War

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So, right now Pudding and I are locked in the mutha of all toddler tussles. A war of wills. A fight to the death. An Armageddon, in which I find myself not only losing my cool, but – worse – my sense of humour. And all over something as ridiculous as clothes. Or, rather, the all-too-frequent lack of them.

I mean, how could you not smirk at the sight of a red-faced, white-lipped mother stalking from house to car on the school run with a wriggling, shell-shocked semi-naked child clasped firmly under one arm? Who wouldn’t have to choke down a chuckle as said mother is busted in the school car park by an astonished pre-school teacher who innocently leaned in to say ‘hello’ only to find the child in the back still bare-chested (and chomping on a cold piece of toast she found in the car seat pocket)? And who could fail to find funny the chirpy honesty of Little Lady Godiva, “Hi, I’m naked cos I had a bit of a strop”?

Me. That’s who.

And why? Because I am insane enough to believe I’m the boss. That my little darling will dutifully succumb to being dressed up like a doll. But. Nothing could be further from the truth. In this crazy clothes war I am a mere footsoldier. Cannon fodder. Bowing to the bloodthirsty bidding of a small but determined tyrant. Who I’ve long since given up on attempting to wrangle into a skirt or dress. Or anything pink, flowery or boasting a design remotely resembling a butterfly. Jeans or leggings (no trimmings), red or blue t-shirts only (and no frills) are the easier commands to obey. Others are less obvious, and change day-by-day (hell, who am I kidding, minute-by-minute, more like) to outraged cries of, “No! That’s not cool!” (like I would know what signifies ‘cool’ to an outraged three-year-old) or “I am NOT a princess!” (go figure) or, my favourite, “Eurgh, that looks like a church” (wtf?). Even when dressing up my enraged adversary eschews her sparkling ‘Frozen’ dress and shimmering Elsa shoes (which she has now gifted to her best boy friend, btw) in favour of a smokin’ green dragon outfit, complete with wings, tail and full headdress.

To be honest, this week isn’t the first time I’ve lost it over the now-customary early-morning clothing brawl. The last time I marched her into pre-school wearing only her pants was in February. She refused to admit to being cold and instead cunningly seized the opportunity afforded by an anxious, on-the-edge mother to negotiate an I-get-to-choose-my-own-outfit day the very next day. “Fuck it, just go with it,” I thought. Until I found myself escorting an insanely trippy-looking Christmas reindeer elf in banana yellow crocs and Peppa Pig leggings through the doors of shame at school.

*sighs*

“Don’t worry, she’s just asserting her personality,” all the clever child psychologist-types will tell me. “Aw, she’s finding her identity. Looking for her own little bit of control.” Bollocks. She knows exactly who she is. How to dig in and get what she wants. And how to rule the entire, quivering cohort with her tiny but imperious rod of iron (and spine-tingling roar).

Given this mutinous history, imagine the trepidation with which I approached The Birthday Party. Ever the pacifist and keen to avoid another soul-destroying diva scene on the big day, I determined to take her shopping to choose her own outfit. Genius. No room for tantrums there. Of course I knew she wouldn’t go near your usual definition of a party frock but had hopes we might get away with a sparkly top and pretty leggings. Something with ribbons, or sequins maybe? Given her beloved co-host and partner-in-crime had already laid out a delicate white satin dress and glittery shoes, I thought I might *just* be in with a shout. But, no. Again. I emerged from the store clasping a new pair of (blue) jeans – and a Captain America t-shirt. From the boys’ section. Obvs.

Nonetheless, whether punch-drunk or battle-weary, I was deluded enough to think I might have won the skirmish. But what is abundantly clear is that I have most certainly lost the war. The war of the wardrobe. And everyone knows exactly who is wearing the trousers now.

Perfect

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So, I’m done with the pursuit of perfection. I say “pursuit of” quite deliberately. Because I’m far from it. Perfect, that is. So very far from it that if perfection were a place – like Devon, say – I’d find myself wandering aimlessly around Doncaster asking pissed up tramps for directions. And don’t give me that shit about these things being ‘a journey not a destination’. The only ‘journey’ I like is the guilty pleasure of singing along loudly and tunelessly to ‘Don’t stop believing’ in the car. To continue the travel metaphor, I have not only lost the map I’m not sure I ever really had one (or, rather, I mislaid it together with my car keys, parking spot and dignity somewhere around the time the midwife yelled ‘push!’ (with the subtext, ‘goddam it’) whilst bracing a leg (mine) against each shoulder (hers)). Ahem. Anyway, what I’m saying is: I think it’s time to give up. On being awesome.

We all do it to ourselves. Constantly striving to achieve more, be a better parent / spouse / child / chef / cleaner / negotiator / rodeo rider. Always with a deadline and, despite the speed of travel, finding you motored past the exit (and then some) without even batting a droopy, sleep-deprived eyelid. Life on fast forward instead of cruise. It’s time to stop the relentless pursuit. And just be. There’s no frickin’ petrol left anyhow.

