The Parenting Hunger Games

Today I can honestly say that I was one of ‘those’ mums. The one who appears unable to control her feral offspring; the one looking broken, harassed and intermittently bewildered. I was the mum upon whom we bestow the half smile; the one laced with good intentions and heartfelt compassion, the one often accompanied by a conspiratorial nod loosely interpreted as “can’t they all be rascals sometimes?”.

Well I may be going out on a limb here, but I fear that that gesture is often tainted with a mere hint of smugness and a whiff of relief. Oh look, it’s not me today! The gods have spun their daily wheel of fortune, the violent whirring slowed to a gentle rhythmical revolution before ominously click, click, clicking into its final resting place. Today’s parenting ‘tributes’ have been selected.


Well today, that was me.


I should have known. It had been an inauspicious start to the day as, having thrown caution, knowledge and common sense to one side, I had attempted to free my 4 year old from the bind of night time nappies ignoring the fact that they were more often than not full to bursting on her morning liberation. Damn you mumsnet discussion threads! You had led me to believe that there was a chance that my pre-schooler merely needed to have that safety net removed. A little push in the right direction to encourage her to become more "bladder aware" when she is sleeping. It turns out she may need more of a shove.

Having leapt out of bed, awoken from the deepest, sweetest slumber by an anguished scream, I threw myself in her direction, ricocheting off the walls on the way to ambush what was a clearly an intruder trying to maim my first born. On arrival, I discovered that there was no masked man to wrestle but a deluge to wade through.

Pre-schooler bedroom at 0430

If you are yet to enter the toddler years, let me warn you, dealing with them when they have been woken abruptly is like dealing with an over amorous drunk, oscillating between uncontrollable giggles and inconsolable weeping with intermittent declarations of undying love thrown in for good measure. Having stripped everything that could possibly be stripped (child and selves included) we stumbled back into bed just before 5am dog tired and yet annoyingly awake.

Needless to say, this did not set me up for the day.

Sleep, why have you forsaken me?

The morning was a battle of wills, not so much with my eldest who was clearly fatigued from her nocturnal exertions, but with my near two year old. He is on the brink of being able to string together coherent sentences but will babble incessantly like every syllable is of paramount importance and then emit a blood curdling shriek when he realises that he is not being understood. This noise is also often accompanied with some act of defiance. This is not a fun stage.

I fear this is not the last time I will see him in striped overalls trying to break out of confinement

To top it all off we were being summoned back to the optician as my 4 year old had declared an inability to see the last line of the eye chart that was conveniently accompanied by an urgent desire for some spectacles which were uncannily similar to her best friend's. Odd how these things happen together. Still, we were to return for a reassessment to ensure that my child was merely a time waster but on this occasion I was to be outnumbered on the childcare front.

We entered the shop like a whirlwind with my son slipping his sweaty paw from my grip and running like he had stolen something. He was pulling all the frames available to him (at knee height) from their display before casually discarding them at his feet and moving on to throwing the meticulously piled leaflets into the air like oversized confetti, while I followed behind trying to rectify the situation and whispering "sorry, sorry, sorry" like an apologetic bridesmaid. I finally managed to bundle him under my arm in the classic rugby ball hold while I let the startled looking girl behind the desk know we were here. Just in case she missed our opening number.

Shame. Face.

We were ushered to a bank of seats at the back of the shop to await the optician but as soon as I loosened my vice like grip on the small one in order to remove my daughter's coat, he was off again, ducking and diving through the labyrinth of customer's legs. This time, a member of staff took pity on me and gallantly bestowed the gift of balloons on my offspring. Not just balloons though, but balloons on sticks. These are weapons in the hands of an unruly toddler and sure enough soon the elderly, poor sighted population of Edinburgh were being whacked in the face with an accompanying "BOOP!" resulting in instant transformations from looks of affection to utter bewilderment. As I wrestled the offending article from his sweaty hands I could see my saviour walking towards me, shrouded in a halo of light (which in retrospect could have been a loose light fitting). He was here, the optician, soon this hell would be over and I could manhandle the toddler back into the buggy.

