Adult? Who Are You Kidding?

I have many friends who are yet, or who may never, take the plunge into the ice bath that is parenthood and I frequently hear them declare me to be a "proper adult" purely by virtue of the fact that I have two vertically challenged dependents occupying my time like squatters defiling a beautiful Victorian mansion. As a side note, should I ever be so lucky as to actually occupy a Victorian mansion, I am sure they would defile that too.

Anyway, I whole heartedly dispute the accolade/slander that they bestow upon me for I am not an adult. I mean, in chronology terms, I cannot deny the status but in actual terms of managing my life and responsibilities I declare myself resolutely stuck in infancy.

"Adulting"

Here are many of the ways in which I am not "adulting":

1. Maintenance

If anything should go wrong with my house or car my dad is on speed dial. Anything beyond changing a lightbulb (bayonet or screw only) and I need to call in the big guns. At our age my parents were personally renovating the family home, tearing down load bearing walls (successfully I may add) to create open plan living before open plan living was a thing. My father has plumbed bathrooms, tiled kitchens and decorated more living rooms than my toddler has had food related tantrums.

Whilst I admit that I am wholly inadequate when it comes to DIY, my shortcomings in life maintenance do not stop there. My housework is sporadic with laundry everest routinely avalanching in the husband's direction (resulting in a range of clean but grey fashion), I fail on a yearly basis to get my annual boiler check and, perhaps worst of all, I had no idea that I had to pay tax on my rental earnings (a brief, paltry income from my first home which was let while I decided whether to commit to the husband in both name and, more importantly, finances). This resulted in both a retrospective declaration following the discovery of my ignorance during a tax lecture in my post graduate accountancy qualification and, therefore, a rather red face.

Housework is best farmed out

2. Money

I know how bad this sounds and I am sure I will get a talking to once my mother reads this but I do not check my bank statement. This is not because I do not need to, far from it, I just can't bear to look.

When standing at the till, I reluctantly proffer the card to the machine like a radioactive explosive device, with one hand over my eyes and my jaws clenched so tightly that my muscles could be plucked like a banjo. When I am not immediately wrestled to the floor or my card grappled from my grip and destroyed in front of me, I am a heady mix of relief, joy and determination. I will take responsibility and I will change my ways. I just need to be more organised.

For I am neither a frivolous spender who surfs the net for luxury items nor do I fritter my money away on disposable clothing. It is my total and utter inability to forward plan that results in items being routinely bought at their most expensive price and location. I will always be the one at the playdate who didn't pack a lunch (or drinks or snacks for that matter), I am always ignorant for my desperate need for petrol until I hit the last fuel station before the motorway and the purchase of a family dinner is often forgotten about until there is a screaming child, a wailing toddler and only an M&S convenience store on the journey home.

My approach to finances

3. Career

I spent six years at university, learning everything there was to learn about the human body both in health and disease. I devoured medical facts like a caterpillar on the day before his big reveal. For I was training to be a doctor; certain that this was my destiny. Well, after four years of actually working as a doctor, my appetite was waning somewhat and I realised that it may well be someone else's destiny as I had had my fill.

Having previously displayed an aptitude for maths I quickly signed up for a post graduate training job in accountancy and declared this to be my new (albeit rather dull) destiny. Well this is what I do today. I am a paid up member of yet another professional body but I still feel like there are so many other things that I would like to be when I grow up: author, columnist, pop star, model (I'd settle for high street, I mean, you have to be realistic) or superhero.

One can dream....

So as you can see, I barely meet the definition of an adult and yet I do bear responsibility for two small children. These two things are not mutually exclusive as there was no test or references required before I took the job; no one asked if I knew what I was taking on, was really ready or, in any way, able and once you're in, you are in. There are no take backs and no restarts. But do you know what? I may not have my own ducks in a row (to be honest I am more like the mother duck who loses all five of her offspring one by one, by doing the same thing over and over again while continuing to expect different results before eventually having to call in help to retrieve them), but my children are the best and hardest thing I have ever done and may just have been the making of me.

