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. 

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. 

Don't Speak: The Toddler Learns to Talk

My youngest is hitting that "good age", you know the one I mean; when their vocabulary extends beyond "Daddy" (accompanied by a wistful look and a clammy hand round his neck) and "No Mummy!" (two words that are never to be separated, clearly attributing blame for everything from third world poverty to why mud doesn't taste so good.) Now though, we are hearing those words being strung together into coherent sentences, so articulate (by the third attempt and with a firm grasp of the back story) and insightful ("triceratops DOES have a horn, my darling!") that no one can possibly dispute his superior intellect.

High brow conversationalist. 

His new found prowess with the spoken word just seems to have made life that little bit easier for all concerned. I (mostly) understand him and he understands me, despite deliberately choosing to disregard everything I say. He and his sister play so well together (now that he can follow orders and mimic feline behaviour upon demand) that I hope to soon be usurped as the lead in our impromptu (and yet critically acclaimed) household productions. The ability to reason with him is within touching distance (on a good day) and he is turning out to be quite the conversationalist.

They are forming an alliance. 

However, getting to this point (and I suspect moving beyond) has not been without its hurdles. There have been times when his mispronunciations have rendered us utterly bewildered,  convulsing with laughter and, on one occasion, absolutely toe- curlingly mortified when he started screaming "You can't!" at the top of his lungs but misemployed a "u" rather than an "a" in the second word.

Our much less offensive and therefore endearing mispronunciations to date include (but are not limited to) "poop-pets" when describing the toy he had created by donning his socks on his hands during a long car journey, "empehent" for the giant grey creature with tusks and a trunk and "ear-muffins" in reference to his sisters winter headgear. Whilst these examples still make me laugh on the inside I pity the fool who allows their lip curl upwards in his presence lest you forget that "it is NOT FUNNY!"

Just not funny... 

His frustrations do not stop there I am afraid. Should you fail to comprehend the information which he is desperately trying to impart, he will repeat the phrase a maximum of three times before raising his clenched fists, gritting his teeth and making a shrill, blood curdling scream thereby ensuring that you are fully aware that you have displeased him. I once had a rather protracted conversation with him about the number of ways in which I did not resemble the rotund, balding effigy of a medieval heroic figure to which he was directing my gaze whilst declaring "That's you! That's you, Mummy!" It was only upon dodging the flailing limbs and rupturing my left ear drum that I realised he had probably been pointing out a "Statue! Statue Mummy!" I should never have doubted him. Did I tell you that he is really clever?

Hopefully all these things will be in the past now that his vocabulary is expanding at a terrifying rate of knots. The one aspect of the toddler which I hadn't factored in, however, is their rather brutal honesty. My first child left the womb exuding empathy; she would cuddle you if you looked anything less than delighted and when her words arrived they were always thoughtful and considerate. My youngest has little time for that. He frequently keeps me updated on the squishiness of my stomach, the prevalence of my grey hairs and the number of wrinkles that adorn my tired face. 

Brutal honesty

Maybe I won't rush the arrival of the rest of his vocabulary.

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

Slipping Through My Fingers: Her First Day of School

Today it happened.

I knew that it was coming and, to be honest, more recently it has gone from being a vague August date pencilled in to the not too distant future, to a craved, crossing off the calendar- type, event. For today, my daughter has started school.

At four and a half, she is on the younger side of the permissable age range but I never really worried about her starting or contemplated deferring as she has always possessed an insatiable curiosity that in more recent times I was struggling to assuage. She has never shown anything less than emotional maturity but more recently she has been bedevilled by an effervescence of spirit that borders on insanity. 

It has been hell.

In my sensible parenting hat I realise that the volume and mania has all been due to nerves and the fear of the unknown with her school date hanging in the periphery. I know that she wants to love the experience of school as much as she is being told that she will. I am aware that she possesses a desperate need to please and will refuse to admit that there is anything less than unadulterated excitement coursing through her veins but that her anxieties also need an outlet. 

That outlet is cacophonic to the extreme.

When words fail her she moves to singing, tapping, banging, drumming, rattling and even devising her own language which she is willing to teach to any unsuspecting passerby as long as they are willing to swear allegiance to her totalitarian regime. She has been impossible. So, as the first day loomed I wasn't particularly emotional (despite pretending to be) as she had filled me with her own false confidence. This was what she needed; she was desperate for it. Her pre-school had served its purpose but was no longer challenging her in the way that it once had, her friends were making her feel inadequate as a person and she craved stimulation in every sense of the word. School would save us all.

