Lockdown 2.0: Another Day in Paradise

So, a pandemic. 

I'll admit that it is a parenting hurdle I never saw coming. It's not so much the sanitising (I mean, they eat dirt so what's a few more infective agents between friends?), the lack of play dates (I don't miss the self-imposed pressure to be "fun" for other people's children) or even the home schooling (which is akin to piercing one's eyeballs with rusty screws while being subjected to the impassioned overtures of Kenny G) but it's the need to be persistently optimistic in the face of impending doom in order to buoy the spirits of one's offspring that I struggle to contend with.

Our children need our support and our leadership in these uncertain times; they look to us for reassurance as they are subjected to life altering decisions that are ultimately thrust upon them in a bid to protect the preceding generations against an enemy that does not wage its battle against the school child at all. At an age when we have previously been told to be mindful and accommodate their craving for consistency in order to enable them to process and adjust to life's uncertainties, children are being plagued by inconsistency. They are given ever changing goal posts at which to aim in a bid to progress to the next level; a level at which they might be able to see their friends, have a birthday party or merely hug their grandparents. They are told that they are good, that they are brave and that they are living through history. They are told to treasure the enforced changes that this time brings as it is "once in a lifetime" and only acts to reinforce the importance of the simplistic needs of childhood; love, time as a family and the great outdoors.

Bollocks.

It is awful and let us not pretend otherwise. 

The sentiment may be true were we all safe in the knowledge that the end is in sight and a reprieve is on the horizon but we, as parents, are struggling too. We want our own parents to wrap us in their arms and tell us that it is all going to be okay but we can't for fear of bringing harm where we receive solace.

We want to be assured that the vaccine will be both effective and available in the imminent future but our ability to hope is constantly being thwarted by a consistent stream of false promises and cruel disappointments. When the battle started nine months ago it was hard but we had reserve. It was a novel situation and promises of improvement were we to commit ourselves to an initial lockdown were clung to like a raft in the vast uncertainty surrounding us. There was an element of faith that those who were dictating the necessary restrictions had a level of knowledge or answers that we, mere mortals, were not privy to. We now realise that this is not the case.

The fact is, we are all winging it: parents, politicians, teachers, care workers, scientists, hell, even the virus is having to adapt. We all need to be able to not cope for a little while; to not be able to face dressing up as a superhero and doing a burpee with Joe Wicks or slapping a smile on our face and pretending that Sophie Ellis Bextor's upbeat tunes are enough. They are not. 

Rest assured that the feeling will eventually pass and we'll pick ourselves up again and wait for the next thing that will see us through the next little while until one day we can actually say that it's over. 

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... 

Dark Times: Maternal Mental Health

Now, I am not sure whether it was having recently read that whilst at the first Royal Foundation Forum, during a panel for the Mental Health charity Heads Together, Meghan Markle was quoted as saying that "we don't need help in finding our voices- we just need to feel strong enough to use them" or whether it has been the dark, looming clouds overhead, heavy with snow which have been weighing on my mind but I have been feeling just more than a little hopeless of late. As in, devoid of hope, not ditzy; I can always be considered hopeless in its latter context.

This is not the first time I have felt like this and I am well aware that is unlikely to be the last. Where Churchill had his black dog, I seem to have a black, heavy blanket loitering never too far away, desperate to cloak me in darkness whenever I show the slightest weakness in spirit. I, like many others, have learned to live with it, accepting that this is my burden to bear. It is like having arthritis of the brain. No matter how often you take your painkillers, how frequently you do your exercises and how mobile you keep your joints there will still be days when you ache. Days when the pain is almost too much to bear and you cannot see a way out. Days when you forget what it is like to be "normal".

When it comes to my mental health, I can be doing everything right; exercising, eating the right things, not drinking too much of the wrong things, socialising, being gainfully employed and yet still it finds me, still it darkens my door and seeps into my, otherwise beautiful, life.

This week, it has done just that. Having initially welcomed the unseasonal weather with child like excitement at the thought of snowmen construction, sledging and snowball fights, my enthusiasm soon waned as the hours spent indoors dragged on and the sunshine failed to penetrate the threatening skies. With childcare routines disrupted, it was left to me to pick up the slack as my husband's medical practice kept it doors open for anyone who might need their help in the harsh conditions. I am always happy to do this and to be honest normally I would be more than a little miffed if the primary carer role was taken away from me but this particular situation felt different. My children were well and more than a little frustrated at being held captive and therefore not being able to burn off their excess energy,  so I was left feeling guilty for abandoning my team at work and daunted by the sheer numbers of hours I was going to have to fill within the confines of my four walls with two children under five.

