Pride

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So, this time it’s different. Not a blog post about being a fairly shit mother. About embarrassing interludes and questionable actions. No. This is the one in which I chronicle the scoring of a hattrick. Where I *think* I am awesome. Yes, AWESOME.

You’re going to have to bear with me on this one. Because it’s more than a little tiger mom-esque. A self-indulgent maternal moment. Blatant bragging. And because, to be honest, it wasn’t me that smashed the ball out of the park. It was my long-suffering offspring.

I’m talking ballet show. The Biannual Ballet Show, no less. In the theatre, with full make up and costumes and a scary stage manager who warns the assembled crowd of 3-17 year olds that “no alcohol is permitted back stage” (nor are knickers, huh?) All three children took part. All three were awesome. I shed tears – the great gulping kind – at the sight of them merrily tapping and tiptoeing their way through several Disney numbers, smiles (awkward in some cases) plastered all over their faces. But it wasn’t just the performance. It was their attitude.

They spent the whole weekend closeted backstage at the theatre. So, no play dates or movie nights or bike rides. No chill out time. No sneaky Saturday snacks from the cupboard of joy. No, they gave up their weekend for the sake of their art. And Chicken was in her element with all her dancing girls and didn’t mind a bit about being so utterly upstaged by her younger siblings (Beefy being bigged up as the only boy, Pudding winning every goddam prize for cuteness). My boy held his own (and his iPad) in the company of dozens of twittering backstage girls, succumbing to makeup and endless rehearsal, and willingly taking to the stage despite sickening nerves (which actually made him look like he was about to vomit, but – I realised – made me look like I’d made him do it). As for Pud, she took it all in her stride and my terrible tomboy did not flinch (or throw anything, including punches) when put into makeup, a sparkly dress (with wings!) and – heaven forbid – a ponytail.

As for me? I revelled in their reflected glory. Smiled benignly at the compliments. As if we were the bloody Von Trapps. As if this perfect parental shit goes down every day in our rose-tinted household. Making like it was all down to me. My own exquisite production. Stressy mum was relegated a back seat. The customary domestic ‘to do list’ awaiting me at home was forgotten. And I relaxed. Basked even.

In fact, I chilled so much that the rest of the week was a total dream. Further achievements came thick and fast: Pudding finally dropping the nighttime nappy, Beefy at last getting to grips with his handwriting, Chicken soldiering through chronic earache to deliver rounders at the school tournament. *more glory basking* This could become a habit.

And then. It dawned on me: these little-big things are always there. Daily, weekly, monthly milestones ticked off. A hundred amazing mini-moments shaping our days. But I don’t always have – or take – the time to appreciate them. Yet I’m so goddam proud of them. These little people making their way boldly through the process of growing up. Making sense of life, and of themselves. Despite my daily disasters and seat-of-the-pants parenting they are growing to be real people. Good people. And all the while, as I puff out my chest with pride, I’m thinking: I MADE them! I bloody did, I MADE them. Who’d have thought? I am a goddam legend.

Unaccustomed as I am to getting it right, I just have one nagging doubt. A small voice inside that can’t help whispering, “is it because of me, or in spite of me”? Because pride always comes before a fall. Doesn’t it?

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.

Feral

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So, barely half way through the Easter holidays and the children are running wild. Sadly, so is their mother.

To be fair, it’s been a busy break so far. Full of all the requisite playdates and daytrips, afternoon teas and stay-up-late nights. Mindful of last half term (see ‘Broken‘) Mummy has been at pains to shield them (not to mention herself) from an undue onslaught of ‘stuff’. Hence treating ourselves to something of a free form (i.e. I have no idea what the f*** to do with them) day today.

I didn’t feel too bad about leaving Beefy and mates to maraud the village; playing football in the park, climbing trees, leaping rivers, scrapping, shouting and generally seeking out adventure. You know, anything muddy or disgusting (and likely to bring on tears from each fool participant at some point). The kind of activity that makes you wish you had a sheep dip in the garden rather than a chichi Farrow and Ball bathroom. Any time they got hungry, they simply headed to the nearest home to forage for snacks. Which were generally consumed to a chorus of burps, farts and burp/fart jokes. So far so feral.