Shame. Face.

No sooner had that sweet relief started to diffuse through my bloodstream than I heard a muted whisper of "Mummy I need the pot pot". My face fell as I slowly turned my head towards the source of such a wholly inconvenient declaration. Unlike her initial eye test, her appearance was so earnest and she had started to hop from foot to foot to demonstrate a sense of urgency.

The optician looked terrified. Clearly he was more used to dealing with the octogenarian population and was pre-child rearing in his personal life.

"Really sorry, but do you have a customer bathroom?"

"No, but there is a Gregg's a few doors down."

My face must have filled with instant contempt. I gestured to the hopping child at my feet and the kicking legs of the small one who remained bundled under my arm and he was off to ask the manager if we could use the staff one. She was clearly consumed with either compassion or an urgent desire to get us out of the shop as we were soon ushered to the employee's area. On a side note, why are the staff areas of shops quite so depressing? Is there really no where else to stow the mop than the communal bathroom? Is there no left over paint from the front of house that they could recycle to make their employees feel just a little appreciated? Anyhoo, I digress. There we were, in the downtrodden bathroom with me having to relinquish the toddler to expedite the toileting of the other but trying to maintain some parental control by intermittently shouting:

"DO NOT TOUCH THAT!"

"DIRTY, DIRTY!"

"DO NOT EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!"

As I help my daughter dismount and rectify her multiple layers of clothing there is an undeniable high pitched whine and I am aware of a stampede of footsteps running down the corridor in our direction. I stand up and turn to see the toddler gripping a red piece of string with a wide smile and an evil glint in his eye.

"Mama! I did it!" Clear as a bell...

Toddler free to a good home.

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Sharing a Life: A Tale of the Modern Day Family

I was reading this lesser known Julia Donaldson number to my pre- schooler the other evening when I realised that the story is very much in keeping with the magical/horrific first year of parenthood where everyone is very much in love but mostly with the new baby and also a little bit lost in themselves. Thus, another parody was born:

Look! A girl- with low self esteem,
Flirting with all the wrong men.
Tap, tap, tap
"You can't come in!"
You can't share a life with them

Or them
Or them
Or them!

Look! A cad, full of false promises
Run for your life, girl- hide!

At last, a flat, a space of your own!
Quick, girl! Scuttle inside.

Nightclub dancing (obviously)

One girl, safe in her flat,
When all of her dating is done,
Roaming all over the nightclubs
Then back to her home for one.

Look! A boy, a kind handsome boy.
Who can this nice boy be?
"Go away, Boy, whoever you are -
You can't share a life with me."

"I'm pretty awesome, not just nice.
Please let me share your life.
Give me a chance to prove that I care,
And perhaps you will soon be my wife."

The Wedding Day

Look! A job, a career moulding job.
A long distance move- here goes!
He flits to join her, puts a ring on her,
Their life together just flows!

Two friends, sharing a house,
Feeling happy and new,
Romping all over the house parties
Then back to their home for two.

Look! A child thing, trying to get in,
Wiggling and making a fuss.
"Go away, child, whoever you are -
You can't share a home with us."

"I'm not a child, I'm YOUR offspring.
Please let me in - don't be mean,
I love causing chaos; I'll keep you from sleep
You'll know your house used to be clean."

Three friends, sharing a home,
Tired as people can be,
Rollicking all round baby groups
Then back to their wonderful home for three.

But look how they've changed! The home feels too small.
"You're not doing washing" says Wife
"I'm fed up with being stuck in here.
It's time that I found a new life."

Grumps

"Really!" says Boy. "How ungrateful!"
Here I am, slaving away,
Working to feed our whole family.
If that's how you feel, I won't stay."

