Knowing Me, Knowing You: The Transition Period

So, we are now a whole month into school life and my eldest seems to have taken to her new institutionalised existence like a toddler takes to destruction. Sure, we had those first few teething moments where she was struggling to find her niche; her people; her crew. I had a week of nightmares envisioning her crestfallen face after she fought back the tears recounting the early days when walking back into the playground (following an untimely call of nature) like a fledgling adult into a networking drinks reception (not her comparison); she found that her new found "friends" had dispersed into the crowd and anxiously tried to identify an opening into which she might be able to insert herself.

Now, however, she skips through the front door to intermittent chants of her name from her fellow classmates. She appears to have befriended children across the class and age divisions and talks animatedly about her love of the various members of the teaching faculty without reticence or self-consciousness. She is delighted with her new found place in life. She belongs.

It is all about blazing a trail

On the other hand, the smaller one, has struggled somewhat with the transition. His struggle has led to him expanding his vocabulary extensively. New phrases include, but are not limited to:

“I want my Cha-lotte!”

“It’s not FUNNY Mummy!”

“I want my Daddy.”

This last phrase must be accompanied with a forlorn look and a lower lip, extended so far from his face that a family of small animals could take shelter from the recent inclement weather. He was initially unsure of how to make the best of his new found solitude.

"Where is Cha-lotte?" 

More recently, however, he has come to realise that on these days, he has the caregiver’s undivided attention in addition to the intrigue and affection being showered upon him at his sister’s new school particularly when he attends drop off in her pink, floral dresses or with his hair tied in a top knot and decorated with a glittery hairclip. In short, he has it made and he is revelling in it.

Babyccinos and new books

Meanwhile, I am spread about as thinly as the condiment on a Tesco value sandwich. I now seem to be constantly in the process of leaving for drop off or arriving at pick-up; making lunches or cleaning up the aftermath of a half finished yoghurt casually cast back into the lunchbox and don't get me started on ensuring that every element of the strictly dictated uniform is clean, ironed (mostly) and ready to be worn. My son may be flush with affection but he is, more often than not, dressed like a street urchin and I may as well be commuting from another solar system considering the frequency with which my work colleagues see me in the office.

So whilst I don't expect that you have been desperately scanning your inboxes, newsfeeds or stories eagerly anticipating the next installment of my daily battles with my offspring, I am afraid that something had to be sacrificed at the altar of parenthood and this is it. 

Now, I am not saying that I will never be back but it is just that I can't commit myself to seeing you every week. You have been nothing but awesome. Please don't think it is anything you have done or not done.

It really is not you, it's me.

Big love peeps x

Taking Care of Business: The Transferrable Skills of Motherhood

It would appear that I may be up for a promotion. Now I will admit that this has taken me a little by surprise as my "external commitments" (also known as children) mean that I constantly feel like I am short changing my employer. I appear to be either setting up for work having arrived harassed, dishevelled and clutching either a rancid sippy cup, part masticated banana or nursery essential whilst cursing under my breath for having forgotten to drop it off with the relevant child; or loading myself up like an over worked pack horse about to start an expedition to outer Mongolia as I attempt to make my way out of work with a ten minute window to collect two children in two separate buildings who will undoubtedly want to show me everything in their respective nursery rooms from the rose coloured pebble amidst 7437 other rose coloured pebbles to their new, rather loquacious best friend who demands a play date, tonight and won't take no for an answer. Meanwhile the intervening period at work, between arrival and departure, is filled with a sense of being rather incapable and more than a little inefficient.

This aside, it would appear that the powers that be either know something that I don't or are too easily distracted by my ability to procreate at the most inconvenient times of the work calendar to notice my short comings and are really committed to positive discrimination. Regardless, I thought I should prepare myself for interview process as, if memory serves me right, my interview technique is somewhat lacking. I recall having perfected the art of profuse sweating from the underarms, back, belly and upper lip accompanied by an incessant and indecipherable babble akin to a toddler who is keen to express the inner, rather convoluted, workings of their mind. What my technique does not involve is poise, clarity of thought and confident, articulate answers. Therefore, I decided to research what skills I should possess as potential "management" and prepare my answers accordingly.