"I swear there were more of you this morning?"

By the way the "ducks" are indeed a metaphor And I have by no means lost my children and had to enlist help to find them.

I am a Bad Parent

Today I am a bad parent. Today I let my toddler down. Her best friend, the one she turns to for guidance and for explanations that her parents clearly cannot give her; the one from whom she seeks counsel and self worth, had a birthday party. And I got the day wrong.

If you don't have children you won't understand this. If you have children and they have multiple interchangeable friends you will feel I am being over dramatic but if you have a child who is so raw with emotion that she cries at the sight of anyone looking anxious or disappointed or, heaven forbid, sad then you may be able to empathise.

I write this knowing that as she sleeps, she is gathering up her energy, dreaming of a day which she thinks will be filled with friends, fun and celebration (read cake) and I have to break the news to her. I need to tell her that it isn't going to happen and you would think at the grand age of 4 that she would have experience with this but I cannot give you another example. I am rootling, scraping and poking around the recesses of my brain for a time when she has had to deal with something similar.

Oh wait.

I remember.

It was the summer of '17 (not as catchy as '69 but just as disappointing) and my daughter was given an unprecedented starring role in the nursery summer show, despite being a mere 3 year old. She had been discovered. She was a star and this was her moment to shine. She was to be the straw-seller in the 3 little pigs show and despite routinely refusing to be clad in anything involving an inner seam she was willing to don a pair of denim dungarees in order to inhabit this role. This was a big thing.

The night before the show I picked her up from the nursery and took her home. She was her normal, chatty, delirious self  relaying all the excitement of the dress rehearsal they had participated in that day but as she took the last bite of her apple (read biscuit) I noticed some red, unsightly bumps on her forehead. I lifted her top, one hand over my eyes, dreading to reveal what I already knew was there. The chicken pox.

I felt sick.

I broke the news, explaining that she was poorly and highly contagious and therefore would not be able to take to the stage. She argued back that it was merely pink dirt and that she would be sick after the show. This was everything she had dreamt of for as long as she could remember, which in toddler life is about a week. She was desolate.

But that wasn't my fault. Sure, I felt keenly for her. I always do. Her heart is like an open wound with every struggle acting like a strong dose of salt, so when I see her crumple it pains me. I feel her pain acutely and curse anyone who is responsible. This time though, I did this. I was responsible. There was an invitation which I misread in haste. No one else was involved and there is no one else to blame.

Tomorrow I have to crush her little heart. I am not looking forward to it.

The Blog Rules

Having made it this far you can consider yourself to be part of an elite club, the cool crowd, a trend setter if you will. For you see my blog is, as of yet, undiscovered by the masses. I like to think that this is in part due to my complete ineptitude at all things IT based and in part due to a reluctance to expose myself (not like that) to criticism or ridicule. With this in mind I have looked to other, more knowledgeable, sources for advice on how to increase traffic or pique interest amongst those who have thus far not ventured to the undiscovered wilderness of the Mother (Almost Never) Knows Best website. Whilst their advice is reassuringly consistent it entirely goes against my nature... Let me explain:

1. PUT YOURSELF OUT THERE!

The vast majority of successful blogger types advise the use of personal accounts on all social media platforms to pester friends, relatives and casual acquaintances to boost your traffic. After all, who would be more interested in knowing your inner most thoughts, feelings, worries and veritable failings than those closest to you? With increased traffic you draw attention to yourself from the cool kids like Google who will then direct even more traffic in your direction by ranking you higher in the pecking order, like school girls. Whilst a very sensible suggestion, I have several problems with the use of those I know. My first issue is that some of those people may feature in my parental musings in some way or will do in the future and the possibility of offending them fills me with dread. What if they feel I have misrepresented them or their poop throwing soft play enthusiast of a child? Secondly, I couldn't stand a response to be issued in person. And I do mean a response of any kind. Positive and I would have to shuffle my feet awkwardly, mumble incoherently and then run away as quickly as I could; negative and I would instantaneously erupt like a fire hydrant, mumble incoherently and run away as quickly as I could. Thirdly and finally, whilst I can almost get my head around the blood relatives and close friends reading my words it's the loose acquaintances reading it that I fear. The ones who know little of the real you but have fixed notions of who you are and your approach to life and parenting. I might be aloof, conceited or indifferent in their eyes currently but once they know, they know the real me and I can't take pretend to be anything else. It's not unlike the turning-up-naked-to-high-school dream but I have an unsightly body rash, every one has 20-20 vision and the school bell never rings. Apparently I have high school issues....