As for Chicken, she headed off on a day out with a friend looking like the wilder and lesser washed cousin of William Wallace. Despite her protestations to the contrary, I swear she hasn’t brushed her hair in days. Such a simple daily ritual, she views taking brush to hair – much like washing (which she’s none too fond of either) – as an utterly pointless task. With the result that she not only looks wild but can often emit a faint odour of wet dog.

Whilst her older siblings were on the prowl, Pudding and I got down and dirty with a bit of gardening. Pud mostly with her arse hanging out of her jeans and nose streaming, which made for an interesting bathtime when combined with blackened, muddy hands. And which meant I was initially quite relieved when the opportunity arose for an impromptu play with a small friend and his brother, whose mother had clearly been equally blindsided by the day. Until said play date spiralled hideously out of control; leaving me knee-deep in dressing up outfits, musical instruments and remote control racing cars. With ‘Lick it Up’ by Kiss inexplicably playing on repeat from the iPad that I eventually unearthed from under a crusty storm trooper suit.

Oh, I know that all sounds bad. But, actually, feral children aren’t the problem. It’s me. The children are only doing what they are supposed to be doing i.e. having a bucket load of messy, rebellious, unfettered fun. But me? I should know better. I’m supposed to be a responsible adult ffs! But the beds haven’t been changed since I can’t remember when (which is not a great thought when I tell you Pudding has had a very sticky cold for the last week), our meals are either an odd smörgåsbord of leftovers (lasagna with fried rice, anyone?) or retrieved from the back of the freezer (where, frankly, they ought to remain), and I can’t tell you the last time I showered or washed my hair. Yes, I have truly gone back to nature. And it’s an uncomfortable thought to know that my natural state involves keeping a slovenly home and allowing my children to forage for their own meals (vegetables optional).

Result? I’m left pondering on school holidays as an exercise in ‘Survival of the Fittest’. And I’m not entirely convinced that I am a survivor. Well, not with any kind of grace, that is. So, please. Bring back the school run in all its glory. And a return to order in this den.

Broken

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So, I stumbled slummily through the last half term – working half of it and spending the other two days being shamed by the sight of irritatingly competent daddies wrangling gaggles of children with total equanimity. Not this time around. Oh no. I determined that I would be a holiday goddess. The mutha of all entertainers. An activity queen. I would fight for the right to be smug.

Not for us a week of chilling in front of the TV or ensconced in the glorious peace of iPad childcare. No dreary household chores. And not a dentist, optician or vet in sight. Instead: we have cantered cheerfully through bike rides; racked up miles of day trips; museums by day, museums by torchlight; glorious dog walks; play dates; baking; bowling; a cinema treat and a LOT of afternoon tea. Thus I have been able to look those half term hero daddies wearing necklaces of children in the eye, and hold my head high with the yummy mummies of my acquaintance. Oh yes I bloody did. My children have collapsed into bed each night without protest, and slept like, well, babies. I was on it, across it, all over it. Name a preposition and I was it.

And yet. Reflecting on a week of frenzied fun-making, I realise that this reformed working mummy may well have gone a bit too far. They are, quite simply, knackered. And, frankly, a little bit frightened by the intensity of it all. It’s not what they know. I’m guessing they’ve got so used to my haphazard, hit-and-miss approach to mothering that waking up to this shiny, bright, well-organised, good-humoured psychotic mummy machine is more than a little unnerving. And it carries its own penalties.

Take this evening, for example. After a day of cricket camp and soft play fun I took pity and let them chill in front of the TV for an hour. Whilst I whipped up a delicious home-cooked casserole that they devoured like starving skinny-ribbed hyenas. Anyway. By 6.30pm they were whirling round the sitting room playing a boisterous wrestling game involving suffocation by cushions and laughing hysterically fit to pee. By bathtime they grew maudlin, started telling me how much they love me, really really love me, and needed cuddles. And when bedtime hit they all had dark circles round their eyes and were showing every sign of a…erm…hangover. Omigod, yes? I had got them pissed. By cheerfully adding whole bottle of red wine to said casserole.

Learning from my mistakes (of which there have been many) next half term I will revert to the usual seat-of-the-pants, last-minute outings and multiple pyjama days. Feed them a diet of cucumber and goddam Twiglets. And I’ll be drinking all the wine myself, thank you very much. It’s wasted on children.