I could feel the darkness creeping into my waking hours and wrapping itself around me until I was enveloped. Upon waking, and realising that I would have to care for my two children independently, I would sense the underlying terror crescendoing inside of me. Their happy voices serenading me from their bedrooms as they burst into the new day fuelled with relentless vigour and enthusiasm, would do little to relieve my desolation. I worried about failing them; about them noticing that I was utterly dispirited, leaving them scared and unsettled. I wanted to run away. I wanted to pause my life and everyone in it; take myself away and await the time when the darkness would lift.

What I actually did was employ the digital babysitter and hope against hope that it would distract them whilst I waited for the clouds to pass.

I won't say that I am quite back on form yet and the inclement weather seems to be lingering somewhat more than normal but today Husband is home; today I have bought a month's pass to the gym in the hope that I stumble upon some endorphins along the way and today I am beginning to see a glimmer at the end of the tunnel.

This too, shall pass.

Coming to Terms with the "Last"

It would appear that the stork (who seems to have been on some sort of sabbatical recently) has penciled in a visit to our extended family in the not too distant future. This has me utterly beholden to excitement, potentially more than it should, but I am a slave to those crinkly moles and I am living vicariously through the prospective parents.

Now here is the thing, I am horribly jealous, in fact I am intermittently consumed with it. I won't deny it. Just when I think I have come to terms with the fact that my family is complete at one fewer than we had originally planned, I foresee another "last" on the horizon; last positive pregnancy test, last birth, last breastfeed, last nap, last carry. So, being that I cannot stop the rest of the world from procreating I decided to investigate the real cause of my envy and this is what I have discovered:

1. I miss the sheer unknown of that first pregnancy

Even though my first child put us through the ringer during the incubation period, I definitely still remember periods of uninhibited joy which are so few and far between once you reach "adult" status. Your first child will change your life. They do this in ways you cannot even imagine as you sit, magical pee stick in hand, marvelling at those two blue lines that you had spent your misguided youth trying to avoid. Whilst we, as card carrying progenitors, find it easier to portray the more negative aspects of parenthood, the truth is a child will incomprehensibly alter you for the better. It's just not as funny to write about.

2. I miss the limitless possibility of the newborn

There is a whole person waiting to meet you. All those twinges, pops and bubbles emanating from your stomach are coming from a real human being; an individual who is actually part you and part him. Sure, they may come out a tad shrivelled, a little mole like and not too dissimilar to your great uncle Neville, but you will see them and feel your heart hurt with love. Utter, uncomplicated devotion. Their personality will start to take shape with each passing hour and you will be in awe. How did you, with all of your faults, make such a wonderful, magical, perfect little person?

3. Lastly, I long to...

I ache.

There is definitely a part of me that feels incomplete but who is to say that one more child would be the answer? I have two beautiful children who fought tooth and nail to be here today (my womb being as hospitable as a medieval torture chamber) so it would be unfair for me to put them, my husband or a prospective child through another pregnancy. I can live without another baby but I wouldn't want my babies to have to live without a mother. This I know. I just wish my head would tell my heart.

Shrivelled Mole meets Big Sister

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

Return of the Threenager

So today I just had one of those days. Having delighted in the impeccable behaviour of my two cherubic children whilst on holiday, I was perplexed and not just a little crushed to find that when the wheels of that Boeing 7(insert number here)7 hit the grey tarmac of Scotland those cherubs changed to demons as quickly as Gremlins in a tidal wave. I barely recognise them. The past 48hours has left me repeatedly questioning, often aloud in the direction of others (some related, some not, some I just chance upon in the street) “is it me?”

 

I feel myself quick to temper and I can hear the repetitive “No!” sound being emitted from my lips with every breath. I am boring myself and yet it would appear that my children have been rendered deaf from the flight. They swing between amorous expressions of sibling affection to attempts on one another’s lives that would not be out of place in a Shakespearean tragedy.

 

My youngest has perfected an ear splitting scream akin to a medieval warrior having his organs laid out before him. Initially I rushed to sweep him up in my arms, smother him with affection and quietly assess which limb had been amputated when I did eventually manage to decipher his anguished cries it would appear to translate loosely as “may I have some peanut butter please?”

 

My eldest, normally the light of my life and the shining example of my parenting prowess; a girl who exudes empathy and who possesses such a natural affinity for doing the right thing that I have previously found myself questioning whether she will find herself peacekeeping in the middle east, preaching to the Dalai Lama or taking herself off to a nunnery, she has turned. Once again the threenager is knocking at my door (or more accurately speaking, demanding that I knock on hers). I have seen into my future and I am terrified.