The numerous websites which I stumbled upon listed several key skills that one should possess in order to be a successful manager and that during interviews one should be able to "use specific examples from one's own experience to illustrate how one has acquired the necessary skills and to demonstrate how one has used them effectively."

Well one was stumped. 

One had nothing.

Whilst examples in the work place eluded me I got to thinking; I spend 3 days a week between the hours of 9am and 5:30pm doing my paid job and every other minute, hour and day attempting to do my more than full time occupation of managing the two unruly rug- rats at home. Those children had spent their entire lives (a grand total of 6 years) preparing me for this moment. I was ready.

They had had me in training for this day

Communication and Motivation

I am a skilled communicator. This is evidenced in the multitude of ways in which I can convey and effectively disguise a negative answer from “I’m not sure”, through “not right now” to “oh look, there is a bus/bird/pebble/lamp/key/dog/chair!” Furthermore, I also have a strong background in the field of translation and a history of effectively deciphering a variety of instructions, emotions and frustrations uttered by my “juniors”.

However, I would strongly contest the belief that a person in my position should be available at all times and establish an "open door policy" as I feel that a healthy distance should be established between management and the “junior staff” to allow for authority to be maintained. I find that locking myself in the bathroom for regular intervals throughout the day aids me in this practice.

Distance is key

My ability to motivate is second to none. I am universally acknowledged in our family unit to be the most effective at inspiring our "staff" to defaecate in the appropriate vessel. I have even gone the extra mile and devised an anthemic song to encourage those who are doubting their abilities and inspire them to achieve their excrement related goals. Go me.

Visualise your goal

Organisation, Forward Planning and Strategic Thinking

Organisation and forward planning is an essential part of my daily life. Anyone with two toddlers must be organised and able to identify all the possible eventualities that may be encountered if they wish to leave the house. Should they also require the toddlers in question to accompany them they must also employ some effective, strategic planning. On multiple occasions I have found myself facing a mutinous duo who would no more like to venture out into the elements than they would feast on cold cabbage stew and under these rather testing circumstances, where appointments are looming and scheduling is tight, I must employ the most strategic of thinking. I must engage my experience, knowledge and insight to achieve my goal. More often than not this involves bargaining, followed by reasonable threats, then excessive bargaining before I start to issue threats that some might consider far beyond the reasonable punishment of a 4 year old and entirely unenforceable but I get the job done.  

Their interest in outdoor pursuits is often lacking

Problem Solving and Decision Making

I have read that effective problem solving and decision making “requires outstanding attention to detail and the ability to remain calm under pressure" and I am sure that some of the other candidates may have regaled you with numerous examples of how, having been presented with a critical issue late in the process, they effectively managed to overcome the obstacle and calmly extricate both themselves and the company from the situation with aplomb. However, until they have had to deal with a raging toddler, excessive layers of winter clothing and a liquid excrement expelled at high pressure when armed with only 3 wet wipes and a “can do” attitude, I doubt they are in the same league as I.

Three wet wipes people!

Commercial awareness

I have a strong track record of anticipating the needs and wants of my “clients”. Many is the time I found myself catering to the unvoiced demands of those I serve without prompt, be it procuring the latest episode of “Go Jetters”, enabling (against his audible protestations) the youngest to recharge his batteries by putting him to bed during the day or engaging the eldest in an arts and crafts situation. It is merely fortuitous that this ability to pre-empt my “clients’” needs also serves to provide me with a brief hiatus in the middle of a long day at “work”, which in turn, undoubtedly increases my productivity (on social media).

It's about recognising the specific needs for each "client" where here we see arts and crafts are not effectively engaging the youngest

So, as you can see, we as mothers have many a transferrable skill and should not fear the workplace or question our abilities to thrive there. After all, if I can tame a couple of lawless toddlers who would no more be reasonable than they would perform algebraic equations, then I can definitely hold my own in the corporate world.

Management here I come.

Totes Profesh.

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

Ice, Ice Baby: The Best Laid Plans...