2. FIND YOUR VOICE AND STICK TO IT!

I totally understand where this advice is coming from. When certain posts are consistently proving to be more popular than others you need to give the people what they want. Know your market. Stick to what you are good at. Lots of people have made successful blogs based on this concept (all of whom I love by the by and am by no means suggesting anyone is a 'one trick' pony): Fran at "Whinge, Whinge Wine" will reliably be there to make us feel better about the times that we love our children but would also gladly shoot them out of a cannon, the Rhyming Mum and Rhyming with Wine will consistently help us laugh about our parental woes to a metronomic beat, and the Honest Mum will routinely soothe us through any life quandary with her sage advice and positive outlook.

Readers want to know what they are getting before they click through. They need to know that you are dependable and will give them what they want. Much like a stable marriage, reliability is essential for an enduring blog relationship. This I get. The only issue I have is that I am not reliably anything. Like many others, I didn't start my blog with a view to earn money by reviewing products, nor do I expect it to be serialised in a magazine or to be the launch pad for my glittering book writing career (although one can dream); I started writing to improve my mental health, deal with some difficult experiences, exercise a few of my hormone addled brain cells and provide some light relief to the somewhat relentless nature of parenthood. If I were to limit myself to having to be consistently witty, heart warming or novel I fear the blog would become something of a chore and would last as long as my brief foray into the world of knitting (3 rows of one scarf with 7 dropped stiches.)

3. SEO

I beg your pardon?

I think I just have to accept that until I am willing to out myself on social media platforms, remain consistently consistent and learn to cope with a touch of coding that my traffic will be less Spaghetti Junction and more bridal path.

On the upside though, until then I can convince myself that its lack of popularity is solely due to meagre exposure and I can tell the story about the poop throwing soft play enthusiast!

Full disclosure, I had no idea what picture to attach but who doesn't like a pretty bubble?

Do you have any handy hints for the novice blogger? All suggestions welcomed!

Christmas: The Most Wonderful Time of the Year?

It's the most wonderful time of the year
With the kids running riot
And everyone warning you "be of good cheer"
It's the most wonderful time of the year

It's the hap-happiest season of all
With the long whiney trudges and family grudges
When you come to call

It's the hap-happiest season of all

There'll be present construction
Then toddler destruction
And wine on the go
There'll be Joseph and Mary
The Sugar Plum Fairy
And tantrums on show

It's the most wonderful time of the year
There'll be lengthy list making
And questionable baking
Downed with liquid cheer
It's the most wonderful time of the year

There's competitive wrapping
Post gluttony napping
And heartburn for all
There's wet kisses from aunties
Being wiped off with hankies
Kids climbing the walls

It's the most wonderful time of the year

The rain will be pouring
Claims everything's "boring"
When Boxing Day's near

It's the most wonderful time
Yes the most wonderful time
Oh the most wonderful time
Of the year

PS In the purposes of full disclosure, I actually love Christmas and do, in fact, believe it to be the most wonderful time of the year...

Clearly The Most Wonderful Time of The Year

 

Toddler Ballet: Cracking a Tough Nut

I won't lie. When my mother phoned me to ask if I fancied taking my all-things-pink-loving toddler to watch the Scottish Ballet's performance of The Nutcracker I was filled with a mixture of dread and self pity. I dreaded having to cajole, bribe, threaten and eventually manhandle my near 4 year old into what was bound to be an exorbitantly priced seat for the protracted performance. I pitied myself as I had absolutely no desire to go. Having been "actively encouraged" to attend ballet throughout my childhood years (there were hopes that it would improve, what remains to be, terrible posture) it was always painfully evident that I lacked any natural ability. When this was combined with my having been quite a tall and robust teenager who felt awkward and out of place, a love affair with the art form did not ensue. Plus, I could not learn to like the maudlin music.

