It wasn’t only the girls I upset

Ready for bathtime

In the last couple of posts I have related how I traumatised the girls at various points by my less than perfect parenting. But of course the eldest didn’t get off scott-free by any means. In fact he bore the brunt of it as I learnt, slowly and painfully, what it meant to be a parent.

I went through the Top Ten Physical Traumas I put the children through here , and my tipping him out of the pram and dropping him so he knocked a tooth out are already listed. But one that isn’t in the previous post probably shows me in an even worse light, but unfortunately it shines a ray of truth on what it can be like with two under two. There is just over a year between the first two and so once the newborn could sit up by herself, bathtime was much easier as I plonked them in together. They both enjoyed the water so it was not a tearful or difficult time usually.

The airing cupboard was in the hallway outside the bathroom and one evening I had got eldest out of the bath and wrapped in towel and realised I didn’t have a towel for darling daughter. So I popped out of the bathroom for one second your Honour. The airing cupboard was literally opposite the bathroom door. But as soon as my second foot had left the lino the son slammed the door and locked it. It was one of those locks that has a thumb dent in it that you just slide across. I didn’t know he knew how to do it. And sure enough he couldn’t undo it.

Trying not to panic, I asked him if his sister was alright.  He could barely talk, was only just walking and his sister is six months old sitting in a bath of water. This was a nightmare. He just couldn’t open the lock. My biggest fear was his sister drowning. All it would take would be an overbalancing and that could be it. So I asked him to pull the plug out of the bath. I could hear his sister gurgling  and splashing so all was well as far as I could tell. And good lad that he was he pulled out the plug. I heard the water going down the plughole and hoped to God he hadn’t put the plug back in before it had drained completely.

But he couldn’t unlock the door. I couldn’t break in from outside as partly I was terrified of knocking the lad out on the other side and i could hear they were both OK so didn’t feel the need for ultimate heroics. But I couldn’t leave the hallway to go and get help as that would have meant leaving the children. And of course there were no mobile phones back in the day.

The baby was probably cold but at least she wouldn’t drown in an empty bath. Luckily it was not long before Superhero Dad came home and he did force the door open (relatively easily as I remember) and all was well with the world. Hubby disarmed that lock and put one up high out of reach of small fingers so that it couldn’t happen again. Not that I would have been stupid enough to make the same mistake twice.

But really that wasn’t just me traumatising him. He had a part to play in it by locking the door. And to be honest it was more my angst than his as he was seemingly  oblivious.

But there was another bathtime that left him scarred for life. Again with his baby sister and they are happily playing when suddenly a huge turd emerges from the deep and floats on to the surface next to him. He jumped up yelling and pointing  “Georgina! Poo!” as it moved towards him like a monster. She was smiling with that satisfaction a good dump brings.

It took him a long time to trust her in the bath again.

I shouldn’t have been trusted with an animal let alone a child…

No harm done

Every Friday our kids would go round to their best friends’ house after school and their Mum would childmind them. It was ideal for me knowing they were in safe, capable and loving hands whilst I went to work. And every evening I would knock on the door and be greeted with a swift rum and coke and likely have to be entertained by some dance or show or whatever that they had been rehearsing for hours beforehand. It was usually just the girls but occasionally the boys would join in too.

It was a lovely era where the kids were all at primary school, all being fed around the kitchen table and I just waltzed in and would have a chat with my mate and a drink until it was time to take them home. As it was every time I did it, i would pile them all in the old Merc estate and drive off. The car was great. It had been our next door neighbours’ and hubby bought it for me as a birthday present. It had about 200K on the clock and went like a dream. And it had little seats in the boot you could put up to make it a seven-seater. Perfect when each of your kids wants to bring along a mate. But of course not needed when it was just me and the three. But they loved them as they sat staring out at the traffic behind.