"Stop!" cries Child, but nobody hears.
The other two have a grump.
Wife empties a full ice-cream tub.
Boy finds a pub for his rump

Look! A scare, a terrible scare,
Giving everyone a fright
Two people look at each other
Know they were stupid to fight

But, look! A truce, a mutual truce.
Wife and the Kind Boy stare,
Too shy to speak to each other,
Too proud to say, "I was unfair"

Listen! A voice! And out comes a word
From the child wrapped around their necks
"Mama", "Dada" and everything's good
They might even consider some .... special cuddles?

Cuddles

Grandparents: Heavenly Sent or Hell's Angels?

As per the www.gov.uk website top grandparent facts (who knew) include:

• 1 in 4 working families and 1 in 3 working mothers use grandparents for childcare (that's me)
• 63% of all grandparents with grandchildren under 16 help out with childcare (also me)
• 1 in 5 grandmothers provide at least 10 hours a week of childcare (oh come on!)

I am guilty as charged. I use, abuse and yet am still terrified to lose my mother as my primary childcare giver. I am eternally grateful for the countless journeys she endures traversing Scotland's central belt, for every Tuesday night sleepover and Wednesday of work. I will never be able to convey the relief I feel when leaving my treasured progeny in the care of someone I know, love and trust. Neither will I ever be able to repay the sleepless nights suffered, remove every worry line sustained nor repair every glorious garment blighted by sticky hands. I will forever be in your debt (both emotionally and financially.)

The Mothership taking a turn on the tram

HOWEVER, and here's the thing, I think there is underhanded parental sabotage going on. I suspect someone has been playing the long game, counting the days until they could exact their revenge. Their time is now.

Oh yes, I am on to you mother. 

I know your game. 

The Mother playing the long game

You may have camouflaged your subterfuge in selfless acts, endless affection and the deluge of presents which you rain upon myself and my offspring but don't think me fooled. I can see through your smoke and mirrors. 

Smoke and mirrors

I have charted every misdemeanour and am here to reveal your underhanded ways to the masses:

1. THE RECORDER

My mother bought my daughter, at a mere 14months of age, a recorder. Not a flimsy, disposable, free-with-a-magazine type that only makes noise when you manage to expel air at the speed of light but a robust, school issue type that easily emits a shriek so painful that dogs within a 5mile radius will start bleeding from the ears. 

Shame on you.

Shame. On. You.

2. THE ENCOURAGEMENT OF IMAGINATIVE PLAY
 
Many is the time when I have been summoned to join a conference under the dining room table, where I am instructed to inhabit therole (a la Daniel Day Lewis) of Captain Hook to my preschooler's Wendy and toddler's Peter Pan. When I try to interject citing my sheer size, age and inflexibility as a barrier to joining them, I am duly met with the curt response of "Well [your mother] does it!" And there my argument dies (much like my soul).

Inhabiting her role (which one is unclear)

3. THE BAKING
 
When my daughter is not treading the imaginary boards or sprinkling the world in pink fairy princess dust she likes to bake. I do not bake. My mother bakes. Now, my daughter is not baking with aspirations of being a modern day Mary Berry nor does she find the process particularly soothing. No, my daughter does it so she can lick every utensil, vessel and digit that may come into contact with chocolate based goods and then enjoy the non-fruits of her labour. 

Should you have had to reason with a highly strung and emotional pre-schooler chasing the icing sugar dragon then I know you feel my pain. 

Mother, how could you?

Preparing her "line"

But "why?" I hear you ask. Why would she do such a thing? She is your mother. She loves you and cherishes your children. She was your own protector in infancy and childhood caregiver.  

And there we have it. 

For she has been where I am now. She too, has tried to tame the tyrannical toddler, wrangled with the recalcitrant rebel and valiantly vowed to avenge the vegetable. But where my nemeses are them, I was hers. 

 
I was the one who deprived her of sleep every night, crawling in to her bed under the cover of darkness and wedging myself between my parents like a teacher at a high school dance. I was the one who picked off an unsightly chicken pox scab and left it floating around the bath for her to fish out like the last bran flake in the breakfast bowl. I was the one who was so overcome by rage at the incessant teasing of a prepubescent persecutor that I stabbed him in the back with a compass leaving her to explain my behaviour to my, rather shocked, primary school teacher. 

