The Unmumsy Mum Diary Page 3
Linda-down-the-road might not be all that fussed over bedtime stories. She may not be as neurotic about grapes. But her kids might have limited screen time, crease-free T-shirts and home-made lentil soup. It depends on her priorities.
All the parenting stuff I keep pledging to do a better job of each year is not unimportant stuff – it’s stuff I would love to crack in an ideal world, really I would – but I’m starting to believe there’s a reason why I’ve not found the time to crack it thus far. It’s too far up the pyramid and, day to day, you’ve only got time to hang out on the ground floor.
I am absolutely going to trademark my Parenting Priority Pyramid and tour the country with that flipchart. You heard it here first.
Saturday 6th
The adults of our household awoke to a nasty bout of Selective Parent Amnesia this morning. Selective Parent Amnesia, or SPA, is an evolutionary tool embedded deep into the make-up of previously traumatised parents, encouraging them to keep ‘having another go’ in a kind of eternal self-destructive loop. Forget ‘once bitten, twice shy’ – SPA dictates that parents are, once bitten, a trillion times stupid enough to seek out more biting. In some ways, it demonstrates quite an endearing level of optimism. In other ways, it demonstrates a baffling level of stupidity.
What it means in practical terms is that when you’ve gone to the hassle of booking two consecutive kitchen-design appointments for a Saturday morning, you find yourself engaging in the following dialogue:
‘Do you think we should see if somebody can look after the boys while we’re trying to plan the kitchen, or do you think we’ll be all right taking them with us?’
‘It’ll be fine. I’ve packed loads of snacks.’
So off we went. Despite having never successfully managed to look at or discuss any item when out shopping with both our children, we somehow envisaged that we would have ample opportunity to plan a kitchen. We strapped them into their car seats and put our game faces on, faces which say, ‘We are going somewhere as a family and we can handle this. We will not let having children rule our lives.’ In the car, therefore, we didn’t discuss last month’s abandoned quest for a new mattress which had culminated in Jude trying to climb aboard the display beds with his wellies on and Henry running at Olympic speed in a circuit around the store, attracting the glares of sales personnel who were clearly finding his sprinting (coupled with the odd Power Ranger leg-kick) a distraction from coaxing Mr and Mrs Shopping-Without-Children to buy a mattress with a firmness rating of four.
No, instead, this morning, we convinced ourselves that it would be fine. We may have even had a smug little chat about them being our kids and our responsibility, and how we don’t want our families to think we try and ‘palm them off’ every time we need to get shit done.
Only it turns out there is a very solid reason why people palm their kids off to get shit done, and that is quite simply that zero shit gets done with kids running riot. As we enthusiastically pulled up chairs to the design table in the first showroom of two and accepted with thanks the offer of a cup of tea (always a grave error), it rapidly became apparent that four boxes of raisins, an assortment of biscuits and Angry Birds on the iPad was not going to pacify our two for long enough to plan a kitchen. I reckon we chatted in a sophisticated manner with the design consultant for approximately seventy seconds before it all kicked off. As usual, there were no warning signs – other than the kids being present, which I am starting to think is enough of a warning sign in itself. One minute we were musing over the clean lines of integrated appliances and the next Jude had made a break for the automatic doors leading to the car park and his certain death. After James had sprinted off to scoop him up and I had plied him with more edible bribes, we apologised to the design consultant (giving her the ‘as you were, begin again’ nod) and there followed one of those ridiculous conversations where at the end of every sentence I raised my voice to an outrageous volume – ‘Does that one come with the pan drawers? I said, IN A MINUTE!’ – as Henry whinged about the total length of time he had been forced to endure the ‘boring kitchen shop’ (ten minutes) and all at once I was hit with the familiar ‘What’s the point?’ feeling of resignation and accepted that the whole endeavour had been an almighty waste of time and snacks.
We left with more questions than we had gone in with and, when it came to the second showroom, I sat outside in the car with our now cantankerous offspring, leaving James to discuss the all-important design issues with Sue the kitchen planner, pottering out to converse with me through the car window about taps and extractor hoods.
Quite miraculously, a new kitchen has now been planned, albeit with less care and attention than if we’d done the sensible thing and palmed the boys off on Nanny. We’ve bitten the bullet and taken a loan out to fund all of this, which is a positive step – so long, eighties mahogany kitchen, which looks grimy even when it’s had a clean. However, this further borrowing feels like more of a kick in the teeth than it ought to because we turned down the offer of a free kitchen. Or rather I did, because nothing comes for free, not really. My side of the brand-new-kitchen bargain (or so I had thought) was to do a couple of kitchen-makeover blog posts with a shout-out to the kitchen provider, to be pimped out across all my social ‘platforms’. I was OK with that because I would be documenting the reality of renovating with kids at large, i.e. ‘Here’s a picture of us having KFC for the third night in a row because the new oven’s not in yet,’ or ‘Look at all the plastic crap we’re housing in our new cupboards.’ Only, when the contract came through, I couldn’t read it without cringing. I would have to film several videos with key branded messages (one in which I would talk directly to the camera and share with my ‘audience’ just how much the new kitchen had revolutionised our family’s life), and there would have to be a certain number of pictures and certain wording about the kitchen-design service – and do you know what? That’s just not what I do on my platforms. So I said thank you very much, but no thank you. Then I applied for a loan, and wondered whether I was stark raving mad or if sticking to my guns (and gut feeling) would come good, in the end. I guess time will tell.
