Walk the Line: The Mother - Daughter Relationship

This weekend I have been on a mini break and by mini break I mean that I have been bed ridden with a nasty bout of tonsillitis. Thankfully, this illness fell on the same weekend that I was due to run the Great Run Women's 10k with my mother to raise money for the fantastic Glasgow Children's Hospital Charity. So whilst I was very disappointed not to be able to fulfil my promise to the charity and my mother (who ran it anyway) it did mean that I was back at the homestead with a husband geared up for the role of childcare allowing me to retreat back into the role of the child and wallow in my ill health without fretting about which child was going to maim the other.

As I emerged from the confines of my bedroom 24 hours later (with the offspring safely ensconced in a city 40 miles away) and lolloped from couch to kitchen where my preferred drinks were found chilling and the ice cream was freezing, ready to ease the searing pain in my throat at a moment's notice, I started thinking about my relationship with my mother. 

Hold on to your hats people.

I was always a good child almost to the extent of, quite frankly, being a little dull. I habitually towed the line and would be racked with guilt if I ever strayed from the desired behaviour. I was convinced that the world is a karmically balanced place and that any questionable act on my part would lead to a punishment elsewhere. So I did the right thing. All the time. My best friend once told me that were we planning an activity that would test our responsibility as a group the first question out of her mother's mouth would be "is [Mother Almost Never Knows Best] going?" and if my friend hoped for an answer in the affirmative she would always say yes. The truth is, that the plan wasn't always to do the right thing (I mean we were teenagers) and there were many times where I would cry off and even ask my mother to lie and say I was grounded (having never actually been grounded in my life) just so that I could avoid doing the wrong thing as it would fill me with dread and a terrible stomach ache. 

My inability to bend the rules (never mind break them) meant that my mother eventually took things into her own hands and demanded my elder brothers take me out on a night out, a somewhat surprising turn of events as she, herself, was no rebel and the venue they were attending was not one for the under age and would most definitely be selling the old "dancing juice".

The point is, that we had no beef. We never went through "those difficult teenage years" when doors are slammed, secrets are kept and cruel words are uttered in the heat of the moment. If anything, I think my mother worried that I was trying to be too perfect, and setting myself a standard that I could never live up to thereby needlessly setting myself up for a failure with which I could never cope. 

When I look at my daughter and think about the loggerheads we get into, despite her only being 4, I am torn between thinking "will we ever be friends" and "oh I like your spirit". In some ways I love that she and I are totally different and I pray that she will push the boundaries (within reason), confident in the knowledge that she is good and kind and will never go too far wrong. It's just that I really love my mum and we are almost carbon copies of one another. She is the one on speed dial (if I knew how to program my phone) for any moans, pointless chats or good news; she is the one who my husband asks about when he comes in the door after a day at work (knowing that we will have spoken at least once since he left the house that morning) and she is the one who understands my parenting highs, lows and mediocrities. 

Thank goodness they get along

I want to have the same relationship with my daughter but worry that we aren't the same people. Then, I tell myself off as you can't birth your friends it's just that my mum and I got really lucky. It's just that I want her to be able to phone me up when something goes horribly wrong, I want her to ask me to help her plan her wedding knowing that I'll get it right for her, I want her to be able to talk to me about boys (the good and the bad) and contraception and her relationships. 

Basically when I grow up, I want to be my mum.

Like mother, like daughter

For those friends who read this and were lied to in the past, please forgive me?

Old Before I Die: The Four Phases of Parenting

The past week has been spent "en famille" in the south of France. When I say "en famille" I mean, the extended variety. My husband's father reached a grand 80 years of age in the year 2018 and to commemorate this, his beloved wife of "too many years to mention" decided to treat/subject him to a week of his children, their significant others and mutinous offspring in the delightful surroundings of the sunny Dordogne. As we sat around the dinner table, umbrellas in hand, raising a glass to mark, both, his being another day closer to becoming penpals with the country's monarch and the brief absence of our progeny (although, ever eager to employ their linguistic skills they later decided to translate "en vacance" as "late night party" for the duration of our stay) I realised that we were, as a family, clearly experiencing the four stages of the adult enduring parenthood.

