Remembering to Stop and Play

For three days last week my son B (3) was ill. Nothing serious, he was bright in himself, but enough to keep him from his mornings at nursery. Apart from the school runs that top and tail the day, I didn’t leave the house. I didn’t go outside the village boundary. That might sound limiting, but it was great.

One of the benefits of being a stay at home mum is that when a child is ill it doesn’t cause huge logistical problems, you can just go with it – and actually enjoy it. I lit the fire, made the house cosy, and enjoyed being at home. It was good to be forced to stop chasing around, to drop out of the world for a while. I noticed the autumn colours in the garden and brought some inside, putting berries in a jar. B, a great independent player, created fantastic wooden train tracks across the floor. J loved having a brother at home. They rolled a ball around the floor, giggling with each other. At 18 months J is interacting wonderfully with B; their relationship is a joy as they communicate through smiles and giggles.

I’m creating a picture of domestic bliss, but there was a problem: I couldn’t stop working. B said “mummy, will you play with me” and I answered “when I’ve finished these jobs”. But the jobs never seemed to end. What was I doing? Putting washing in the machine, hanging it out, folding it, ironing. Cooking meals and clearing them up. Cleaning the fire and laying it. Tidying up and sorting out. All the usual housework. Why couldn’t I just stop and enjoy playing with them?

The problem is that normally my day is segmented, carved up by deadlines and routine. I have to slot my chores into the increments of time available between school runs, nursery runs, J’s sleep and mealtimes. It was so tempting to grab the opportunity of clear hours between the school runs to catch up with all those jobs which don’t fit into my normal units of time.

Some things can be done together – I’ve been trying to tidy the garden ready for winter and B was been great at sweeping up leaves. But some things took me away from them, leaving them clamouring for my attention. On day two, aware of my absence, I sat and did puzzles with them. J leant across my lap and smiled up at me and B chatted and chatted about what he was doing, the pieces he was searching for, delighting in my attention. It was an important reminder of what being a mother can be about.

Blogging too can be a distraction, although I try to reserve that for the evenings when they are asleep. I feel many conflicting emotions about my writing-blogging-communicating obsession, but I do believe there are advantages. Reflecting on events and developing ideas is important mental therapy for me and thinking about and writing this post has made me focus on certain facts: That T is now 6, B soon 4 and J no longer a baby at 18 months. That they will grow out of these precious first years too quickly. That if I am not careful those unique opportunities will be lost in the endless round of chores. So I need to put a note on my “to do” list to stop and enjoy my family before they are all at school and there’s no daytime chatter left in the house to distract me from all those tasks (blogging included) which seem so endlessly important. It’s not realistic to play all the time – the washing has to be done and it’s my job to do it – but I don’t want to look back and think I processed my children through the years rather than properly appreciating them.

A Mother's Tears

This morning I went to Town. I don’t like going to Town. I’ve adapted to living next to cows and green fields so that in Town I feel claustrophobic. It felt crowded; there were students everywhere, making me feel old in their frighteningly fashionable clothes. There were roadworks and ambulances and runners and cyclists and lots and lots of mums. Mums pushing prams with baby toes peeping out. Mums pushing buggies with grumpy toddlers who’d rather be walking. Mums with young babies scooped into car seats, smiling because the sun was coming out and they’d managed to leave the house. One mum had a white faux leather pram; I thought it was hideous, then had to remind myself that we are all different and it is those differences which made the world so exciting.

Another mother, walking down hill in a residential part of town, was crying. I wanted to stop and ask if I could help but there’s never anywhere to park quickly in Town.

All the way home I thought about her tears. Motherhood can be so isolating. You so badly want to do it right which just makes it worse when you feel you are doing it all wrong. Everyone else around you seems to be laughing and coping. You hear nauseating clichéd comments “I wouldn’t have it any other way!” What does that actually mean? Is it realistic to love every minute of motherhood? Of course I love my children and live in constant fear of them being run over on the way to school, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t moments when I wish they’d all go away and leave me alone.