We don’t need the perfect home. The happiest family. The shiniest car, the biggest career, the battenburg to end all bake offs. And we don’t need tiger-babies. Why can’t we just let life happen? Believe that all things will work out in an ideal world. Stop persecuting ourselves for the lists unachieved (or rewritten, daily, according to grim reality), the diet abandoned (on day two), the spelling test result of less than 100% (who the hell remembers to practice with the little darlings before 8am on the day of the test anyway?) Speaking to my friends, most of whom – I admit – are considerably more competent than yours truly, we are all at it. All bonkers. Driving ourselves crazy with ridiculous ideals. And the ever-present fear of failure, of being ‘less than’.

Ok, so the children have nits. Fine, my house looks like it’s been torn apart by homicide division. Get over it that I haven’t prepared a home cooked meal in over a week and the children haven’t seen the sun in just as long. Will the world end if I take an artfully remodelled Tesco Finest to the mums’ baking competition at school? Who cares that my muffin top has become as large and richly textured as a vat of rice pudding?  And, of course, any form of exercise is overrated when you have wine for euphoria. Getting to school on time is for wimps (and Slavic mummies with a houseful of domestic help). And, really, my home does NOT need to look like an ad for The (off) White Company.

When will I learn to let it ride? Sit and read a book in the afternoon instead of emptying the dishwasher or putting yet another wash load in. Flick through a magazine rather than farting about with celeriac. Forgive myself for cleaning the entire house with babywipes. Choose ‘good enough’ over ‘great’. Take a bath, not rush a shower. Eat custard doughnuts whilst watching repeats of Masterchef and eschewing the call of a Zumba class. My god, that’s it! Forget yummy, I’m totally heading for slummy. With attitude. Let’s do this thing!

And, yes, in case you were wondering, I DID just fall off the detox wagon. Big style. On day one. Courtesy of a buttery toasted teacake and a family bag of Yorkie buttons, which I had no intention of sharing and which has clearly made me fierce. As the ancient Chinese philosophers once said, “even the longest journey begins with a single step,” or was it, “bollocks to learning mandarin.” Anyway, I’m out of juice.

Accelerate

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So, I love a good slogan. And, after a day in which I’ve skirted disaster at every tightrope turn, I’m thinking of one my sister has in her kitchen that says, “Drink coffee. Do stupid things faster with more energy.” As a self-confessed Earl Grey addict I’ve never drunk a cup of coffee in my life but, different beverage, same shit. Since becoming a mum I seem to do everything at speed. Usually badly, and usually with calamitous consequences.

Take an innocent night out with school mums, for example. I can down a pint of Peroni in the time it takes the laydees to decide between the Chardonnay and the Pinot. And another before we’ve even decided where to sit. In an empty pub (becoming a mother also appears to have gifted me the genius of indecision). All this with the result that I spend most of the evening alternating between trotting to the loo for a pee and telling everyone how much I love them. Also at speed.

Then there’s the arrival of the new season of ‘House of Cards’ on Netflix. Brother, I cantered so quickly through that baby I was channeling Claire Underwood before I even knew it. The husband only had to make one wrong move stacking the dishwasher and I was already three steps ahead, strategically placing knives pointy side up in the hope of a maiming at the very next wrong move.

And don’t even get me started on the morning maelstrom of simultaneous teeth cleaning / bladder emptying / child wrangling (from the throne) before the sprint for the car, followed by the breathless gallop of shame to drop off (late), invariably with my shoelaces undone and breakfast in my hair. It’s nothing short of a miracle that someone isn’t left behind on a daily basis, obscured by the dust kicked up by the heels of last minute homework / third breakfasts / coat-no coat negotiations. Hell, I’ve long accepted my OCD need to prepare school bags, lunch boxes and uniforms the night before (justified, I think you’ll agree) but ffs I’ve now even got to the point of preparing pyjamas and bedtime rituals as we head out of the door at 8.30am (ish) for the damn school run!

I’m rushing my goddam life away in an accelerated need to ‘keep on top of things’. Scarily bringing to mind a character in a Kate Atkinson novel who was so anxious to be a perfect mum, and get things right, that she got up earlier and earlier each day until she was rising at 3am to bake. Bake, ffs! Until she found herself bludgeoning her poor, long-suffering husband to death in a moment of sleep-deprived madness. Ahem. Anyway…

I guess what I’m saying is that I’ve lost the ability to take things slowly (along with a heap of other essential skills, like reflection, patience, tiger wrestling). Unless it’s responding to emails that involve ‘arrangements’ (my god, can those take weeks for me to compute). Or making my way to bed before the wee small hours (which is always interminably delayed by ‘fun’ distractions like emptying the dishwasher or taking the recycling out or grooming the dog). Obvs.

I’m reminded of a book that I bought back in the early days of parenthood, called “In Praise of Slow”. I picked it up because it was all about slow parenting, and taking time to appreciate stuff. What with slo-mo organisation and glacial bedtimes, maybe I’m not doing so badly after all though. And, of course, eight years later and I’m still only on page 3…

Bliss

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So, I’ve spent the morning of mothers’ day stripping and changing beds, scrubbing the kitchen and scouring bathrooms. And I’ve realised a thing. A scary and really rather uncomfortable ‘thing’. My mouth can scarce form the words but… *whispers* I think i actually I like housework. I like housework. There. I’ve said it. Twice.