Reinvention

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So, I’m heading back to work! Yes, I fell at the first hurdle. Got defeated by dreary common sense. Have been overpowered by, erm, I dunno; being a shit mother? I promised my children that I’d take a good 18 month break from being a fascist, evil-tempered corporate stress head. But I’ve only managed six and am stealing two of the twelve remaining to go finish some unfinished business (oh yes, and stroke my clearly faltering and maniacal ego). Shame on me!

In my defence, I’ve weighed up all the pros and cons (mostly over wine) and made my list of Habits Never To Fall Into Again. And I’ve set some ridiculous terms so that I’ll still be around as much as possible for the nippers. But I know I’m a shit. Not only to my children, but to the new ‘me’ I was becoming.

This shiny new version of my altogether more chilled me was just getting the hang of getting down with the parents in the park after school, baking lemon drizzle cakes for any given occasion and turning up for things (only *slightly* late) with my (clean) pants on the right way round. I was busy throwing myself into committee meetings, book club sessions (with wine – I mean, WINE, not beer, or tequila shots, and therefore without driving the ceramic bus at 1am whilst doling out calpol to unsettled children) and, I can scarce believe it myself, co-running a coffee morning, ahem, toddler group. My former passions were even making a comeback – like reading, and music and (perish the thought) hobbies. Omfg.

All of which has now been thrown to the wind as I prepare to prostitute my yummy mummy progress for filthy lucre, a desk free of sticky paw prints and a swivel chair that doesn’t contain a blissfully dizzy child whooping with delight as the mechanism groans with the youthful exertions of a three-year-old high on Cocopops.

So, the question is this: is it possible to have the best of both worlds? Or will I find myself microwaving frozen pizza and channelling Nicola Horlick on prozac within a fortnight? Am I to find myself forgoing the making of (moderately healthy) packed lunches and the ‘aiding’ of science projects in favour of polishing pointless presentations and preparing short-sighted vision statements until the early hours? Gawd, will my long-suffering children ever forgive the u-turn and the breaking of all my promises to be a stay-at-home mum, or – worse still – will they celebrate the ceasefire of evenings of draconian spelling tests and times tables practice, crossing their fingers and hoping to die that mummy is working late again (again)?

I tell myself it’s only a means to an end. And it’s only eight weeks. And all my plans for gluing, stitching, stirring, storytelling and being simply marvellous will remain unchanged. Our meals will continue to be home cooked (whether they like it or not), our homework (no, not a mistake – it’s most definitely ‘ours’ not ‘theirs’) handed in on time, our music practise assiduously completed (without tears) and every last parents’ evening, open afternoon, school performance, dress rehearsal rehearsal and fundraising effort attended and contributed to. But I know these things, these bright shiny new (for me) things can’t be maintained. Can they?

On the other hand, perhaps ‘me 2.0’ can simply be reprogrammed. Using my fledgling supermum skills to beat my ingrained career fetishism into touch. Perhaps the new me just gets another fresh  dimension. One that is enlightened by all that I’ve experienced in the last six months of mummy boot camp and has learned to say crazy alien things like, ‘no’ and ‘that will have to wait until next week’ and ‘you’re having a fucking laugh, aren’t you?’ One that effortlessly churns out a school newsletter whilst delivering a board presentation and whipping up a batch of fresh mayonnaise. Making space for the mutha of all Jekyll/Hyde co existences.

Who knows, I might even find some happy point of Nirvana where Starbuck’s figures comfortingly on both agendas. With almond croissants. And thus will I be able to have my cake and eat it.

Binary

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So, am feeling somewhat of a failure. Managed six out of my eighteen months of ‘not working’ and being a stay-at-home mum – and am already considering a return to work (albeit temporarily). Sheesh. Does taking time with my offspring terrify me that much?!?! Am I that loathe to bake, craft, entertain, supervise, organise, join or commit for longer than one measly term? Will I don the working girl, ahem, woman attire and be lost once more in a flurry of endless emails, pointless meetings and late night deadlines?

It’s not that my beautiful, crazy, complex children are sending me screaming back to the relative safety of an office with my Starbuck’s clasped to my perfidious chest. Or that the pull of having people actually listen to me without the need for continual repetition or a sugary bribe is just too good to deny. It’s more the fear that I’ve gone too far into playdate overdrive, toddler group obsession, timetabled homework and oh so many committee meetings; thereby catalysing some sort of treacherous about-turn. Worst of all, it seems I’m hopelessly incapable of being two (proper, decent) things at once.