I often wonder why we have children. Why do we put ourselves through these extraordinary years of relentless work and worry? In my cynical moments I decide we only have children so that we won’t be lonely at Christmas when we are old. I read somewhere that having a family is “life-enhancing” and despite my cynicism I can relate to that. I love the dynamic between my children (when they aren’t fighting) and enjoy the things they say and do with each other that make me laugh. But I still don’t think that enjoying and loving your children has to mean “you wouldn’t have it any other way”.

Having children is a tough choice, it changes your life. My life would have been very different if I’d committed to being a lawyer and strived for partnership. Over the years I have stood at crossroads and had to make decisions about which path to take. I feel that none of those paths have been right or wrong, they just lead to very different lives. When feeling down and finding things tough it's easy to pile on the self-blame thinking, "well, you chose this life". I've realised it's important to remember that just because you make a choice doesn’t mean everything about it will always be easy.

The scientific answer to why we have children is that we are biologically programmed to reproduce. Yes, I got to a stage in my life when having children felt like the right thing to do. Whether you stay at home with them is another difficult decision for a modern mother. In Town, stay-at-home mums were in abundance, striding across pavements with “I’m doing it right for my children” confidence. Last night on the news there was a feature on some research which had concluded that children of stay-at-home mums had healthier lifestyles. Or something, I wasn’t really listening, I was watching the pictures. A group of mums were at a music and movement group in a park, smiling ecstatically while their toddlers danced to Bob the Builder. I couldn’t help wondering how many smiles were real and how many mums were really thinking “I wish I was at home reading the paper”. Is this a dreadful secret that all mums carry? That very often we’d rather be using our brains than endlessly posting blocks through round holes? To my great relief, the Yummy Mummy who was interviewed as part of the news item completely dismissed the research and said “mums can’t win can they”!

It’s this solidarity of mums which has saved me – I am lucky to live in a fantastic community. My wish, for the sake of the crying mum who I saw this morning, is that we can all avoid the clichés and admit that mothering is hard. There are good days when you do love every moment and bad days when the trick is to just get through the day without yelling too much or crying. Yes, having children can be a wonderful and unique experience, even bettering - my life would be more lonely and selfish without my children and I’ve learnt a lot about myself and my less attractive traits by looking in the mirror of my children who reflect back what they see.

But motherhood can also be claustrophobic and utterly overwhelming. Children push us to our limits and attitudes of society pressure us to strive for perfection. “Never has parenting been such a self-conscious and guilt stricken affair.”* These are all issues I hope Emmeline, my fictional mum, will explore in the book I am planning. This morning on Radio 4 I heard someone say “human life is now too hurried. We need to take the time to find special moments; they can make such a difference.” I missed the context but have taken the phrase and a mother’s tears as a reminder that I must always find moments for my “mum” friends when they are struggling.

*Superpowers for Parents by Dr Stephen Briers

Reflections on New Tarmac

Isn’t it depressing when, trying to clean the house, your children manage to mess up where you’ve been by the time you get to the other end of the room.

In the same way I feel for the workmen resurfacing a road in our village. As it goes down the tarmac is black and glossy, the surface pristine. By the time they’ve altered the contra-flow and let us all back on, it’s marred by dust and encrusted with horse poo.

How disheartening for the men to end the week with an already imperfect road.

Friends for Tea - 2

So far Friends for Tea hasn’t been much success. One child was crying before we even got home, freaked out by our chaotic school run with Baby J arching her back and screaming in protest at being shoved from car seat to buggy and back again. Once home, however, they did all have a wonderful time playing.

The second time a friend came back my son had had a serious fall in the playground and after tea didn’t feel like playing and sat drooping on the sofa. Whilst it certainly wasn’t T’s fault I felt sorry for the guest who entertained himself with lego on the floor, waiting for his mum to arrive. I called my husband in anxious whispers, asking him to come home asap as I was worried T had concussion and how would I get four children to casualty in a hurry.