Things I have learnt since my husband went away for 5 days:

1. 5 days is a long time
2. My husband does a lot of laundry
3. 5 days is a long time
4. Elsa's palace would have been warmer than our house with no central heating
5. 5 days is a really long time.

It was an ominous start when my first night, rather than being spent alone, was spent in the company of my rather willful son. Having taken a late nap with his designated childcare provider that afternoon, his usual bedtime came and went while he furiously pedalled his Scuttle Bug in laps around the room, leaving utter destruction in his wake and pausing only to issue a bark or a roar (with accompanying clawed hands pose) in my general direction. Books were pulled from where they had been neatly stowed for the evening, before being hurled around the room as he took part in his own personal shot-put competition; the noisiest toys were plucked from their hiding places and simultaneously activated creating an almighty cacophony which he then appeared to conduct like a symphony orchestra. It was mayhem.

Hand selected toys for the ultimate cacophony

The Thursday and Friday were to be much as normal with me having my working day sandwiched between nursery drop offs and pick ups leaving me hot, sweaty and disheveled before 9am and stressed, tired and wrangling two highly emotional toddlers after 5:30pm. Just to add an extra layer of excitement to my day, for some ungodly reason, this particular morning my youngest chose to kneel down in a puddle before throwing the muddy rain water above his head like he's Howard Donald in Take That's Back for Good video. I despaired; Gary was always my favourite.

Now, due to me being laden down like a pack mule with my work paraphernalia, the children's nursery "essential" extras and one wiley two year old with a taste for danger upon my shoulders when my four year old fell and grazed her knee on the walk home it was pretty much the worst thing that could have happened. She refused to walk, citing her scraped limb to be unable to bear weight and demanded (through the flood) to be carried home. Despite being able to see my front door from where we stood, it may as well have been light years away. I tried every possible combination; backpack on back, toddler on shoulders, paraphernalia across each arm with preschooler on hip; backpack on back, paraphernalia in hands of errant children and progeny on either hip; backpack on front, preschooler on back, paraphernalia on one arm and toddler like a rugby ball under the other. We were like a geriatric circus troupe trying to re-enact the routines of their youth. We managed to shuffle 20 yards in each position before they began to slip from my grasp with wails of displeasure being only momentarily appeased with promises of previously prohibited treats. Eventually, somehow, we crossed the threshold, a little bit older, a little bit broken and forever just that little bit changed.

So close and yet so far

While previously I had been known to count down the time to Husband's return, I entered the weekend with great optimism with my weekend of solo parenting having been planned with military precision. I genuinely love my children and have the best time when we are all together as a family but there are times when, having been consistently alone with them for an extended period of time, I struggle. I struggle hearing my voice utter the same commands again and again without being heard, I struggle to satisfy all the role play required to appease my eldest, I struggle with not having the freedom to toilet alone never mind exercise and I struggle to keep the fun alive. I want them to have the best time with me (and me them) but when you are lone parenting there is so much life admin to keep up with that there seems so little time for enjoyment.


So a plan was formed for the weekend; Saturday morning would involve a first-time trip to the cinema followed by a visit from the beloved Moomie (grandmother) then Sunday morning would be free play (check me, so relaxed) with a firm promise of a playdate at one of those friends' houses where you can just sit back, drink coffee and watch as the children play beautifully together. Before you ask, no I won't tell you where they live and no I do not wish to share them.

The first part went pretty well; the cinema trip could almost be classed as an unmitigated success. They were only terrified for an hour of the 80 minute film, they spoke at full decibels throughout and ate their bodyweight in E-number infested treats but no one had to leave and no one pooped. I would even go far as to say that I would do it again. It was all they could talk about for the rest of the day. I was a super star parent. I was maintaining the fun despite being on my own. I was winning at life.

The first cinematic experience was an unmitigated success.

Then the boiler broke.


Then it snowed.

Then they couldn't fix the boiler.

Children don't cope well with the cold but they also don't cope well with being told to don extra layers. It's not the best mix when your house is colder than an igloo's icebox. They were miserable; cold and miserable and with the good tradesmen of Edinburgh otherwise occupied for the weekend the countdown for Husband's return was on again.

Huddling for warmth