How could that face be trouble?

Oh yes, she has suffered and she has waited. Her time is now.

So friends, parents and fellow captives, bide your time, stay strong for one day we shall rise!

But can we be sure to make it at a leisurely hour?

I am a Bad Parent

Today I am a bad parent. Today I let my toddler down. Her best friend, the one she turns to for guidance and for explanations that her parents clearly cannot give her; the one from whom she seeks counsel and self worth, had a birthday party. And I got the day wrong.

If you don't have children you won't understand this. If you have children and they have multiple interchangeable friends you will feel I am being over dramatic but if you have a child who is so raw with emotion that she cries at the sight of anyone looking anxious or disappointed or, heaven forbid, sad then you may be able to empathise.

I write this knowing that as she sleeps, she is gathering up her energy, dreaming of a day which she thinks will be filled with friends, fun and celebration (read cake) and I have to break the news to her. I need to tell her that it isn't going to happen and you would think at the grand age of 4 that she would have experience with this but I cannot give you another example. I am rootling, scraping and poking around the recesses of my brain for a time when she has had to deal with something similar.

Oh wait.

I remember.

It was the summer of '17 (not as catchy as '69 but just as disappointing) and my daughter was given an unprecedented starring role in the nursery summer show, despite being a mere 3 year old. She had been discovered. She was a star and this was her moment to shine. She was to be the straw-seller in the 3 little pigs show and despite routinely refusing to be clad in anything involving an inner seam she was willing to don a pair of denim dungarees in order to inhabit this role. This was a big thing.

The night before the show I picked her up from the nursery and took her home. She was her normal, chatty, delirious self  relaying all the excitement of the dress rehearsal they had participated in that day but as she took the last bite of her apple (read biscuit) I noticed some red, unsightly bumps on her forehead. I lifted her top, one hand over my eyes, dreading to reveal what I already knew was there. The chicken pox.

I felt sick.

I broke the news, explaining that she was poorly and highly contagious and therefore would not be able to take to the stage. She argued back that it was merely pink dirt and that she would be sick after the show. This was everything she had dreamt of for as long as she could remember, which in toddler life is about a week. She was desolate.

But that wasn't my fault. Sure, I felt keenly for her. I always do. Her heart is like an open wound with every struggle acting like a strong dose of salt, so when I see her crumple it pains me. I feel her pain acutely and curse anyone who is responsible. This time though, I did this. I was responsible. There was an invitation which I misread in haste. No one else was involved and there is no one else to blame.

Tomorrow I have to crush her little heart. I am not looking forward to it.

Advice to my Younger Self Wrapped Up in an 80s Bow

As my youngest edges ever closer to meeting the admissions criteria for the exclusive club of the terrible twos, I realise that in many ways I am emerging into the light having thrown off the shackles of the baby years. With this realisation I have started to think about what I would tell my pre child self were I to be able to go back in time? What nuggets of wisdom would I impart to that naive, insecure and needlessly bored mid twenties self? Except that you should maybe avoid that hairdresser in the West End as she'll give you a shag-come-mullet hairstyle that will take forever to grow out. Being that unsolicited advice is never particularly welcome I decided to wrap it up in an 80s trend gift box to go with your inevitable and highly regrettable haircut, the all important power ballad .You are welcome.


NOTHING'S GONNA STOP US NOW

Everyone has heard this old adage before but once you are not actively preventing, you are actively trying to conceive. You'll want to give yourself time, presuming there will be difficulties and you will need to get a year of "trying" under your belt (excuse the pun) before you can secure investigation and intervention with the NHS. Don't be fooled. In retrospect, those two blue lines herald our future within one month and you shall be less than prepared.

You will sit.

For 3 hours.

Staring.

Just staring.

It will be bad timing what with a new job, a house hunt underway, a husband in training and professional exams looming in the near future but the horse will now be whinnying from the other side of the door as you ham- fistedly try to wrestle with the Yale.

Just staring...

