Posts (page 2)
Our house sits in the middle of a plot, with a gate separating the front garden from the back. The back garden is big enough, and although a swing and a slide (ok, and definitely a table and some chairs and maybe a barbecue, too) are all that’s missing from making it perfect, still the boys LONG to be allowed into the front garden. More specifically, they long to be allowed to play out in the street like the other kids, but since they know that’s not likely, they’re willing to settle for the front garden.
Finally yesterday I relaxed the rules and let them play ‘unsupervised’ in the front garden, on the proviso that they didn’t go beyond the garden fence. In fact I watched them all the time from the front window, not ready to let them play beyond my line of sight, but still feeling stupid for squandering my new-found me-time by spying on them. I remembered a recent conversation about how many adults recall their favourite childhood memories as involving being outdoors, and without adults present, and that tugs at my guts but the over-protective city-dweller in me is way too neurotic to listen to that. I’m incredulous that 4 and 5 year olds stream in and out of my house, torn between concern that whoever looks after them is way too naive, and concern that I’m way too uptight for this town. Whichever it is, I’m just not willing to take the risk I’d need to take in order to work that out, so for now, they don’t go out of my sight, and that’s the way it is, though that approach already earns me tuts and strops and the immortal line ‘It’s not faaaair, Mum.’
It makes me feel like such a MOTHER, this stage. It forces me to make rules and lay down the law, and appear assertive and confident of the boundaries, when in truth I can hardly believe I’ve been entrusted in charge of these scrumptious little souls. They look to me to explain everything from why the clouds are moving to why they aren’t allowed to play in the street, and I search desperately for the right kind of encyclopaedia because I don’t know anything, and feel so ill-equipped to be the super-power that their twinkly eyes tell me I am. I remember recoiling in horror when the first midwife I ever saw referred to me throughout the appointment as ‘Mum.’ At 12 weeks into my first pregnancy I just wasn’t ready to think of myself in those terms, and I definitely wasn’t ready to be called that by someone whose mother I was not. But now that’s me, and it feels both strangely alien and deliciously fitting.
So I watched them play in the front garden. Something about their distance from me, and their pretend-independence on the other side of the glass made me suddenly see them differently, as so very much distinct from me. So I often I find myself thinking of them as appendages of me, because they spend their every waking minute with me, more or less, and it was exhilarating to see them as their proper tiny selves. Dwarfed by the fruit trees, which are no taller than me, they looked suddenly tiny and unbearably cute. Little men, picking berries from every branch they could reach, nibbling them to find out which ones might be tasty, and then running inside to consult the fount of all knowledge (moi) as to whether “this one could be good to eat, or might be yucky and give me a sort tummy?”
When his friends come in to play his accent changes beyond all recognition, and he takes on a breathy, confident air, full of elaborate expressions and hand gestures. The little one holds his own, jabbering away in an unmistakable parroting of the local dialect, making kids bend down to try to understand him, only ever answering ‘uh-huuuuh’ instead of yes.
I’ve wondered lately what makes mothers keep on breeding. Something about some of the ones I’ve met makes me feel uncomfortable. As they prepare to hatch again I presume they must be in love with motherhood, and yet I watch them with their kids and wonder why they seem so aloof, detached almost. I suppose the 3rd, 4th and 5th time mothers must excel at parenting, feel some kind of calling to the role of Mum, and yet their eyes glaze over when I turn the conversation round to what it’s like to raise a child. At first I thought they just found it so instinctive that they felt no need to dissect the details, but now I wonder if it’s just that they’re not really interested. I suspect it’s less about the children and more about something to do with the worth that being pregnant and giving birth gives to them. I’ve even wondered if my own occasional pondering about another child is actually a desire to replay the experiences all over again, wishing for a chance to do it all again so that I might savour it this time, as everyone always tells you to, even though you can’t know what they mean until you feel like you’ve already let the moment slip. Nostalgia doesn’t strike me as a good enough reason to create another human being, but it pulls me up straight, looks me in the eye and urges me to hold these very moments as if they were made of gold. Because they are, and because now I know how much I’ll miss those pudgy toddler toes, and the visible innocence of beautiful little hands that I could pick out from ten thousand other pairs.