T went to a friend’s house today. It’s amazing how much time you seem to have when you don’t do the school run. I did puzzles and read stories with our second son, B, who liked the attention but missed his brother, confused as to why we had tea without him.

T loves going to friend’s houses – on one visit he played on a Nintendo Wii and has been asking “do you know which shop to buy one from?” ever since. He also loves having friends for tea, and it’s interesting to see what he proudly points out as we pull into the drive.

You learn something of their perception of their home life when they explain what’s important to a friend or compare their life with something they experience elsewhere. When I was a child I can vividly remember wanting to live in the local cul-de-sac where it was much better to ride bikes. I loved going round to my friend’s house to have soda stream and play with her Girl’s World. She was fascinated by our Landrover and just wanted to sit in the cab, calling it “the big old truck”.

I’ve realised that little things that were important as a child stay with you for the rest of your life. Which is why it can be so daunting as a parent, wondering what your child’s formative experiences and lasting memories will be.

Friends for Tea

When your first child starts school it’s as much of a change for you as it is for them. Days are dictated by a fixed schedule and you have new challenges to face. One of these is Friends for Tea.

My son has just started asking to have friends over for tea after school. I’ve discovered that there is quite a network of children going to each other’s houses, something we’ve not been part of. This has started to make me panic about my child being left out. Why has he not been asked when he seems to be popular at school? Do the parents find me too unapproachable? Do the children not really like him at all?

Fortunately, my son doesn’t have any of these anxieties, he just wants to have some friends over for tea. But for his mother this involves a whole new area of emotional turmoil. Firstly, with three young children, “after school” is a time of utter chaos. Everyone is tired and grouchy and I barely manage to prepare tea while they sit in a trance in front of the TV, fight or whine while baby cries for attention. I feel quite anxious about exposing a relative stranger to us at our weakest time of day. What will they go home and report to their parents? I will have to be organised and in good spirits, which is not usual by that time!

Secondly, there are the logistics. What will I cook? What do other children have for tea? I will have to find space in the car for a fourth child. I will have to be prepared for the three year old to be distressed the whole time the friend is here because he will be the “little brother”, unwanted in the dynamics of big boys games.

And then there’s the anxiety of being completely responsible for a stranger’s child. Until now, friends have come to play with their mums. Pre school, the reality is that your children socialise with children whose mums you want to chat to. Inviting friends to play is as much for your enjoyment as theirs. Friends for Tea means extra work without the therapy of chat. As my son makes friends I will have to leave my clique and introduce myself to their mothers, and even in my thirties that makes me feel shy and vulnerable. Relationships in the school playground are as complicated for the parents as the children.

This morning in the playground I was supposed to have made lots of enthusiastic plans with the mothers of the children my son has selected. Instead I stood alone feeling reticent to start the process which will change the relaxed sloppiness of our after school hibernation for ever. Who should I invite first? Will I be upsetting other mums or unwittingly butting in on social groups already carefully formed – I discovered that three of my son’s friends are meeting for tea tonight, happily this doesn’t faze him! There is a hidden protocol to having a school child, a lifestyle change I’m still getting used to. Having spent the journey home worrying about it my husband has told me to just listen to our son and invite people as he requests because thankfully, five year old boys don’t seem to have the social anxieties their mothers have.

Tough life?

There are days when you feel life is tough. I think I've been having a tough time lately. My husband is working away for three weeks so I'm at home alone with the three children. The boys seem to be permanently antagonistic and aggressive, there's always one shouting, crying, pushing, thumping, hurt. Neither the carrot or stick methods of dealing with them are working and I don't quite know what to do next.

There is a "catastrophic"* leak in our plumbing so I've not had any central heating or hot water for ten days. Various experts have been through to help me but so far all they've achieved is pulling up the wooden floor in the sitting room leaving me with a shelving unit in the middle of the room and lots of books, toys and bottles piled up on the floor. I get up in the night to keep our wood burner stoked for warmth and have been relying on the immersion heater for hot water.