School ready

So, on the 23rd of August the uniform hung in her room like the gown of a young bride; a promise of the amazing life changing day she was about to relish. She would look at it adoringly savouring it's textures and distinct tartan that would identify her as a member of a community; a posse, a clan. She would belong. Breakfast was the same as always with encouragement required to desist from incessant, nonsensical chatter to consume even the meanest morsel. Donning the garments which she had been yearning for followed with only three separate attempts by her parental unit at tying a tie being required. She was ready.

Poised and ready

There was then a 1.5mile journey to contend with; on a scooter. We made it with only minutes to spare. She told us how excited she was and how much she was looking forward to her day. We were dismissed with a distracted wave of the hand as, with tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth, she started furiously colouring a picture of three children skipping through the school gates with wild abandon. 

No tears, from anybody. We had aced this. She was ready, prepared and made for this. School was going to be her domain; her haven. 

Pick up did nothing to dispel our beliefs. Whilst waiting outside the classroom amidst the other anxious faces we could hear her voice ringing out. Despite exchanging rueful glances, my husband and I were secretly delighted that she had clearly retained her joyful enthusiasm for life and everything that school had to offer. Her constant chatter continued throughout the afternoon and evening with any query about her day being met with nothing but unadulterated zeal. 

"I love school!"
"Best day ever Mummy!"
"I am going to love school even more than you did Mummy!"

Well that was an odd comment but I initially dismissed it until her eyes filled with tears.

"There was this one thing though Mummy. At lunch I was in the playground and I couldn't find anyone. The girl I was meant to stay with kept running away from me. I missed you then Mummy." She sniffed. "It was just that one thing though Mummy."

My heart broke.

I put her to bed. I told her how awesome she was as a human being and how lucky the friends, whom she is yet to discover, will be to have her in their lives.

Then I took myself off and wept. 

No one warns you about the second day of school.

She is awesome.

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.

What I Go To School For: My First Day at School

Yesterday was a big day for me. I had to walk into an alien environment, meet a room full of new people and convince them that I have friend potential; for yesterday was my first day at school. It was also my daughter's, but at some point a child has to learn that it's not all about them.

Best foot forward

Anyhoo, I stand in the playground with a mouth as dry as the desert, clammy hands gripping my bag and brandishing a smile that I hope radiates just the right amount of friendly but is potentially denoting a hint of lunacy. As I reluctantly leave the security of my toddler's hand hold, I feel exposed in my solitary state and have to navigate my way through the gauntlet of small talk with my daughter's potential new friends' parents. One minute I am terrified that I ooze inferiority amongst people who are far more experienced in these sorts of situations whilst the next, I fear that a stench of superiority clings to my person due to the unfortunate case of "resting bitch face" but what I am actually exuding is upper lip sweat. The holding pen which we have been shepherded, is built like a conservatory and has slowly peaked at the temperature of the sun. However, determined not to let my little girl down, I surreptitiously wipe my lip and broaden that smile, inducing a maniacal eye twitch that does nothing to reassure my peers.

Was I being measured up?

I desperately want to get this right as finding the right place for our girl in the education system involved long, hard deliberations, multiple financial assessments and more school visits than a workaholic HMIE employee with a bus pass. Eventually we chose to send our girl to a particularly lovely independent school. Now, where I was state schooled, my husband boarded and, quite frankly, we are both equally super and ended up in the same place and in the same profession (albeit briefly but that is another story). So I am not here to argue my case, defend myself and my family's choice or pretend that it's the right decision for everyone but for our little girl it is. So that is that.

However as a novice to the world of independent schooling,  I find myself fumbling about in the dark a bit; worrying about etiquette, my own ignorance and dress codes. In fact, as a person who is likely to be buried in her athletic wear, whose daughter stops doing whatever has captivated her attention this far to look her mother up and down with mouth gaping when she dons anything lacking the lycra stretch, a person whom has been known to frequent her husband's side of the wardrobe rather than her own; I will admit to getting into a little bit of a flap about what to wear on our first day. Should I look like I had:

A) Made an effort (giving the impression that I am ready to get involved - PTA here I come!)?

B) Just left the office (despite it being on one of my non-working days)?

C) Just left the play park ("check me, interacting with my prodigy! I only ever check my phone at nap time you know.")?

D) Just left the gym (suggesting that we have enough money that I don't need to work and can have my children in full time child care)?

How was I meant to look?! What was "the right impression"  to be giving? We should have been given guidance; we should have been given uniforms.

Too much?

This school business has got me all in pickle, and it's just because I want to get it right, for her, but do you know what I learnt from my first day? We are all in the same boat. Everyone was a little bit nervous and everyone was trying to make the best impression. I wonder what school will teach me next?

