Three words that can change everything

Before you start guessing, it’s not ‘I love you’.  No, the words I want to tell you about are far more powerful and I discovered them purely by accident.

I would class my six year old daughter as high maintenance.  That may be unwarranted. She may be just like every child but my only other example is autistic and believe it or not, his needs are pretty straight forward – keep everything exactly the same, only feed him crisps, let him be naked from the waist down and we’re onto a winner.

My daughter has the ability to take me from calm to rage in a very short space of time, usually when she’s being so bloody ungrateful.  I try to cater for all her quirks as much as possible in a way to ensure her life is nourished; full of adventures and experiences that will fill her brain with wonderful memories.  But no matter what I do, she seems to always find something to complain about, using those immortal words, “it’s not fair!”  (They’re not the three words, by the way.  I’m keeping you hanging on for those just a bit longer.)

The reason I want to fill my daughter’s life with happiness is to ensure she knows she’s loved.  I suffer with, as the wonderful Jack Monroe put it, a wonky head.  It’s on perfectly straight but my brain likes to make me feel very sad sometimes.  During these times, I’m not a great parent.  I have no patience.  I’m emotionally distant.  I tumble into a black hole and disappear from view from my children.  I know this because my usually happy to go to school girl finds it hard to get through the day without an emotional wobble about missing me.  These children are a lot more attuned to our feelings than we give them credit for.

‘Attuned’ is a word I’ve only recently become accustomed to.  It’s a word that has helped shift my wonky head into seeing there is a something more than love.

During my low periods (and I’m not talking about my menstruation), I try to tell my daughter as much as possible how much I love her.  The guilt I feel about not having the energy or inclination to bake cakes or ride bikes or just sit with her and listen to what she has to say overwhelms me, but I know that as long as she knows she’s loved, she’ll be okay.  So sometimes, when she’s irritating me, I’ll tell her, “I love you, but that thing you’re doing…please stop.”

It was when she was feeling a bit poorly, and my wonky head was starting to metaphorically straighten up.  She was desperately telling me all of her symptoms. She felt hot, her tummy ached, her head hurt and she couldn’t sleep.  I was giving her all my usual concerned patter, getting her medicine, giving her a cold flannel for her head, rubbing her tummy, but nothing was making her feel better.  She looked up at me, her eyes full of urgency and discomfort and something compelled me to softly say, “I believe you”.

I saw her exhausted, tensed up body visibly loosen and she finally laid her head on the pillow and was able to succumb to her tiredness.  As I laid with her and she fell asleep, I reflected on those three words.  Why had they made such a difference when all of my acts of love hadn’t?

I have surmised it was because of this.  In that moment, I had actually attuned to what she needed.  To just have me say, “I hear you”, “I get it”.  She had probably got so used to me ‘listening’ when I’m a million miles away in my head, that the confirmation I was actually present in the here and now and completely understood, helped her cope with her symptoms.  Or perhaps she just needed me to be in the here and now because that’s where she was.  Where all children are.  In the moment.

It’s made me realise that she’s not actually that ungrateful or high maintenance.  There’s me naively thinking I’m loving her unconditionally, but it’s entirely dependant on her being grateful for all these wonderful, exciting experiences I’m providing her – these things that aren’t happening till tomorrow, or three hours later. She’s not thinking about that.  She’s a child living in the moment and at that moment, something catastrophic may have rocked her world.  Like, I’ve given her the wrong temperature water to drink, or the swing didn’t swing enough.

I’ve used “I believe you” a number of times now, all with the same effect and all in different circumstances.  Not to fob her off  – she’s already proved she’s far too attuned for that.  But when I can see I haven’t really been present.  I get easily absorbed in looking at my phone, or needing to answer that email, or trying to tidy the shit tip that is my house and actually, she really needs to know I’m here. In the here and now, present in the moment and I totally get her.  No ‘I love you, but…’, just unconditional, ‘I hear you’.

I can’t always fix her feelings.  I can’t always fix mine.  I suppose sometimes, it’s just about letting them be.

Sleeping with a peacock on her head. Because peacock.

