Standing Up For Routine

There has been a lot of debate recently – in fact, there has probably been arguments since the first homo sapiens were born – on the best way to bring up a baby. Recent rantings have escalated in no small part to the C4 documentary series Bringing Up Baby last autumn, which followed three methods of childrearing with a view to exploring which was best. Naturally they couldn’t come to a conclusion because at the end of the day, different approaches suit different people. But sadly it also failed because – in the interest of TV ratings no doubt – it focussed on the extremes of each method which was pointless because as everyone knows, no baby is text book and all the ‘rules’ out there are to be used as guidelines to be adapted to fit in best with your situation. Scandalously though, to some degree, it also involved child cruelty – and I point the finger here not just at Truby King leaving hungry babies to cry, but to the continuum method which seemed to stifle infant’s need to exercise their limbs, and, worse, encouraged children aged two to play with knives!

The greatest damage though I felt was the impact it had on modern routine methods. Sadly all ‘routine’ methods are now being lumped together when in reality the Truby King’s militant approach bears little relation to any other book I’ve read on the subject including Gina Ford.

Now I’m going to do something I don’t normally do out loud. I’m going to stand up and confess “My name is Alana, and I use Gina Ford’s Contented Little Baby book”. Why am I normally a little reticent about this? After all it’s one of the best selling books on the subject of childrearing, and in my experience, it works (and by ‘works’ I mean developing a very contented little baby). What I have noticed is that people who use a routine method pass no judgement on those who don’t – merely shrug with a ‘there but for the grace of god go I’ as mothers talk of sleep resistant babies, whereas people who don’t use the routine method – and I would vouch have never even read the book – seem to feel they have the right to criticise us who do. So I want to start a revolution. I want to stand up and be proud and urge all you who quietly follow Gina, to scream it from the rooftops.

So why am I an advocate? Because for me, and lots of my friends, it works. I accept that it might not work for everyone, and pass no judgement on how other parents bring up their children as long as everyone is happy and the baby – and family and marriage – is thriving. For me, following a routine has made my baby rearing enjoyable, satisfying and fun, and more importantly, I have two very very contented little babies, and one very happy family.

I’m the kind of person who lives by lists, and I personally love routine. When I had my first baby two and a half years ago, I was overwhelmed – with love, and with fear. And while I was a very competent adult who had backpacked the world and reached the top of my career, I was pretty clueless with the little bundle of joy who, without having to pass any sort of test, and with no instruction manual, I was allowed to take home from the hospital. And so I read some books. Actually I read a lot of books. And I decided to follow the one that seemed to fit my personality, and our family’s needs, the best. I don’t agree with those people who rubbish the use of books and say it should all be instinctual. Personally I felt like I’d had a lobotomy and could hardly remember my name, so trying to find, never mind rely on my instinct was too frightening for words and I know most mothers feel the same. Also, what is wrong with reading books? In ‘the good old days,’ mothers probably didn’t need to read books on childrearing because they were surrounded by their mothers, grandmothers, aunts and a close-knit community. Certainly in the West, those days are gone, and so of course we seek out advice. When we learn to drive, we read up on the road codes, take driving lessons and pass a test. When we buy a computer we read an instruction manual. Why on earth, when we do the most important thing we’ll ever do, would we not consult the experts?

Routine methods are criticised because they organise children to fit into our Western lifestyle. I’m unsure why this is seen as a negative. Surely it is an essential! The continuum method – where the baby is physically attached to the mother or father for the first six months of its life, including sleeping in the marital bed – is apparently based on a tribal method. I worked for UNICEF for years and travelled to several African countries where indeed the women carried their babies around with them all day, strapped to their bodies. Why? Not because they had debated the best way to bring up a baby! But because that was essential to their culture and way of life. Those women had to carry the babies with them as they worked in the fields, or ground corn or walked miles for water. They didn’t have crèches and they breastfed. They don’t sleep in the same room as their children because that is what some expert tells them. They do it because they don’t have lots of bedrooms! They bring their babies up in the manner that suits their lifestyle, and we should do the same. What is best for the baby, and its family, is surely what enables the baby to thrive best in its actual situation.