I think we are at least deserving of a beverage tonight for completing the kitchen-planning task, which is more than can be said for the mattress state of affairs. Our mattress is now thirteen years old, and something I read on the internet told me it will be harbouring an alarming infestation of bedbugs and dead skin by now. Come to think of it, it does smell a bit funky, but I think that’s mainly my breastmilk leakage from last year. And possibly some amniotic fluid … which is actually really gross. I’d best add ‘source uninfested mattress’ to the ever-multiplying list of weekend tasks. (And remember to palm the kids off.)
Tuesday 9th
I have spent most of today marvelling at the behaviour of my second-born – and when I say ‘marvelling’, I mean wondering if he does things just to piss me off. Of course, I know full well that he doesn’t, it just seems that way when I’m tired and when said tiredness has prompted me to water an artificial plant from Ikea. So to turn my frown upside down I have just crossed out my original account of a frustrating day and reimagined it from the perspective of my eighteen-month-old. I give you:
Jude’s Diary Takeover
05:00
Started shouting at full volume to make sure everybody woke up startled. Dozed for a bit. Resumed shouting. Can’t make out the exact conversation from Mummy and Daddy’s room, but it seems to be a disagreement over who should get up. Why wouldn’t you want to get up? Who wants to lie in bed when you’re awake?! Adults are weird.
06:30
Got carried downstairs. Mummy always smiles at me, kisses me, then tells me I stink. Every day. Yes, I do have a ‘stinky bum bum’. It’s hardly a surprise, is it?! She then changed my nappy before I was allowed my breakfast, which made me cross because I spied my big brother tucking into his cereal. I kicked Mummy when I had poo on my foot and it left a stain on her trousers. Surprisingly, she said that
this was ‘just great’. Phew.
07:30
Daddy left wearing his smart trousers and shirt again. Where does he go every day?
08:30
Tipped the toy basket over. Didn’t fancy anything in there. Mummy tried to simulate car racing on the floor with tiny cars but she does it all wrong. Got cross at Mummy’s tiny-toy-car ineptitude.
09:30
Felt a bit bored, so I messed with the telly by pressing all the buttons on the remote (major LOLs watching Mummy trying to sort it out as she muttered that rhyme about the duck’s cake).
11:00
Went to the park. I’m confused about what I am supposed to do here, because Mummy always tells us that it ‘will be nice to run around!’ but then seems agitated when we run around. She is particularly agitated when I run to the edge of the climbing frame, where they have the pole from Fireman Sam, and keeps trying to move me back to the bit where there are railings on all sides. How boring is that? Eventually, after lots of sighing, I was removed from the climbing frame altogether and, as she attempted to wrestle me into the pram, I assumed the stiff-as-a-floorboard position to illustrate my unhappiness with the situation. Sitting imprisoned in the pram isn’t ‘running around’, is it? My protest did at least secure some yoghurt raisins.
12:30
Ate my lunch really nicely. This lulled Mummy into a false sense of security about my independent feeding capabilities (groundwork for teatime, see 17:00).
13:30
Mummy picked me up and cuddled me on the sofa with Henry to read a story. They said I could ‘join in’ with them but then got cross when I wanted to hold the book and turn all the pages myself. Once again, I have no idea where I stand. Nobody understands me. I just want to turn all the pages.
14:30
Started feeling a bit tired so cracked out the ‘I’m tired’ signals (pulled my ears, rubbed my eyes, did the glazed-over stare and the sucky-mouth thing, like when I’m chewing Mummy Pig’s foot). Became decidedly untired when Mummy put me in the cot. Did the sad moany noises so she felt guilty while she sorted out the washing. Turned up the volume to shouting after I heard her tell my brother that I would ‘settle down in a minute’. We all went back downstairs again. Mummy doesn’t know why she bloody bothers.
16:00
Went over to see what Mummy was doing on her computer. Pressed some buttons. I don’t think she wanted me to press the buttons so she turned it off.
17:00
Teatime destruction! Stuck a whole hand in my spaghetti hoops. Lobbed the spoon. Cried because the spoon was on the floor and my hand was covered in hoops. When Daddy got home, Mummy was scrubbing spaghetti hoops off the skirting board. She told Daddy I had ‘been like this all day’. Well, that’s not fair. She forgot to tell him about all the fun we’d had on the climbing frame and reading a book, for a start.
18:00
Received my daily telepathic notification from the TU (Toddlers’ Union) that the witching hour had started. Treated everyone to a constant snotty whingy tone until Daddy said he ‘couldn’t bear it’ and put me in my PJs.
19:30
Made sure I fell asleep in my finest angelic pose (one hand up by my cheek and a slight smile seems to be a winner). Pretty sure I heard them both whisper, ‘Love you sweet pea,’ so it definitely did the trick. Will commence the shit storm at dawn.
Thursday 11th – book publication day, London!