 

 

 

 

 

A smile is all it takes…

I’ve almost entirely stopped caring now about the judgements I receive when I’m out with The Boy. He is a fairly sizeable 3 year old and it’s not unknown to receive a disapproving look when I’m carrying him or pushing him in the buggy. I don’t care that it looks like I’m carrying a 15 year old boy like a chimp baby.

He rarely has shoes on. This is mostly met with amusement and bewilderment at how he walks across sharp gravel like it’s soft grass. I’m passed caring about that.

The ear-piercing scream and lurching towards me to swipe at my face or bite me? Yeah…sometimes a little harder to take but all in all, I don’t care about everyone else. I’m just concentrating on trying to make things better for The Boy. Mostly for my sake – I’m no angel – but a little for him too.

Today was one of those days. I’d taken him to his favourite place. Did everything he liked in the order he liked it. Made our way to the highlight of the day and all was going swimmingly. We arrived at a short queue for the steam train but all was good in the world because I’d pre-purchased the ticket. It was a minute maximum to keep him from losing his shit and becoming angry hulk boy about not getting on the train instantly. Then the big decision…whose poor carriage do we get into knowing there was going to be some ‘social issues’ whenever other human beings are involved.

Carriage full of kids. Avoided. Carriage with a small space left. Avoided. Carriage with chairs that can be climbed over (despite people sitting on them). Avoided. An end carriage, closed in, only two other people – an older couple. This will do. In my head I’m already feeling sorry for them and apologising for The Boy. I know I shouldn’t but I do do this.

We get on. The Boy instantly wants to stand next to the window. It’s where he always stands. Shit. “Ted, sitting here.” I try knowing it’s futile. He tries to push his way to the window again. “Ted, sitting here.” Desperately trying to redirect him knowing it’s pointless. In my head I’m hoping the couple get it and offer to move, but they don’t. He tries again. “Ted, sitting here.” Aaaaaaaand….meltdown.

There’s the scream. Oh, and here comes the biting. Now he’s smashing his head against the bench. Still screaming. Perfect.

The couple just look at me, horrified. “Ted, sitting here.” Utterly pointless but I try, mainly to show them that I am trying. Still they stare at me, waiting for me to ‘do something’ to stop the noise. The Boy lurches towards the woman’s leg and grabs her ankle. “Owwwwww!” she shouts as The Boy buries his nails into her skin. Fuck. I wasn’t expecting that. “I’m so sorry. He has autism and doesn’t understand why I’m stopping him standing next to the window, where he always stands.”  Still nothing. Just a stare boring into my soul, whilst leg rubbing. They’re looking at me like I’m the most abhorrent parent in the universe.

In a second, it flashes across my mind. “Get out. Just apologise and get out. It was a fucking stupid idea bringing him here today.”

As I’m visualising taking him off the train, my mouth opens and what came out even surprised me. “Would you mind if we swapped seats?”

She looked at me like I’d just asked if it would be okay if I pulled my knickers down and take a dump on the floor. She didn’t answer me – just stared. After an excruciating five seconds, she and her husband stood up and let The Boy stand near the window, making their annoyance well known with their audible tuts and sighs.

The train moved forward. The Boy was calm. Sweaty and red, but calm. I held him on my lap and kissed the back of his head. Inwardly, I was laughing. Laughing at the lunacy of the situation that I find myself in so regularly. Laughing at the rage The Boy must have felt when he gouged the poor woman’s leg. Laughing at how the carriage was eerily silent after what had probably felt like an eternity of screaming.

About halfway into the train ride, all was still calm. Everyone had resumed normal business. The kids were chatting busily with their parents, asking a million questions and dispensing a million facts. The traumatised couple sat next to me had relaxed into the ride and were chatting about the flora and fauna. All was well.

As I looked up, I noticed the mum sat opposite looking at me. She held my gaze and then she smiled. She continued to look into my face for a few seconds before we both looked away. In those few moments, she had said a thousand words:

“It’s okay.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t judge you.”
“It hasn’t bothered me.”
“You’re doing great.”
“We’re in this together.”