I Got This

Another Brick in the Wall: My Relationship with Nursery

I have a love/hate relationship with my children's nursery. This involves me swinging from intense periods of frustration when empty threats of pulling the offspring from the environment in which they are settled are thrown in the direction of a husband whom I know won't hold me to it, to periods of enormous appreciation for all that they do to mould my children into polite members of society whilst maintain their individuality.

Nursery: helps that it is a beautiful building

I have a somewhat chequered past with the nursery due to an incident when I may have struggled to mask my disappointment (read "hulked out") at an aspect of their care provision having arrived to collect my hyperactive 18month old, who was in the process of dropping her nap, and been informed that she had had a "really good sleep" that day. Curious, I enquired what constitutes a "good sleep" in their eyes only to be told that she had been allowed to doze for over 3 hours. "Why?" I asked utterly incredulous. "Because it's Friday." They replied.

Hulked Out

Now, when solo parenting a routinely poor sleeper for the weekend after a busy working week, being given the news that your day has just been extended by a solid 3 hours is something of a disappointment. I may have let on that I wasn't best pleased and despite being 3 room changes and 3 years down the line I am fully aware that my reputation as a "difficult parent" within the nursery precedes me.

However, since learning of my daughter's brief foray into the world of bullies and having to report it to those in charge I have discovered a new found respect for the teaching staff in the pre-school. Whilst there may be instances of laziness peppered throughout the nursery there are also some truly gifted educators with whom I am loathe to part from, never mind my daughter.

Her time at preschool is coming to an end

On learning of her struggle to understand why her beloved best friend would utter such callous and cruel comments leaving her insecure and lacking in confidence and sense of self, her teacher formulated a plan to both buoy her up quietly and consistently while showing the other child that she was not the top dog without obvious penalising her. There were open conversation between the three of them where feelings were openly discussed and apologies invited, circle time where the class would discuss their unique differences and close observation during periods of free play. However, the latest and potentially most lucrative part of the plan involved bestowing the lead role in the pre-school production to my daughter. A play which conveniently weaves a tale conveying the sentiment that size is irrelevant in the grand scheme of things and that even the smallest of bodies can house the greatest of spirits and the strongest of wills.

Making Julia Donaldson proud

This particular act has gone a long way to restoring her, previously robust, self esteem and ensured that she enter her school environment happy and confident, safe in the knowledge that she really is pretty awesome. 

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

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

Schooled

Since our oldest child turned three we have been somewhat preoccupied with the thought of schooling and how best to go about it. When I say preoccupied, there are times when it has consumed my thoughts upon waking and drifting to sleep.

I have an almighty fear of getting it wrong and ruining my children forever. Which I am sure with the gift of hindsight will be laughable but it doesn’t feel very amusing right now.

The worst part of all is that the distress is due to a very middle-class quandary (which I do realise I am extremely fortunate to even be able to consider) for I am trying to decide between state and private schooling.

You see, my husband was private schooled and I, state. Academically we are probably on par but where he is filled with an innate confidence and comfort in who he is, I am racked with insecurity and would gratefully morph into (any) another human being altogether. I see he and his friends and they just seem more at ease with who they are and their lot in life. For some reason, I put this, at least in part, down to schooling. I do realise that I am probably entirely mistaken, however, it is the one thing I can do something about. I want my children to have the confidence (not arrogance) to enjoy their lives to the fullest. So while there is certainly nothing I can do about the genetic make-up that I have passed down, what I can do is obsess on schools; private schools, state schools, grammar schools, mixed schools and everything in between.

What I would like to make very clear is that I don’t think private schooling makes you a better individual and I do see that in some cases it can do quite the opposite. I do believe that the quality of the teaching staff is identical but the class sizes and resources they enjoy are not and if we can afford it then surely we should lavish those bouquets of pencils upon them! But I then realise that we are merely on the cusp of being able to afford it and would I be short changing them elsewhere? Would they end up enduring school at the bottom of the social heap like a Cinderella who has been discovered half way through the first dance?  

With jobs that can be easily moved, we regularly play the “Right Move” game where we pick an area and look up the available schools in the area ( I should point out that this can involve plonking our baby on the map and seeing where he crawls). Although currently Scotland based, England (as well as the weather) has the attractive offer of grammar schools as while we do not struggle to meet the mortgage repayments, we would certainly be stretching ourselves by enrolling two children in private school but then is anything more important that your children’s education? And again, I come full circle.

That’s it. I’m home schooling

The "Right Move Game" Toddler Style