Tonight the immersion heater stopped working. The two boys were in bed yelling and crying. I sat at the kitchen table and felt numb and light headed. I didn't quite know what to do. So I phoned my husband. It's 2am where he is but I stubbornly kept pressing redial because I wasn't sure what else to do. He's talked me through re-wiring the switch for the immersion heater. I felt overwhelmed and tearful, scared by the rainbow of wires and little holes I had to wedge them into.

It's working again now, the socket hanging precariously off the wall. Like me it just has to limp through the week, to literally hang in there until Matthew is back on Friday, for practical, if not moral support.

But I feel ashamed for my distress. Am I a weak person or are these extraordinary circumstances? In the DRC people are fleeing for their lives. What hardship is my faulty plumbing compared to that? We don't really know what a tough life is in this country, all we really suffer are inconveniences to the standard of life we consider a right. When I start to feel sorry for myself I try to remember this and think of those who really have it tough.


*plumber's word not mine

Don't Panic

I've not collapsed in a pile of empty bottles. I've just had a soak in the bath and am now eating comfort food (muesli) in front of the fire watching TV (unheard of for me) while my husband does the ironing (unusual for him)! I feel like a new woman.

Cry for help?

Is this the beginning of the end?

I'm having a bit of a crap time at the moment - I won't write why as it will probably sound bleatingly pathetic in print. However, feeling a bit fed up this lunchtime I opened the fridge to get something innocuous like cheese and spied an open bottle of wine. I must confess, I've had a glass! Drinking at lunchtime, help! But I do feel much better.

Don't worry, I've resisted more, so far. Rather than calling the AA, anyone who would like to help is welcome to come round and do the ironing which is leaning like the Tower of Pisa in a corner of the sitting room.

Multi tasking

Until today I never believed I could multi task. My husband agreed because, unlike him, I am unable to read a magazine, work on a lap top and follow a whodunnit on TV. However, this afternoon I managed to make macaroni cheese while rocking a baby and singing Five Little Ducks Went Swimming One Day. I think I only succeeded because the baby-rocking motion corresponded with the rhythm of stirring the cheese sauce. But, as baby slept and they all ate the macaroni cheese, I think I achieved a successful multi task.

The controversial debate of boys and guns

On Sunday my two year old was playing beautifully with “Bristol Builder”, a construction toy with wooden blocks, sticks and circles. He turned to me with an “L” shape he’d made and said, “look mummy, a shooter.”

What to do in this situation is a question many parents ask. Of course, guns are not nice things, they kill people, so the natural reaction is to say “no dear, it’s not a shooter but a lovely flower.” But every time you say no to a child they want it more so that’s not necessarily a productive answer.

The issue is complex and controversial. Until recently there was no debate: guns were bad toys and the existence of one in a toy box would be tut-tutted about by other parents. If my son made a “shooter” at someone else’s house there would probably be disapproval and I would be embarrassed and mutter apologetically about how I’d no idea where he’d learnt about such things. And I have no idea where he’s learnt such things. Guns are not part of our daily conversation and I’m not sure my children have ever seen one. Because of this, watching my two sons hold fingers up and say “tsch tsch” as they shoot at each other, I wonder if this desire is somehow inherent in their male make up.

Others, it seems, agree and apparently fashions are changing too: the official line is that playing with guns is now no longer completely taboo. Government advice, I read in an article provided by my sons’ nursery, is that “boys should be encouraged to take part in role-play involving superheroes and toy guns.”

Don’t be shocked. This is not some crazy policy but a sensible acceptance of our modern society and a child’s exposure to it. “Images and ideas gleaned from the media are common starting points in boys’ play and may involve characters with special powers or weapons. Adults can find this type of play particularly challenging and have a natural instinct to stop it. This is not necessary as long as you help the boys to understand and respect the rights of other children and to take responsibility for the resources and environment.” Okay, so there’s a bit of government babble but the basic idea is that you don’t have to make a fuss about boys playing at guns if a sensible discussion about what they’re all about goes with it.