Anyway, one Friday I called round to Coldershaw road as usual and after another blistering showstopper, hurried the kids out to get home. I think I may have been going out later or have people coming round so was in a bit of a hurry. The kids were probably aged about 5.  7 and 9 and well able to get themselves in the car. The doors slammed and I drove off. Only to hear the two eldest shouting “Mum, Mum, stop! Natalie’s not in!”.  I couldn’t compute. I’d heard the doors shut. How could she not be in? But sure enough, I looked in my rear view mirror and there was my baby, thrown out on to the road as I had driven off. She’d been climbing in through the boot and was  about to sit down and pull the boot down on herself when I’d accelerated away. Whereupon she’d gone flying out backwards.

Luckily she wasn’t hurt, Only shocked and completely incredulous at my negligence. They still remind me of it to this day.

Things our children taught me

We have three grown up children, which I find hard to believe as I am still in my late 20s in my head. And as any parent knows, having children is a life-changing event. One you can’t get your head round till it happens. But I have enjoyed parenthood more and more the older they have got. Or perhaps it’s more to do with the fact that I got older too, and perhaps a bit less of a control freak. No, actually thinking about it I am just as much a control freak now as I always was. Perhaps they are just not as needy……….

Obviously there have been lots of times when it hasn’t all been sweetness and light. I’ve made bad decisions, been completely unreasonable, been inconsistent, done a lot of shouting, and even resorted to physical violence. But I still don’t think I’ve been a bad parent over all. Certainly not a perfect parent, but I never expected to be. I just wanted to be good enough. So over the years the children have taught me many things and here’s my

Top Ten Things Our Children Have Taught Me

1. Children will forgive you nearly anything. They won’t neccessarily forget, but they will forgive.
2. Despite having the same gene pool, schooling and upbringing the characters of our children are startlingly different. From birth onwards. I am no closer to deciding the nature/nurture debate.
3. Fifteen minutes of bad behaviour at the end of a good day could make me feel the whole day was awful when it wasn’t. But it sure as hell made that first sip of wine taste fantastic once they were in bed .
4. Children never wait until you are ‘ready’ to answer those awkward questions. They get sprung on you as you peel potatoes or are in the cinema queue
5. Children love having their parents around to do stuff with or to watch them perform. Even if they say they don’t mind if you don’t come, they like it if you do. I do not believe the ‘quality time’ theory.
6. Children will repeat what you say as to others. I never thought I’d hear our 7 year old daughter explain to her teacher that her dad says peach flavoured water tastes like cockroach vomit.
7. There is no greater joy than seeing your children’s unbridled happiness. It is fantastic when they all get on together. Even if they are ganging up against you.
8. Children made me realise I know fuck all detail about what’s going on in the world when they asked me to explain the Arab Israeli conflict, Afghanistan, or the break up of the Soviet Union.
9. Any concept, project, piece of work, disagreement or conversation can be expressed through the medium of interpretive dance to hilarious effect.
10. As long as they are safe and well, fuck all else really matters

Mortifying moments

For those of us used to being in control, having children can be a very rude awakening. Not just when they are tiny and do not seem to understand the requirement to sleep soundly through the night, but as they get older and start to ask searching questions of you.

Of course different children require different information at different times, but they never ever ask the questions when you are ready for them. Small children particularly seem to  have some inner compass that can spot a mortifying moment maker and will ask their burning question as you queue in the supermarket on a dull Thursday afternoon on the way home from school.

Or, as in the restaurant queue on the cross channel ferry one of ours piped up loudly, “Why is that woman so fat?”  It was said not out of malice or approbation, but simply out of curiosity. Trying to laugh it off and half pretending one hasn’t heard doesn’t wash with four year olds. They just keep asking. And will formulate their own theories as to why if you don’t actually give them something to think about.  One has a desire not to offend, but also to educate the children. One cannot simply lie. Ineffectual PC- isms that ” People come in all shapes and sizes,” or “Don’t say fat, it’s rude” cut no mustard. Unusually for these kind of questions, my husband was actually there at the time .  I think it is virtually the only one he’s ever had to answer as they always seemed to come up when I was with them and he was at work. .

Anyway, he did his usual “Dad Fact” routine, where he gives an explanation with authority and the kids believe it. Despite it often being a crock of shit. But this time he did actually tell the truth, after he pulled out  his trump card.  “I studied nutrition at university” (Gillian McKeith eat your heart out – it may have been a module on ruminant digestion tbh), and went on to explain if you eat more than you exercise, eventually you get fat. And he was able to do this whilst steering the children out of earshot of the assembled masses. Masses being the operative word. So that one went pretty well I’d say, although the child had no doubt unintentionally  emabarrased the overweight person in the queue.