Routine works for two reasons – it benefits the baby and the family. Firstly, children thrive on the familiar. As a baby, the routine is developed to ensure she is never hungry and never over-tired. As she gets older, the same daily patterns of food, play and sleep, food, play and sleep gives the child comfort and security, no matter where they are or what they are doing. My two year old finishes her lunch and pulls me to the stairs to take her up to bed because she knows she is going to have a lovely lunch-time sleep. If we are out, I put down the buggy seat and she goes to sleep there. Every single night of her life she has had the same bed-time routine – tea, play, bath, books and bed. It means she is secure in the knowledge that while so much changes around her, there is comfort in the familiar. We can travel anywhere and as long as we can give her the comfort of the same bed-time ritual, she is happy to sleep. Both my toddler and one year old old baby have developed great sleep patterns, sleeping through the night, and eating well, (of course they have their off days like everyone else – they’re not Stepford children!)

The second reason it works is that it helps a mother’s sanity and compliments the family dynamic rather than disrupt it. I know when my babies will sleep; I know when they will want to eat. I’m not trying to second guess their needs, and I can arrange our days accordingly. I’m not saying it’s easy – it’s bloody hard at first but the benefits are worth it, a hundred times over. Every night since Daisy was born she went to sleep at 7pm. Even in the early days of initial parenthood my husband and I were able to sit down together in the evening and take stock. Now, both of them sleep through the night from 7pm and, having devoted ourselves to them all day, we now devote time to each other, sitting down together every night for a meal and a chat. My babies are happy and sleeping well, and we as a couple are happy, still able to spend essential quality time together. Our children are the centre of our world – but they don’t rule it. We are the parents and it is our responsibility to set the boundaries. I’m aware that what has worked for me and others like me, won’t work for someone else. That’s as it should be – life would be very dull if we were all the same. My children will be no cleverer or happier than someone who takes a more instinctual approach – what works is what makes the family happy. But for those who do follow Gina Ford, or routines like hers, please, stand up and be proud. Be content, and enjoy your contented little babies.

© AKG 2008
Published in Spring issue 2008 Modern Mum Magazine

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Driving me Potty

Potty training. A mental and physical challenge that requires uber-human degrees of patience and endurance. Tested to the limits, it demands a seismic shift in perspective, and a complete overhaul of the world as it’s been known. It necessitates tireless concentration, methodical application, and in fairness, it’s quite tough on the toddler too.

I have never been so mentally exhausted since, well, probably I learnt to use the loo myself. But the worst of it is, that the tiny strain of independence my child and I had taken from each other, has now been catapulted back so we are suctioned together like unlikely peas in a pod. From having to hold her as a newborn, to having her sit clinging desperately to my leg as a wobbler, to tentative crawls around me, to exuberant walks away from me, to actually staying in the playroom while I make a cup of tea in the kitchen (such little but such enormous milestones!) we are now back to square one. We are now constantly only a potty distance apart as I chase her round the house like a demented Desperate Housewife asking manically “Do you want to use the potty????” every time she moves. “Step away from the carpet” is my only other speech these days.

I cannot leave the room. Not for a second. The minute I do she wees on the floor. The actual minute. I cannot leave the house. Despite setting her on the loo before leaving, the minute we leave and get into the car she does a wee. The actual minute.

Every time she successfully deposits a wee or a poo in a myriad of receptacles dotted strategically around the house and garden I jump up and down whooping like a hyena, hugging and kissing her, shouting Hooray as if she’d in fact laid a Golden Egg. The Golden Egg of my independence. One less nappy change I surmise … I have a baby with a fully functioning toilet system so some days between the two of them it’s just a constant stream of reeking and rancid wiping. However, now nappies seem so sanitary compared to the steaming puddles on the floor and smelly squidgy pant packages.