I think this makes good sense. It would be lovely to give children a world without guns but that is not our world. Death and violence is sadly all around us. At three my eldest son asked me what “killed” meant after listening in the car to a brief news bulletin on our local radio station: with the War on Terror the word is used almost every day. I didn’t shy away but gave him a full explanation, including prison for the perpetrator. Many people would tell me to turn the news off but I don’t think it’s necessarily helpful, or realistic, to spend your time isolating them – and therefore you – from the world out there.

When my disapproving friends react I will feel slightly culpable – I let my boys watch Power Rangers and they are fascinated by the Daleks. Power Rangers are “goodies” but they still fire at the baddies; our superheroes are inherently violent. “You be the red one and I’ll be the black one,” my four year old told his younger brother then they ran around blasting each other.

It’s reality – these are the games they love, an acceptance my friends with only girls find hard. We are listening to High School Musical in the car to dilute our diet of Spiderman, Daleks and Power Rangers. They love it but nevertheless, when it comes to make-believe in the garden, I suspect shooting aliens from outer space will be chosen over singing and dancing.

The article quoted is “Let boys play with guns, says DCSF” – Nursery World, 10 January 2008

The shame of a modern parent

We have just returned from two wet weeks in Cornwall. However, the hardest thing was not the weather but the sad realisation that my four year old declared he was bored on the beach. "What do I do now?" he whined, "I want you to play with me". Despite having a fantastic imagination, and moments of wonderful independent play, what he really wanted was our attention. If we dutifully started building sand castles, he would watch and give instructions. I felt deeply ashamed, failed as a parent because I'd produced a child who could not play on the beach. What had I done wrong?

I'm learning that what I've done wrong is doing too much. The four year old is my first child and from discussions with friends we've seen that our first children are all the same - demanding of time and not as good at independent play as younger siblings. Having all arrived at motherhood from full time jobs we threw ourselves into our new roles, thinking we were being "good" mothers by responding to every need.

Today's children have so many distractions - television channels constantly playing programmes for them, toys which beep and stimulate, special clubs and sporting activities designed just to help them develop and "helicopter" mothers who hover over them squeaking enthusiastically about how well they are doing.

I was delighted to read an article by Joseph Epstein which eloquently summed up my feelings and reassured me that I wasn't the only modern mother who had fallen into the trap of over stimulating and fussing my child. He writes children have moved "from the background to foreground figures in domestic life, with more and more attention centred on them, their upbringing, their small accomplishments". Their parents "seem little more than indentured servants", the children given an inflated sense of their own significance.

Too late have I learnt this lesson. My second son is much more placid, having had less fuss as his older brother was taking up a disproportionate amount of time. It's very difficult for parents today. We are bombarded by books and programmes telling us the correct way to raise children and offered a plethora of activities and entertainments which it's implied are good for our children and which we, as good parents, should be providing. But I think that this is suitable example of where "less is more" and that a bit more of life like the good old days when children were seen and not heard and sent off to play with mud and sticks in the garden would be healthy.

That seems an idyllic scenario but there is a balance between giving your children some time and focus and them learning to entertain themselves. I worry that I have lost that equilibrium, distracted by the hectic schedules we give ourselves. When my four year old recently asked me to help build a train set and I refused, being busy cooking them something suitably nutritious, his response was "you always say later". Of course I felt guilty. In racing around trying to keep my children happy do I never actually give them some decent attention and sit down and play properly with them? Is that the real reason he's always asking?

As a modern parent it's a brave step not to opt in to all the extra curricular activities and stimulation. But having seen my child flounder on a beach, a place supposed to be a haven of pleasure for children, I think I am paying the price for today's world of instant gratification and will now focus on guiding them towards independence. Peversely, that actually means stopping and spending five proper minutes with them every now and then. I hope this will then give them the courage to do their own thing as well.

Three is easier than Two

I've not written for a while because four weeks ago Baby 3 was born. Since then I've been ignoring the call of technology, emails and blogs which sap your time, and enjoying her newness.