So there I was, an interminable silence on the phone line, with an expectant and beloved maternal presence on the other end. There was no way to extricate myself with causing offence or, worse, disappointment. So I signed us up.

The funny thing was that my daughter was really excited. Like grab a brown paper bag, breathe deeply, head between the legs excited and you just can't immunise yourself against that sort of enthusiasm. She wanted to know the whole story and be able to hum the music before she took her seat. After the initial disappointment of learning the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy was already cast, she took to dressing up as the candied sprite at every opportunity and that included donning her ballet shoes in the most random of places. We bought a beautifully illustrated version of the story which had buttons to play a few bars of Tchaikovsky's score in the relevant places and both children were up and practicing their plies and pas de basques. I too seemed to recognise, and to my utter incredulity, enjoy the vast majority with the 90s Cadbury's "Everyone's a Fruit and Nut cake" aiding the appreciation.

When the day finally happened upon us I felt myself as giddy as my toddler. I was ready to enter the Land of Sweets and the Mouse King was in danger of receiving a swift thump from my left brogue. My apprehension had now shifted to my toddler's staying power. Would she go the distance? Would we make it through to the Sugar Plum Fairy or even my beloved Dance of the Reed Flutes/Fruit and Nut Cake? I packed my bribes high and started the psychological manipulation by telling her how much she was going to love it and how we knew that, as such a big girl, she would enjoy the WHOLE thing... Well she did. She was captivated for pretty much the duration. In all honesty, she found the Waltz of the Flowers a little drawn out but I will confess that I too may have found my attention waning a little during that particular number. Tchaikovsky take note, nobody can pen hits all the time.

I am not suggesting that we are now culture vultures who will be signing up to all the latest ballet performances and classical music recitals. All I know is that The Nutcracker worked on our level. For my toddler it was a story filled with magic, toys, sweets and dancing, all put to catchy music with no tricky adult conversations to follow. Whilst for me, it was exactly the same.

 The Christmas spirit is upon us....

Sugar Plum Fairy better watch her back

Husband: My Partner in Crime

To mark our six year's wed and your (gulp) 35th birthday, I have decided to surrender to your relentless lobbying and pen (or type) a little something about you. Now, don’t get too excited. I haven’t had a personality transplant overnight so there shall be no declarations of undying love or comparisons to boulder like masses (Steve Wright Sunday Love Song listeners please take heed.)

This is what I know:

1. We are in this together

There has not been a single moment since we stood in front of our friends and family, dressed in our finest threads, vowing to be a team for the ever after, when I have felt lonely or alone. Any decision to be made, battle to mount or achievement to be celebrated has been done together without conscious thought or deliberation. We are a team.

This collaboration extends beyond the landmark moments and seeps into the mundane tasks of daily life. Where nappies and disciplining are borne equally, you definitely pick up the slack in the housekeeping and cooking department whilst I perhaps take on the brunt of the night calls and toddler sick days. We definitely have a rhythm and manage to keep the beat, which is no mean feat when you recall our poor ballroom dance teacher declaring our rhythm keeping to be "terminal"!

2. We are stronger because of what we have been through

It has definitely not been all sunshine and rainbows, especially since we started assembling our little family (much like the Avengers). There were those days that felt like an age where we tried to come to terms with our “inevitable” miscarriage only to have our spirits raised that all would be well. Those hopes were then decimated when the phrases "structural defects",  “chromosomal abnormalities" and "genetic investigations" were bandied about. Our second pregnancy was no kinder to us, with weekly scans to check the blood supply to our treasured infant's brain. All in all our little brood were lucky to survive the gauntlet that is incubation in my womb.

