musingsponderingsandrants

Parenting, profundities and humour

Category: reflective

Youngest… — July 16, 2015

Youngest…

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Tomorrow my little girl is 8.

I have actually got no idea where the last 8 years have gone.

It seems like yesterday that she was a tiny, crumpled baby, still to unfurl, nestled snugly, sometimes much to snugly for a hot July, on my chest asleep and content.

I remember before she was born telling myself to enjoy those early days. I knew she was to be my last baby. I knew it would be the last time I would hold a newborn and inhale that just born smell which lasts several days.

I didn’t enjoy my first days with eldest. I was in shock. Completely overwhelmed by the whole experience. I was fumbling around not sure what to do and which way to turn. I read too many books. I got too hung up on doing it all right. I was self conscious and exhausted. I was lonely and unsure how to forge my own path. I got there in the end. But it was a tough road for several months.

When middlest was born the whole birth and early days experience was so different and so much easier that I went the other way and did far too much too soon. I took him to meet friends the day he was born. I ran around after eldest trying to keep everything ‘normal’. Almost inevitably about a week in I ended up in hospital with post partum fever on IV antibiotics and so my early days with him were somewhat marred.  And then he also became quite badly and scarily ill a few weeks later and we had yet another really tough time.

So with youngest I was determined to enjoy those days. Relax. Allow people to help. Do what we felt was best not what the books said. Put her down to sleep on her front if she preferred it. Stay in PJs all day.

And it worked. Those early days with her are some of the happiest of my life. Although in hindsight it all went too quickly I can actually remember some of it going deliciously slowly. Hours listening to music in my newly finished conservatory just holding her and allowing her to sleep on me. Against all ‘that advice’.

She was a joy, not always easy- until we tried that sleeping on her front thing we got hardly any sleep ourselves for five days!- but a joy none the less.

And that is how it has remained. Happy Birthday darling youngest.

The Tower of Babel… — July 14, 2015

The Tower of Babel…

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I am not one for racial stereotypes. Usually.

We are on holiday. Did I mention this before? Sorry… Anyway we are. Over our many years of overseas holidays- which were punctuated by a run of cottages in the south west of the UK during my children’s early years (we weren’t brave enough to go abroad until youngest was just three and even then we took the car so we could take everything we owned in the boot)- I have noticed a shift in the nationalities of those we share the dining room with.

In our years BC (before children) we went on many a last minute get away to inexpensive places such as the party resorts of the Balearics. And other than the British making the most of those sea front dives serving warm ale and steak and kidney pie in front of the English Premiership we were mostly joined by Germans enjoying a slightly different sort of joint serving sauerkraut and beer in jugs with handles.

There was that running joke that in order to bag a sunbed one had to set the alarm early. Or throw a towel deftly off one’s balcony directly onto a lounger. And it was true. We would watch the scene unfold from around 7am from the safety of that balcony as well padded German men carefully and precisely laid out enough towels on enough loungers for their entire party. Ensuring they were tucked in all round to avoid the wind blurring the lines of demarcation. They have always been a race prone to take over though eh?

Our trips to France and the Canaries which formed the majority of our early PC (post children) forays abroad were full of Scandanavians. And French. The former imposing in their sunburnt blondness, forging a pathway directly to the cold meats section at breakfast, loading up on processed protein before hitting the all inclusive lager at 10am…I kid you not. Their offspring emptying the pool with every forceful dive.

The French women endlessly elegant, cigarettes dangling alluringly, sipping tiny espressos, surely an advert for any teenager to begin smoking. Their equally beautiful little daughters with better toe nail polish than me (not difficult) and sun streaked blonde hair talking in their lyrical language to other charmingly turned out preschoolers swinging their legs from bar stools. No threat to anyone poolside when they finally emerged, immaculate, from their rooms at around 10am.