Evolution of the Parent 

Stage One: Unlimited Potential
My husband's twin sister is currently on the brink of adding her first twig to the increasingly thick canopy of our family tree. In fact, so close is she to sending her first child down nature's water slide that the husband has been brushing up on his knowledge of the choreography of birth just in case the subarctic temperatures of the swimming pool induce any untimely activity. In hindsight, both she and her husband have excelled at their pre-procreational state; they have run marathons, learnt languages, travelled to numerous far flung countries and found time to give back to the community. Having achieved all these, rather commendable, feats they have now shifted their attentions to starting a family. With their progeny still safely ensconced in the womb they epitomise the limitless potential of parenthood; where the possibilities and aspirations are endless and when you feel that you merely have to choose the type of parent you want to become.

Stage Two: The Thick of It
We clearly represent this stage. With a four year old who never draws breath and a two year old who can spot danger a mile off and run straight into it, our aspirations have shifted somewhat. Gone are the days when we had the time to consider how best to parent, replaced by a mere need to survive; when the hours between sunrise (0434) and sunset (2147) are spent battling to keep them alive, fed and law abiding. 

Parenting Toddlers: The Thick of It

Stage Three: Learning to Live Again
The husband's brother and his lovely wife demonstrate this plateau in parenthood; also known as the "school years". Their children are now of the age where they can mostly entertain themselves given the right tools, balls, sporting paraphernalia and IT equipment necessary. No longer are the adults being called upon to pretend to be crocodiles and attempt to catch the toes of the passing prey, now they are able to look on and marvel at how their efforts are panning out whilst learning how to best employ their new found spare time (when they are not fetching, carrying and ferrying their brood from one extracurricular activity to another or fretting about the intricacies of their pre-teen social circles).

Mostly down to the fetching and carrying one day...

Stage Four: Liberation
The in-laws now occupy the hallowed ground of reduced responsibility. Sure, they continue to weigh in and rescue their offspring in their hour(s) of need and I am sure they continue to expend far more energy than can possibly be imagined agonising over poor life decisions that their progeny may make from time to time but to all extents and purposes the baton of guardianship has been passed down the chain. With three adult children who are (almost) entirely self sufficient, they have re-entered a period of freedom that we can only dream about and live in that perfect hybrid state of being able to take pride in their grandchildren's adorable natures and daily accomplishments whilst not being responsible for moulding them into upstanding members of society and, best of all, being able to pass them back.

One day, I hope that I too shall be celebrating a landmark age surrounded by my nearest and dearest as they battle to wrangle their spirited offspring while I look on, glass of chilled wine in hand, intermittently engaging them in a brief game or illogical conversation for then I too shall pass them back.

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. 

Enter Sandman: The Nighttime Negotiation

It is a truth universally acknowledged that, following an Oscar worthy performance of surprise when the allotted bed time hour rolls around, a toddler will resolutely refuse to go to sleep on those evenings on which you need them to most. These evenings include, but are not limited to:

1. When you have cobbled together enough energy and enthusiasm for a rare night out and have promised the rather shell shocked looking babysitter that the children will be asleep for the duration.

2. Following a particularly hard day at the office (be it actual, home or metaphorical); when you have expended every last ounce of patience placating Nora the office nag/Nigel from accounts/Ned the tyrannical toddler.

3. When you have any form of urgent, non toddler friendly activity to undertake e.g. the home hair dye when you are less roots and more bad ombre, any computer based activity (see bill paying, blogging, on line shopping, etc.), long overdue marital relations (oh it feels good to laugh.)

These are the evenings on which the toddler will take it upon themselves to inhabit the role of cocaine addled Wall Street banker circa 1985. Their meticulously choreographed bedtime revolt will undoubtedly follow five similar stages to those of grief:

Stage One: Denial

At the mere mention of bed the toddler will instantly find great interest in a previously ignored plaything, probably previously relegated to the bottom of the over filled toy box which they will undoubtedly need to violently ransack to locate afore mentioned object. This toy shall utterly consume them to the point that they will be unable to hear repeated requests to brush their teeth, use the potty or stop torturing the family pet.

