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. 

Where Do You Go To My Lovely: The Absent Mother

I am as stressed as an anxiety riddled dog on a battlefield on bonfire night. Despite consistently being reminded on all fronts that this is, in fact, the season to be jolly I am merely heaving myself from one day to the next whilst spinning more plates than a state banquet at Buckingham Palace. I am a mess.

Stressed

You see it all started with a rare work trip abroad requiring me to leave my children for 5 days. This would be my inaugural work trip as management and whilst there was no pressure being put upon me by anyone other than myself, I was keen to appear effective and knowledgeable with an air of capability. Following several IT disasters, a plethora of mosquito bites and a sheer inability to master the buttons on the elevator in our shared hotel, my appearance was less die hard professional and more bumbling baffoon. Adding on to that a myriad of failed meetings and a thick layer of maternal guilt meant that by the time I returned home I felt that I had short changed everyone involved and all that my trip had served to do was allow me to selfishly spend time not having to be responsible for the offspring.

I did enjoy that.

I mean when you are dining out in places like this... 

Then I found myself liking it and was consumed by self loathing.

It was a complex battle of emotions.

My initial approach was to avoid contact with their little faces and the news of cherished mundane goings on at home. My 5 hour time difference and a hectic schedule of meet and greets meant my plan was fool proof. While my boss was constantly stepping out to call and check on how things were going at the homestead, I was sending a daily text as proof of life. You may think me callous but at no time was I concerned as to the welfare of my children, they were with two of the best and caring human beings in existence. I knew that when they asked about me (which they would), their queries would be met with a such a strong, and resilient reassurance of my love that they would feel infinitely more comforted than they would having heard my tear strained voice through a long distance phonecall. I found the easiest way to avoid the ache was to avoid thinking of them in their entirety and before I knew it I was enjoying my new sense of freedom. There were no lunches to be packed, no squabbles to referee and no wriggly, resistant toes to be dried after bathtime.

Not everyone is as anti-bathtime as me... 

I couldn't physically be with them and there was no early return available so I had to cope. We had decided as a family that saying yes to this trip was the best decision in the long run but being the "primary caregiver" acknowledged that it was going to be a wrench for everyone involved. I was prepared for the angst and the guilt (suffered from the comfort of business class) but what I hadn't expected was to feel a world away from the person I am on a daily basis. All of a sudden I wasn't rushing away to do the school run or collect the poorly child from their alloted care provider; for the four days I was only responsible for myself. I was effectively 24 years old again.

When I eventually did return I was met with a hero's welcome. There was a banner telling me how much I had been missed and long, heartfelt cuddles where I felt like I might never be released. Then after I got past the husband the children were pretty pleased too. I felt awful. I felt that I had not achieved enough on my work trip to justify either their distress at not having me or the expense to the company for taking me.

My welcome home... 

This sense of having disappointed on all fronts has resulted in my working during my unscheduled hours upon my return but being wholly distracted by an all-consuming guilt for doing so being that I am not devoting my time to the children whom I have abandoned so recently. I am pleasing no one.

Factor into this the upcoming nativity, Christmas shopping, hospital appointments for just about every member of the family, work deadlines and a stack of unwritten Christmas cards which are due to friends I have not had the chance to WhatsApp (never mind chat to) in the past few months means that I am an utter wreck.

Is there ever the right balance? Can it "all" really ever be had? What colour of tights do angels really wear? 

Answers on a postcard... 

Some Day I'll Be Saturday Night: The Week That Never Ends

Well it has been quite the week on the rodeo of life that is parenting small children. The universe seemed to delight in making the stars align in such a way that an astrological apocalypse was created, if you believe in that sort of thing, interfering with my week as a working mother of two young children.

Let me walk you through it:

Monday

As we were on the 2.5 mile round trip to school, the wheel of the pram (and sole transportation device for the highly time pressured morning drop off) snapped beyond repair leaving it to limp sadly along the road with an air of Del Boy's Reliant Robin. Having coaxed it back down the hill and waved my husband and the The Toddler off to coax it home, I headed into the office to start my working week. As I settled myself down to work, opening my laptop and passing some light chit chat with my colleagues about the weekends events (theirs lavish and fun-filled, mine protracted and potty-based) I answered the phone to a rather distressed husband who, upon returning home had discovered that we were imminently about to be revisited by all of our son’s contributions to the family reunion in Pooland and was requesting the number of a "decent drain man". I have quite the little black book, clearly.

