Everything Changes: Working Out the "Working Mother" Bit

It's been a big week this week and, no, we haven't sold our house. In fact, it is no longer even on the market which was both a heart breaking and entirely sensible decision on our part. How dull. We have opted to stick with the devil we know until we can afford what we want which, fingers crossed, should be an option available to us around the same time our daughter is eligible for retirement. Anyway, despite our domestic situation being something of an anticlimax, this week has heralded big changes, albeit predominantly, for me. After six and a half years of, what my brother terms, "bean counting" I have decided to change jobs. 

Taught her everything I know

This was not an easy decision to make. My current employer has seen me through two rather gruelling pregnancies, my daughter's numerous hospital admissions and appointments as well as my own diagnosis of diabetes and the rigmarole that that entails and whilst they may be one of the "Big 4" (a super uninteresting term for the most prolific Professional Services firms) they have acted like anything but. They have looked out for me and cared for me like I was part of a tight knit family (think more Brady Bunch and less Walford Mitchells). They have gone out of their way to make sure that part time working worked, not only for them, but for me and my family (and believe me, it took quite a lot of doing). They understood that I was the primary caregiver and there would be times when I was needed elsewhere. There were points when I would barely be in the office for days at a time as illness was passed from child to child (and then far too often) to parent and they never made me feel bad for it. They understood that each nativity performance was as momentous as the, undoubtedly, clashing deadline and they were more than willing to have me work from home on the rare occasion that my childcare fell through or, more often than not, when the school run took priority over my personal appearance. In short, they were bloody lovely.

Nativity performances were prioritised

The only teeny, tiny issue was that the work never really excited me. I never hated it but neither did I find myself intrigued to read further than what was entirely necessary. This was never a huge issue for me as plenty of people don't love what they do and the job still had more good points than bad. It allowed me to be the sort of parent I wanted to be so leaving never really crossed my mind. As a qualified accountant I would regularly be approached about "exciting opportunities" in the industry that I may be interested in but I knew that as soon as I revealed myself to be a part time worker they would disappear quicker than a tinder date when a bad case of herpes becomes apparent. I was accepting of the fact that I might not love what I do but I liked the people I worked with and it suited our family life. I knew that the only jobs advertised as "part time" were entry level, administrative type affairs that could never command the (albeit middling) salary to which we had become accustomed. 

It was fine. 

being the parent I wanted to be

Until I saw "the job". It was a mix of the subject I used to love and the skills I had acquired over the past six years. It had the potential to excite and engage me in a way that my current job had not. It was perfect. Except that it was full time. 

Medicine: but more people fewer animals

Now, I am all for every type of parenting: full time worker/full time parent, part time worker/full time parent, occasional worker/full time parent and full time parent full stop. Horses for courses I say, but as a family we need to balance the income with the childcare which means full time for him (the more substantial earner) and part time for me. At the minute we have no wriggle room on this but Reader, I applied anyway! The plan was to throw my hat into the ring then politely decline any further interview when informed that full time was non negotiable. I could leave the provess telling myself that I had tried my best but it wasn't to be and return to the cosy embrace of my current employer with some more interview experience under my belt. 

Then they uttered the seductive phrase that every primary caregiver - cum- worker longs to hear: "you tell us when you want to work and we will work around you". Damn it. 

Now there was a choice: a viable option. I could leave but did I want to? Staying where I was was safe. I knew what was expected of me and (since resigning have been reliably informed that) I wasn't too bad at it. It was comfortable, much like those jogging bottoms with the visible elastic that you've had since the late 90s but refuse to throw out because they don't cling to your lumpy bits the way your other clothes do. On the other hand though, there was the potential of something new; the potential of something that might make me feel good. Maybe something with a little more form but also a little, dare I say, sparkle? 

SPOILER ALERT: I took the job. 

I took the leap

So now I wait. Now I have broken the news to the people who have seen me through the most awful times and the best. I have left the warm embrace of a team I know, enjoy and understand  to move toward the unknown. I don't know what the new job will really be like or whether I will rue the day I left the almost perfect set up but the possibility of loving what I do was enough to tempt me to try. 

Fingers crossed x

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. 

End of the Road: A Pre School Graduation

This week has been a mixed bag of emotions in this role of parenting. I have had soaring highs with a perfect day of solo childcare; when all the stars aligned and we had beautiful weather, impeccable behaviour and exuberant health working in our favour. This was swiftly followed by crushing lows when sports day was announced 24hours in advance and a stream of meetings for me and a husband whose patients do not permit flexible working meant my little girl was left watching from the sidelines without a parent for the parent and child race.