All of which begs the question – am I forever destined to fail at the one thing all chicks pride themselves on? That quality that we think gives us moral and practical superiority over mere men. The sword from the stone. The one ring to rule them all. Yes, I am talking about the Big ‘M’. I mean Multitasking. Or, to be more accurate, multiple role juggling.

Don’t get me wrong, I actually happen to think I’m great at changing a shitty nappy whilst reciting the top ten football stadiums (stadia) and making loom band iguanas at the same time. But if I try to combine that with the demands of a professional role, someone’s gonna get the wrong stinking end of the shitty nappy/frothy cappuccino combo.

Love it or hate it, I’m like a moth to the flame. Work. Paid work. Has its advantages. Just think of all the blimmin’ almond croissants I can peacefully cram in my face without having to hide in a cupboard to avoid sharing. And the meetings I can attend free from the fear of a toddler unleashing a fat stinker in the middle of item 3. Oh, and the days I can sashay lightly from the house with a single, perfectly-packed bag of relevant items for the job (none of which will have been retrieved from the dirty washing pile five minutes earlier and flattened underneath a child eating a bowl of chocolate biscuits for breakfast on the sofa).

Time will tell but I have a horrible suspicion that I am Binary Mum i.e. unable to reconcile the messy, loud, often calamitous seat-of-the-pants type of mothering I favour with my altogether calmer, endlessly patient (who knew?), efficient (that too), shit-free professional alter ego. In my more positive moments I admit to daydreaming how it might play out if I do, by some divine miracle, manage to combine Binary Mum with Shit Hot Professional Chick. Here’s how it goes…

At Work I would…

  • allow, nay welcome, a free flow of noisy, odorous bodily functions during meetings
  • withhold coffee/lunch/fag breaks until all outstanding actions have been completed
  • impose iPad sanctions for those who spend too much time browsing jobs on LinkedIn
  • offer rewards of sweeties for playing nicely with colleagues who are being arseholes
  • get things done by simply repeating the same instruction again and again and again ad infinitum

At Home I will find myself…

  • minuting the heated discussions about who gets the largest choc chip cookie from the tin
  • performance managing the toddler during potty training with a three-strikes-or-you’re-out policy
  • scheduling weekly progress meetings to review the ‘growing up’ process
  • staying up all night to prepare a three-year strategy for getting to school on time, with breakfast
  • raiding the sticker/glitter drawer for supplies to use at the office

Actually. Come to think of it, perhaps I’ve hit on something here. Call it happenstance. Call it a weirdly successful cross-pollination of all your worst fears and slummy strategies. Or, call it bollocks. But, think of it. The nippers will detest but be unable to resist the arrival of discipline in the house. Work colleagues will rile against yet respond to stricter (albeit childish) sanctions and policies. And stuff will get done. And I’ll no longer know nor care whether I’m multitasking, role juggling or simply being a fairly shit working mother.

Baggage

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So, I’ve recognised ‘a thing’ whilst preparing to head home from holidays. It’s something I’ve kinda recognised about myself for some time, but just thought was one of my own quirky character flaws (oh, I have so many of those – like restacking the dishwasher when the husband fails to get The System). Ahem, anyway, having holidayed with other families quite a bit of late, it’s become abundantly clear that this particular tick is most definitely not mine alone. So what the hell am I on about? Packing. Or, more accurately, re packing. That joyless activity that is agonising enough before your holiday, but infinitely gloomier (and odorous) at the end of it.

The truth is: you simply don’t mess with a packing momma.

This is how it goes… It’s all rather lighthearted to begin with. You start with a bit of mild procrastination – maybe a cup of tea or a quick swim. You fanny about and put it off. But the clock is ticking and the husband is starting to panic, and fume (and might even start throwing a few crumpled items into the bag, or even offer to change a nappy or two instead of you in the hope that you just bloody get on with it). So then you DO get on with it (possibly with the help of a glass of wine). Brain whirrs into action. Mental lists of items not to be forgotten swing into place in front of your eyes – a bit like The Terminator when he’s assessing a particularly killer-robot-heavy situation. You develop a military-like precision of movement otherwise absent in your life (even if sorely needed). That’s when everyone should beware…