Tuesday

I woke with renewed optimism as the drains had been remedied and a new wheel was winging its way to us in the post. This was extremely fortunate as it was a day when optimism would be crucial as I had to run the gauntlet that is swimming lessons; solo. Now you may think that I am being overly dramatic and I am sure that there are parents in their droves who routinely deal with two small children in a swimming pool without too much anguish whatsoever. However I am not one of them. Dealing with two hungry, grumpy, slippery dictators who are reluctant to leave the fun of the pool never mind help in their drying and dressing is akin to wrangling a lubricated, enraged octopus into a leather one piece. Twice.

In all honesty though, the ordeal of swimming was merely the cherry on the top of this day following our impromptu voyage into town after the school drop off. Mixing a borderline potty trained toddler who has a penchant for trying out all the local facilities available to him with the first real cold snap of the year (rendering his bladder overactive and thimble sized) was, perhaps in hindsight, a touch cavalier but you will recall that I was feeling somewhat optimistic that morning. Having merely vacated the third premises a matter of moments earlier, the toddler emitted a shriek for "potty!" at such a pitch that it would have been injudicious of me to ignore his plea. The nearest convenience was (inconveniently) four floors above and only accessible by a single lift which moved at the pace of a fatigued snail so by the time we reached our destination the toddler was shedding clothes at a terrifying rate of knots as he ran towards his target. I too, ditched everything I was carrying in order to airlift him onto the receptacle in time.

We made it. My phone? Not so much.

Wednesday

Wednesday was a fiasco from beginning to end. My mother routinely treks across the country to provide childcare for us on a Wednesday thereby allowing me to hold down some form of employment without bankrupting ourselves on nursery fees. Today however, an ill judged petits four after lunch with the girls on the preceding day had resulted in a fractured front crown and a trip to the emergency dentist which meant I was left to partake in a business call with my youngest attempting to sit on my head. Totes profesh.

Thursday

Thursday was doomed before it began. I returned from a late hospital appointment the previous evening to the news that The Toddler was lurgy filled, spiking a temperature, intolerant of everybody and everything and, as a result, had taken to his bed at an unprecedented early hour. We settled on half hourly checks (never ones to overreact) and my mother called at half past ten to relay her concerns of meningitis. Needless to say sleep was sparse. It was determined prior to his waking that a GP visit was essential so the husband delayed his own GP duties to drop the Big One off at school to allow me to partake in the ridiculous system that our medical practice operates whereby patients must present on the morning to be seen as part of a triage system. With a two hour wait ahead of us (and a mandatory training course on the other side of the country beckoning) I was a touch frustrated to see the toddler terrorising the rest of the waiting room as "Spider Max" showing no signs of being anything other than brimming with health and vitality.

Damn you child.

Friday

Husband had to go away for the weekend and I was entirely understanding right up until the point that there was a double danger nap. At five o'clock. Enough said.

Saturday

Today is still ongoing and whilst I generally like to remain open minded, being that this day started at four thirty and has involved liquid poop I feel that perhaps I should just submit and wait until the stars shift or Mars does its retrograde thing.

Tomorrow is a new day.

Let It Go: The Subtle Art of Potty Training

This week has involved exponential loads of laundry, protracted periods spent on unforgivingly cold and hard tiled flooring and a multitude of poetic musings on the potential emotions that faecal matter may experience when finally reunited with their long lost family. For this week we have been potty training.

I will admit that I have been putting it off for a while. 

I have, in fact, previously denied my son access to a toilet having cruelly met his inaugural utterance of the phrase "POT POT!" with "Good boy for asking but you might just need to go in your nappy this time". In hindsight, a bit harsh but in my defence, we were on a motorway and I really don't like pulling over, or driving, or having urine stain my shoes. However, as he started to verbalise his preference for the porcelain over the junior Tena lady on a more regular basis the proverbial bullet had to be bitten.

The Holy Grail

The first step was to go underwear shopping for some "Big Boy Pants" that he couldn't possibly bear to part with should they become sullied by some rogue activity from his nether regions. Superheroes seemed to be his preferred theme but he was reminded that these gallant avengers were at his mercy. His poop was their nemesis.

"There is nothing to fear but fear itself" AND poop. Obvs. 

We were timid at first, choosing to loiter around the house with The Boy roaming trouser free and flaunting his pants to any passing visitor/delivery man while we punctuated each sentence with "Do you need to go pot- pot?“ and" Remember that Batman will need to go in the bin if the poop gets him" - a lesser known fact applicable to all masked avengers. We would hear his strained vocals, witness his straight legged stance and immediately enquire as to whether he needed a vessel into which his imminent deposit could be made. When he would immediately answer in the negative, we would play on his love for his novel wardrobe addition by decreeing them to be lost forever should they fall victim to his bodily excretion. An assessment that would induce him to instantly reabsorb any faecal matter which maybe making its way towards the light.

