Curtains

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So, as a less-than-perfect parent I like to live life pretty much behind closed doors (and preferably through rosé-tinted spectacles). Keeping my own slummy shortcuts and mothering, er, ‘quirks’ to myself. Of course my failures (the funny ones) I’m happy to share on social media. But I get to pick, choose, edit and airbrush those. Not so the scenes from my front window. Apparently.

Imagine this: a period cottage, on the corner of the green, in a quiet village. The village is on a no-through road, with the cottage standing sentinel as you enter. Just a few doors down is a thriving village hall where residents assemble for birthday parties, fetes and clubs. Beyond that spreads out a collection of homes and the village pub. A quaint, rural idyll. A fairytale. Tucked away from the eyes of the world. Or, at least, that’s what this fairly shit mother was banking on.

Imagine now: it’s a school morning, and you’ve slept through four alarms. The children have given up trying to rouse you and are alternately wailing with distress at the thought of being late, and maximising the opportunity to watch telly and eat chocolate biscuits. You eventually stumble from bed and perform a minor miracle in whipping said offspring into a hallucinogenic frenzy of dressing, breakfast-on-the-go and toothrubbing (in the car). Then you gallop through the school gate – dressing gown flying – a nanosecond before it clangs shut, congratulating yourself on narrowly avoiding slummy mummy detection by surreptitiously removing yesterday’s pants from the leg of your jeans whilst pretending to tie a shoelace. Close call. But no. As you climb exhaustedly back into the car, breathing for the first time since you woke 20 minutes previously, you hear a friend from further up the village gaily chirrup, “Oh, I’m so glad you’re ok. I saw your curtains were still closed at 8.30am and I thought maybe you were ill.” Yeah, right. Rubbernecker.

Then there was the time, in a large assembled group of parents at a birthday party, another village mum loudly proclaimed, “Aw, I love walking past your house and seeing Pudding watching TV. Bless her, she’s always there.” (cue awkward silence). Busted.

And how often have my children been spotted loading themselves into the car, dangerously unaccompanied, whilst I – the shady, unseen parent – am flapping round suspiciously somewhere inside the house. Jeez, I can’t even sneak the rubbish out wearing one of Beefy’s old football shirts and – inexplicably – a stick on moustache without a jaunty, “Lovely day, isn’t it” breaking my reverie and busting the myth that I am, actually, a decent and moderately sane and competent mum.

Of course I must also acknowledge the upsides to living in a close community. The number of times I’ve left my keys in the front door and had them returned by a well-meaning (and altogether more security-conscious) neighbour. The ‘impromptu’ playdates prompted by the sighting of a trio of feral children left to their own devices (literally) in the front room. A neighbourly knock at the door when I’ve left the car running, keys in the ignition, lights on – whilst am inside the house eating crumpets and watching ‘Masterchef’. Yes, good can come of living in a goldfish bowl.

But, still I can’t shake the feeling that I am totally on show, and totally showing myself up. Children clearly running wild, wet washing strewn across the scene, a dirty dog howling out of the window from his prime position on the sofa… So I’ve decided. If I’m on show, I need to make a show. Give ’em all something to reckon with. Themed weeks. Staged scenes. Domestic theatre to dispel any viciously accurate rumours that I’m just not cutting it as a responsible adult. I’m thinking; Week 1) music: involving angelic-looking children happily posing with violins/tubas/recorders, Week 2) craft: complete with easels, canvasses and the kind of carefree laughter that NEVER happens around toddlers with paint, Week 3) language: simply propping a copy of ‘Mandarin for under 5s’ at the window.

Only problem is, I’ll need to become the twitcher. Calibrate the ideal time for the show. All that effort. The careful timing. Perfectly scripted children doing as they’re asked. Gawd. Forget it. Assume the usual positions guys. And let’s just keep the damn curtains closed.

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.

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.

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.

Filth

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So, this weekend I decided it was time. To clean the car. For at least three weeks the children have been alternately claiming it to stink of sick/poo/dead animals. And gagging as they get in. Not one to cave in too easily I’ve let it ride (or, rather, let them ride it out) for a little longer than Social Services would find reasonable. But there have been several, erm, incidents that have finally pushed me over the edge of shame and into action.