And now, in Greece, there are few Germans, I am not sure they would be able to show their faces here, even the mild mannered and laid back Greeks may find it tough to cope with. No the dominant race is Russian. I don’t want to offend anyone, really I don’t but I find them a tough nationality to share a hotel with. They are strident and pushy, massively entitled, put German sun bed hogging to shame, and lack manners. Of any sort. Or maybe that is just the ones here. The season is clearly hotting up and this hotel has hastily issued some new sun bed rules. One forbids the saving of sun beds at both pool and beach simultaneously. It would never occur to me to do such a thing. Russians.

And then there is us. The good old British. I have a soft spot for my race abroad. They are easily spotted. Queing up sensibly for the bacon (I call it bacon but usually abroad it is a kind of ham that has been vaguely shown a grill), getting quietly irrate when those sun bed rules are not adhered to (let us be honest here we are the only ones even giving them a passing thought), looking pink whilst being streaked with white from hastily applied and malabsorbed suncream and making their children wear rash vests all day. Oh and shark fin buoyancy aids. We had a whole family wearing them in here earlier. They created a little shoal of sharks. Anyone swimming myopically could have been seriously worried.

We sit in the shade, doing Soduko and failing to gain the waiter’s attention. And I love us for it. I love our manners and reticence and gentle fuming.

I love being British. It sees me sitting on a wall watching my kids swim most afternoons for fear of antagonising a Russian returning finally to their sunbed which has been occupied by merely a pair of sunglasses since 9am. But still, I love it.

End of Term — July 10, 2015

End of Term

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Today is my children’s last day of term….well I say day it is actually half a day as I need to go back to collect them at 12 noon.

I always have mixed feelings at this time of year.

On the one hand I am immensely looking forward to having them all to myself for a few weeks. I am looking forward to not getting up at 6am. I will not miss the homework. I am excited about my temporary, semi retirement from taxi driving. We will have adventures with friends and family. I will be able to cook meals that take longer than 15 minutes. We are all excited about a family holiday all together somewhere warm and relaxing.

Yes we will still do music practise, I will try to finally help my daughter to learn to tell the time reliably. We will do the occasional times table. But we will also watch far too much TV, play on computers, doss in the garden, do messy craft (I have a yearning to finish off that Belle loom band character which still languishes half done on a loom since youngest and I started it in the last summer holidays) and read books.

We will fall out. I will miss having time to think and write this blog. There will be altercations and contretemps. Siblings will be physically abused, there will be crying and tantrums. My house will descend into even more chaos than usual (husband gird your loins)…

But I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Because on the flip side to the end of term is the fact that another year has slipped away. Almost unnoticed. My children are another year older. Edging inexorably towards adulthood. So these times are precious.

The summer offers a brief moment when the world slows down slightly. A time to really reconnect.

And for that I am eternally grateful.

Pride Cometh.. — July 2, 2015

Pride Cometh..

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As the more astute of you may have realised by now I am a SAHM… that is parenting forum speak for Stay At Home Mum. It hardly encompasses my role but, hey, that’s a post for another day.

In the days BC (before children) I had a job. Actually it was a career of over a decade in duration. I earned more than my husband. It was really quite high powered and despite constantly feeling like an imposter I was surprisingly good at it. Annually I would fill in those endless, tedious forms about my achievements over the last year and sit in front of a manager- whose only real interest was in my sales results- and receive feedback. And hopefully a bonus and possibly a pay rise. Occasionally over that 12 year period I was promoted which meant a definite pay increase and more people to sit in front of every year and provide feedback to.

And usually if the manager could see past my slight ‘oddness’ – variously described as scruffiness, dislike of networking, lack of killer instinct- I got positive feedback, maybe a few development areas too, but generally a lot of good stuff.

And also I had grateful clients, colleagues who needed me to help them out, managers whose butts I saved.

And I miss it. I miss sitting down a few times a year and being told I was good at something. By someone other than my mother. I miss the cards from clients.  I miss the gratefulness of colleagues.

Now my days are ruled in large part by small people and a house. They are not that good at feedback. Really. So for instance I take it as a positive if the food I provide is eaten by everyone without comment. That is a win. Comments are usually only negative. The abode of course doesn’t speak. It cannot thank me for being dusted. The wall cannot provide gratitude for being painted.