Those three little words that I never thought I’d utter. Like, “no, I’m dieting” or “I enjoy running” or “my homemade soufflé”. Well, there it is. In writing. I give in. I actually enjoy domestic drudgery. Spending hours sweating (er, glowing) at the ironing board, or slaving over a hot stove (to make a meal I know will never be eaten) and even bleaching my children’s delightfully crusty skid marks from the toilet (granted, that’s just weird). I’m smitten.

Christ, today of all days, I wasn’t even fussed that I got up first, made my own breakfast and was gifted a present that I chose myself. Unwrapped. Because I had spent a happy morning bustling between utility. kitchen and bathroom  ‘making things nice’. Sheesh, I’ve raged at the husband for lesser infractions and plotted his untimely demise merely for failing to stack the dishwasher. But this. This is serious.

What’s happened to me? Have I found domestic nirvana? That state of peace. Inner calm. Where I hanker no more after ‘me time’ in which I envisage myself quietly ploughing through a stack of glossy magazines, Earl Grey on tap, chocolate and wine gums close to hand. And choose instead to potter from sink to washing machine to slow frickin’ cooker. To stack, sort, scrub, fold, wipe, organise. Sod meditation, this is my happy place. Apparently. Hands busy, head full of completed tick lists, house reeking of Domestos and Pomegranate Noir.

God, did I just grow up? Perhaps I am just cradled in the eye of the storm and there’s a major natural disaster brewing. Or *brightens considerably* it could just be that I am gently sozzled by the post-housework pint to which I just treated myself. Ah, that must be it. I’ll be ranting about skids and dirty washing again tomorrow *takes another sip* Better now.

Reverse

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So, just what the heck is it with car manufacturers and their useless innovations? Ok so I now take cup holders and electric seats for granted. And whilst I might whinge a bit about Nigel SatNav, I wouldn’t be without his patronising tones for all the Toblerone in Stansted.

Admittedly there are some modern additions to motoring that make being the family taxi and queen of the roadtrip more palatable. But why, oh why, do you feel compelled to mute the sound system when I reverse? Ffs. What IS that all about? There I am enjoying a gleeful musical moment with the nippers, at least one of us rocking some great air guitar (well, not the responsible driver, obvs) and singing at the top of our voices, when it suddenly…stops. Not only does this add to the children’s natural anxiety that mummy might be heard tunelessly banging out a bit of Blondie at the top of her (vocally challenged) voice, but it just, well, spoils the magic of the moment.

What, exactly, do they think is going to happen? That I might turn my head to look behind only to be hit by a wall of sound that blinds me to other cars/trees/pedestrians? Or that the music, left at its rightful volume (loud), might render me deaf to the cries of help from the dear innocent old lady I’ve just carelessly mown down? Or that I could be so busy doing the bloody Macarena that my ability to parallel park may be seriously compromised?

Ffs (again). I reckon it’s a bloke thing. Guys designing for guys. Guys who can’t multitask. And who demand useless bragging rights for shiny but shit bits of ‘essential’ technology they have no idea how to operate. Take the husband, for example. He was thrilled by all the whizzy, so-called clever specifications on his new company car. Pored over the brochure for weeks, excitedly jabbing at the page and insisting I ooh and aah along with him at functionality it had never occurred to him til then (or me, ever) that he might need. The automatic headlight dimmer sent him into paroxysms of joy and took centre stage at many a family debate. But just how long did it take him to get it working? Weeks *she wails*, bloody weeks. And in the meantime, we just flicked the lights on and off. WITH OUR OWN HANDS.

So, please. Stop ruining my fun. All these car ads promising ‘the drive of your life’ and promoting the exhilaration of the open road. I don’t need your bloody high speed broadband connection, or your sunglasses holder, or your goddam automatic headlight dimmer. More often than not I’m dashing from school gate to sports hall, and then to a ballet lesson, football pitch or supermarket. All within a couple of miles of my home. And am usually more concerned whether I have the right number of children in the car at each leg of the journey than whether I can possibly move my finger a few millimetres to flick a stick. Or turn the volume down (if I must). So, if you want to innovate, give me shit that might actually be moderately useful.

How about:

1) An automatic people counter that not only lets you know how many children made it into the car, but also whether you have the right nippers (and whether they’ve all remembered their school bags/sports kit/musical instruments)?

2) Food resistant upholstery that automatically obliterates any crumb, chunk or dribble of in-car nourishment that doesn’t actually make it into the recipient’s mouth, which is usually most of it (‘it’ being a heady assortment of vile food products that all curiously take on the odour of a dog poo rolled in vomit after just a week of in-car putrification)?

3) A noise-cancelling cocoon for the driver so she doesn’t have to hear, respond to or arbitrate the million fraternal altercations that take place in the other seats (and, whilst you’re at it, the ability to deliver a quick electric shock warning current to any given passenger seat would also help here)?

Now those are innovations I’d welcome. Music to my ears.