However, all of this was nothing compared to the emotional torrent that was Pre- School Graduation. I had been more than a little vexed when I had to cancel my residential training course (which would have to be replaced with  tedious e-learning to be undertaken in my 'spare time') in order to attend a ceremony which is about as redundant as the cucumber slices I occasionally dare to leave on my daughter's plate, but RSVP I did. Fear not, dear child, I shall be there. The mere thought of leaving her, once again, to face a "momentous" occasion alone when the vast majority of her peers would be waving to their families in the audience meant that I was willing to appear, less than a "team player" in the workplace and forgot my previous commitments.

I will confess that I had no expectation for the event itself and certainly did not anticipate shedding any tears at the sight of my daughter bidding farewell to organised play in favour of formal education. I was there because I didn't want her to feel slighted. With only four years of life experience behind her this was a pretty big deal, she had been told so by those whose opinion mattered most; her friends and teachers. This was her being shunted into the world from the safe haven of everything she had known into a new and unknown vortex. Nothing would ever be the same again.

Then she emerged in a cap and gown and I realised that, for her, nothing would ever be the same again.

The Graduate

Having returned to the workplace when she was a mere 7 months of age, she had been part of this institution for the vast majority of her short life. It was everything and everyone, beyond her immediate family, whom she had ever known. Her nursery education was her only independent state; her friends and teachers were hers and hers alone. A place where I could merely stand on the outside looking in and would devour any morsel of information from her time there that she might choose to throw my way.

This day heralded the beginning of the end.

The Nursery Run: Wake Me Up Before You Go Go

I am incredibly lucky. Let us just get that out of the way right now. I realise this, I am blessed. I have a husband who earns enough to allow me to work part time and a mother who is willing to sacrifice both her fine wardrobe and a day each week to reduce our childcare costs, meaning I am only required to do the nursery run on two days of the week.

I age on those days.

I mean, obviously, I age on all days but on those particular days I feel that you can visibly see the permanent shadows cast over my face and the creases deepen around my weary eyes. My children break me on those days.

Broken

On those days, having routinely been up to greet the (by comparison) rather lazy lark, I shall have to coax the offspring from their slumber. Now this is a rather precarious process as I have a limited time frame in which to act but if I rouse them too abruptly then they shall be unsettled; needing both loving, physical reassurance throughout the getting- ready process and a protracted drop off in the nursery room. Frankly, no one has time for that. 

So ease them from their repose I do, with gentle beckons and a loving caress. Their lips curl into a smile, their eyelids begin to flutter and gentle murmurs are uttered. I painfully angle my body across the respective cot/bed railings, contorting my neck and manipulating my body in a way that would make a yoga master proud whilst desperately trying to hear their first words of the morning. Speak to me angel, Mummy is here; Mummy is listening: 

"Daddy?"

Without fail. Every morning.

Damn you Child Whisperer

You would think that at this point, in my jealous rage, I would tear those covers back and expose their little warm bodies to the arctic conditions that is an old house in Edinburgh; like a wife who has come home to discover that her adulterous husband has struck again. Alas, no. On those mornings I must play the long game. I swallow my envy down, dress my face in the warmest of smiles and continue to ease them into the day.

If the gods are smiling on me, the mini dictators  may take me up on the offer of CBeebies, permitting me to throw clothes onto merely mildly uncooperative mannequins but more often than not they shun the mesmerising gogglebox and choose to investigate the box of toys. This is despite the fact that the plethora of playthings have previously gone, at best entirely unnoticed and, at worst, cast a casual disdainful glance. On those days though, the wicker basket is a positive bounty of treasure with riches to please even the most jaded of toddlers.

Plunderers

Having wasted a solid twenty minutes feigning interest in assembling an intricate train route, I try to wrestle the necessary low grade clothing on to the small one while he wriggles with the fury of a ferret trapped in a rabbit hole. Eventually I emerge victorious but battle weary, bruised and with make up half way down my face but still ready to mount the next challenge. This particular opponent requires a different set of skills; a completely new approach. This opponent will not respond to brute strength; this opponent must be fought with reasoning (and failing that, bargaining.)

"Bear, sooner we get there, the sooner we get back!"

"Bear, you don't want to be late for your teacher do you?"

"Bear, mummy will be late for work!"

"Bear, if you get ready now there will be a treat when you get home... No one! ... Oh ok two? ... Fine, three [insert chocolate based treat here]."

