principle and is a self taught concert pianist by the age of 4. You need to find yourselves some parenting kindred spirits. 

In our case we are looking for a couple who rate fun and kindness over etiquette and tidiness. We need a couple who can appease an irate toddler while teaching a preschooler about evolution, gravity and breast feeding (she has some questions.) In return we can offer some strong voices during story time, a relaxed approach to feeding time and methods and a love of an early night, thereby freeing our alternates up for some nanights on the tiles whilst we hold down the communal fort.

We have even kept an eye out
for nearby properties

Nigel and Bev need not apply.

Summer In The City: A Mini-Break to London

This week we are on holiday. Now, all burglars take note. Please, have a rummage and help yourselves to as many luridly coloured plastic toys as you can fit into your swag bag. I would personally recommend anything by vtech: they seem to have set their volume levels at that of a Slipknot concert but with less musical content. A must in every house.

Anyway, I digress, going back to the holiday with having been to France only a month ago in the company of a heavily expectant member of the family (who thankfully made it back to British soil with baby still in situ), we had booked a week off after the due date in order to make the pilgrimage south and welcome the newest member of the family. We had planned to spend the majority of the week with the grandparents in rural Shropshire, introducing our city children to the concept of country walks, wildlife and village fetes but with a brief foray into the big smoke to visit cousins new and old(er).

Country chic...

The first leg of country living was a success with unprecedented good weather and access to a garden sprinkler. Minutes of entertainment. The second leg involved an arduous journey into the bustling metropolis of London town where success was brief, intermittent and cruelly interspersed with prolonged periods in a car with no air conditioning that reached temperatures hotter than the sun.

The audience with the new babe as she wriggled, sighed and mewled to perfection (as only those days into their lives can do) captivated the toddlers' attention for at least 45 seconds before they were back to rough housing their, somewhat fatigued, uncle who had been weakened by the nocturnal demands of his progeny.

Minutes of entertainment...

Our next "adventure" took us across town to the Natural History Museum where the Big One was desperate to introduce the Little One to her "best friend" Butterfly- The T- Rex. There was much anticipation as we boarded novel mode of transport after novel form of transport; there was an actual Big Red Bus followed by a "Choo Choo" that went under the ground before boarding another that travelled above the houses. They were living their best lives.

When we finally arrived they ran straight in pointing to all the signs adorned with pictorial representations of the giant reptiles with cries from the Little One of "Mummy! Mummy! Dine-e-saw!" He trotted after his beloved big sister with complete trust that she was leading him to see something that would change his life forever. "Mummy! Mummy! Come! Come!" As we entered the darkened enclosure where "Butterfly" lived and she emitted a deep, prolonged roar he hurled himself between my legs gripping so tightly that I feared the sensation would never return. With pleading eyes raised he muttered "I a bit scared. No like dine-e-saw". We tried and failed to reassure him explaining that she was no more real than his toy Dog Dog, perhaps delivering two cruels blows in one day so we admitted defeat and went to buy ice cream.

Just terrified

Next on the agenda was a visit to the Queen's house, an absolute must in the book of the pre-schooler who has made the decision that an actor's life is for her, being that she hears this is the way to become a Princess. The toddler was easily swayed with images of Julia Donaldson's Ladybird on Holiday so back on the various forms of transport we went.

Four flights of stairs, three toddler tantrums, two cramped trains and one busy change later we were there. As I pointed in the direction of the gold embellished palace with the flourish of a magician's assistant I was greeted with a look of disdain: "Urgh, can we go home yet?"

So over it...

So back into our mobile oven we went just in time to sit in gridlock traffic before extending our journey by several miles in an attempt to rock the raging toddler into sleep, all to the musical accompaniment of "It's a Small World" on repeat, for 3 hours. 

Oh, if only it was.

Walk the Line: The Mother - Daughter Relationship

This weekend I have been on a mini break and by mini break I mean that I have been bed ridden with a nasty bout of tonsillitis. Thankfully, this illness fell on the same weekend that I was due to run the Great Run Women's 10k with my mother to raise money for the fantastic Glasgow Children's Hospital Charity. So whilst I was very disappointed not to be able to fulfil my promise to the charity and my mother (who ran it anyway) it did mean that I was back at the homestead with a husband geared up for the role of childcare allowing me to retreat back into the role of the child and wallow in my ill health without fretting about which child was going to maim the other.

As I emerged from the confines of my bedroom 24 hours later (with the offspring safely ensconced in a city 40 miles away) and lolloped from couch to kitchen where my preferred drinks were found chilling and the ice cream was freezing, ready to ease the searing pain in my throat at a moment's notice, I started thinking about my relationship with my mother. 

Hold on to your hats people.

I was always a good child almost to the extent of, quite frankly, being a little dull. I habitually towed the line and would be racked with guilt if I ever strayed from the desired behaviour. I was convinced that the world is a karmically balanced place and that any questionable act on my part would lead to a punishment elsewhere. So I did the right thing. All the time. My best friend once told me that were we planning an activity that would test our responsibility as a group the first question out of her mother's mouth would be "is [Mother Almost Never Knows Best] going?" and if my friend hoped for an answer in the affirmative she would always say yes. The truth is, that the plan wasn't always to do the right thing (I mean we were teenagers) and there were many times where I would cry off and even ask my mother to lie and say I was grounded (having never actually been grounded in my life) just so that I could avoid doing the wrong thing as it would fill me with dread and a terrible stomach ache. 