After 48 hours or so we became emboldened by the lack of reverse banana hammocks and started to reintroduce more layers on the bottom half. This bolstered us with false confidence as we played loose and free with the olfactory nerves; lifting the toddler in the air and taking deep, almost meditative, inhalations to assess the situation on a regular basis. Sure, we were accident free but we had had to imprint a map of public toilets, anonymous department stores and friendly establishments whom we could access at a moments notice should the need arise, and it did. With a disturbing and relentless frequency.

At least he dressed for easy access... 

As my work days approached and the baton of childcare was about to be passed to the Mother ship, The Boy's stomach had started to bloat to the point that he resembled an off season Santa who was prone to overindulgence and was yet to don his whiskers for the winter season. Yet, still that turtle refused to emerge from its hiding place. We were all on tenter hooks.

We were all living on the edge

In the end it took a communal visit to the bathroom with his beloved mentor/sister and the decision to coach one another through the birthing process. When it finally happened, he frightened himself by turning to look at what had been lurking within and was startled to find the potty straining to contain what must have constituted half his bodyweight not five minutes earlier. Party poppers were discharged with wild abandon, anthemic songs were chanted and everyone hugged amid slaps on the back and tears of pride being wiped from their smiling faces. We had done it. I felt like lighting a cigar.

I returned to work with a spring in my step and when I received a phone call the next day from my mother to relay the magical story of how The Boy had reenacted the event that very morning, I was beaming with a pride so overwhelming that I had to relay the news to my unsuspecting work colleagues. An act I immediately regretted as I witnessed their faces adopt what can only be described as a mixture of dismay and disgust. My mother's pride was so palpable that she later confused my enquiry into how their day was going with a request for a more detailed assessment of his faecal matter. A request that she happily and rather illustratively attended to as a matter of priority.

Communications took a dark turn

We are now four days into no accidents and two poos down. Whilst I would be cavalier to declare Gotham to be safe from imminent harm I do believe that the masked avenger is definitely getting his strut back.

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

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.

You've Got a Friend In Me: An Open Letter to My Friends

Dear Friends,

I am sorry. 

I realise that I don't call, email or even text you as much as I should. I know that there are times when you must feel like I am selfishly absorbed in my own little world and have forgotten the pivotal role that you played at that particularly bad time in my life or how we used to live in one another's pockets without even having to verbalise our shared thoughts because we already knew what one another were thinking about every aspect of every day. I am conscious of the fact that you have things going on, things that as your friend I should be aware of and should be there to offer counsel or merely act as a sounding board, allowing you to vent your frustrations or voice your concerns; things that I would be aware of if I was more present in your daily life.

Me: in your daily life

Whilst, I am not normally one to blow my own trumpet but I like to think that I used to be pretty good as friends go. I realise that my ability to pick up the phone has always been somewhat lacking, fearing the conversation unnatural and stilted, but I made up for it in other ways. I used to be good at just "checking in" or dropping a text or Facebook message when I came across something that reminded me of you or us. I used to make the effort to visit, even if just for one night so that I could see you in person, feel us ease into our relationship like we had never been apart and put the world to rights; solving everyone else's problems and making light of our own.

I used to be a good friend.

Putting the world to rights

Now I struggle to remember birthdays or anniversaries, even when I played a key role in the ceremony. Now, I reply to messages a week later, having received them whilst wrestling with my toddler who is reluctant to get his nappy changed despite smelling like a blocked swear drain and being unable to sit down for fear of sending poop into crevices from where it shall never be recovered. Now, I see or hear things that remind me of you and induce a smile and I put them on the list. I put them on the list of things to do as undoubtedly when I experience such a memory I will be herding the small people from one activity to another or in the middle of a very complex role play. Now, I think of arranging a visit to spend time with you and I have to sit down with my husband and work it when he can alter his rota to accommodate the lion share of childcare. I have to factor in continuity for my kids, resident training required for work and my husband's extra curricular activities at which point we get distracted by a child crying out, unable to sleep and seeking parental comfort and the planning is forgotten for another few weeks.

They can be distracting

But know this, I love you and I miss you. I do remember the way we use to be and I hope and pray that one day we will be there again. 

I ask for you to be patient. 

For my children are two and four. Their world's are hectic but limited and they are the centre of it and I am their moon; their constant. They are the best thing that I have ever done but they devour my time, attention and thoughts like I could never have imagined. They are relentless in their capacity and need for love and attention and I must be there to give it. When I am not there I am desperately trying to look like a professional in a job where I constantly feel out of my depth but valued at the same time. I am spread as thinly as the lactose intolerant would spread butter on toast but it won't be this way forever; one day I will be back.