We’re 5 days in and are both low on enthusiasm. My Potty Chart is a depressing reminder that there are still more misses than hits. The house reeks of Dettol and wee. But as the man of the great challenge program proclaimed, “I’ve started so I’ll finish.” We shall continue our quest, my daughter and I. And until our independence is reached we shall travel this epic journey together and just hope a Smartie at the end of each success is enough to keep us both going!

Copyright Alana Kirk-Gillham 2008

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Wonderful Women

Last night I laughed until I cried. I wept and screeched like a banshee and hooted and howled. I laughed in a way that only women can make each other laugh. From the belly and from the soul.

It’s so easy to moan. Really it is. Some days I make it an Olympic sport. I moan about the house. I moan about the weather. I moan about money, or lack of. I moan about my children. But today I’m not going to moan. About anything. Not one tiny thing. Because last night two girlfriends gave me a tonic that will set me up for days.

I don’t see them that often, but true friends don’t have to. We can pick up wherever we left off, and we know that should we need each other, we’ll be there. Absolutely. Friendship is a bit like a plant. Sometimes it’s in full bloom, fragrant and bursting with energy. Other times it is dormant and quiet. But it is always alive; living, breathing and growing. Last night we were in full bloom. One has just danced with cancer, but thankfully has now left him stranded on the dancefloor. The other has things in her life that would darken many a lesser person. But these two magnificent women brought only sunshine last night and we laughed and talked till the wee hours. That’s what I love about women. We can be talking about death and the depths of our despairs one minute and be clutching each other in laughter the next. There are no disparities between the two, because as in life, they are inter-linked.

Family is the blood that pulses round our bodies keeping us going, keeping us warm. But friends – good friends – are like the air we breathe – they invigorate us and stop us suffocating on life.

According to the African proverb, women hold up half the sky. Indeed we do. But many women I know hold up half the sky with one hand, and brush a rainbow in the sky with the other. This is a thank you to the wonderful women in my life. To the girls that keep me a girl no matter how old we get, and to the women who are a place I call home.

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Is she demented?

Not a good start to the day. 6.05am and Daisy’s dulcet tones rudely stir me from slumber. I don’t know about any worms, but the only thing this early bird caught was a ratty retort from her cranky mum. She whined, I whinged and by 6.15am we were already in a full scale battle.

Something has possessed my two and a half year old. My angelic delightful Daisy seems to have vacated her body and the Omen’s devil Damien has taken residence. I’m sure her head even spun 360 degrees during yesterday’s tantrum. Where has my sweet girl gone? I can’t cope with this deranged monster that is now dominating every moment of every day. Her little sister has just cut her first tooth and crawled her first wobbly movement in a forward direction. What did she get for her efforts? A quick yelp of praise from me as I carried my demon daughter to the worn out naughty step. I wracked my weary brain for some sign, some planetary shift, some scientific explanation for what has caused this chaotic conversion from sweet to sour, from terrific to terrible, from amiable to angry. But as I checked the fullness of the moon I realised with a shock – all that’s happened is I’ve entered the scary sceptre of terrible Two-dom.

It’s now a daily battle of her will against mine. Daughter pitted against mother. Peace versus chaos. And I’m stumped. I’ve managed teams of ill-suited people. I’ve out-manoeuvred testy Boardrooms. I’ve survived bitchy bosses. But this? A two foot bundle of over-wrought emotion? I’m outwitted and out-energised.

Motherhood is all about climbing the slippery slope of experience until occasionally you get a foothold where you can catch your breath and look down to see how far you’ve come (never look up to see how far you have to go – that’s a vista too far). But this? I feel I’ve lost my footing and slipped right down into the black abyss of ignorance, where I know nothing. Where’s the god-damn manual?? Where are the instructions? I spend so much time on reward charts, naughty steps, counting methods, shouting, begging and ignoring, I haven’t the energy to just run away.