I am not sure when you promised the "in sickness" part that you expected to be called into battle quite so frequently but you have stood tall (above average height) and taken it on as if you were receiving each diagnoses yourself.

3. There is no one else I would rather be in this with

As anyone in a long term relationship knows, the heat and passion that comes with a new relationship is intertwined with the unknown. There is so much to learn about the other person and, at the time, this is exciting. There is so much potential and the mystery just adds to the allure! 

However, mystery and the unknown do not rank very highly on your wish list for a partner in the child raising game. You want to know not only where you stand but that you are standing in the same general area and not having to use a carrier pigeon to get your point across.

Our surprises may be few, our passion more sporadic and our heat mostly flannel pyjama based but with you I know where I stand and I know upon whom I can rely.

Now I know you love a quote, and in the absence of Van Wilder or Ron Swanson having uttered an appropriately eloquent adage, I shall instead turn to the words of an underrated Children’s author, Anna Kemp:

“”You know, “[I said}, as [we] drank [our] tea,
“We’re a great team, you and me”
[Your non-existent] belly shook with laughter.
And [we] both lived happily ever after.”

Happy birthday my love! 

The Classic Family Photo

Mothers: Working on the Guilt

As a mother, guilt pervades all we do to varying degrees but perhaps the most common focus is that of our employment status; the working versus stay-at-home mother conundrum.

Regardless of path chosen and whether it was done so out of choice or necessity, we self flagellate either publicly on social media, or behind closed doors. We fear having ruined our children by proving to be poor feminist role models if we relinquish the monthly pay check but then lambast ourselves if we return to the workplace; cruelly abandoning our beloved progeny to be raised by people who are paid to care about them.

Then there is the coveted middle ground: the much sought after "part time" work. What could be better? You get the best of both worlds. No need to compromise. Can life get any better? Well, yes. The unspoken truth is that part time work is a mine field. You feel stretched so thinly that where you were once a nice comforting naan bread you would now be more suited to wrapping up the Peking duck. The guilt gnaws away at you as you turn your back on their little doe eyed faces; knowing their gaze is following you across the room, beseeching you to stay just a little longer but then you also feel guilty for leaving your kids.

I think that there is a secret that no one has been telling us. I think that there is a simple truth needing to be acknowledged. I think that there is a fact that once considered can never be denied. There is no right answer. No one  has achieved the holy grail and been entirely liberated from their maternal guilt.

Guilt is as integral to parenting as poo, Mr. Tumble, soft play and bribery. Acknowledge it,  accept it and move on. No one is getting it right all of the time. No one has worked out the perfect balance where they attend every pre-school sports day, are their to kiss away every scraped knee but are also managing to dismantle that ceiling one glass pane at a time. It's time we gave ourselves, and everyone else a break. Guilt is just a side effect of loving them.

I have two friends (I actually have more, but for the purposes of this I shall keep it to my two relevant friends) where one is a full time working mum with multiple children, the other stays at home mum with her toddler. Both are taking over the world and bossing the parenting role in their very own way and I openly admit to envying them both for various reasons.

Let us take Mum A, the worker, she is highly regarded in her profession (and rewarded appropriately). When she discusses her work she exudes competence and capability. She is exceptionally smart in both intelligence and appearance and her children are charming and affectionate; clearly both happy and loved. I want to be like her when I grow up.

Next we have Mum B, the stay at home mum. She is insanely competent in all things homemaking. She can reupholster the couch while her homemade lasagne warms in the oven and her toddler works through an engaging messy play activity set up in her Tuff Tray; which will unwittingly teach her how to sort and reason. This mum makes me want to be a better mum.

These mums are getting it right. Both of them. They probably don't feel like it all of the time but they are. They are both nailing being strong role models and loving mothers. Strong female role models are not just the ones who go to work everyday and being a loving mother and being on the payroll are not mutually exclusive. So whichever path you (or circumstances) have chosen, cut yourself some slack. We are all just muddling through.
 

There Will Be No Miracles Here

A Message in a Bottle: Why Blog?