I don’t know what her experience of autism is, nor do I care. She just got it and wanted to tell me. That’s when the tears unexpectedly erupted. I buried my head into the back of The Boy’s mass of tangled hair and let a few tears fall. I’m sure she wouldn’t have wanted me to have cried at her show of kindness, but it meant so very much.

We all have those desperate situations as parents, regardless of whether your child is impaired or not. Those moments when you think, “what the fuck am I doing? I have no idea what to do next.” You know you’ll get through it. You always do, but that bit of recognition speaks volumes and makes it feel okay.  A smile is really all it takes to make things feel a little better. Thank you to her. I will always be grateful for that smile.

A Toddler’s Guide to Choosing a Transition Object

Frightening illustration from Wikipedia

You have probably discovered by now that your primary carer cannot wait to bin you off with anyone who will have you. Despite being desperate to bring you into the world, your massively differing body clock seems to cause your grown up to have psychotic episodes and be really ill, or whatever.

Screaming till you choke on your own spit and clinging to their leg is futile. Grown up brains are underdeveloped and lack the ability empathise with your emotion. They’ll always prioritise ‘I desperately need a poo’ or ‘if I don’t eat something, I’ll die’ over your emotional well being.

This is when you need to invest in a Transition Object; an object that can serve as a replacement when your mother – so called -pisses off to ‘earn money to live’ or some other bullshit excuse in an attempt to make her look less selfish.

Selecting a TO requires careful planning and research. It needs to fit a very specific criteria in order to get your grown up working in complete harmony with your needs. It doesn’t just serve to comfort you but can be used for bargaining, manipulation and all other forms of skulduggery normally observed in an adult human mother when trying to get you to sleep in your own bed/not piss yourself/smile in photographs. So, here is my handy guide to help you make a good choice:

It is important to consider when choosing a TO that you will be carrying it with you at all times, day and night. Having a TO that is average size (a generic teddy bear size) is pointless. It either needs to be larger than a five year old, or small enough to fit in the palm of your hand making it incredibly troublesome to a) carry or b) find*.

*At your convenience

Because it’ll either be being permanently dragged through exfoliated skin cells, animal hair, mud, puddles of your own urine or being clutched in a sweaty, greasy little hand, it needs to be a neutral shade of beige to fully display the collection of crusty matter. This will also come in very handy for the next point as it makes it disappear easily amongst the rest of the detritus.

An inconveniently large TO ideally needs to be a blanket to aid with the dragging through crap process as well as the getting lost regularly saga. A tiny teddy or stuffed animal of indiscernible species is also ideal for this very important part of TO ownership. It is essential that the TO is lost at least once in the bed covers, every night. This is to ensure your grown up doesn’t get too much sleep; sleep causes cancer so you will be helping them live longer.

Perhaps once every six months, lose the TO in the local area – far enough away that your grown up has to employ the efforts of international rescue, but not too far that it is gone forever. High anxiety situations such as this keeps your grown up’s skin looking more youthful.

If you feel like your grown up has been particularly emotionally unavailable, then you will need to lose it in a motorway service station. Despite the fact you will go through extreme grief during this difficult time, your grown up will suddenly possess powers of omnipotence to be at your beckon call, usually with large amounts of chocolate.

Due to the power a TO has to possess to fully ensure the grown up conforms when required, it needs to be either a) expensive (think Build-a-Bear) or b) irreplaceable. Ebay needs to be redundant and no amount of frantic internet searching will be able to locate anything like it on Earth.

This is also why it is imperative that you never let your grown up wash it. If, God forbid, another child does have the same TO as you, you can at least guarantee, by the no washing rule, that it won’t be covered in the same crusty shit, or emit the same cheesy smell that yours does.

Despite the fact you have employed its services to act as a replacement for when your grown up has disappeared again ‘treating yet another head lice infestation’, know that your TO will never let you down, always be there for you and will comfort you when you’re left on your own in front of Cbeebies…again. The sooner you get one, the less likely you’ll end up addicted to crack and yo yo-ing in and out of prison. Trust me, I’ve been there.

Written by Edward, aged 3 years.