My mum is visiting and as my child clamps her iron lips together refusing her breakfast, lunch and dinner, I notice my mum look away before I see her amused smile break into a full-blown smug grin. I made her life hell when I was two. This is her revenge. We reap what we sow.

I’m really not looking forward to the teenage years…

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A room of my own…

Women didn’t even have the right to vote when Virginia Woolf first voiced our need to have our own piece of space in a Room of Our Own. A hundred years later and feminism has taken us beyond Virginia’s wildest dreams I imagine. Back then as a single woman, she was refused entry into a library without the escort of a male gentleman. Today there are few, if any, buildings we cannot stride into, and even have the chance of running should we so desire or work hard enough. However, one thing remains the same. How many women – and us mothers in particular – have a room to call our own? A space that is ours? A refuge from the hurly-burly tumble of motherhood?

I for one don’t have a room of my own. Not any more. Not one room. Not even a cupboard that locks or has room enough for me to hide inside (believe me, I’ve tried!). I have two daughters under two and a half years of age, and by two my eldest had discovered the delights of trying on my new red suede high heels (scored before I’d even worn them), could reach into the drawer and unzip my make-up bag, (I won’t go into the implications of liquid blusher on a cream carpet) and stand on the windowsill to reach across my dressing table to pull my necklaces and beads off the rack. But it’s not just the physical assault on my belongings, the loss of scared things that are mine (as every mother knows – a two year lives by the motto, what’s mine is mine, and what’s everybody else’s is mine too). It’s that little pocket of solitude, that tiny oasis of space, that miniscule crevice of peace, a place to run screaming to and slam the door shut should the desire overwhelm us. My daughters have it. My husband has it – an office at work, a shed, the study. Even the damn cats have it. But somehow between being a child and having a child, I lost the right of privacy.

When I was young I had my own bedroom. Poster laden walls and heart patterned curtains with secret hiding places for furtive writings and diaries stuffed with longing. As I grew up and chased life in a tirade of exciting adventures I had many rooms, in many houses, in many towns, in many countries; rooms that, when all was said and done were mine to close the door on, and say goodbye to the world. And then, when I had wilted, recouped, rested, regathered, I could throw open the door again to say hello to world, myself intact and recovered.

I only ever actually owned one of those rooms – well, three to be precise if you included a bathroom and kitchen/lounge area – and that was the best room of all. Mine, all mine. Well, mine and the cats. I can still just grasp that glorious feeling of how good it was to wake up on a Saturday morning, the blinds still down and hiding me from the outside, the door still bolted to keep me safe inside, as I languished indulgently in my space, alone to decide how the day would proceed, with space to just be. But no sooner had I secured my room (s) of my own, than I invited someone in to share it. Our love took over and we moved on to own multiple rooms together in a sorry house that whispered of many stories untold. Now I own several rooms, but none of them are mine; no part my husband doesn’t share (and clutter), no area my daughters don’t ransack. I don’t even close the toilet door anymore – that intimate moment of privacy too has been stripped away by an insecure toddler. And since giving up my full time desk-job to look after the family and pursue a freelance career, I no longer own an office where people would knock to enter and I could choose to welcome them, or not.

Now don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t change one second of motherhood (well, ok there are about 30 seconds I might exchange) but here I am. 37. A mother and writer. And for the first time in my life I have no room to call my own. I write at the dinner table amid dollops of baby food and smidgens of egg yoke and between piles of ironing. I was deliriously happy recently when my husband grudgingly allowed me to store some old crockery in the shed so that I could have a whole half cupboard of the dresser to store my laptop and writing. A whole shelf! Who needs diamond rings when you can have a whole shelf, I ask you? When I surveyed a bunch of mum’s recently about their thoughts on motherhood, one of the strongest moans was lack of privacy and personal space. And I don’t think we even dream of anything grand. All I want is a little corner of the house that belongs to me; a place where all my piles of ‘stuff’, and notes, and ‘things’ can congregate together in harmony. I’d like to feel I belong, rather than have bits of me scattered around the house in every available recess like a hobo in my own home.