"Bedtime you say? We're off..."

Stage Two: Anger

At the point in which you need to step in and physically extricate them from the situation, proffer the toothpaste laden brush towards their person and plop them on the urine receptacle they shall mount one of two responses:

(1)   Writhe around like a fish on dry land until you are forced to put them down for fear of dropping them (which would only serve to delay bed time further – eyes on the prize, people.)

(2)   Full body plank with such rigidity that you fear rigor mortis has set in.

He is a wily character...

Stage Three: Bargaining

If your toddler has mastered the art of verbal communication they will likely attempt to play on your emotions, weakened by the day’s events and guilt for your unfettered joy at the potential of parting with your beloved offspring, you will likely be wholly susceptible to their doe eyes, petted lips and pleads for “just one more stowy” (knowing full well that they can pronounce the ‘r’s’ with aplomb when they are demanding rice cakes, raisins and Raa Raa the Reprehensible Lion.) Should your toddler be yet to vocalise they will employ their inner thespian, using the body as a tool to pluck at your heart strings. There will be clammy hands thrown around the neck, deep and desperate cuddles that make you feel indispensable; the absolute definition of their continued wellbeing. You will be convinced that a few minutes more body contact will eventually result in a bedtime without reproach. You will be wrong though.  

Just 5 more minutes....

Stage Four: Depression

The tears will flow. And flow. Then they will ebb, and you may even get hopeful, but then they will flow. You shall wait outside the door listening to their anguished cries citing your failure to love them as the reason that they can no longer go on. You will feel bad.

You will feel (and potentially look) bad

Stage Five: Acceptance

The good news is that no child has actually stayed up all night (don’t quote me on that) and they will eventually tire themselves out and have to submit to slumber. There is, however, the distinct possibility that by the time this happens you will have missed the event you were meant to be attending, witnessed your babysitter running for the hills with arms flailing or fallen asleep yourself.

   ...and relax

Sorry about that.  

Don't Look Back in Anger: Reprimanding the Toddler

Recently I have come to realise that I had no plan as to how I was going to reprimand my offspring. I feel like, at the grand age of 4 and 2, this should have come up earlier but behaviour has never really been an issue. The big one routinely toes the line, keen to impress any potential figure of authority and the youngest is, quite frankly, so close to criminality that I could imprison him and he would stealthily manage to con his way out of the slammer with a petted bottom lip and a well timed "sowwy"; so I often give up and just resort to physically extricating him from the situation. He's a lost cause anyway.

However, The Big One has started questioning my authority of late. Whilst I am delighted that she is saving up all of her worst behaviour for me and not terrorising those who aren't conditioned to love her by the virtue of genes, it is becoming a little wearing. At 4 years old her opinion of me shifts from celestial being to intolerable oaf. I thought I had 5 more years of utter adoration at least but, alas, no. I have had the eye rolls, the sighs and, possibly worst of all, the pointedly and laboriously annunciated repetition of demands should I be so foolish as to not catch her request the first time. Intermittently a joy to be around.

Not best pleased

The only thing is I wish we had agreed a plan of action regarding appropriate remonstration before it got to this point. Where do you start? What is the best approach? And why is this not covered in NCT? Not that I went, but that is beside the point. I have never read a parenting book (not going to lie, I find them pretty dull) and I dare not run the gauntlet of the Mumsnet forum for advice (those ladies can be terrifying) so the only reference point I have is my own childhood. Whilst I have great parents (who clearly moulded some rather stellar children) and I would happily emulate their behaviour, the problem is that I don't have many useful memories from my time as a toddler. 