 

I have started grappling for reasons that might have caused such a transformation to occur: is it the assault of all things Christmas on our return to old Blighty leading to excessive and poorly managed toddler excitement? Are they feeling unsettled following our trip abroad and subsequent journey home? Are we particularly jaded following ten solid days of parenting (don’t judge me) and they are picking up on it like dogs on weakness?

 

I can honestly say that I have no answers. Best I can do is hunker down and wait for the storm to pass.

 

(But if you see them, don’t tell them I am hiding in the bathroom.)

 

The Terrifying Toddler aka Threenager Returns

This Mum Runs...

I run almost every day. This is not a brag or a challenge to others but merely a statement of fact.

Running has been my go to exercise ever since I was an awkward teenager trying to battle the weight gain that the new found freedom to choose my own lunch had inflicted, but it was always a battle to get myself out the front door and meet the 'three times a week' target that I had imposed upon myself.

However, since having my second child, running has ceased to be a chore and has morphed into something of a love affair. It enables me to take time out of my hectic and all-consuming life (which I love) as a working mother and centre myself. It allows me to reflect on everything that has happened, everything that is currently being endured and everything great that is still to come. It enables me to breathe which is ironic because often I physically cannot. .

I was recently asked by a friend to give my reasons for running in a three word story for the purposes of Instagram and it was something I had never really dwelled upon before but on reflection I think I narrowed it down to the most important three reasons:

1. For me
Since being diagnosed as a type 1 (insulin dependent) diabetic I have struggled with the lack of control that I have over my own health and all the problems that the future may present for both myself and my family. Running has given me both an outlet for my anxious energy and a way to increase my body's sensitivity to insulin thereby reducing the likelihood of damaging high blood sugars. What is not to like?

2. For him
My husband is a natural runner and could easily leave me behind in a competitive race but we regularly book the babysitter and take a few hours to plan the future while we plod our way through a scenic few miles. So many life decisions have been made in our running shoes.

3. For them
Apart from keeping me fit and energised I think that having my children see me being committed to doing something that is hard; something that I am not the best at but something that I love and makes me feel better is good. My daughter can often be found telling her nursery friends to run around more as her "Mummy loves it and it is sooooo good for you!" I sometimes think it is a shame she doesn't recognise that attribute in vegetables, but i'll take it.  

The Ultimate Running Partner (and the toddler) 

The Road Less Travelled...

My daughter is 3 and a half years old. As anyone who has been or who is currently delighting in being the parent of a toddler that ‘half’ is very important and should never be forgotten. Now I will admit that my 3-and-a-half year old is rather on the small side and works hard to mount the 2^nd centile on the world recognised growth chart following a rather cruel start in life, but in every other respect she is holding her own. She will count to twenty, hold conversations with adults where they genuinely feel engaged, remember conversations you had six months ago, hop on either foot and reel off all the colours and numbers in Spanish (which is awkward as my Spanish is limited to “una cerveza por favor" and still can be caught pronouncing “chorizo” as cho-ree-sio.) As it stands, I am one proud mother.

But here is the thing: when trying to dress herself the other day the “label to the back/label to the side” conundrum had her stumped and her reaction was to say that she is “rubbish at everything”. On more probing, it came to light that her nursery friends had commented that she wasn’t very good at running races. This is something I suspect may be true and could be due to the fact that she is not the tallest or could be because the vast majority of her friends are at least a year older and whilst I am sure the children meant nothing by it (other than the speaking the brutal truth that children are so often prone to do) this negative comment has seeped into her entire self belief, leaving her feeling defeated and inept.

This is the one thing I never wanted for my children. I am a slave to my insecurities. They have led to make questionable decisions as a burgeoning adult, chased me out of the medical profession and plague me on a daily basis should I be relied upon for anything (and by anything I literally mean anything from a deliverable at work to making a cup of tea for someone else.) This is the one thing I did not want my children to inherit (well that and the diabetes). Like a feral dog I am constantly sniffing out the next way to secure external validation and prove (albeit briefly) that I am an satisfactory human being who errs on the side of competence.

This has led to numerous post graduate professional qualifications, psychological evaluations and daily checks with my long suffering spouse that I am not a bad wife/mother/friend/daughter/person and yet I still am no further forward.

How can I save them from this blighted existence? How do you instil confidence in your children when you cannot monitor every comment that will be uttered about them or how they will interpret them? How do you show them just how incredible they are and why they should love being themselves? How do you stop them being you?

All anyone wants for their children is for them to be happy but how do you navigate that path when you fell off the precipice yourself?

#ablogginggoodtime

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?