I have started thinking about why I have started to blog. During these ruminations I have concluded that there may be a small part in all of us (some more than others) which craves external validation and positive attention,  however, I would like to believe that my motivation is not solely limited to this self serving ideal (which is just as well as my comments section is somewhat sparsely populated!) And whilst I doubt there are many of us who would turn down the success that the Unmumsy Mum has enjoyed since documenting her thoughts regarding parenting on the internet, I fear us mere mortals cannot expect to enjoy such accolades nor income from our postulations on potty training!

No, putting these aspirations to one side, I have realised that I blog for three reasons:

1. Me- I use it as a teenager in the 80s would have used a floral diary and a scented pen but unfortunately mine is less "He is so dreamy! How long before he notices me?" and more "His nappy is so smelly! How long before everyone notices the stench?" It allows me to document how I feel as I feel it and reflect on the good, the bad and the farcical.

2. Them - There are parts of my blog which aren't as happy or funny as others. We had two rather tricky pregnancies and our daughter will be living with the consequences of that for the rest of her life. I want them to see how hard they were fought for and how proud I am of them, even from before the time they knew they had to please me in order to go to the "cool" party at the weekend... I want to be able to show them that in their darkest hours of pregnancy and parenthood, I too found it hard, I understand. So please, feel what you feel and don't beat yourself up about it.

3. You - Not as in "you are bloody blessed to be exposed to my witty ponderings and don't you forget it!" But more, if you are out there and feeling a little lost: maybe you too are not enjoying the dream pregnancy that you expected; maybe you too have a child (or the prospect of one) with physical differences who you fear may suffer emotionally as a consequence or maybe you too worry that you are not a good enough mother or role model to equip them with the confidence they need to be happy. Perhaps reading an account of someone like you will help you feel less alone and give you some hope that you can and will find your way through the gauntlet that is parenting.

The Lesser Spotted Blogger

Holiday: It Would Be So Nice...

Top of the list for logistical nightmares must be going on holiday with toddlers. I swear there are military manoeuvres that take less organisation and negotiation skills than mobilising a family of four off this island. The obstacles to overcome include (but are by no means limited to):

1. Heat
To the average singleton, a destination that is warm equates to less of pretty much everything: less clothing, less beauty paraphernalia, less hassle. To a family with young children heat means more. More clothing, more creams and more apparatus as a consequence of heat based activities (read "swimming"). We have parasols, muslins and a variety of hats in the vain hope that one shall be tolerated and save that fresh, translucent skin from almost certain scorching.

2. Lack of NHS
This is not something the average young traveller really thinks about but when you have small children the nearest healthcare provider is at the top of the list of things to research. Gone are the Google searches for "cool things to do in Ecuador" or "nightclubs in Bucharest" and here to stay are "English speaking healthcare providers in Tenerife"... Ho hum.

3. Baby paraphernalia
Travel cots, baby monitors, prams, car seats, bottles, sippy cups, favoured formula, seat adaptors for eating out, nappy cream, travel potties, blankets, calpol... Need I go on?

4. "Essential" toddler items
Also high on the list, but not to be confused with potentially useful and necessary baby items are the "essential" toddler items. Those which they cannot live without. The things that absolutely define their being... Until you leave the house. At this point the plethora of plastic pieces, assemblage of assorted animals and the formation of furry friends will immediately be forgotten about. Left cruelly discarded in the bag in which they traversed miles across land and oceans only to see daylight upon their return to the homestead.

5. In flight entertainment
I defy anyone to have come up with the exact array of accoutrements that will entertain a child of preschool age for the duration of a European flight, never mind a long haul journey. This particularly item of hand luggage will be weighed down with small toys, iPads, headphones, snap cards, magazines, comforters and above all, snacks for bribery purposes. It shall be adorned with a popular swine based character or Disney Princess and shall be a violent neon colour. Expect to carry it.