Eight of the Biggest Changes Since Motherhood PLUS EIGHT MORE…

A while back, I wrote an informative piece on eight of the biggest changes since motherhood. Clearly being a bit previous with its publication, I have thought of several more. So, here for your gratification, is the original piece with an additional eight, and to save myself from further embarrassment, I’ll add a disclaimer that this list is not exhaustive and will likely be added to on a regular basis as my life continues to devolve into chaos. Enjoy.

Obviously, there are a multitude of things that are just not the same after Vaginal Destruction Day, some quite surprising in fact. Like my new found hatred for fireworks. I used to really enjoy them before VDD; perhaps that’s because they only seemed to appear on one day a year. However, since having children, they seem to have exploded onto the scene from October until the New Year with their constant threat of waking sleeping children. Thank you wanky cheap imports.

Clock changes. Getting the extra hour in bed. Oh, it was heavenly. Now, it’s just utter torture knowing that your 6am, four year old alarm clock will now be jumping on your head at 5am.

However, there are sixteen (and counting) major things that are just not the same for me anymore.

# 1. Makeup.

How the feck did I have time for shit like blusher? Get the black bags hidden. Do I look less like death? Yes. Fuck it, just get out the house.

#2. Tampons

Has the flow changed, or just the flow outlet? Who knows, but there’s carnage every 28 days.

#3. Body hair.

This is a conversation I had with my four year old daughter the other day:

4yo: What are you doing?
Me: I’m putting my deodorant on.
4yo: Why?
Me: Because when you’re a grown up, you need to use it to stop being so sweaty and smelly.
4yo: Does it make your hairs smell nicer?
Me: Did your Dad put you up to say that?

#4. Underwear.

My underwear drawer is possibly the most depressing place on Earth. But, it’s sooooooo damned comfortable.

#5. My brain.

Who are you? What am I writing about? Have I eaten today? Shit, I think I’ve just wet myself.

#6. Muscles.

I have a new found strength as a mother. I can wrestle an inhumanly strong toddler into his trousers, his high chair and his car seat. But only using my left arm. The baby bicep. You pick a hip and stick to it meaning that one arm constantly bears the weight until you have just one ridiculously strong arm which then comes into it’s own when overbearing the strength and will of an outraged child.

#7. Lie ins.

Fuck off end of British Summer Time.

I don’t know whether it’s just me, but I spend my life yearning for a wake up time that doesn’t begin with the number 6, but when I do get the chance of a lie in, I lay there awake. I just stare at the ceiling listening to the screams and mayhem from down stairs and can’t close my eyes. Either that or I’m writing a novel in my head.

#8. Toenails

I am fully aware of my unusually large big toe. However, it can always be made more beautiful with a splash of colour. Now my husband doesn’t know whether it’s my leg hair or toenails causing the lacerations to his lower body in bed. That, or we’re stuck together like velcro because of the sheer amount of body hair between us.

#9.  Bath time.

Bath water seems to possess similar qualities to holy water; my children scream as if being burnt alive like tiny demons. Unless I’m in it. Then bath time consists of :

a) staring at the furry animal between my legs for an inaudibly long time to ensure it isn’t going to bite them.
b) being water boarded.
c) orifice violation.
d) husband taking a dump.

#10. Language.
My ability to use three syllable words seems to have vanished. Along with my ability to say the word, “dead,” without shuffling uncomfortably, coughing loudly and changing the subject immediately onto rainbows and unicorns.

#11. Pockets
Coats, dressing gowns, trousers; if there is a pocket on a garment, it will be brimming with random floor pickings that make no sense whatsoever but still don’t quite make it to the bin.

#12. Carbon footprint

Three hour daily drives for ‘nap time’ + house full of plastic tat that will never decompose + washing machine that only gets turned off when it explodes + every light in the house being left on + the use of AA batteries increasing 400 fold = death to the earth.

#13. Facebook Profile Pictures
Faux-ejaculate Binge Drinker to Earth Mother in just a few clickety clicks. No-one with ever suspect you’re rocking in a corner, flicking your teeth, whilst secretly plotting the murder of your snoring husband.