And so the job is long on tedium and drudgery and short on thanks.

Therefore when my off spring achieve something amazing I feel not only the usual mother’s pride but also a slight sense of validation. I know this is wrong. In my heart I know that I am in no way responsible for the wonderful things they achieve. That they are their own people who work hard at something or are just (lucky them) naturally good at something else. But I feel it anyway.

This blog has helped. People like reading it, or so they say! I certainly feel less of a need to post about my children on Face book as a result. (Which incidentally is such a hot topic of debate- I personally love hearing about my friend’s children’s achievements because otherwise how would I know?-but I know opinion is divided).

So there you have it a mostly silent readership is providing that little bit of validation. I will still feel pride at all my kids achieve, who wouldn’t, but maybe I will see those achievements for what they are and not as a reflection of how well I am ‘performing’. And I will just be able to enjoy the moment.

Let’s Not Skirt Around the Issue — June 30, 2015

Let’s Not Skirt Around the Issue

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Today I am wearing a skirt. Those that know me in real life will no doubt be gasping in amazement. I don’t really do skirts. The last time I wore one unreluctantly it looked like that and it was 1983.

I am only ‘doing’ one today as I have just returned from a cervical smear test. I did ask myself if this was something I wanted to air in public (careful with the spelling there Sarah) but as the old smear test is just one of the many ignominies us women have to face why not just share that reality?

The invitations (yep that is how they word them- it stops short of black tie- as if that somehow makes it better) come round alarmingly fast and you sit there with a mounting sense of dread believing the NHS may have made an error in recalling you so quickly. But then you realise that actually, yes, last time you suffered this procedure one of your children wasn’t yet at school and they were sat asking awkward questions from behind the curtain. So although it feels like yesterday when you last chatted about the weather whilst someone slid a metal implement somewhere metal implements have no business being it really was three plus years ago. And so I have decided to just let it all hang out. Again.

Skirts are good for cervical smears. It avoids having to strip off your entire bottom half and with some delicate drapeage one can still believe one is retaining a certain air of delicacy. It’s all an illusion obviously but psychologically it helps.

I realise now that maybe this entry should come with some sort of warning. To be honest this whole piece is probably going to be too much for some of my readers. Mostly the male ones I imagine, especially those who are not yet fathers or those who stayed firmly at the head end during the delivery of their offspring.

You see the cervical smear is a total stroll in the park compared to the total lack of dignity that accompanies childbirth. Until you have had your feet in stirrups with some random doctor trying to repair your reproductive area you can’t say you have reached the bottom, dignity wise. To be honest after the twenty hours it took me to extrude eldest I would have let anyone have a go with that repair just so I could get some sleep…ahh sleep..well of course that didn’t happen. What? a student wants to come in?- hey! I am high on gas and air- bring in a whole class, just get me sorted!

Anyway before I lose loyal readers in droves back to the point (if I ever had one). My reasons for not wearing skirts then.

My main reason is legs. I do have legs. Two of them. Which I believe is the usual complement. I have found that my legs look best in trousers. Specifically jeans. Boot cut. Jeans are my wardrobe mainstay. I will venture into leggings and boots in winter and linen trousers when temperatures hit 25 plus. But usually I am in the old denim.

And so my legs are, how shall I put this, slightly neglected. It flits across my mind occasionally, usually when I see some yummy mummy wafting around in a frothy summer number, that I could don one of my two skirts. And then I remember the deforestation that that would entail. And I reach for the denim.

I do envy women who ‘sort’ themselves out every day. I just can’t fit it in. To be honest I sometimes don’t fit in teeth brushing until gone 11am. And before you suggest I get up earlier we are up at 6 daily it’s just my actual job (the kids) seems to get in the way. And don’t get me started on moisturizing. Really?

And then recently my house has been full of men. All the time. This week one was ensconced in my bedroom for two days from 8-6 and whilst I admired his dedication to building my new wardrobes it was quite off putting ablution wise.