Everyone anticipates the standard   “Where do I come from?’ at some point, but less common ones like “What does sex feel like?” ,  ” What’s a blow job?” and “How do you know if you are ready to have sex?” can require some forethought to give an answer that bears repeating. And they will be repeated. All explanations by parents get repeated. Not just to their mates, but also when you are out with friends or grandparents  and a related subject comes up. Like kissing. And a seven year old will say “You kiss Daddy’s willie don’t you Mummy? That’s what Mummy’s do when they love someone isn’t it?” And the aforementioned explanation of a blow job can somehow seem precocious and you wish you’d just told them to ‘Run along and play’ instead of actually answering the question.

And even seemingly inocuous statements can sound like you have bizarre conversations when it is repeated by an eight year old. Talking about flavoured sparkling water with her new teacher, our very well spoken and polite daughter informed her teacher that her dad said peach water tasted like cockroach vomit. There’s not really much he could say to that.

Matilda the Musical

Mmmmm. I am hard to please, God knows. But so are most proper critics and they all seem to have adored this “fabulous’ show. So I had high hopes this would be a new Billy Elliot or Lion King – a kids show that transcends age and blows my socks off. Sadly, it wasn’t.

I don’t like child actors as a genral rule – all that stage-school over enunciation, smiling and jazz hands make me want to punch them and the first number played to that perfectly. But it was meant to – all these kids who are spoilt and considered so precious and special by their parents -to contrast with the derision heaped upon Matilda. Who I have to say I liked very much. I thought she carried her role well. And her story telling to the librarian was wonderful – and gave us the nearest thing to emotion all evening. Her little friend Lavender was endearing too. But the rest? Nah.

We didn’t really get the connection to or between the characters that would have given this more depth and feeling. Made us care more about them. Her parents were grotesque but not funny, Miss Honey insipid but not endearing, her brother just stupid. Miss Trunchbull stole every scene. She was brilliantly played -the pantomime dame in a PE kit. Marvellous.

The set is great, -wonderful classroom, gym and swing scenes. the choreography inventive and rehearsed to within millimetres. The lyrics may be funny but often drowned out by the music, but the big tunes sadly missing. Only one real big number – the rest easily forgettable.

So for me it was impressive in its design but lost the emotion and the magic of the heart of the story. Just scraped three stars.

Miss Trunchbull in full flow. Brilliant

 

 

Post Script –  after receiving a number of negative comments for this review, I found another blog who also didn’t fall all over themselves in joy at it. So I am not the only one! http://www.theatres.tv/reviews/matilda-the-musical-review/

Childhood food

Avoiding Olympic traffic I am working from home today.  Unlike many, I am incredibly industrious when working from home. Focussed, productive and happy. When I first started doing it I found it incredibly hard not to put the washing on, pop to Sainsbury’s, change the sheets etc. Now I have absolutely no inklings to do that. Except occasionally I might stretch my legs and empty the tumble drier.

can I have some more?

So I’ve just made my lunch and brought it back to eat al desco, and it reminded me of food I had as a child as it’s grilled tomatoes on toast. I love tomatoes – especially if they’ve not been kept in the fridge. The best ones I ever had were grown by hubby years ago. Gardener’s delight I think they were called. Just fantastic. But I digress. Childhood food. Tomatoes on toast was a staple. As is my wont I had taken agin baked beans, steadfastly declaring I hated them. And broad beans too. The reason for this was in fact that my sister adored broad beans so I decided to hate them. Having never ever tried them. I can distinctly remember my mother saying “You’ve never even tried them!” in an exasperated tone, and me flatly denying it. “I have and I don’t like them”. Aged about five I think. And the baked beans were just an extension of that. Again, never tried but hey they looked a bit like small broad beans in a sauce. And my sister liked them. So the point of all that was when my sister had baked beans on toast, I had to have something different. So I would have tomatoes or spaghetti hoops. Another thing I haven’t had for ages but used to adore.