But for now I suppose I must create my own ‘room’, my thinking and writing place. My solitude must take place amid the hectic squealings of motherhood. My creativity must fight its way through the mundane acts of domesticity. I must claim my room where I can; in my head; in the car as I wait for the lights to change; in between the nappies and the boiled eggs and soldiers; in bed as the moon recedes and little voices have yet to break the silence of the morning. And maybe one day I will have a room again; one that’s just mine. With a door. A soft door that’s knock is mild and not intimidating. A gentle knock that I will gladly say ‘come in’ to. Because I can.

(c) AKG 2008
(Published in Spring 2008 issue, Modern Mum)

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Forget multi-tasking – we’re multi-careering!

The other night my husband asked me why I was tired. He knows this question is grounds for divorce but he seems unable to stop himself. I gave him a withering look and explained calmly: “I’ve been in peace negotiations since 6.30am this morning. Between conflict resolution and crisis management I have not had a break and it’s now 7pm. If I was part of the Israeli – Palestinian peace talks – something for which I am highly skilled – I would not now be standing making your bloody dinner.” That ended that particular conversation.

And so when we went on holiday recently and, as I have frequently done since resigning a high-powered job to look after my two babies, I hesitated insecurely over what to write on the landing form’s ‘what do you do?’ section. I looked at my clan who were imploding around me and quickly scribed “chief negotiator”, extremely pleased with myself. Now I look forward to filling in those wretched forms. The other day I decided to be ‘project manager’ – organising the lives of a two year old and a baby requires titanic skills in that area.

I had thought when I took time out (note I’m not saying time off) from full-time employment that my CV would start looking a bit threadbare when I emerged from the posit lined clouds of early motherhood. But I have to say I’m now rather pleased with it. I reckon by the time I’m ready to face the weary world of work again I’ll be up for any job.

I am top management material with my negotiation, conflict resolution and crisis management skills, ability to work weekends and availability for on-call duties 24 hours a day. I’m a people person; albeit a Little People person. I can also add Structural Engineer to my portfolio having emerged relatively unscathed from the what-appears-to-be-deliberately-so-frustratingly-stupidly-designed-this-had-to-be-invented-by-a-man array of baby and toddler items that needed assembling. I hadn’t cried for years before I had to put together our first baby’s pram.

Naturally I am a highly trained nurse who not only can apply Poo Bear plasters with ER precision but can now calculate a temperature with a mere hand-to-head swipe. I am Teacher, often of things I never knew I knew! I am Inventor, Artist, Masterchef. I am Pillow and Punching Bag. I am Cleaner and Chauffeur. I am Hairdresser and Bodyguard. I can speak when sleep-deprivation has sucked all words from my brain. I can sing while stirring the soup and writing out the shopping list.

Finally I am a Diplomat. In the midst of recent potty training Daisy decided she wanted to wear pants to bed. Clearly a straight no was not an option: she’d cry, and I’d get annoyed and who needs that when the clock is ticking down to “MY TIME”. It had to be a yes that satisfied all parties. So now she leaps into bed at night with her pants over the top of her sleep suit like SuperToddler. And you know what? Surely that makes me a SuperMum? Must add that to the CV…. Now, who wants me? And what are the holidays?

(c) AKG 2008

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Why has no-one invented Satnav for mums??

After months of hint-dropping – and running empty on present ideas – against my better judgement, I bought my dearly beloved a Satnav for Christmas. Unable to cycle to work anymore, he’d bought his own car and I thought at least I’ll be blissfully unaware of the new woman in his life. But a bit like Princess Diana said, there are now three people in this relationship. Not content to confine the maddening mumbling map to his own car, he brings it into mine whenever we travel en famille.

Her irritatingly banal BBC news voice enters the vacuum of our car, disallowing any real conversation and coming between us like a filling in a sandwich.