#14. Music

Disney songs and nursery rhymes now infiltrate my brain like an infection. Every day, I end up punching myself in the face after driving all the way to work listening to the some Disney shit when I could have been listening to anything else. ANY. THING. FFS.

#15. Organising.

“Husband, when is the next gap in the diary between after school activities, weekend activities, birthday parties, earning an actual living, charity fundraising, clearing out the loft and buying more unnecessary pets? 2056? Okay, I’ll book Derek and Pamela in then.”

#16. Me time.

Wisdom tooth removal? Smear test? Ingrowing toenail excision? When can you fit me in?

(Follow on Facebook via Happy Medium Mothering)

Why can’t you be more like…

I thought having autism might free my son from my perpetual comparing but apparently not; as we all sat together in his group session for children with communication and socialising difficulties, I studied the only girl in the group. She’s a gentle soul, afflicted with over receptive senses that suppress her. She contorts her body to try and cope, making the space she is in and the world she struggles to understand as small as possible. She is completely silent apart from the delightful tinkle of laughter she emits when she’s being tickled and I’ve never seen a child so mesmerised by shaving foam. What I can see is a calm, passive, non-aggressive, quiet and amenable little girl – the very opposite of my boy – and for just a few guilt-ridden moments, I stare at her and wish that he could be more like her.

I see her for a snapshot of her life, once a week, and can only see enviable qualities that my son doesn’t have. What I don’t see is how long it takes to get her dressed. I don’t see her screaming in pain as she’s being washed. I don’t see her frozen in fear at the sound of a plane. I don’t see how very small her universe must be in order for her to cope. I’m guessing at these things of course. But we all have desperate moments.

Perhaps in a tiny snapshot of life, there’ll be someone looking at my boy and only seeing a passionate, curious, energetic, enthusiastic and happy child and perhaps wishing that their passive, introvert, quiet and shy kid was more like him. I wish that someone was me but it isn’t. In the fog of exhaustion, it is sometimes just too hard.

Now I’ve got it off my chest, I could make a solemn vow, from this moment on, to stop making comparisons when times get tricky…but I won’t. It’s a promise I know I will break and that will only add to the mountain of guilt that I was bequeathed the moment I became a parent. No…I will let the thoughts in. I will take a moment to look at them, accept their truth, and then let them float on by without further attention. I will remind myself that everything passes. I will remind myself that I am doing the best I can. I will remind myself that everything will be okay. I will remind myself that I am that someone (very nearly) all of the time.

(Follow The Camel via Happy Medium Mothering)

An Idiot’s Guide To Stains

It is usually possible to extract enough information from the location of stains on a person’s clothes to decipher whether they are indeed a parent and the age of child they are a parent to.

From the moment the baby is evicted from the mothership, it leaves clues of it’s existence around your person. This is most commonly in the form of a white smear perched happily on your shoulder and will remain there in various guises until the child leaves home.

A new game develops early in parenthood known as, “Is It Poo?” The rules are very simple; locate an unidentified stain, stare at it quizzically for a few seconds then sniff it. I would thoroughly recommend not licking as it is usually poo. In fact, the game should be renamed, “How Did Poo Get There?”

Clothes that you would have ordinarily thrown out for the wash get picked up, dusted down and put back on ready for another days onslaught. Non-parents will happily point these stains out to you at every opportunity as if doing you a favour in case you weren’t aware of their existence (you were), whereas fellow parents join in with the catharsis of picking silently at unidentified crust when stood chatting rocking together.

Smears of mud that adorn tops of thighs signal a parent of a toddler/preschooler/teenager that has momentarily lost it’s ability to walk, mere seconds after relishing the delights of stamping in muddy puddles.  These stains will remain there for the foreseeable future as the parent usually only has one pair of trousers that comfortably fit since childbirth.

No fabric is exempt from the stain-spreading abilities of a child and no surface is immune. Washable pens become impervious in the hands of a small human as they can somehow detect exactly which surface falls outside of the ‘washable’ characteristic and scribbles violently, forever leaving self expression all over the place.