At primary school we had school dinners –  disgusting in Scotland – cooked elsewhere and delivered in huge silver urns to the kitchens. My memry is of sitting opposite Kenny who used to eat with his mouth open and I would get transfixed watching his mashed potato go round and round and round. And Mr Cameron the Head would stroll through the dining hall stroking his taw (the pronged leather lash used for whipping hands). And suddenly he’d pull one of the boys out and get them to stand in front of everyone and punish them publicly. Usually for spitting in each other’s food or talking. I was terrified of him. Then in Wales the food was much better – cooked on the premises and only about 70 children in the school.  So it meant that we had a big meal at lunch time and therefore tea would often be something on toast. Mmmm poached eggs.

The rest of the time we ate fairly standard British food – roasts, cottage pies, chops, sausage and mash, liver and onions (loved the gravy, not the liver so much), corned beef and chips (made by father on Saturday lunchtimes) , egg and chips (my favourite meal of all time), bubble and squeak, macaroni cheese, home made meat pies and of course puddings a go-go; pies, crumbles, suet puddings, bread and butter pudding, peach slices with carnation milk, pineapple fritters,….

As we moved in to the Seventies we would have an occasional spag bol or lasagne – and even more exotic – stuffed green peppers. You can’t imagine how adverturous it was to have peppers. And you could only get green, no red or yellow. Father had spent time in Sri lanka during the war so mum would occasionally make a curry. For some reason always with a hard boiled egg in them, and dessicated coconut on the side.

And of course there were always stacks of home made cakes, scones and biscuits to keep us going, or cream crackers with golden syrup, french toast, masked banana with sugar and cream………..

So very little was processed or pre-prepared.  Groceries would be delivered having left your list in the shop and  in Scotland the bread van came round and left warm breakfast rolls outside the door at 6am every day. Ahh nostalgia. Doncha just love it.

Didn’t get this body avoiding pies and chips

They all preferred their Dad; part two

Before we had children I had absolutely no inkling of what it was like. No insight or empathy whatsoever. Never even thought about it. Hadn’t grown up with lots of rugrats around so was not at all in tune. And when the first one arrived boy was it a shock. I did not experience the overhwelming rush of maternal instinct as he appeared, I went in to clinical overdrive and assisted the obstetrician by opening the sutures for him as he was sewing me up after the forceps .

When the kids were small we had three under 4 and it was full on. Relentless stuff, but it gave me an incredible respect for single parents. How do they do it? I have absolutely no idea. I was always so pleased when my husband came home to share the responsibility. And do all the stuff that he did. And he was great with them. And because I was around during the days, when he was around they wanted him not me. I wasn’t hurt by this at all. I loved it. Other Mums would be concerned that I felt unloved.  Or jealous that they preferred their Dad to me.  Until they said it, it hadn’t even  occurred to me to see it in that light. I was  too busy relishing the freedom it gave me.  It meant if they had an option as to which parent to go to, they would choose him rather than me and that gave me some space. And the best thing was when we went out as a  family they all clamoured to sit on his knee or hold his hand rather than mine, leaving me free to mingle, chat, refill my wine glass and generally have a grownup time.

two way adoration

And one of the girls loved her Dad so much that she became extremely possessive of him and jealous of me.  She would flirt like mad with her Dad. And I mean serious flirting. The coy looks,  the fluttering eyelashes, the throwing her arms round him, leaning in to him, draping herself around him, stroking him and looking adoringly in to his eyes. I don’t know where she picked it up from because I am completely non-tactile. And she hadn’t seen TV at this stage. So it must be an innate behaviour. But if you’d seen her aged two or three, you could have thought she was extremely precocious.