We walked on the beach before tea-time and I breathed in deep, soothed to the point of deep relaxation by the sea. It pulls me back to myself, blows away the cobwebs and calms my soul. I can’t imagine ever leaving the coast now, I’d have to be dragged kicking and screaming. We swam (in the pool, we’ve yet to do that in the sea so far this summer) this morning and the little one astonished me with his fish-like instincts. There’s a word for it, I think, the physicality of a boy who seems to have been born knowing how to kick a football, and with a natural urge to swim, but it’s so very different from his brother, who’d rather invent elaborate water games while clinging to his Dada. One’s all about his limbs and the other’s all about his words. Their differences only serve to make me appreciate all the more each element of who they are.
A whole new phenomenon is overtaking our house.
It hit me like a ton of bricks at lunch time, as I found myself unexpectedly alone at the kitchen table. Suddenly without company except for a pile of sandwich crusts evenly divided between 2 abandoned, brightly-coloured plastic plates.
They’d run off to play, desperate to reinstate whatever elaborate scheme they’d reluctantly interrupted for just long enough to refuel. They’d disappeared, without me even noticing, until I looked up and realised I was alone, and that this heralded a new season in their growing. It wasn’t lost on me that this is a picture of so much to come.
It happened again this morning. I made our family’s staple weekend brunch: stack pancakes with bacon and maple syrup. “It’s so nice to be just us four,” said Dada, pulling up a chair. “Yum,” said The Boy, earnestly, mopping syrup from his plate with his pancake, and then, “My favourite. Thank you for making this for us, Mum.” Beside me Little Brother (SO not a baby anymore) ran his index finger through a pool of syrup on his plate and held it aloft shouting in delight “Look at ‘im!” before sucking his finger clean and going back for more. I’d put a candle on the table and put on a CD, small markers of family time. The Boy remarked on these small details, noting everything, missing nothing, and said “It’s so nice to have music, too.” I can’t remember why but they made us laugh, dragon noises maybe, and I thought to myself that when family time is good, it’s about the most satisfying thing I know. I always miss our friends when we have pancakes, though. It was a weekly tradition to gather round plates piled high. I loved standing in the kitchen listening to the banter while I cooked, and being told in no uncertain terms to leave the washing up and come and sit and join in with the sacred space of being friends and family together. My guts ache when I think about those friends, or when I recall the ease with which my parents could arrange a visit. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, that’s for sure, and while I wouldn’t trade this place or space even for easier access to the ones we love, their distance still adds a little bitter note to all the sweetness that we have.
Anyway... there we were, trying to snatch a few moments for an important exchange of information about some admin stuff, when they started banging forks on the table and screeching for attention. “This is what it’s like,” I said, above the din, trying to explain how much they demand my full attention, and how sometimes even telling them to be quiet while I focus on something else ends up being all about them. “This is because we’re trying to talk, and it’s why I can’t ever get a moment to think.” And then, as we were flicking through the calendar and plotting summer trips and sleeping arrangements for our visitors, I realised we were alone again. “Look!” I said, incredulous, and in a whispered tone, as if pointing out something like a butterfly that might take wing if we disturbed it with too quick a turn of the head. They’d got down from the table by themselves and were engaged in earnest play together in the living room. We drained our coffee cups, and talked uninterrupted, both delighted and bemused by the sudden moment to ourselves.
But as ever, I’m left baffled by the changes, baffled at how only days ago I couldn’t get 2 minutes space to write a birthday card, and now suddenly I’m free to linger over coffee and flick through the paper, all the while feeling like I’m wasting time. While this new-found freedom is intoxicating it also makes me feel all at sea. I don’t know what to do with myself. I wonder how long it will last, and so I linger in the doorway, make another cup of coffee, twiddle my thumbs. I’ve craved this sort of independence, the chance to be with them but without somehow being entirely consumed by their apparent need of me every single minute of the day. And now it’s like they’ve finally discovered what being brothers mean, and I’m the odd one out, hovering awkwardly in the doorway, wondering what my role is now.
