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. 

If: An Ode to the Mother

If you are familiar with Kipling's poem "If" where he describes the attributes required to be a grown up then I can only apologise. I have pillaged his fine verse and manipulated it to describe the attributes required to be a mother... 

If you are a member of the PTA or NCT, I do apologise. You are lovely people really. 

If you can't keep your head when mums about you   

    Are losing theirs and terrifying you,   

If you can't cope when your NCT doubt you,

    And make no allowance for their choice too;   

If you can wait - but be so tired of waiting,

    And make up lies -  but not be duped by lies,

Or have mated, but can't mind ever mating,

    And never look good, nor ever be wise:

Never look good

If you can't dream, when passed out on the pillow;   

    If you can't think— yet are always on, go!   

If you can't face the PTA once again

    And yet treat those impostors just the same;   

If you can't bear to hear your clichés spoken

    Uttered despite promising to be "cool",

Or watch the things you have treasured be broken,

    And stoop to pick ’em up. Life can be cruel!

A dreamless sleep

If you can ignore the big heap of washing

   And rake through it for a top without sauce, 

And fail, leaving the house filthy for shopping

    And whilst dreading bumping into your boss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To answer cries in the dark around two,   

And stay awake when there's nothing left in you

    But the sheer need to protect this life, new.

New life

If you have the will to "pretend" one more time, 

    Or watch as food coats the walls where hands touch,

If dealing with the toddler poop now seems fine,

  And midnight vomit is much of a much. 

If all of your clothes either stretch or "control", 

    Your unwashed hair is scraped back in a bun;

If you can quote all six of the Paw Patrol, 

    Whilst navigating the morning's school run,   

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   

    And—which is more—you’ll be a stressed out Mum!

Oh the stress... 

Listen to Your Heart: A Tongue In Cheek Review of What The Ladybird Heard Live

'What the Ladybird Heard" - Julia Donaldson's modern classic about a small, timorous  insect who uses her ingenuity to overthrow a local crime ring when she learns that they threaten those to whom she is closest - is a story that the breeders of this country are well acquainted. It is a story which transcends race, class and the age of faecal continence; the tale of good overcoming evil and a small, noble voice finally being, not merely acknowledged, but revered. 

We were an hour early

In short, the telling of such a beloved chronicle was always going to be a tough undertaking and I arrived at the doors of the King's Theatre in Edinburgh under a cloud of scepticism. To be honest, when I entered the world of children's literature in the summer of 2014, I favoured those publications with rhyme and elegant art. Having stumbled upon Julia Donaldson (which in parenting terms is like stumbling across J.K. Rowling) I favoured the Axel Scheffler illustrations as I thought them more pleasing to the adult eye (and my daughter was an avid book reader so you had to look out for yourself) but when she saw the rainbow colours and farmyard animals adorning the cover of this volume she was enraptured. I, however, was less than enthused as I thought the drawings simplistic and two dimensional but my faith in Jules was strong so we made the investment and our life was never the same again. Well, ok, maybe not but it was a bloody good children's book.

Bloody good

When my son finally started showing interest in the literary world at the grand age of 18months, having previously been far more concerned with the laws of physics (how far can I throw this ball/meal/small animal?), this was the cornerstone of his education. It had everything from colours to first animal noises with a dusting of moral philosophy throughout. He would read nothing else. 

The ONLY book he will read

So when I happened upon "What The Ladybird Heard- Live" and saw that it was coming to a theatre near us I was rushing to stand in line at the box office (the digital line, obviously, this isn't the 90s). Three months later, having battled through a particularly nasty bout of gastroenteritis (me), prolific protestations regarding leaving the house (them) and incredibly inclement weather (Edinburgh), we were there. Along with our own "fine prize cow" and the entire breeding community of the Lothian area. 

Our "fine prize cow"

Whilst attempting to rouse one toddler from an untimely slumber and placate the other, who has more questions about life than the British people do about Brexit, we took the opportunity to survey the set design. It was meticulous both in its childlike form and in its ability to transport us into the world of Lydia Monks (the book's illustrator). My cloud of scepticism was lifting.

Setting the Scene

The play closely adhered to its origins, focussing on a motley group of farm workers and their enactment of the favourite tale. The farm had a prize winning cow, two cats (who spoke and were the Muppets Waldorf & Statler reincarnated) and a timid ladybird. The remaining creatures were cobbled together on stage using paraphernalia from the farmyard. While I was initially disappointed at this turn of events the livestock eventually assembled were even closer to their illustrations than a puppet could have ever been. It was sublime. Furthermore, the score was infectious and had me audibly singing along during the performance (despite the heckles from the stalls) and on numerous occasions since.

The acting was simply divine with the (clearly classically trained) thespians inhabiting their roles like Daniel Day Lewis in an Oscar winning performance. Raymond, in particular, who played the part of Lanky Len has impeccable comic timing and the voice of an angel (albeit a fallen, gravelly one), a true credit to the actors guild and a shoe in for a Tony as soon as this show hits Broadway.