If her Dad and I embraced she would squeeze herself between us and push me away. We found it amusing and would sometimes do it deliberately to watch her muscle herself inbetween our legs to break us apart.  But she went to another level one morning when I was still in bed and he brought me a cup of coffee. She followed him in to the bedroom and stood between us at the bedside. Me lying at one side of the bed, her standing next to me and hubby beyond her. Hubby bent over her to kiss me whereupon she immediately slapped me. Hard. Presumably in a jealous rage and unable to articulate her feelings. We were somewhat stunned. And she was mortified that she was told off for hitting.

unconditional love

We were worried this devotion to her father was going too far, especially as my aunt, a reknowned child psychiatrist, was coming to visit  and we were worried she would think something very untoward was going on. I knew I had always been a ‘Daddy’s girl’  but as far as I’m aware I didn’t take it out directly on my mother. I remember tearing at my father’s face in anger when he returned from work having left the house the previous morning without saying goodbye to me. He had picked me up as I raced down the stairs to meet him and I had ripped his forehead. Blood everywhere. He did well not to just drop me. I am reliving that emotion as I type I can remember it so vividly. So, I was aware of Daddy worship. But our daughter’s seemed extreme even by my standards.

In fact, having my father’s sister visit us was opportune and reassuring.  She explained about children of this age discovering their gender identity and where they fit in the world. She was testing out her power, place and role, and our response to make it clear we both loved her but that she  couldn’t come between us allowed her to understand her boundaries. But basically she was practising her heterosexuality.

And having been there at the beginning, I don’t envy any woman who comes between our daughter and her man.

Competitive parenting; part one

After I had written the Top Ten Things  I Didn’t Know Until I Was a Parent (in the post ‘And suddenly you’re a parent’),  I remembered another.  Peer pressure by proxy. Worrying that your child is not doing all the right things at the right stage. It was acute with the first, because that’s the one you learn on, whereas with subsequent ones there was a realisation that actually there isn’t a tick box of specific tasks by specific dates –  it’s all fairly movable. Plus we were so knackered by the time we had three under four that we didn’t know what any of them were meant to be doing or not.

I caveat this post with the fact that we were lucky in that there was no real worry that there were serious developmental difficulties. What I am talking about here are the stupid anxieties induced by seeing the achievements of other children and believing they reflect badly on yours for not doing the same. I hasten to add my husband was not remotely afflicted by this. Only me.

Mealtimes

The first time I felt it was when I went to visit the friend who had had their daughter the day before our son was born.  I was poleaxed by the fact that her eight month old was eating by herself using a spoon.  Our boy would grab a spoon if you loaded it for him, but by no means was he independently eating. It was as likely to go on the floor or in his ear as in his mouth. If you let him have the spoon he would use it as a drum stick, sending porridge flying round the kitchen as he banged happily in to the bowl.  I came home from that visit with the first pangs of parental peer pressure by proxy. Although, it wasn’t really peer pressure as my friend had not been gloating or insinuating our son was slow. It was just how I felt. And a bit jealous.Then everyone else’s babies started crawling. Ours didn’t. Just sat. And lay down. No crawling. No standing. No pulling up on furniture. Made it simpler for me as I knew he’d still be where I left him if I popped to the loo or went out of the room for whatever reason. He would flap his arms up and down and bounce on the spot to the Neighbours’ theme as I had become addicted to it whilst breast feeding him so I think it was a Pavlovian response to the music. But apart from that no attempt to move.

Pulling up and holding on. But not yet walking.

For his first birthday we bought him a wooden push along trolley and he dutifully pulled himself up to standing using it. But then flopped down. But he could at least pull himself to standing with something to help him.  By now he would bounce along on his bottom if he wanted to get from A to B. But usually he wasn’t inclined, and would happily sit and play for hours with his toys in exactly the same spot.When he still wasn’t crawling  or walking by the time number two arrived it made it easier for me, although there was some relief when he did eventually start moving. He bypassed the crawling stage and went straight to walking at about 17 months. Fairly late, but got there eventually. Of course, as ever with these scenarios it is easy to overlook the positive things he was able to do and simply focus on the negatives. In fact he had great linguistic capabilities and could comprehend completely what we would say to him by about 10 months. And he was brilliant with his sister when she arrived not long after he turned one.

But of course it was at school where the intense comparisons started. With little girls leaving nursery aged 3 and 4, clutching their armfuls of paintings with their names scrawled at the bottom, I would search for any crayon capability. Any drawing. Any painting. Any writing. Any artwork at all. There was none forthcoming.