So, both dressed, work and nursery bags packed and hanging from my person, we head for the door; this is it, sure we are twenty minutes late (stupid train track) but we are out. Jackets on, shoes buckled, teeth brushed (usually). "Sayonara house, catch you later!" Wait, what's that smell. It's bad. It smells warm and pungent. Can it wait? Yeah, definitely. No, wait; he'll probably want on my shoulders and I have a dry clean only coat on (otherwise I may not be so picky.) Damn it. Right, jacket off, nappy and wipes located, small child rugby tackled to the floor and cleaned up to a chorus of "Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, are we going yet? MUMMY, I DONT WANT TO BE LATE!" Should have thought about that during your 3rd bowl of Cheerios Sugar Lump.

Stupid train track

Finally, we make it beyond the threshold and venture into the daylight only to be greeted by the dull, dreich downpour of a spring Scottish morning. We stand side by side in the doorway glowering at the deluge; brothers in arms against the inclement weather. I grab an oversized brolly and foist it upon the eldest who walks along unseeing and struggling under its weight whilst I forsake my own blow dried, work ready hair in favour of mobilising the masses. I force the small one up onto my shoulders (despite the fact that I am laden down with a bag holding my world of work and two nursery bags overflowing with nursery essentials) and venture out into the squall; we are doing this. 

Not so Singin' in the Rain

Secret Life of Toddlers: Bully For You

Toddlers are a strange breed; their emotions are on a permanently violent swing from one extreme to another. One moment they are creating a caterwaul because upon returning from a pleasurable play in the park, you deigned to open the front door (like you have done a trillion times before) when you should have known that this was the one day they wanted to do it (even if they did not convey this sentiment to you in advance) and the next they appear to be letting a friend's cruel comments wash over them like muddy puddle water on shiny new patent shoes. But what if some of the water starts to seep in unnoticed?

A toddler reaction is never the one you anticipate

You see, my daughter is a four year old whose heart could not be worn more on her sleeve if she were to grow up, go to university and do a combined major in cardiac surgery and fashion design; she feels everything deeply and acutely. This has its merits and its drawbacks. On the positive side, when something good happens, she is elated. Sky high, in fact. She will burn holes in the carpet as she laps the room explaining in a torrent of words exactly why she is quite so delighted with life with the cause ranging anywhere from a prospective playdate in a far flung location with her best friend to an extra chocolate button. However, on the less than positive side, when something happens that can in any way be inferred as a negative event, she will spiral into a world of torment begging forgiveness if she has stepped over a line or pleading for a remedy if it is something beyond her control. So her lack of reaction to her friend’s callous words has got me stumped.

Toddler Fashion

She came home from nursery last week, as happy as the proverbial clam. There was no sign of anything out of the ordinary; her chatter was fast paced, hair wild and unkempt and the handover from the rather weary looking nursery staff was glowing so I was very surprised when two days later she casually dropped into the conversation that her closest friend had been telling her on numerous occasions that she is both fat and has bad breath. I repeat, fat and bad breath. She is four years old. How is this even a thing? Should they not still be slinging insults about being a “poo poo head”, “scaredy cat” and how one sex is infinitely better purely by virtue of not being the other? I knew this was going to happen at some point, I mean teenage girls are cruel. They are vicious; armed with an arsenal of insults that will penetrate, grievously wound leaving permanent scars but pre-schoolers? I was flabbergasted (an underused term but intensely accurate on this occasion.)

Pre-teen toddler

I know that there may be those out there who assume that at their young age they can neither understand nor truly be affected by such jibes; that pre-school friendships are a heady mix of passionate love and loathing interspersed with glitter and mud. I will admit that I thought the same but then I asked her about it. I asked her to tell me exactly what had happened so I could forge a way to help excuse or explain her friend’s behaviour. The tears must have been lurking close to the surface, just waiting for the moment that her guard was dropped and they could be liberated. They poured out. Then they just kept coming.


It would appear that she was not as impervious to the callous comments as I had first believed. It was utterly heart breaking to see her pull at her skin as if it was disgusting and repulsive while tears etched their way down her cheeks but there seemed little I could do to dispel the myth that she was anything less than beautiful. As parents we have worked hard to instil a belief that beauty is far more than facial symmetry and perfect dimensions and is rooted in kindness and joy. We routinely praise her for more than just her cherubic face and winning smile and anytime someone tells her she is beautiful she will happily complete their sentiment with “inside and out!” And yet, all it took was one bored peer whom she reveres to blow her self-esteem to pieces. It was devastating.

Forging her own way

So now I wait. I have taken it to the nursery to deal with as I am making no in roads at home. I hope that having her idol be challenged and, hopefully, reprimanded by a person in authority will show her that her self-worth is not misplaced and she should not let anyone make her think less of herself.

For she is awesome. Fact.

Awesome: case in point