I wouldn’t mind if we genuinely needed directions. I wouldn’t even mind if I was a rubbish map reader. But we don’t. And I’m not. Still, every journey now is delayed for ten minutes while he studiously enters in the digits of our intended destination (which is only 2 miles away down a straight road…), and then we spend the next 40 minutes being dictated to by a disembodied fishwife telling us every .2 of a mile to turn left, turn right, go straight, go here, go there. Go to Hell I want to yell, but I try to accept this new marital relationship with some dignity, even while she is leading us on a merry dance round the most circuitous route known to man (and woman).

The first time we used it, it duly took us to Bridewell Lane. Unfortunately it was Bridewell Lane in a different town to the one we wanted. As I bore into him with that well-perfected, raised-eyebrow look of disgusted condescension, he muttered something about using proper postcodes and cheerily reset the damn machine to start the farce again.

Seriously… under what other possible circumstances would a man enjoy – nay, love – being dictated to by a stern humourless woman he doesn’t know??? Ok, let’s not go there.

So with conversation impossible, and the kids screaming in the back from being strapped into their carseats for an illegal amount of time while Bossyboots in the corner drove us all round the bend, and another, and another… I got to thinking. Why hasn’t someone invented a Satnav for mums? Let’s face it. When you first bring your babe home from hospital, who wouldn’t pay their life’s savings for a kindly voice in the corner telling you when to feed the baby, when to put the baby to sleep. Make a cup of tea. Sit down. Phone your mum to come over and do the ironing. When to pick up the baby. Dress her in warm clothes – no, not that silly, the pink one! Hold her silly, she’s crying. No, not that way – over your shoulder, she needs winding. Do you know nothing???

On second thoughts…. Maybe not.

(c) AKG 2008

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Deceive to Achieve!

When I lovingly rubbed my pregnant stomach, thoughts meandering on the beautiful relationship I was going to have with my child-to-be, birds tweeted and blossoms bloomed in my rose tinted vision of girlish giggles and hand holding happiness. I wanted an honest relationship, one where I talked to her openly, and she learned from my wisdom and off we trotted into the sunset with bunnies hopping beside us.

And then I became a mother. A real one. Not the fantasy type we see in magazines, and parenting books.

We do have an honest relationship, my two year old and I – as long as the truth suits me of course.

I never thought the best bit of mothering advice I received would come from my brother, but one day he cunningly told my neice that the zoo was closed for repairs when she was hounding us to go. I raised my eyebrow in admonishment (only being a mum to a baby at this stage, I was foolishly allowing myself that sanctimonious ‘that’s not how you’re supposed to do it’ air people-who-are-yet-to-do-it’ have).

“Deceive to achieve, Sis. Deceive to achieve. It’s the only way,” he claimed as my neice sauntered off to play with her doll, satisfied she was not missing out on the elephants.

I was shocked of course. This was not how I was going to do it. Oh no no.

Oh no indeed. It’s astonishing how quickly one’s sanctimonious know-how evaporates the second children reach the Age of Un-reason.

Now I actually pride myself on the creativity of my deceptions. It amuses me in ways my husband finds rather disturbing. My latest Uber-scam (if I may be so modest) is the Brocolli Bombshell. After months of feeding my beloved organic, home-cooked, multi-coloured, multi-nutritional, multi-tasty morsels, the wretched Age of Stubborness took hold and all things green became the deal-breaker on culinary negotiations. Here was the deal – she would not break.

As I pleaded with her one day that she could not have Pesto Pasta for every meal, the little devil of deception that lives in the dark recess of my brain whispered back to me…. “Oh yes she can…..”

My eyes fell upon the frozen bags of pureed vegetable cubes I’d just made for my baby. Aha!

Now Daisy can have Pesto Pasta as often as she likes – she just has it with two cubes of pureed broccoli, or green beans, or courgette – absorbed and hidden by the strong flavoured, green coloured pesto. Riding high on my success, I now chuck a cube of cauliflower in with her pasta cheese sauce.