New games will naturally evolve as the children get older. These include:

Get Your Shoes Off The Sofa
Don’t Wipe Your Fingers On There
Please Use A Tissue
Stop Masturbating In Your Socks

All of which have exactly the same rules:

Player One shouts the title of the game loudly at Player Two. Player Two ignores Player One and continues with loathsome behaviour. Repeat daily.

Investing in a really good washing machine or spending out on decent stain removing products are a waste of time and money; just buy an incinerator. It will serve you much better. Or move house.

An Idiot’s Guide to Instructions

I followed some instructions today. When I say followed, I mean used them as a guideline based on the fact that I had a child eagerly awaiting their new toy. When I say eagerly awaiting, I mean having an apoplectic fit that their new toy wasn’t ready instantly. When I say apoplectic fit, I mean suicidal, homicidal and all the other cidals.

The instructions were as follows:
Very straightforward had I not had an all out cidal toddler. So I have rewritten the instructions for future reference.

1.The large Jungle Magic pen requires 2 x 1.5V AAA batteries. Locate the battery compartment on the side of the pen. Don’t bother with a crossheaded screwdriver. Find a blunt knife from the drawer to open the battery cover.

2. Quickly realise you have got the wrong size batteries. Scramble to find a remote with AAA batteries. Remove from remote and place into Jungle Magic pen.

3. Fill aqua pen with water all the way to the top. Do not take volume of water into consideration when inserting sponge-filled aqua pen. Spill water all over your inconsiderately placed smart phone. Shout expletives as your child starts to claw at the back of your legs.

4. Put smart phone in a bag of rice knowing it will do fuck all but at least gives you some kind of hope you’ll be back on Facebook by nightfall.

5. Turn on Jungle Magic pen. Grit teeth.
NB. This toy contains offensive noise which may affect most adult humans. If you suffer from <<insert conditions>>, seek advice from your general practitioner before turning on this product.

6. Locate toy from under sofa after being abandoned following 30 seconds of use. Switch off. Use knife to remove batteries. Never replace. Pretend product is broken.

WARNING!
Important care information! Only use pen for specified use. Do not attempt to insert up your nose or into plug sockets. Only use clean water and not water collected from the toilet, puddles or your own saliva. Do not machine wash. Do not tumble dry. Do not iron. For best performance give to an adult and never let a child near it.

The Anatomy of a Mother

There are many documented physiological changes that occur during pregnancy. Breasts and legs look like they’ve been scribbled on by a toddler with a blue marker pen. Feet, ankles and calves all merge into one painful, fluid-filled cankle. Blotchy, dry patches and stretching skin cause incessant itching, mainly around the bumpal region. And lest we not forget the discharge. Just everywhere. From all over the place.

These changes tend to dissipate fairly rapidly post Vaginal Destruction Day, apart from the discharge.  Whereas the lesser documented changes which occur after VDD are mostly permanent.

Ears become enlarged initially to aid with detecting infant breathing, every forty seconds for the first six months. However, this also develops into an ability to correctly identify the scream of her toddler amongst forty other screaming toddlers in a hell hole known as ‘soft play’.

Nostrils are widened due to the excessive amount of crotch and bum sniffing that takes place and also when trying to determine the dirty clothes from the clean clothes that have replaced the carpet. Shoulders becomes broadened due to her child’s inability to walk anywhere and insistence on shoulder rides only (ears also useful for handles).

A women walking through town fondling herself isn’t necessarily a pervert, she may be just trying to recall which boob she last fed from. From an outsider’s perspective, this is usually easily identifiable from one enlarged breast throbbing like an alien egg about to hatch with supporting damp patch whilst the other bosom looks like a spaniel’s ear. One arm is significantly larger than the other (known as the baby bicep) due to holding her baby/toddler/child/teenager on the same hip.

One hip will be displaced significantly to the side in support of the developing baby bicep to such an extent that it soon becomes impossible for the mother to hold her baby on the opposite hip for more than three seconds before having to switch back. Groove marks just above the wrists aid with carrying plastic shopping bags as the handles of the pushchair inevitably get overloaded causing the pushchair to tip backwards at every opportunity.  Hard skin on knees develop from crawling on all fours trying to retrieve crap from under the sofa, being ridden like a donkey and scrabbling through all known varieties of disease-infested soft play, reaching peak thickness at around three years after which only a pneumatic drill can chisel it away.