6. The "last minute contributor"
This mantle falls to my husband who considers himself to be very organised and to the most part I would agree. However, with 5 minutes to go before departure you will find him throwing everything bar the items glued to the building into the bag "just in case" as "you never know"...

Well, I tell you what, I do know. I know we'll be paying for excess baggage. 

Oh look! We'll be trapped on that for 5hours together! Huzzah!

Toddler Rejection: The Threenager...

"Mummy, I don't like the way you talk to me. I want Daddy!"

"Mummy, I wish I had a Mummy like your Mummy."

"Mummy, you are so mean. You are not my best friend anymore! You are mean!" (sung to an indiscriminate nursery rhyme tune)

"I don't love you anymore."

As I write these phrases down I realise that this is a right of passage. A lesser known milestone. There's smiling, cooing, clapping, crawling, walking, talking and then wounding. I had been warned that this would happen from a variety of sources on a multitude of occasions. I just don't think I believed it. I could not fathom that my beautiful, kind, empathic girl would turn into a surly monster who channels all of her inner angst in my direction as the "primary care giver" (read "sitting duck".)

The thing is, I know that it shouldn't bother me.

I am aware that there are people all over the postcode, country and world who are receiving exactly the same treatment from their offspring on a tri-daily basis merely for deigning to parent. A toddler lacks a filter and will communicate every feeling exactly as it is felt. I know this.

I wanted to believe that my disappointment in this turn of events was because my daughter was different. I wanted to believe that she was intrinsically angelic in nature; advanced in her years for her unfaltering empathy and incapable of thinking, never mind uttering, such hurtful remarks.

The truth is, it's me. I am the one who cannot take rejection in any form. I am the one who is analysing the words of a three year old. I am the one who, upon hearing the criticism, critiques my parenting abilities and finds them coming up short.

She is three. She is mad because I won't let her dress up as Elsa for the twelfth day in a row. She is livid because I used the wrong colour of plate at tea time. She is enraged because I have been the one to greet her when she wakes in the morning. She is incensed because I won't let her waterboard her little brother in the bath. She is the perfect toddler in that she is acting just as a toddler should.

She has no concept of me being a good, bad or mediocre parent. To her, I am the one who is always there. I am the one who is writing the ever expanding rule book which she cannot comprehend and which causes her limitless frustration. I am also the one who is comforting her when she is sick, reassuring here when she is uncertain and re-enacting each and every Disney princess storyline with her upon demand. I am her constant and the one upon whom she depends.

That is just a little bit harder to articulate when you are three...

A Love Letter to the NHS....

Dear NHS,

I love you.

The adoration that I have for you is complex and not easily put into words but much like a lover on their deathbed I feel that I must so that you can hear it and know you are loved.

I can see that you are struggling and that there are people who are trying to bring you down. You trusted them as friends but now you realise that they have been undermining you at every turn and have left you demoralised and insecure.

I need you to know that I still see you for everything that you are and everything you are capable of being. My love for you remains steadfast.

You see, I know you of old.

I was a junior doctor once. I craved those five letters from my early teens, MBChB, refusing to let anything get in my way. Despite my desperation to get to the front line and start helping people, I found myself convinced that I was woefully inadequate; consumed with the fear of hurting anyone. This daily terror forced me to, reluctantly and sorrowfully, desert the profession. I now realise that the vast majority of your junior doctors also battle with this terror every day and yet continue to turn up; continue to devote themselves to the service of others. The risks they undertake and the vast responsibility that is prematurely thrust upon them is crushing; yet their labours go largely unrecognised and poorly rewarded.

And they are not alone.

NHS, I know that in your heart you are kind. You long to meet the needs and surpass the expectations of everyone of your charges and yet you are thwarted at every turn by bureaucracy and meagre funding. Your caring nature is dispersed through every last one your nursing and midwifery staff who tirelessly tend to the masses whilst making each one feel like they were the first.

I have been the patient, more often than I would like. I take advantage of your benevolence on a weekly basis from the multitude of health professionals who wage war on my failed pancreas and my body's inability to house my unborn children without peril to those who mend my the resultant anatomical consequences borne by my child.