The other day a friend’s son played all by himself for hours in our house, despite the presence of 4 other kids for company. He’s just like that, but I was incredulous. Meanwhile mine badgered the other kids to the point of harassment, desperate for a more engaged kind of interaction. His Mum laughed and confessed to worrying about it; why won’t he interact, she wonders, while I fret over how much mine seem to need stimulation and attention. We saw the ironies, that no matter what ‘type’ of kid you have you still worry about the possible apparent deficits in who they are, compared to who they’re not. It must be normal, something to do with the enormity of responsibility that falls with us as Mums, the sense that who they are somehow reflects on us.
In the past I’ve wondered if I’ve made them this way, so demanding, so not inclined to play alone and so eager for company and stimulation. When other kids’ Mums were relaxed about tots watching TV watching I was reading books or strapping them into the buggy for endless outdoor adventures – have I made them dependent on me because of how much of my attention I gave them when they were littler? Who knows and never mind anyway, because it’s all changing. I’ve noticed it in subtler ways too. Usually insistent on clutching my hand, The Boy suddenly drops me like a hot potato if he spies a potential friend, and likewise he can go from cuddling his beloved dressie to throwing it at me in disgust, declaring “I don’t need this, Mum,” when we’re within sight of his friend’s house. Our Boy, he’s growing up, and I’m so proud it hurts.
He’s just made another friend. She must be all of 6. He’s hanging over the garden fence and she’s hopping from one foot to another on the other side, her hair tightly plaited in 2 explosive braids either side of her cherubic face. “I’m going for my tea now,” I hear her sing as I lean discreetly out of the window, straining to eavesdrop on my son whose independence is spiralling deliciously out of my control. “But afterwards I’ll come back and see your toys, ok?” News has spread about the pretty cool house with more toys than Santa’s grotto. “Ok,” he says, a bit bemused to find himself the sudden centre of the street’s attention. “Good boy,” she says, effusively, and pats his head.
A strange small boy, wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the words ‘I’m Number 1 around here’ is currently refusing my children entry to their own playroom, on the grounds that they haven’t finished their tea yet.
There was a knock on the door a short while ago and it threw me for a loop because I couldn’t see anyone through the window in the door. It took me a few seconds upon opening the door to locate the source of the small voice. Eventually I looked down and there on the doorstep was our new little friend. “Is Edan there?” he said, and I laughed out loud at the absurdity of the idea that he might be anywhere else. You see? That shows how I think of us; conjoined, mostly. That’s the first time we’ve ever had a kid call round uninvited. “Well I’m afraid he’s having his tea,” I said in an apologetic tone, thinking he’d scamper off and leave me to my plan to snuggle up beside them for a Friday night TV dinner in front of a kid-friendly movie. “Can I come in?” he said, unperturbed, and I don’t know what I said but I was caught off-guard and the next thing I knew I was negotiating fish fingers into small mouths and issuing edicts that they eat up or their new friend would have to go home. “That’s right,” he said earnestly, nodding his head gravely, one hand perched on his hip. I laughed again, “What age are you?” and I half expected him to say 35, and not just 5.
It’s bizarre, this new stage of having kids from the street come into play. The kid who’s apparently number 1 around here acts like he’s never seen so many toys in one room before. “Woah, your house is pretty cool,” he said, and I half suspect he’s here for the toys and not the boys. Every now and then I think that dawns on Edan, and he rattles his cage to see if he can get a more satisfying interaction. His new friend is surprisingly patient, and issues instructions and life lessons as he deems appropriate. Edan came to tell me his friend was throwing cars at the window, and I sent him back with the warning that he’d go home if he did things like that. I heard his pass that on, and back came this, quick as a shot; “Hey you don’t tell on your friends. If you don’t tell on your friends they don’t tell on you. Like my friend, Clare, I didn’t tell on her so she didn’t tell on me. That’s how it works.”