TWO OUT OF THREE AIN'T BAD

Those three dark haired children (two boys and a girl obviously) that you have always envisioned will disappear in a plume of smoke like a bad magic act. Instead, be prepared for only being able to welcome the two into your family but being lucky enough to watch your affectionate and doting daughter help mould her younger brother into something pretty fantastic.

The Dynamic Duo

ALONE


You will never be alone. You may think this is sweet and endearing that your beloved cherubs will love you so much that they cannot bear to be parted from your loving embrace. The reality is that there will be full days where you will not get a moment of solitude and this includes bathroom breaks, showers and body hair maintenance regimes. Expect plenty of questions in relation to the afore mentioned activities. You'll start offering to do all the chores that you loathe; gallantly offering to scrub the encrusted dishes until they sparkle like a Fairy advert, cleaning out the wardrobes of all the clothes which you no longer fit and even brandishing the iron from time to time merely so that you can secure a few moments of tranquility away from the barked instructions of your toddler on how to be a good cat owner, when you don't own a cat.

You will NEVER be alone

IF I COULD TURN BACK TIME


There may be days when you feel like this. Don't beat yourself up, everyone does even if they don't say it. I realise that in your pre-child naivety you probably think that it is horribly disloyal to your unborn, perfect progeny but it's not that you don't want them it's just that sometimes you crave the hedonistic days of minimal responsibility.

Well that and lie ins. My word, do you crave a lie in.

A toddler is the cruellest of alarm clocks

THEY'D DO ANYTHING FOR LOVE (BUT THEY WONT DO THAT)

And by "that" they mean eat any non-beige food groups. I know you live on vegetables and have a remarkably healthy diet free from sugary treats (damn you diabetes) but your children will not be swayed by your behaviour. I know you've been told that they will eat whatever you eat and that it is merely your ability to parent that will prevent this. You are wrong. There is nothing and no one as stubborn as a toddler faced with vegetable.

Good luck to you and God speed.

This paltry portion will go uneaten

EVERY ROSE HAS ITS THORN

Surprises happen (you'll have two of them) and there will be times when things look bleak. You'll think you are prepared for it not to go to plan but in all honesty you will feel sucker punched. Keep going. Once you know, you know and you can start to deal with it. Hope will endure, merely shifting its focus and small triumphs will undoubtedly result. These are the things to cling to in times of uncertainty. Know that if things had worked out differently then you wouldn't have what you have now, and believe me you want what you have now.

Please though, the hairdresser? STAY AWAY.

Stock photos have been used to prevent the humiliation of the innocent

CBeebies: The Hit List

Were I to coordinate a group of assassins to neutralise the key players in the CBeebies organisation undoubtedly to the delight and admiration of my fellow parental associates (who have only gained admission to the alliance by indisputably evidencing their credentials e.g. bare handed poo fishing, scooping baby vomit from soft furnishings and anatomical crevices, regular 3 person showers and not in a good way, etc.) I am pretty sure that I could identify the potential hit list without any need for spontaneously combusting devices or "burn after reading" type instruction. Furthermore, I truly believe that there are potential assassins lurking within the CBeebies programmes who are merely awaiting instruction and would readily eliminate the "marks" at a moment's notice. Let me address the likely targets one by one:

Mark 1
Name: Bing "The Bastard" Bunny

MO: Incessant whining about all things that may not go his way. Classes any abominable behaviour as a "Bing Thing" thereby nullifying any blame that may be placed at his door. Such a deplorable, repugnant rabbit that even his parents failed to form any sort of loving connection with him, abandoning him in his infancy into the care of a stuffed toy. Aforementioned toy is clearly both clinically depressed (note the regular sighs, monotone voice, lack of heartfelt emotion, apathy) and suffering from a form of Stockholm Syndrome as he is yet to liberate himself despite appearing to be in the charge of the house keys.