In summary, should you get the opportunity to see this production (and I believe they are on tour around the UK) I would strongly urge you to nurture your inner "culture vulture" and feast upon this delectable banquet of stagecraft. 

PS. Genuinely, this is one of the best children's productions I have seen to date and I have seen quite a few (anything to take a break from Duggee and the Jetters). Having said that, my daughter is to "inhabit the role" of the lead character in Julia's later work of the "Snail and the Whale" in her nursery performance in a few weeks so this crowd are sure to be bumped down the leaderboard soon.

Here's the link: http://www.whattheladybirdheardlive.co.uk/

Just Another Manic Monday: A Day in the Life of a Two Year Old

I scare myself half to death at 5am when I attempt to pass wind and get a little bit more than I bargained for so I decide to communicate dissatisfaction at being so rudely awakened to the rest of the household. I mean, they would want to know about it and it's not like they are doing anything else. Plus, I can't go back to sleep now; what if it happens again?! This nappy can only take so much. They do seem to be taking their time responding to my summons though, maybe I need to take this up a notch? Really ramp up the anguished, blood curdling shriek I have going. Ah wait, yes here she is. Why does she ricochet off the wall like that? It's almost like she hasn't been poised; ready to react at a moment's notice to my beckon call. Odd.

Anyway, a cuddle. Oh this is nice, so warm and soft. Maybe the world isn't such a terrible place. Maybe I will make it to the morning alive. Hey! Hang on! Why are you putting me back down? Oh hell no. This is not happening. Pick me up woman. What on earth do you think you are doing? I know, I'll throw a few agonised "Mummy"s into the mix, clench these clammy hands round her neck and she'll soon crack. That's it, well done. Now, head towards the door. Good work. Your bedroom is that way. Great.

Oh! Daddy? I never realised you were here. You can leave now. I've got this. There is a bed in my room. We'll see you in the morning.

If anyone is looking for me this is where I'll be

Mummy? Why are you closing your eyes? Mummy? Mummy! Mummy! Oh good, there you are. What's that? Oh a picture? Really? Interesting. Oh Mummy! Sorry you were closing your eyes again and I had something really important to ask you; what's that?! Still a picture? Wow. Mummy? Mummy! Hi, me again. Just checking, what's that? Did you say lesser spotted woodpecker? No. Picture? Huh. There you go.

It's all love really Mummy

Well that was a really fun two hours in your bed Mummy. I know you weren't too into the routine eyes checks I was performing but one can never been too careful (or forceful.) It paid dividends when you relented and let me watch Go Jetters on the "Tapper". Don't be too harsh on yourself, after all, it is educational. Did you know that Loch Ness holds more water than all of the lakes and rivers in England and Wales combined? A real live unicorn taught me that.

I don't mean to criticise but I think you really need to work on your listening. I don't know why you thought I wanted the Cheerios, yoghurt or toast for breakfast. I was very clearly just practising my ability to say those words and nod in an assenting fashion. Of course I didn't actually want them. I thought you would have realised that when I watched you prepare them and didn't say anything. Not one word. I mean if you aren't going to listen to me then I will have to show you; across the wall.

Raspberries were clearly what we wanted

Talking of walls, I really think you are being more than a little contradictory. Yesterday you were allowing me, no, joining me in decorating the stone walls in the garden with our unique "Banksy" stylings but today? Today, you seemed to be more than a little disgruntled when I tried to introduce my creative flair to your rather pedestrian walls in the hallway. Pick a side people!

Did it not speak to your soul?

I did enjoy our little trip to my sister's ballet lesson though. Sure, I vocalised my scorn for the mobile baby cage for the duration of our journey there but when we arrived I had the best time mixing with the other siblings whilst we waited for her return. I know you question this as apparently the shrieks of "mine!" came across as quite hostile but I thought my enthusiastic rugby tackles against those who were showing interest in my ball were heartfelt? Wouldn't Daddy be proud of me? No? Well I am struggling to see the difference.

I don't understand why we can't use the baby carrier! Do you not love me anymore?!

Lunch? Lunch is for losers; as is sleep. Do you even know how old I am? Two. Two whole years. Basically, I have seen all of this before and I have more than enough energy to last the day. Just give me the milk and be done with it lady. Ah milk. The sweet nectar of the gods.

I think I have a milk problem

Our afternoon was fun! Painting! You are quite literally the bravest person I know, and I know at least 12 people. I hope you liked the many variations of brown that I managed to concoct. I really am quite proud of myself. When life gives you a rainbow pallet make brown, that is what I say. I could tell you were a little nervous when I started using my fingers, then my palms before moving on to my feet and my nose but you handled yourself well. I could barely tell. The dog from next door says hello by the way, he tells me that when you make that particular noise it reminds him of his mother when she was trapped in the well.

Do you see the way I have captured the depth of "stick brown"?