For that I thank you. I shall be eternally grateful.

Don't let them get you down.

You are so much to so many people and we love you.

The Start

Do you ever think back to your pre-child family aspirations? I was having 3 children (two boys and a girl – no other combinations acceptable) and these children would be born within 18months of each other, you know, so they could be friends. There was no consideration towards the energy, nurturing and expense of each individual child nor the fact that it might just not happen like that.

So I got married.

He’s nice, you would like him. I won’t bore you with the numerous ways in which he is nice and why I decided to let him sire my children (good word, right? I think ‘sire’ should be used more in modern day vocabulary, anyhow, I digress) as I am sure that once you get to know me a bit better it will become obvious that he must have some saintly qualities to have stuck around and sycophantic musings on other halves always brings a little vomit to my mouth. Seriously, if I hear one more person write into to Steve Wright on a Sunday and describe someone as their ‘rock’ I may just tie that someone round their neck and throw them into a lagoon. See how the "rock" analogy works out for them then! Anyway,  I got married, we did that for a bit while I tried one career after another, trying to find one that would fit and then the pang from my fallopian tubes hit.

My ovaries were twisting; crying out to have one of their monthly offerings put to good use. In hind sight they probably just wanted some time off the monthly grind, maternity leave if you will but without the dependent to worry about (can you even imagine?) All of a sudden there was no assuaging my need to procreate, it was an insatiable thirst that would only be quenched by bringing an infant into my life and the greater world. I was ready. We were in our late 20s and had been together for seven years. We had done the drunken nights out, the pub lunches with friends that go on late into the evening and the two day hangovers that would undoubtedly lead to the Monday blues. We knew that we could do whatever we wanted with our time but we were over that freedom and wanted a new challenge. (We have since decided that we may have had a brief period of insanity and perhaps should have considered checking into the local asylum rather than procreating.) However, I was in the middle of quite an intensive professional exam schedule and getting pregnant, whilst not terminal would have been ill advised.

So we got pregnant.

After years of desperately trying not to get pregnant I was convinced that we would be the unlucky ones who would require intervention. My periods were intermittent at best and my pessimistic outlook in life had convinced me that we should start trying so that we could get a few months under our belt before presenting to the GP for help whilst we were still in the NHS accepted child bearing years.

It happened first time.

My evil husband (not really Love) made me run a rather gruelling 10k on the morning of my father’s 60^th birthday celebration. I was aware of a mild cramping pain in my pelvis as I plodded around the ridiculously hilly course but I thought I was just ‘coming on’ and tried to push the discomfort to the back of my head (next to the mounting dislike for my husband.) At one point, there was a supporter on the side line shouting encouragement to everyone who passed, until she saw my face (which was apparently drained of all colour) and literally said “Oh my God!”, not in a good way and definitely not encouraging. Anyway, I am stubborn and we finished the run in his intended sub 55minute time (bastard) and proceeded to the 60^th celebrations where we drank copious amounts of champagne, wine and gin, in no particular order. I awoke the next morning waiting for the ominous tom-tom drum to start thumping between my temples but instead the pain settled a little further south; somewhere in my nipples. They were in agony. As in, the sheet was torturing me by wielding its vice like grip on my delicate protuberances. Still, the penny did not drop. My husband set off for a day’s cycling and it was only as I was left to the quiet of the house that I thought “might just do a test, you know, so I can enjoy a hair of the dog later”. 

It was positive. 

It was positive and I was on my own. 

Do guys get annoyed at missing out on these magical urine focussed events? Should I lie? Could I lie? The answer to this is always no. My face is terrible at it and he knows straight away. Great for him, terrible for me. Wait, what? Never mind him, I am pregnant. Impregnated. With child. Bun in the oven. Up the duff (lovely expression by the way, such positive connotations). I needed a drink. Why is it that the one time you really need a drink is the one time you really shouldn’t drink and to be honest, I had probably had more than my fair share the night before. Thus, the mother’s guilt begins.

What have I done?