I've made a surprising discovery - that three children are easier than two - at the moment anyway. When Baby 2 was born, T was a terrible two and rampaged while I was pinned to the chair feeding. Now, with Baby 3, B and T entertain each other while I am feeding. Okay, so they're often fighting each other but at least they're not throwing the TV remote control at Baby 3's head.

Baby 3 is also very well behaved and far less demanding than her brothers. Some people tell me this is simply because she's a girl. Some people say it's because a third time mother really knows what she's doing - or just doesn't have time to fuss.

I must admit I feel much calmer and despite all the demands on my time, am really enjoying three children. Circumstances were quite complicated when Baby 2 was born and I think some of his babyhood was lost in the darkness of deep winter. Baby 3 was planned as a spring baby and it makes such a difference. The sun is shining, leaves are bursting open and it's light and birds are singing when I feed at 5am. The optimism of spring is seeping into our family making it a very special time.

While I was pregnant I sometimes wondered whether we'd made a mistake and three children were going to be too much but, as with many things, so far the anticipation has been much worse than the actual event. So, to anyone reading this who is contemplating a third but anxious whether they'd cope, I'd say, go for it, but preferably in the spring!

Feeling sorry for myself

I'm feeling sorry for myself today. My parents are having a large drinks party and my husband has been asked to help. That leaves me looking after the children alone on a Sunday, again, trapped by their inescapable demands and squabbles to the extent I feel claustrophobic.

We tried joining the party but a room full of adults holding glasses of wine is not really an appropriate place for two hyperactive little boys. Deciding that despite the lure of the canapes it was too stressful, we've come home and I'm feeling sorry for myself.

I've realised that one of the problems of full-time motherhood is that you feel left out of adult life. My husband tells me that going to work is not that exciting but I don't think he appreciates the luxury of being able to interact with people whose vocabulary extends beyond "tractor" and "mashed potato". That's why mother and toddler groups are so important - I would have gone mad (madder) a long time ago had I not met such a great group of mums in the village. However, even conversations there are frustrating, ended abruptly all too often by a child's urgent need for a wee or a fight over Thomas the Tank Engine.

So, what is a full-time mum to do to preserve her mental sanity? Writing Revolution Baby helped me as it provided some cerebral stimulus, even if it was at ten o'clock at night. Now that's finished and I'm succumbing to the reality of the gravity of late pregnancy there are few options left. Some remain though, however dire the circumstances: feeling VERY sorry for myself as I pulled out of my parents' drive I diverted via the local garage and bought a bar of chocolate. I'm about to eat it all, with a cup of tea. That will serve as some recompense for missing out on adult conversations and canapes. But not much.

Two children, two kittens and three ducks

Two children, two kittens and three ducks - these are my dependents; solely my dependents at the moment as my husband has been working abroad for two weeks. I can feel very sorry for myself; in all this foul weather I've been on my own with two hyperactive boys, wind and rain lashing incessantly against the windows, flood waters rising on the lane outside. And I'm six months pregnant. But I feel proud - I'm surviving. I've just about kept it together with the children and I've not even cried yet.

I've been more worried about the animals. Symptomatic of my obsessive traits when things get out of control, I found myself cleaning the duck house out during the storm last Friday. Their house had flooded and I was worried about them spending the night on wet, freezing hay. So I put on my wellies, hat and coat, shovelled the muck out and put clean bedding in, drenched myself by torrential rain so that I had to strip to my underwear when I got in.

Thank God for CBeebies; my children were safe and content in front of the fire. So I turned my obsessive concern to the kittens, fussing around their house to make sure it was a dry haven in which they could spent the night. A very sensible and supportive friend of mine suggested that of all my dependents, the ducks were probably best able to survive the weather alone. But my father taught me to always care for the animals first and I knew I'd not sleep that night unless I was sure they were all safe from the raging elements.