Don’t get anywhere near. Don’t offer helpful advice. Or aid. Or pick anything up. Or make suggestions. Or, God forbid, start putting things in helpful little piles. Because that momma is In The Zone. I’ve seen the look in other mums’ eyes, and felt it in my own. You Do Not Mess with a mum who’s packing. They know where their shit is. And they do NOT want your help. You are merely an irritant in what is already a soul-destroying, futile, humourless process. The clothes in the room. The swim stuff by the pool. The miscellaneous items in the bathroom/bar/barbecue. The weird location of all your holiday paraphernalia is known only to you. And woe betide anyone who dares to get in your way. Let alone a ‘well-meaning’ husband, offering ‘helpful’ tips about what’s been ‘left behind’ (it’s not left behind, arsehole, it’s item 53 on the Terminator console). However close you are to departure, stay away. There is nothing useful you can say, do or be to a momma on a mission.

So, ladies, gents, children, just do yourself a favour; slink off for another ice cream and leave us to it. We will get that shit done perfectly well on our own. And no messing.

FOOTNOTE

Whilst I’m on the clearly emotive subject of packing, here’s my helpful list – momma to momma – of things you should never ever bother packing for holidays:

  • Socks for children (they NEVER wear any)
  • Nail varnish/face pack/massage oil (cos that’s NEVER going to happen, right)
  • Half the clothes you take for yourself (you NEVER wear more than a couple of (baggy) favourites anyway)
  • Suncream (weighs a fucking ton, costs you dear in extra baggage, and frickin’ EXPLODES all over your bag before you even arrive)

And then there are the essential things you SHOULD pack but never remember:

  • Toothbrushes (cue a week of chewing toothpaste – if you’ve remembered it – and molar rubbing)
  • Hairbrush (cue elation from daughters who see no issue with cultivating holiday dreadlocks)
  • Swim nappies (cue the ‘going commando’ dilemma, and disappointed shitty optimism)
  • Pants (cue a week of wishing you had brought a bikini instead of one piece halter neck)

Or is that just me?

Naked

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So, how in the name of God can it be possible for good intentions well met to lead to a very public (and naked) shaming?

Yes, I spent six weeks pre-holiday eating nothing but frickin’ lettuce and consuming a seriously bladder-threatening volume of earl grey to slim down to bikini weight for the first time in ten years. Celebrated with a side of cucumber and trotted off to buy hitherto undreamed of two piece swimming costume (having favoured tummy control since the ‘body-enhancing’ appearance of three children) – all in preparation for Bling French Holiday. After settling myself in with five days of rabbit-worthy diet maintenance and the customary tummy control that threatened to squeeze the offending muffin top down to my ankles (yes, weight loss does NOT equal toned beach body – still much wobble to distribute) I finally donned The Bikini.

It was kind of an out-of-body experience emerging from the gloom of aircon bedroom to public poolside, but I did it with nonchalant Slimming World-success-story swagger (not that I ever made it to Slimming World – not sure they’ve invented the ‘starvation and sweets’ diet yet). Took my time to apply suncream (tummy sucked in until I almost passed out obvs) and adjust pants/straps and push up dwindling knockers (so unfair). Then. Jumped. Only to discover I’d over-estimated on size and subsequently found myself breathlessly retrieving errant pants AND stuffing escaped ex-boobs back into push up top, all whilst anxiously surveying the assembled crowd in the hope they had been distracted by Pudding’s timely cry of “I’ve done a pool poo” and therefore missed her semi-naked Rubenesque mother shamefacedly reassembling her modesty.

What concerns me most is not necessarily the naked shaming (which only smarts a little) but the degree to which I will bend (and starve, and suffer) to find a way back to supposed former shape. Much as I adore my children and would not change a single thing about the events that brought them to me, it’s particularly sobering to realise how much we lose before we (re)gain ourselves. It’s taken me ten years to get back to the old ‘me’ and I wonder if that’s because I’m a particularly slow starter (and fast eater) or whether it happens that way for all (non-yummy) mummies. Who knows?

Whatever. Not one to miss a learning opportunity, next year I shall happily prepare for the annual summer flesh-fest by mainlining almond croissants, Pringles and wine gums whilst watching “How to Look Good Naked”. On repeat. So much simpler. And infinitely more enjoyable. Muffins and all.