All he did was run about outside, sometimes wearing a Batman cape,  sometimes play Lego or Playmobil. No real interest in reading, although we tried and he loved his Dad’s storytelling. But no interest at all in writing or drawing. I did get a bit worried, but I was confident he was bright enough from the converstaions we would have and that he could do basic mental arithmetic with me when we went shopping.

Then he went in to Reception Year. Just four years old and at school all day. At the end of the year the young teacher told us that she thought he may have learning difficulties. She wasn’t sure.  He was in the bottom 25% of the class academically.   I was stunned. I couldn’t believe it, but she was insistent. He could only read a few simple words, and not that well, he couldn’t write , she wasn’t sure he understood what was going on.  I was taken aback.  I could not believe she thought our boy was not the brightest thing known to man.

So I did what any mother would do – I went and told on the teacher to her boss who happened to be his old Nursery teacher and  about to retire. I was near to tears. Bizarre really that I should take any notice of a wet behind the ears newly qualified teacher.

First day at School

The old and wise teacher  was 100% reassuring and explained he couldn’t develop everything at once – things just had to take their turn. So he had been busy developing physical and creative skills with the games he played, building  and mathematical skills with his Lego , linguistic skills with his conversation etc etc. But he wasn’t yet ready to develop the literacy. Reading and writing would come to him when he was ready. She was absolutely sure he was bright as a button. I had been too in my heart, but needed the external expert validation somehow.And sure enough his reading suddenly took off in Year Two and he has never looked back. A faster and more avid reader I have never met.

And I would love to meet that stupid Reception teacher (she left the following year) to tell her how utterly wrong she was for writing him off. And to push his English  Masters degree in in her face and say “Bottom 25% academically? I don’t fucking think so.”

The best ever Christmas present. Aged Four. In Reception Year at School.

And suddenly you’re a parent

Labour itself came as a bit of a surprise. Well, to be frank so did the conception. After an operation for a twisted ovary I’d been told it was unlikely I’d conceive without assistance (medical assistance I mean – obviously I wasn’t expecting an immaculate conception) so we threw caution to the wind and bingo I was pregnant the next month. And technically married to someone else, but that’s another story. I will never forget sitting in the bathroom seeing that little blue line appear. Holy fuck. Wasn’t expecting that.

I’d always said I would give up smoking if I were pregnant. I loved it so much I could never give it up just for me, but realised I couldn’t inflict it on an unborn baby. But driving to work that morning I had half a cigarette. I felt so guilty smoking once I knew I was pregnant I didn’t tell anyone until years later. Ridiculous really as up to that point I’d been smoking 20 a day -including the 6 weeks when I hadn’t realised I was up the duff.

Pregnancy wasn’t my favourite time; an old heart problem woke up and I had fortnightly visits to the hospital. One of my best friends was due two days after me and she rang to say she’d had her baby early. I was livid. Jealous. Pissed off. And assumed that meant for sure I was going to be two weeks late. But that evening, sitting on the settee doing the Sunday Times crossword there was an almightly pop as my waters broke. He wasn’t due for another two days and I hadn’t even packed a bag. We had no baby clothes or anything. My husband couldn’t drive and the hospital was down in South London as we’d only moved to Ealing two weeks earlier. An ambulance would only have taken us to the closest unit and I certainly didn’t want that. So despite having been drinking brandy and not having passed a test, the father-to-be got in to the driving seat of my company XR3i to take me to St George’s. It wasn’t the most relaxing of journeys but we got there.

15 hours and about 300 contractions later I would have rammed the ‘beautiful object to focus on’ down the birthing guru Shelia Kitzinger’s throat if she’d been there. I was offered an epidural and would have happily plunged the needle in to my own back if I could. I’d done it enough times for other people in the past. The anaesthetist did his stuff and the bliss was indescribable. Contractions without the pain. 22 hours in to hard labour the baby went in to distress so all systems go to get him out pronto. The room filled with doctors; some for the birth, some for the baby, some for my heart. One high forceps delivery later a very blue baby arrived with the cord round his neck. No rush of maternal instinct from me – I just wanted the paediatricians to rescucitate him. Meanwhile I opened the sutures for the obtetrician sewing me up. They offered to take him to the nursery overnight (those were the days!) and I willingly said yes. I just wanted to sleep. Well, the first thing I wanted was a diet coke and some toast. Which I then threw up. The husband was despatched to get ‘some of those gro-bag things’ for the baby to wear and had to make his way home on public transport as he had no qualified driver to sit with him in the car.