First there was the trip to the garage to get a new tyre. Apparently I needed a ‘locking wheel nut’ to get the defective tyre off. Wtf is that, I hear you cry. Good bloody question. Apparently it’s some kind of security device that prevents people stealing those oh-so-coveted jalopy wheels. I mean, criminals want to half-inch the tyres off seven-seat given-up-on-life boxes on wheels? Really? Anyway. I uncomfortably concluded my conversation with the man on the desk, realising with a sinking feeling that the item they were looking for *may* have been the alien item I *possibly* put in the bin a couple of weeks before. Not wanting to look like a total twat I played dumb, only to step outside and unexpectedly find no less than six hairy-arsed mechanics ripping my car apart looking for the bloody thing. All of them with looks of disgust on their faces, either at my lack of vehicle hygiene or the array of furry ex-food items they encountered underneath the seats, in the cup holders and squashed into the upholstery. Bad car owner.

Then there was the evening I offered to transport four lovely ladies to the pub for a night out. In their lovely glam going out gear. Ah. The shame as they stepped through oceans of shit to find a seat. And the smell that infused our journey. And the speed with which they exited the shit wagon (which was nothing to do with my driving; really, I was thirsty!) Bad friend.

The straw that broke my iron resolve to stay foul was the ‘back to school’ moment when it suddenly seemed ridiculous to have washed, freshly laundered and re-kitted my children and issued dire warnings about looking smart – only to find at least one of them had sat on a forgotten chocolate button and skipped into the new school year looking like they’d shat themselves. Bad mother.

That’s when I decided it was time. Assuming the usual position for housework, I installed the long-suffering mites in front of Wallace and Gromit – and ventured car-wards with Hoover, antibacterial spray and bin bags. 90 minutes (and a heap of cursing, retching and glowing) later; the inside of the car, at least, looked like a new pin. And the air within was starting to clear from green fog to magic tree clarity.

Only now I’m fretting. Will I be disappointed tomorrow to find it resuming its distinct miasma of re-puked dog sick wrapped in a turd? Will just one in-car breakfast re-carpet the now-visible floor? And, with potty training in full throttle, will Pudding unleash a fresh new fat one to return the gag-wagon to its former odorous charm?

So, with uncharacteristic despair, I ask myself why I bother. Like all my good intentions, the benefit and the intent only last until the next crisis. Which is never more than a heartbeat away.

Lies

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So, I’ve been thinking about this holiday lark. More specifically, the glorious things we promise ourselves in the pursuit of relaxation nirvana. If you’re anything like me you make a list of all the yummy attributes that will pepper your annual vacation to make it The Best Ever. But (I’ve discovered to my eternal disappointment) it’s all lies. Here’s how:

1) I will get down to x ideal weight by holiday
As long as there is a quick weight loss diet that contains crisps, biscuits and wine

2) I will maintain my ideal weight whilst on holiday
As long as I can keep on consuming crisps, biscuits and wine

3) I will have buckets of relaxed, holiday sex with my husband/partner
Once the children have gone to bed, because I feel particularly horny in a two man tent/sweaty hotel bedroom shared with small people at 1am after three pints of sangria

4) I won’t overdo the sunbathing
Because pale and interesting does it for me. In a bikini

5) I will make sure the children wear hats
Because little people are so compliant with these things on holiday, right? Even though they think nothing of chucking headgear into the nearest patch of cow poo whilst at home

6) I will not eat my own body weight in ice cream. Every night
Because I’ve never been tempted to consider ice cream a whole, more than adequately nutritional, healthy food group of its own

7) I will go for a run every morning before the children are up
Languishing in bed as the children sleep off a night of karaoke/conga excitement when you get half a chance is wholly overrated anyway

8) I will read a range of interesting, intellectual books whilst I’m away
Trashy, easy-to-read chick lit has never been my thing, even when ten minutes at a time is all I get between demands for entertainment or pool poo nappy changes

9) I won’t drink wine *every* night
It’s not like I do it at home, so why would I do it on holiday?!?

10) I will not allow myself to be school-girlishly flattered by waiters/bartenders/blind street beggars
I learned my lesson from Shirley Valentine obvs

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.