Bath time followed swiftly especially after I doused myself in the soup which you presented at dinner. It was perhaps a little harsh to hold me at arm's length while you whisked me into the bathroom and slightly confusing when you shouted at me for trying to wash my hands in that big sink that you all sit on. I can't seem to do right for doing wrong sometimes. I did enjoy the bubbles though and helping my sister wash her hair, even if she wasn't initially inclined. Her chanting my name really boosted my confidence so I ignored her wriggles, pouts and intermittent "stop it"s. Go with your gut I say.

Daddy's arrival home soon followed so I managed to get my horse riding practice in. He really needs to work on his lateral movements though or we are never going to place in the dressage finals this year. He tries his best though so I gave him his treat and let him read the book about the Ladybird to me again. He bloody loves that book and seems to get a kick out of me saying all the animal noises. Bless him. I have noticed that sometimes he pretends to show interest in other titles and will on occasion pretend to be unable to find that yellow book but I soon find an image of it on one of Julia's other volumes and he feigns annoyance but I know he loves it really.

This is me, just practising a timely "Moo"

Bedtime once again, who knew? Certainly not me, I mean there was dinner then water play then our beloved book, teeth, nappy change, sleep sack but to be honest this declaration that it is time for some shut eye is coming a little left field. I have a few thoughts on the matter that I would be more than happy to voice to you through my closed door. I know you appreciate the feedback. I'll sleep on the rest and get back to you in the morning. 5am work? Brilliant. See you then Mummy. 

Love you.

Toddler Life: Loathing Imaginary Play

Now, you may think me disloyal but I really struggle with spending a day solo parenting in the house. Not to put it too bluntly, I get a little bored. Mind achingly, soul crushingly bored. Obviously I adore my children, I cannot imagine my life without them, the time I spend with them is so precious and they continue to amaze me every day etc. but most of their games seem to revolve around role play and if there is one thing I loathe in life it is role play.

Living the Dream

I detest taking on the persona of Maleficent, Scar, Gaston, The Wicked Stepmother or Ursula and my hatred is not solely limited to Disney villains. I also despise playing the pet, the pet owner, the big sister, the shop customer or the tea party attendant. It’s just not my bag. My husband, on the other hand, will immerse himself in it; happily getting down on all fours, adopting silly voices and inhabiting the character he has been given for not an inconsiderable length of time. He has clearly missed his calling; Royal Shakespeare Company eat your heart out.

Husband: Always game for a spot of role play (not like that)

I should also point out that I am immensely proud of my children’s ability to flex their imaginations and play make –believe, it eases my concerns that the digital babysitter features too much in their day to day lives and their brains are therefore fighting the transition to mush. I delight in my daughter’s long lasting friendship with her imaginary friend “Beega” (although that Beega needs a good dose of the naughty step with the way she constantly tries to lead my cherubic child astray) but I just don’t want to participate in it. Can I not just be a spectator? Is an audience not essential to any budding thespian?  

Daughter (left) with the lesser spotted Beega (right)

That is not to say that I hate being with my offspring, not at all, I just hate playing with my offspring. I enjoy many other aspects of spending time with them including (but not limited to) arts & crafts, outdoor pursuits, reading (with heartfelt voices), ball games, jigsaws, anything involving bubbles and building. But with my abhorrence of all things play-acting weighing heavily on my mind, I routinely seek out organised activities to fill our time, thus avoiding any lull which may require me to pretend, put on a voice or manipulate my body into the form of another creature. I remember in Nick Hornby’s About a Boy the protagonist, being happily unemployed, divides the day stretching out in front of him into manageable blocks. Whilst I found it entirely depressing in my ignorant liberated youth, since entering the world of toddler parenting it is a strategy to which I can entirely relate. An hour of dance class here, a trip to Book Bug at the library there, even a trip to the supermarket can be thrown in for good measure and once you factor in half an hour there and back, I can easily while away the day enjoyably. I should also point out that chatting with my four year old whilst we journey (the near two year old is no raconteur) is one of my all-time favourite past times and I consider her to be some of the finest company I have all week.

The Toddler conversation varies from the sublime to the ridiculous

However, should I wake in the morning with a day free of scheduling or pre-planned activities stretching out in front of me, like a pirates gang plank sure to plunge me into certain misery, I feel a cold sweat coming on. What if they want to pretend?

Utter dread

I know if I put my mind to it, I could easily feel guilty about this admission but truth be told I don’t remember ever enjoying make believe even as a child and I am almost certain that my imagination has always been somewhat encumbered by a depressingly realistic outlook. So I think I shall console myself with the fact that I put my heart and soul into narrating their numerous stories voices and all, and I must acknowledge the fact that parenting is not always the most enjoyable of jobs (see scooping excrement out the bath, night feeds, pelvic floor weakness and the mum/dad bod, plus the salary is downright deplorable). There will be times when I shall just have to steel myself, wave my limbs about like a demented fish, flick my hair back, issue a guttural laugh and decree my children to be “poor unfortunate souls!”.