Parenting did not come naturally to me. Or at least not the parenting of small babies. It was just terrifying. Well, the first one at least. I had no idea. At all. I didn’t enjoy those first weeks and months. Too much responsibility. No let up. No chance to send it back from whence it came. How on earth do single parents do it? Luckily my husband was easy with babies and he saw us through those broken nights and screaming days.When baby cried and I had fed, changed and tried to put him down to no avail, I too would be in tears. I don’t know how my husband coped. I didnt. I couldn’t get up and dressed and out of the house before 2pm. Every time I tried to do anything the baby would want feeding. Or changing. If husband was 5 minutes late getting home I had panic attacks that he was under a tube somewhere and I would be left with this baby to look after alone. The very thought filled me with fear and dread.

a natural

So I give you my

Top Ten Things I Didn’t Know Until I Was A Parent

1. Despite incredibly busy hospital dotcoring jobs working over 100 hour weeks, I didn’t know what tired was until I’d had continuous months of broken nights
2. I didn’t know what responsibility was until I had to care for someone helpless 24/7
3. I didn’t know the sheer force and volume that breast fed baby shit can be generated at until I was cleaning up the back of his head after a particularly explosive episode.
4. I didn’t realise how little I knew about parenting and how easy it had been to criticise others until I had to do it for myself.
5. I didn’t know how to appreciate a night out properly until I couldn’t have them
6. I didnt appreciate what I put my parents through until someone did the same to me
7. I didn’t realise toddlers really would pick up dog shit and try to eat it
8. I didn’t realise I would be able to walk out of the house and leave the front door wide open as I would get so distracted by the children.
9. I didn’t know how badly run a meeting could be until I joined the PTA
10. I hadn’t anticpated spending an entire boiling hot summer’s day at Disneyland dressed only in a zipped up cagoule and a pair of underpants as I’d had to remove all other clothing and dig a cagoule out of the boot because a child vomited all over me as we pulled up in the car.

Crap TV is a bonding opportunity

Growing up we seemed to be the last family to get colour and were only reluctantly ever allowed to watch the commercial channel. Like mother like daughter, our children were not allowed to watch the TV (apart from rugby with Dad!) until I bought an NSPCC video with lots of 5 or 10 minute stories on it. The older one was probably 3 at the time and we always watched the NSPCC video together. As they grew up of course they started watching TV – I think it was Sunday mornings – Power Rangers, Thunderbirds. But it was never used as a childminder until we hired the Kiwi nanny who turned out to be doped off her face. I came in from work to find all three plugged in and her reading a magazine. Compeletely unfazed she asked how my day had been. And this despite my specifically saying I didn’t want them watching telly, I wanted her to play with them and take them out. She lasted a few days. I was in denial at first. As she was a Kiwi I had stereotypically assumed she had get up and go and was self starting. Her drug dealing boyfriend wasnt pleased when we sacked her.  But I digress.

I couldn’t bear them watching Keenan and Kell and other American shite as it appeared to glorify stupidity and laziness despite them assuring me it was just funny. I was wary of the Simpsons, but loved it when I actually bothered to watch it. Teaching sex ed to 10 year olds made me realise the power of the soaps. These kids were watching them without any parental input so could see the 13 year old have the baby and evertything be ok, watch the rape scene and not understand that was not ok……….

But the strength of TV with the teens was finding a neutral territory we could talk about that didn’t mean every conversation was a negative one about tidying their room, washing up, not going out or dressing appropriately. We could watch some pap together and I could try to wind my neck in and hear why they liked it/didn’t like that girl/ thought that was stupid etc, whilst also having a view. ANTM was a good one for the girls. Jackass a fantastic introduction from our son.  Like football is for most boys and men, there is X factor and BGT that we can access and discuss on a level playing field.