So I have had to go it alone, groping around in the darkness of this parenting quandary until I navigate my own path. This has led to a number of poorly judged techniques being implemented to date; there has been the shouting, the banishing to the bedroom, the guilt tripping (not proud) and finally "the look", a glower to send icy chills through the heart of the recipient. Yet nothing seems to penetrate the impervious shield that The Big One seems to radiate at the times of her transgressions. 

Her face is an open book...

The most annoying part is The Husband seems to maintain a cool detachment in the situation. He assesses the behaviour, remembers that she is, in fact, four years old and has no ulterior motive and acts accordingly. He speaks calmly, explains the error of her ways and moves on, treating her as before. Meanwhile I am consumed with anger in the aftermath. Why is she doing this? Who is she learning this behaviour from? Where has my little girl gone? How can she be so disrespectful? I stomp about, bang doors and emit an cool, icy demeanor that Elsa would be proud of. 

I am such a child. 

I can grumpy with the best of them...

Please Forgive Me: Parental Shortcomings

As you may have gathered, I have no qualms about admitting that this parenting gig is hard work. It's definitely the toughest job I have ever had and I had a brief foray into the world of pint pulling in the outskirts of Glasgow. Now I won't bore you with qualifying this statement with disclosures on how much I love my children, how I would never change the way my life has panned out and how the two spirited imps merely need to proffer their snot covered pursed lips in my general direction to make me forget my shortcomings as a parent but there are definitely points punctuating the lone parenting days or the long drawn out, sleepless nights when I struggle. 

Snot covered kisses are the best

Parenting is relentless. There is never a moment after becoming a parent when you are not responsible for another person. From before conception the health of that zygote is in your hands/womb. Sure, you may wrangle a few hours here and there to try and recapture the essence of the pre-parenthood you but the chances are it dispersed into the ether a long time ago and those hours will now be spent ruminating on how your toddler really has mastered the use of the portable toilet (most of the time) or is so clever for knowing all the lyrics to some inane Disney song that they have demanded be played on repeat for the past 72 hours causing you to question just how far into your ear canal you would need to push a cotton bud to relieve your suffering. You may even be lucky enough to manage a whole overnight stay away from the offspring if you have a very kind or susceptible relative but chances are you will either feel guilty for being quite so eager to skip out the front door, unencumbered by the weight of a nappy bag and escape the confines of the family home or for agreeing to sacrifice someone else's night of delicious slumber to secure your own. 

Parents gone wild

Then there is the alcohol. Parents with a green card for the evening never fail to partake in a frenzied imbibing of alcohol; forgetting that the last time their evening involved more than two glasses of Chenin Blanc was the time that got them into this situation but that the last time they didn't need to go home to toddlers. Toddlers who have musical instruments and aren't afraid to use them.

So. Loud.

So yes, parenting is hard and in many (many) ways I know that I am missing the mark but I am trying to be ok with that because here's the thing; we are all just "faking it 'till we make it" and no one really knows the best way to do it. Do we follow the rule book prescribed by Dr. Spock and the other parenting gurus or do we adopt the mantra of "happy parent, happy children"? 

Must do better

Things I could definitely do better include (but are not limited to):

1. Spending less time on my phone, desperately seeking out adult interaction of any kind, when lone parenting for longer than two hours (alright, one hour.)
2. Embrace role play more remembering that they will not want to play with me forever and soon I shall be relegated from favourite person to jailer.
3. Attempt to create a variety of tasty homemade meals to delight the senses; impressing the importance of a varied diet upon my 4 year old, rather than rotating the five "safe options" to avoid civil war at the dinner table.
4. Ditch the bottle, and by that I mean my 2 year old's dependency on his "milkit" not my dependency on the grape juice come a Friday evening. That stays. For all our sakes. 

Embracing the role play

While I work on these goals, I must remind myself that no one is really getting it right all the time and yes, some are definitely hitting the mark more often than I am and some, perhaps, are not but we will all most probably (definitely) scar our children in some way by something that we do or don't do, say or overlook saying but as long as it's not the way they define their childhood then I think their memoirs will be kind to us: 

"Good old mum, always tried her best but her commitment to role play was shocking!"

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.