Execution: I think Paget is clearly for hire. She has never forgiven the reprehensible rabbit for his pilfering ways after he pocketed that lollipop, professing ignorance over the crime of shop lifting (Thieving? It's a Bing Thing). In addition, she is also clearly harbouring a deep seated resentment regarding the abhorrent animal's hold on her beloved Flop whom she is definitely lusting after.
As a stuffed toy, Paget will be able to deliver a Myxomatosis infected vector into the mark's vicinity without risking her own health. If the contemptible cousin Coco is having a sleepover, a bonus may be required.

The Repugnant Rabbit

Mark 2
Name: Raa Raa "The Infernal" Little Lion

MO: Unabating, unrelenting, nonsensical noise maker. Only happy when irritating all those who surround him. Will even go out of his way to find other animals to disturb (see Crocky fishing, Topsy reading, etc). Incapable of musicality so will therefore relay his key information in a rhythm not unlike slam poetry. Painful.

Execution: Rumour has it that Zebby has links with the American dental community and is believed to have forged a deal in which he will trade locations of certain members of the Jingly Jangly Jungle in return for his life. Whilst generally we consider ourselves, as an association, to be animal lovers (with the exception of Mark 1) we would be willing to let this King of the Jungle go for a bit of peace and quiet first thing in the morning.

The Loathsome Lion

Mark 3:
Name: Topsy and Tim's "Galling" Grandma

MO: An incredibly silly woman with a terrible taste in canine companions. Never to be heard uttering anything of any consequence. Will frequently summon her imbecile son to run numerous errands in relation to her pampered pooches whom she treats like children.

Execution: Joy may already be plotting this one. If anything, this hired gun may need to be reigned in. Her unfeigned loathing is evidenced in her spitting out the name "Jean" whenever the grandmother makes an impromptu and unsolicited appearance. Joy clearly blames her for creating and nurturing the woeful excuse for a husband whom she has to endure on a daily basis; a man so incompetent that he can lose his keys for a full episode before having his pre schooler find them in the door.
I think with Joy, we agree to cut her loose. Let her do what she has to but agree that should she be caught we will deny all knowledge of her existence.

The Galling Grandma and her imbecile son

With this, I conclude our first round of hits. It should be noted that this list is by no means comprehensive with further marks likely to be added in the very near future. However, I think we can all agree that Duggee is entirely safe and should be considered a national treasure.

National Treasure

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Now you are 4: An Open Letter to My Daughter

Dearest Bear

So today you turn 4; a proper little girl armed with beautiful blonde curls and strong, considered opinions. Despite the fact that you will imminently be donning your oversized backpack, learning to tie a tie and waving me off at the school gates, it seems like only yesterday you hurtled into the world pink, startled and desperate to be held.

Never parted for long

Long gone are those days though as despite still being found close at hand, you are now a whirlwind of excitement, never to be restrained by physical affection and consistently travelling at breakneck speed in both body and conversation. You are happiest when letting the world know how you feel whether it be through song or dialogue and any silences that may slip through your net will be soon filled with your demand to be informed of "what's your gossip?"

Express Yourself

With such articulate and persuasive speech I sometimes forget that you are only four and despite treasuring every heartfelt disclosure that you entrust unto me, I fear that I may be a little too stringent at times which is tough on the little person who feels others' disappointment so keenly. Never take this as a criticism though. Your empathic nature takes my breath away and it is quite possibly my favourite thing about you. No one is ever to be excluded from play, your brother is comforted for every knock and hardship he endures, treats are shared with others without the need for petition and your mummy's frequent desertions to run is permitted with minimal fuss even though i know you would much rather be spending that time elbow deep in pink glitter or channelling your inner princess.

Channel your inner princess

Your moral compass is set straight and true, guiding you on a course from which deviations are few and far between. You will instinctively choose what is right over what you want without counsel and whilst this doesn't always make you popular you don't seem to understand why anyone would choose to do anything else.

Stay strong

In summary my girl, you are beautiful inside and out. Your go to emotion is unadulterated joy evidenced by the skip in your step and the song in your voice. Stay you, stay kind, stay happy.

Stay you, stay kind, stay happy

All my love

Mummy

P.S. if you could eat some non beige food in the near future I would be very grateful