Continuity

One day we will have girls' weekends and extended conversations over WhatsApp where we discuss everything and nothing. One day we will get the chance to relax together and be us again. 

One day, my lovely, we will be the best of friends once again.

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. 

Driving With The Brakes On: Having to Say Goodbye

On the 2nd of May we lost a member of the family and I was unexpectedly heartbroken. Whilst you may think me callous to question my degree of mourning when a member of family passes, I should point out that this particular member of the family was mechanic in nature. I lost my first car. 

At the grand age of 33, I had to part with the car I had had for 13 years and his name was Bartleby. Yes, that is right, I named him. He had one original panel (I'm not that good a driver) but he was in essence, the same; the ever constant in a life that had changed beyond recognition.

The only photo I have of my beloved car.
Excuse the hat.

He was gifted to me on the Christmas of 2004 when I was a medical student about to embark on the clinical element of my training. A time when I would be expected to move from the safety of the small town of St. Andrews to the bustling metropolis of Manchester and transport myself between various district hospitals and suburban GP practices. 

My parents were particularly cruel in their gifting and left me to open a single calendar whilst my brothers unwrapped gift upon gift under the glow of the Christmas lights. Within the calendar they had pierced the cellophane to insert the insurance documents which would reveal my substantial and unprecedented gift were I astute enough to open it. 

I wasn't. 

I waited.

And waited.

Eventually my mother asked me if i had inspected the many depictions of Audrey Hepburn to which I feigned interest and tore the cellophane off allowing the papers to flop onto my lap. I was ecstatic. As a "home girl" I was terrified at the prospect of leaving my family and Scotland, where I had lived since the age of 5, to venture south of the border with only my friends upon whom to rely. This mode of transport was a life line; an escape route in times of trouble and, boy, did he live up to the promise.

At two months old, Bartleby saved a life. It's a story that is not mine to tell but believe me when I say that, without him, I do not know how things would have panned out and I am forever grateful that I need never know. 

When in Manchester he ferried me from placement to placement and took me home when I needed. If you have ever wondered, a 175mile journey on the M6 in a 1.2litre Fiat Punto is less than fun unless you install your own personal karaoke booth. I would recommend Power Ballads and anguished facial expressions to maximise enjoyment. I would not recommend taking your eyes off the speedometre on the downhill as that is where he comes into his own and the Cumbrian police make an awful lot of money out of you for that. 

Whilst a student we, being Bartleby and I, crashed. I was pulling out from a minor to a major road and there was a blind corner. Sure enough, a boy racer tore into the side of me and I emerged unscathed in body but broken in spirit. A kind man in a three quarter length black woollen coat saw the incident and crossed the road to check I was ok, stopping the boy racer mid tirade and holding me while I wept snot riddled tears into his beautiful jacket until my boyfriend arrived. 

At 3 years old he saw me graduate...

When I moved to London for two years, he came with me (the car, not the stranger). He helped me move in with my then boyfriend with all the optimism of a fledgling adult. He then helped me move out of the flat and relationship with my then boyfriend (now husband- long story for those not in the know) having discovered that adulting is hard. He moved me to back to the North West when I bought a house and tried to forge a career in doctoring and shuttled me up and down from Edinburgh as I tried to maintain a relationship with the previous boyfriend who had been reinstated. 

From the age of 4 through 7 he ferried me between hospital jobs...

He moved North with us when we got engaged and continued in his role as karaoke booth and conveyance (but mostly karaoke booth). He saw me change career (which, having carried me through multiple breakdowns following the days of doctoring, he was very glad of) and embark on motherhood. He ferried me from appointment to appointment and held me while I cried about the baby I was going to lose, but then didn't. 

At 7 he saw us get married...

He watched as I cruelly exchanged him for my husband's car after my babies were born and we needed 5 door access. He took my husband to work and transported him from home visit to home visit, witnessing too many ambulances and untimely deaths as is the GP life in the deprived areas of Scotland. 

He worked hard. He was a hard working car and a true member of the family. He lived through so much with us and without him so many things might have been different.

At 11 he saw us become a family of 4...

Whilst I have written this about the car, I really write it for my parents. They gave me that car and without the car so many things may not have been. In all honesty, I may have not married the man I did, I may not have had the relationship with my grandmother that I enjoyed, I may not have had the friends I do now and I may not have felt the freedom to chose a career that made me happy. I know it was a tough decision, as with three children I was the only one to be gifted a car but I treasured that car and all the freedom it gave me; for 13 glorious years. 

R.I.P. Bartleby, we really loved you.