Although fingernails have to be kept short to avoid lacerating her baby when getting it dressed/changing it’s nappy, a mother utilises a long little fingernail to perfect hoicking out bogies of the nose and eye variety.

The most subtlest change happens over a period of years.
The stoop. Unfortunately entirely unavoidable. It begins with the nappy changes, gets developed further trying to avoid head injuries whilst being dragged into playhouses and through tunnels and reaches a critical point after years of having to push and/or drag bikes, trikes and scooters, most commonly without it’s rider because they only wanted to use it for fifteen seconds on the way to the park.
The stoop gets cemented permanently into an almost right angled position when her child starts school and they fully expect their bike/trike/scooter to be available for their use on the way home*.

*Most likely to be having a massive meltdown and not at all interested in bike/trike/scooter.

If you happen across one of these unfortunate looking characters, don’t assume, by trying to stop that voice from coming out of her child’s face, she’s making a rod for her own back  – if she were, she’d be stood a lot straighter. Instead, give her a reassuring look and throw a chocolate bar at her.  That might help.

Follow The Camel via Happy Medium Mothering – a place to feel better about parenting.

You’re not allowed to lie. Except at Christmas.

The excitement of Christmas Eve was like a permanent fizz ready to explode in my stomach. The anticipation was totally unbearable and my brother and I would wish the day away, keeping ourselves as busy as possible, till sleep time. Not that I could sleep; I just wanted to vomit with excitement at the prospect of an overweight man with magical reindeer delivering a heap of swag under our Christmas tree.

Every inch of our house was covered in decorations. The ceiling heaving with dangling, metallic wonderments and windows alive with flashing electric rainbows busy fulfilling their pre-programmed patterns.

When it was finally time for bed, I crept up the stairs, knowing that the buzz I had been living off since day one of opening my advent calender, would soon be replaced with an overwhelming happiness as I played with my new toys.

As I stepped into my bedroom, tingling with excitement, I noticed my window open. My room was cold. Why was my window open? There….there on the window sill…was that….magic dust? And on the floor underneath the window; two boot prints only a large man could make. Wait, had He been in my room? It wasn’t Christmas Day yet?

I looked around, holding my breath with trepidation at what I might find, scanning every inch of my room for clues. There it was! A present! Laying on my pillow! I shouted, “Mum, Dad! He’s been! He’s been!”

My brother came running in to see what all the commotion was about and saw me looking wide-eyed and open-mouthed holding my present. He looked at me, looked at my present, looked back at me and instantly I could see his thoughts. If He had been in my room, perhaps He had been in his bedroom too?

We both ran as fast as we could along the landing, banging the door open making an almighty crash against the thin, plasterboard walls. We stood still, neither daring to breathe in the silence as we searched for any signs of activity. Laying on his pillow, in exactly the same way, was a present.

We couldn’t contain ourselves and ripped off the paper with such ferocity our presents inside came flying out. HOT WATER BOTTLE COVERS!! WOW!! AMAZING!!!! I had a bear one and my brother had a lion one. The best water bottle covers EVER!

That night, as my brother and I finally came down off of our adrenaline high, we decided to stick together so we could both witness anything we heard or saw.  I camped out on his floor in the darkness and we whispered, dissecting like detectives, all the possibilities of how Father Christmas had made it into our house undetected.  Every now and then we could hear a muffled bang from above, convincing ourselves that we could hear the reindeers landing on our roof. Was that sleigh bells? We both definitely heard sleigh bells. If I didn’t do a bit of wee, I was definitely going to have a heart attack at any moment. It was just too tense. Too exciting. And I loved it.

I too, vividly remember the year that I knew the truth. The sparkle was lost somehow and the presents became less important without the fantasy behind it. Certainly for me anyway.