So I sit and blog, feeling useless and redundant, entirely unsure about this arrangement. Am I technically babysitting this kid whose parents I’ve never clapped eyes on, or is he doing me a favour by entertaining my little dudes? Am I supposed to send him home when we’ve had enough, or do we presume someone will come looking for him when it’s time for tea? Actually I suspect it might all end in tears way before then, if he persists in making the fatal mistake of thinking that what’s written on his t-shirt still applies in Edan’s house.
My son knows everything. And I mean, EVERYTHING.
Consequently I cracked myself up before 9am this morning, by hearing myself actually say these words:
I KNOW! I’m a grown-up, ok? I’m VERY clever, I have TWO degrees, one of which I ACED with DISTINCTION, so TRUST ME, I can actually handle the demands of getting you a cup of juice without your supervision and attention to the minute details. I KNOW the blue cup is yours, I know not to fill it too full and I KNOW you have an obsessive-compulsive need for the lid to go on with the spout on the same side as the writing on the cup. I know. You. Don’t. Need. To. Advise. Me. On. Every. Little. Thing. I know stuff. Ok?
I wish you could have seen his face. His expression was a priceless mixture of pity and acquiescence. “Okaaay, Mum,” he said, with a heavy sigh and a roll of the eyes, as he sauntered off to the playroom muttering under his breath.
This kid. I heart this kid.
We're back from our jollies - rested and relaxed - and in the 3 days since our return to the homestead I've written about 6 unpublishable blog entries about the sheer insanity of raising children. I never, EVER believed that something as straightforward as depriving them of my attention for the length of time it takes to write a birthday card could cause such brain-busting stress. It took me 25 minutes and by the end of that I was a gibbering wreck and had hardly written a word of sense. How do you other people make it all look so easy? We have to laugh, right? It's the only way. And remind ourselves that in a few short years we'll be wondering where they are and wishing they called more often. Oof, but doesn't that just punch you in the guts with a heavy dose of parental panic. Nothing like that perspective to make you feel even worse about the job you're doing right now. I keep being told of third and fourth babies on the way, and I woop and gush and congratulate loudest and proudest of all, all the while juggling a little dose of jealousy whilst internally thinking ARE THEY INSANE? and HOW IN THE NAME OF HEAVEN DO THEY MANAGE? At 6.30am this morning when the low, persistent moans of MAMA. MAMA. MAMA. MAMA showed no sign of abating, I dragged my sorry self from my bed and calculated that in 24 hours I had managed only 2 conscious, waking hours of time away from Them. Lately I feel like I'm being bullied by a pair of 3-foot-tall toddling tormentors. I say all of this tongue firmly in cheek, and with the reassurance that though I am on the brink of despair several times a day of late, I'm also embracing the particular twists and turns of this parenting mania with something close to joy and gratitude, and relishing the opportunities that these ridiculously gorgeous boys afford me to find out what life is really for. But seriously, I need to capture the essence of this moment and distil it into an article that will pay me in enough cold hard cash to allow me to go and drown my sorrows in Topshop.
The Boy took part in his playgroup's sponsored bike ride today.
I was worried it would descend into toddler carnage, since racing around on a wheeled vehicle at breakneck speed is one of his most favourite things to do in the world, and I routinely berate him at toddler groups for causing a pile up or crashing too hard into some delicate soul. He's frequently the ring-master, blazing a trail with a gaggle of riders behind him, struggling to keep up. Fortunately they raced around the track in threes, but still, you know how every class or gang of kids has *that* kid, the one that stands out? Behold, the kid who lapped the competition not just once but twice, and reduced the spectators to hysterical laughter with his speed demoning, racing away from the start line like a bat out of hell, but keeping a look of disapproval on his face, due to the fact that he knew people were in fits because of him:-
My boy. He's totally going to be 'that' kid.
- Reprimanded Number 1 son for dragging a stool across the kitchen floor to allow him to climb up onto the work surface so he could scoop handfuls of golden syrup straight out of the tin and into his sticky chops.
- Reprimanded Number 2 son for licking laundry detergent out of the door of the washing machine, and trying to wear a plastic bag on his head, whilst refusing to remove his father's shoes and swimming goggles.