I can’t win them all. And nor should I. She has plenty of scope to get her way. But those moments when I secretly win – the ones when she is happy with my answer, and I rub my hands with witch-like glee – Score One for mummy! Yes I know, I really should get out more…

(c) AKG 2008

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Are we on Speed?

Speed is a relative notion – just ask the hare and the tortoise.

Last week, when my mum came to stay, she took half an hour to make a tuna sandwich. I was incandescent with impatience. In the time it took her to butter two slices of bread, open a tin, spread some mayo and slam it all together (although in fairness, she would never slam, but gently place together – herein lies the beginnings of our differences methinks), I had fed the baby, detached screaming toddler from self-imposed prison under the dining room chair, prepared our dinner, read half the paper, watched the news headlines, put the babes to bed and sent two text messages. I was about to start hoovering the house in a fit of agitated pique when the plate finally arrived at my table.

It certainly looked the same as mine would have. It didn’t seem to taste any different than the ones I make. But there it was in all its glory – the Half Hour Tuna Delight.

And so began one of those mother daughter debates (you can use other words here such as arguement, rant or fight, but for the purposes of diplomatic relations, I’m sticking with debate). She says I do everything too fast – I eat too fast, I talk too fast, I walk too fast, I drive too fast. I even, god forbid, get ready in the morning too fast! Of course I splutter my indignation at such suggestions – doesn’t she understand I have so much to do? If I don’t do everything at warp speed I’ll fail as a mother, loose my husband and the house will disintegrate around our very ears. As for the children, how else am I to get through the day with two little monkeys if I don’t move at Olympic pace?

She gives me that look. You know the one. The look that says, Oh please. You think you have it hard now? Try doing all that – but with none of the time saving devices you have – I had no washing machine, no tumble dryer, no microwave oven, no steriliser, no disposable nappies, no car! And by the way, how did I produce such a drama queen?

It’s amazing how much one’s mother can say with one slightly raised eyebrow.

Naturally I poo pood her with that condascending tone that we reserve for our mothers, something along the lines of ‘in your day you didn’t have half the pressures we modern mums do’ and raced off to hang the washing out in 1 minute flat.

But between you and me, I think she’s right. I barely finish one task before my mind has moved on to the next. My children must wonder who the mad woman is who attacks them with a facecloth every morning before ramming a toothbrush into their mouth, swirling it around and yaking at them to ‘spit’ before they’ve swallowed their last bite of breakfast. I’m not sure I’ve ever actually walked down my front path to the car – I’m usually just a blur of movement with a baby under one arm and 14 bags hanging off the other, shouting at my toddler to hurry up.

So it’s a bit late being February and all. But here’s my New Year’s Resolution. Chew my food. Walk down my path. Let my kids finish their breakfast. I’m not sure I can stretch my tuna sandwich making skills to half an hour, but I’m going to give it a damn good try.

(Published in March/April 2008 issue of Infant & Maternity Magazine)
(c) AKG 2008

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Cherish your angels

Yesterday a close friend of my husband’s died.

Just like that.

He was 39, funny, caring, outrageous, and kind. He leaves behind a shattered wife, and the two loves of his life – aged 3 and 18 months. Yesterday, in a moment of freak accident, as his snowboard careered off the edge of a mountain in brilliant sunshine and glorious surroundings, their young lives changed forever. His exhuberance for life was only matched by his adoration of his girls – girls that will now grow up without him to hold their hands, to dance in puddles, to shout “Daddy, Daddy” when they find a ladybird in the garden.

I know his wife, his many many friends, and his family will make sure those beautiful girls grow up surrounded by the best memories of their dad they can offer. And despite my lack of religious belief, i know – because it can be no other way – that he will walk beside them every step of their young lives.

last night my husband broke down as we went in to check on our own girls. so precious. so beautiful. so needing of us. so let’s cherish them. let all of us who have them, cherish them.

lets make sure we hold their hands, dance in puddles and chase ladybirds in the garden. we must, not only because we can, but because we owe it to those who can’t.

(c) AKG 2008

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