However, I never once felt like I had been duped, lied to, or deceived.  I only felt grateful, amazed and thankful at the lengths my parents had gone to make Christmas so special. Reliving those stories now only make them more exceptional as I find out the details – I only discovered a few years ago that it was my very own Dad that was the Father Christmas that visited our school. I had sat on his lap, heard his voice ask me what I would like, whispered in his ear, “a My Little Pony pencil with a rubber on the end,” and had tottered off happy knowing I had spoken to the great man himself, without one iota that it was actually my Dad. I love that. I love that I was taken in so much by it all that I didn’t suspect a thing. An innocent acceptance that only a child can have. No matter how much I revisit that memory, I can only remember Father Christmas (and a little boy who was very upset that his little pre-Christmas present was a Garfield pencil and notebook, and not the truck he had asked for.)

Nearly three decades later, it’s my turn to create the magic. Fortunately, I have the added bonus of a smart phone, which Father Christmas has too – he can be messaged instantly to check whether ‘a gold chandelier’ is a possibility (“Sorry, Alice – Father Christmas says it’d be too tricky to put in his sack”) so there won’t be any disappointments from unrealistically high expectations.

The benchmark has been set ridiculously high by my childhood, but I’m going to give it my best shot. My mind gets filled with possible scenarios of trickery and illusion and it feels desperately important to me that my children get to experience that sensation of pure escapism that I felt. To feel like the possibilities are endless.

Some people call it lying.  I call it imagination and for me, that’s what Christmas is all about.

More Cuban heel than snow boot, but I’m working on it.

A Letter To My 34 Year Old Body

As I shifted uncomfortably from side to side, trying to get my hips into a less painful position, it suddenly dawned on me. I have been incredibly ungrateful to you for as long as I can remember and taken you for granted. It’s only now as aching sets in and the spontaneous groans exit my body when I bend down to pick something up that I realise how much you have actually done for me.

As a teenager, I blamed you for everything. You were the reason boys didn’t think I was pretty and so I starved you. I’m sorry for that. I’m also sorry that the not feeding you properly lasted ten years or more.  My weight was a constant source of antagonism to me; it taunted me and told me I wasn’t good enough. Even now, I could have had the most amazing day professionally and/or personally but taking my clothes off in the evening, inspecting every flaw and fat roll, can make me feel worthless and pathetic. I believe I can only be truly successful if I am thin and that I am not and have never been.

You gave me two beautiful babies and fed them. Maybe not 100% perfectly or conventionally but you did it and yet I cursed you for not doing it properly. I never had to experience the pain of my body failing me. I never had to stare at you and ask you why you didn’t work properly or why you let me down. But somewhere I still blamed you for my lack of perfection.

Despite the lack of respect for you in the early days, you are healthy. You’ve stuck it out and haven’t given up on me. So, I’m turning this around on it’s head for once and am going to give you some gratitude.

Thank you for my children. For providing me with the most satisfying part of my life. Instead of meticulously inspecting the scars of motherhood and wishing they weren’t there, I will from now on be grateful. My husband is. He sees what you did, what you’ve accomplished, and I will try to see you through his eyes.

Thank you for giving me the opportunity to engage and play with my children, enriching their lives and mine. As much as I may moan about being on my hands and knees crawling through yet another soft play or having to run after them to stop them charging into danger, I am so very grateful that you do and when my back hurts at the end of the day, or my hip is giving me stick, I’ll remember that you’re helping me make wonderful memories for my children.

Thank you for keeping going. Those days when each step feels like it could be the last, but you put another foot in front of the other until you’re home again. Those days when you’re merely holding things together, precariously balancing on the edge of oblivion, but mustering the energy from somewhere to see it through, I am so very grateful that you do.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing. If only I had been able to see past the surface when I was younger, I might not have been so hard on you. I can’t guarantee that I won’t be hard on you still but hopefully I’ll be a little more gentle and perhaps my vision not so obscured by what you can be, but by what you are – a fully functioning human body with the ability to ensure your daughter doesn’t have to envisage her potential in hindsight, but only the reality of what she is now; brilliant, magnificent and good enough no matter what shape and size she is in the future.

Yours forever,

Me. X

Probably aged around 12 or 13, I remember clearly at this age being incredibly self conscious about my weight, convincing myself I was fat.

My greatest achievements