My inability to bend the rules (never mind break them) meant that my mother eventually took things into her own hands and demanded my elder brothers take me out on a night out, a somewhat surprising turn of events as she, herself, was no rebel and the venue they were attending was not one for the under age and would most definitely be selling the old "dancing juice".

The point is, that we had no beef. We never went through "those difficult teenage years" when doors are slammed, secrets are kept and cruel words are uttered in the heat of the moment. If anything, I think my mother worried that I was trying to be too perfect, and setting myself a standard that I could never live up to thereby needlessly setting myself up for a failure with which I could never cope. 

When I look at my daughter and think about the loggerheads we get into, despite her only being 4, I am torn between thinking "will we ever be friends" and "oh I like your spirit". In some ways I love that she and I are totally different and I pray that she will push the boundaries (within reason), confident in the knowledge that she is good and kind and will never go too far wrong. It's just that I really love my mum and we are almost carbon copies of one another. She is the one on speed dial (if I knew how to program my phone) for any moans, pointless chats or good news; she is the one who my husband asks about when he comes in the door after a day at work (knowing that we will have spoken at least once since he left the house that morning) and she is the one who understands my parenting highs, lows and mediocrities. 

Thank goodness they get along

I want to have the same relationship with my daughter but worry that we aren't the same people. Then, I tell myself off as you can't birth your friends it's just that my mum and I got really lucky. It's just that I want her to be able to phone me up when something goes horribly wrong, I want her to ask me to help her plan her wedding knowing that I'll get it right for her, I want her to be able to talk to me about boys (the good and the bad) and contraception and her relationships. 

Basically when I grow up, I want to be my mum.

Like mother, like daughter

For those friends who read this and were lied to in the past, please forgive me?

Old Before I Die: The Four Phases of Parenting

The past week has been spent "en famille" in the south of France. When I say "en famille" I mean, the extended variety. My husband's father reached a grand 80 years of age in the year 2018 and to commemorate this, his beloved wife of "too many years to mention" decided to treat/subject him to a week of his children, their significant others and mutinous offspring in the delightful surroundings of the sunny Dordogne. As we sat around the dinner table, umbrellas in hand, raising a glass to mark, both, his being another day closer to becoming penpals with the country's monarch and the brief absence of our progeny (although, ever eager to employ their linguistic skills they later decided to translate "en vacance" as "late night party" for the duration of our stay) I realised that we were, as a family, clearly experiencing the four stages of the adult enduring parenthood.

Evolution of the Parent 

Stage One: Unlimited Potential
My husband's twin sister is currently on the brink of adding her first twig to the increasingly thick canopy of our family tree. In fact, so close is she to sending her first child down nature's water slide that the husband has been brushing up on his knowledge of the choreography of birth just in case the subarctic temperatures of the swimming pool induce any untimely activity. In hindsight, both she and her husband have excelled at their pre-procreational state; they have run marathons, learnt languages, travelled to numerous far flung countries and found time to give back to the community. Having achieved all these, rather commendable, feats they have now shifted their attentions to starting a family. With their progeny still safely ensconced in the womb they epitomise the limitless potential of parenthood; where the possibilities and aspirations are endless and when you feel that you merely have to choose the type of parent you want to become.

Stage Two: The Thick of It
We clearly represent this stage. With a four year old who never draws breath and a two year old who can spot danger a mile off and run straight into it, our aspirations have shifted somewhat. Gone are the days when we had the time to consider how best to parent, replaced by a mere need to survive; when the hours between sunrise (0434) and sunset (2147) are spent battling to keep them alive, fed and law abiding. 

Parenting Toddlers: The Thick of It

Stage Three: Learning to Live Again
The husband's brother and his lovely wife demonstrate this plateau in parenthood; also known as the "school years". Their children are now of the age where they can mostly entertain themselves given the right tools, balls, sporting paraphernalia and IT equipment necessary. No longer are the adults being called upon to pretend to be crocodiles and attempt to catch the toes of the passing prey, now they are able to look on and marvel at how their efforts are panning out whilst learning how to best employ their new found spare time (when they are not fetching, carrying and ferrying their brood from one extracurricular activity to another or fretting about the intricacies of their pre-teen social circles).

Mostly down to the fetching and carrying one day...

Stage Four: Liberation
The in-laws now occupy the hallowed ground of reduced responsibility. Sure, they continue to weigh in and rescue their offspring in their hour(s) of need and I am sure they continue to expend far more energy than can possibly be imagined agonising over poor life decisions that their progeny may make from time to time but to all extents and purposes the baton of guardianship has been passed down the chain. With three adult children who are (almost) entirely self sufficient, they have re-entered a period of freedom that we can only dream about and live in that perfect hybrid state of being able to take pride in their grandchildren's adorable natures and daily accomplishments whilst not being responsible for moulding them into upstanding members of society and, best of all, being able to pass them back.

One day, I hope that I too shall be celebrating a landmark age surrounded by my nearest and dearest as they battle to wrangle their spirited offspring while I look on, glass of chilled wine in hand, intermittently engaging them in a brief game or illogical conversation for then I too shall pass them back.