Then as well as legs feet are an issue. Mine are utilitarian. Not pretty. One ex described them as flippers. Cheers. I am not one for nail varnish. A friend and I went to a spa in January and I still have a small bit of that polish on my big toe nails. It’s quite interesting to know how quickly one’s toe nails grow. I can’t find the varnish remover that I have had since 1986 (and that is not a joke btw) maybe it has all evaporated. So my feet and sandals are not really that good a combo.

And then in my line of work jeans are just more practical. I spend my days cooking, cleaning (husband will be spitting out his tea at this point), doing laundry, clearing up kid detritus, ferrying, hauling large musical instruments around etc and heels (with my legs flats and skirts would just be ugh) and floaty numbers don’t cut it. I had curry down my front and had managed to suck my frothy number up my Hoover attachment before 10a.m. this morning.

And then there are a whole host of other issues. The glare of my pallid legs putting motorists off their manoeuvres, the way the kids look when they see me in anything other than jeans (‘You just don’t look like you mummy’), where do I put my mobile phone, wind issues, co-ordination- denim goes with anything skirts need thought, my thread veins, my varicose veins, all my veins really, the ironing. I could go on.

To be honest it is possibly a matter of priorities. I was never one for prioritising my ‘beauty’ routine. And now my main priorities in life are sleep and this blog. So there you have it. Trousers all the way.

The Brothers — June 28, 2015

The Brothers

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On a recent weekend my eldest and middlest were at Scout and Cub camp respectively. In the persistent, unrelenting rain.

This left youngest home alone. Well obviously home with hubby and I, not actually alone, that would constitute child neglect I am sure, but anyway you know what I mean.

To begin with she and I dropped middlest at Cub Camp, whilst hubby delivered eldest to Scout camp elsewhere, and I couldn’t get her to come home. She had embroiled herself in a soccer game that had started up amongst the Cubs and as regular readers will know this is her passion. And so she was gaily bashing a ball around.

Anyway I finally extracted her and on the short drive home we discussed what fun we would have over the weekend. She had a football game the next morning, her Grandma was coming over to stay to celebrate her birthday and she had a bowling party on the Sunday. Plus she had her parents all to herself.

It took precisely 20 minutes before she was sobbing gently into her bath about missing ‘The Brothers’. This is what she calls them. I tried again to stress the upsides. For instance that she could watch whatever she wanted to watch on TV the next morning and for longer than usual as we needed less time to get ready. Sole control of the remote- what could be better?

At this she relented slightly and admitted that she could probably stand the weekend without eldest but she was feeling the loss of middlest keenly. Apparently I had ‘rushed her off’ at the Cub Camp drop off and she didn’t get to say goodbye properly. I pointed out that middlest would probably not have wanted a hug in front of all his scouting friends. Although that is actually unlikely to be true as middlest will usually accept a hug from anyone, anytime, anywhere.

She was not to be consoled. And so she went to bed sniffing gently.

The next morning I came downstairs and found her sitting forlornly in front of the TV holding the remote control. It is evidently less fun to have ownership of that device when one has not had to fight tooth and nail for it.

She made the most of the day. She enjoyed the football match but wished eldest had been there ‘shouting from the side’. Grandma taught her a new game to play with a tennis ball against the wall of the house but really she wanted to ‘play penalties with middlest’. We went out for Grandma’s birthday meal and I think the mainly adult conversation got her down. The party offered some relief but then she had no one to gloat at upon receipt of a sweet stuffed party bag.

I did warn her as we left to collect middlest that he might be tired and not in the mood to play.

Then he got home and they built that den up there and laid in it to watch TV.

She was happy again.

So although they fight tooth and nail, bicker, physically assault each other and tease each other mercilessly when it comes down to it my kids love each other dearly.

It’s heartening to know that although I busted my pelvic floor having three kids in three and a half years it has paid off. Long may it continue.

Oh and good luck to youngest’s first boyfriend. He will have two tough acts to follow!

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