23:10
Today has been mad. I feel like I’m living somebody else’s life but that it keeps swinging back to the norm, with the norm being time spent at home with the boys. This morning, I got up very early, changed a horrendous nappy, set the boys up with some breakfast and then left the house – all before seven o’clock. As I walked to the train station, the same route I used to walk to work, my mind was racing with an assortment of ‘Have I remembered to do that/pack that?’ worries. Have I packed spare tights? Do I know the ticket-collection reference? Shit, the boys’ swimming stuff. I texted James to remind him to dig out the armbands and swim nappies, just in case my dad and Tina had swimming on their agenda. Is that everything? Will they all be OK? Are there adequate toddler snacks in the cupboard? Oh God, are these knickers roomy enough? I can’t cope with another fedgie.
Despite lugging a huge overnight bag plus a handbag, I felt empty-handed, like I’d forgotten something – though I’ve started to think that’s just how it is whenever I leave the boys behind. After frantically attempting to catch up on emails on the train (I have fallen outrageously behind – every email is a ‘We notice you haven’t responded yet’ prompt) I met the lovely Sophie, who is looking after publicity for my book, at Paddington station to commence the publication-day itinerary: morning meeting at Netmums HQ; interview-recording for BBCR2’s ‘Steve Wright in the Afternoon’; publication lunch with the book team; popping into several Waterstones stores to sign copies of the book; and, finally, a further train ride to Chorleywood for my first evening event, from which I have just returned to the hotel.
I am still absolutely buzzing. On the way to the event I had the usual stab of guilt that James would be at home reading the boys their bedtime stories (The Gruffalo’s Child for Jude, something with baddies in it for Henry) while I’d be hanging out in a hall with other mums. A hundred-plus mums by all accounts, all willing to give up an evening to come and sit and listen to me ramble on about – well, about what? What were they expecting from me? What if they hated what I had to say and slow-clapped me off the stage? Would there be a stage? Oh my God.
Of course, the mums who turned up didn’t slow-clap me off the stage (and it actually was a stage, the kind of stage used at a village pantomime). Instead, they had kind faces and asked questions and laughed in all the right places before queuing up to get their books signed and telling me that the blog had saved them on many a testing day, or that they were buying it for a friend or that, sometimes, they just needed to hear that they weren’t alone in feeling like they were doing everything wrong.
I told them that it was just what I needed to hear, too. I know now that there are more than a few like-minded parents out there experiencing the feelings mash-up of ‘I’ve never known love like it’ and ‘I’m not cut out for this shit’. I told them I wish I’d known this when the ‘doubt cloud’ first descended almost four years ago and that it has proved an absolute game-changer in terms of my overall wellbeing. For the briefest of moments I felt a bit like the mums’ Beyoncé, minus the leotard and any kind of talent; then, when I got back here to the hotel room, I phoned James and asked him about the boys. I imagined them sleeping and wished that I was at home instead.
It’s funny, because I have worried for so long that the role of Mum doesn’t come naturally to me, but when I spend a day away from it, I feel like it’s this new role that’s the unnatural bit. Not because I’m not myself (I am) or because I don’t enjoy it (I do) but because I just can’t believe that I deserve any of it. Being interviewed, being taken out for posh lunches, having people clap when I’m introduced – well, that’s a brilliant life but it’s not mine.
I can’t wait to get home tomorrow morning. Though I hope Jude’s nuclear nappy has been dealt with by the time I get back, as I did down a few glasses of wine this evening to calm my nerves and one of his usual up-the-back explosions could tip me over the queasiness edge.
Sunday 14th
Our Valentine’s baby is FOUR! Today has been all about Henry’s party, which was not only a success (turns out going simple with the old-school church hall was a winner) but was also comedy gold in places, prompting me to jot down the following ‘what to expect’ for any fellow party-planning parents …
A Child’s birthday Party in Ten Stages
1. During the preceding week, you will threaten to cancel the party (and, in fact, your child’s whole birthday) at least 172 times. The evening before, when a tantrum over not being allowed on the CBeebies app coincides with Has anybody bought the mini-rolls? panic, you’ll resort to making pretend
phone calls to warn the other parents that the party is likely to be cancelled. You may even need to ‘phone’ a class teacher or nursery key worker to let them know about the unacceptable behaviour. Cue hysteria.
2. You will without doubt make far too much food for the party buffet. Granted, nobody ever eats the egg sandwiches or the token vegetable sticks, but it’s parental social suicide to present an entire table of sugary carbs. We all know that kids only have eyes for the Haribo. Those gummy bears and foamy hearts will disappear in seconds. The carrot sticks will not.
3. Parents in attendance are never sure if they are allowed to tuck into the buffet spread so deem it safest to hover awkwardly near the sausage rolls. There is self-preservation logic to this. At the very first child’s party I went to I missed the memo for rookie parents about it being the kids’ food and piled a plate up for myself alongside one for a toddler-sized Henry. It wasn’t until I was three bites into a cheese straw that I realised, with a wave of embarrassment, that none of the other parents were eating. The trick is to overfill your child’s plate by fifty per cent and then legitimately ‘save wasting it’.