We've been to Sunday School this morning and it reminded me how important it is to get out and mix with other families. At 7.05am I felt tired to the core, despondent, tearful and was contemplating driving off and leaving my children who were spitting cereal at each other across the table. Arriving at Sunday School I realised that other families have just the same amount of problems and inconveniences, and felt ashamed for my self-pity. This morning Sunday School and my wonderful supportive friends there, restored my sense of perspective so that I am now able to face another wet, windy day as a single mother with renewed vigor.

Zagazoo by Quentin Blake

For those of you with young children who enjoy reading stories with an adult undercurrent, I recommend Zagazoo by Quentin Blake. A couple receive a baby in the post and are enjoying its fun until it turns into a squawking vulture. It becomes a rampaging elephant, filthy warthog and angry dragon until it turns into a large, hairy monster which keeps growing. The parents are exhausted and despairing, their hair starts going grey. Then the monster becomes a polite young man...

Reading it tonight it struck me what a perceptive parallel of child rearing it was, although one which was difficult to explain to my inquisitive four year old who wanted to know why the baby kept changing into animals!

Help! I fancy Sportacus!

Something worrying is happening - I'm getting a strange crush on Sportacus. For those of you who don't have young children or an addiction to CBeebies, Sportacus is the lead in an obnoxious programme called Lazy Town. I used to hate this programme and try to avoid my children watching it but I've relented because despite nauseating characters the subliminal message works: my four-year-old does star jumps and push ups and asks for a banana and an apple so that he will grow up strong like Sportacus.

So I looked closer and this muscled Icelandic guy in blue lycra is quite sexy. I'm not sure if it's the Nordic accent or just because he's the old-fashioned hero who would pick you up in his arms to rescue you from stepping in a puddle, but I now smile when I hear the theme tune and even sing along.

I feel ashamed to admit this crush - when a friend mentioned this summer that she actually tuned in to watch him, and she doesn't even have children, I was horrified. My only explanation of the problem is that my husband is away this week and I've had seven days of wild boys and no adult conversation. It's probably fortunate that Matthew is home tomorrow.

Virtuous Mummy

Today I'm Virtuous Mummy. I took my children to the park while a wholesome casserole was cooking in the oven rather than dragging them across the parish on endless errands then dashing home for fish fingers and peas.

I'm not sure why I bothered. The four year old announced he didn't like cooked carrots and the two year old only ate jacket potato. But I ate it. And as I'm eighteen weeks pregnant it's important to think of Baby Three, so often nutritionally neglected in the chaos I fear.

"I only eat what Daddy cooks," the four year old declared. As Daddy is going away tomorrow for a week, he's going to be hungry.

Tomorrow I'm going shopping for fish fingers.

Motherhood and Anarchy

This week I hit the depths of motherhood. But then found the highs in the most unlikely places.

Matthew has been working in Croatia for the past ten days. For someone who likes his sleep, he certainly picked the right week to be away.

Firstly Ben (22 months) had croup; nights of wheezing and coughing until he was sick, boiling the kettle to steam his room, wishing I could breath for him.

Then the clocks changed: fall back. Don’t tell me this means an extra hour in bed. Tom (four years) has a digital clock and is trained not to call for us until it says “7”. On Saturday night I put his clock back. On Sunday morning, at 6am exactly, a voice called out “Mummy, my clock is wrong, it’s time to get up.” He spent the rest of the day throwing up.

On Matthew’s ninth night away, Ben was sick again, more coughing and sick and changing sheets. Tom was yelling by 6.20am. I felt woozy. I’m fifteen weeks pregnant but caring for myself, and therefore Baby Three, was always last on the list. My bump hurt and I felt scared I was jeopardising its health. How was I going to get through the day?

Somehow we all got dressed and started to drive to nursery. The Sugababes “About You Now” came on the radio and two little voices sang out from the back. Yes, two. Tom singing the correct nuances of tune and lyrics and Ben grinning and picking up the ends of phrases “around…know..feel…bout you now.”

I laughed, we all laughed and sang until the song faded and I didn’t feel tired any more.