The Lies We Tell

"I've been looking for that! It must have fallen in there by mistake!" I cried, when William found his latest drawing in the recycling bin. That was the moment I realized how good I've gotten at barefaced lying since having children.

It’s not just the expected parental untruths either. I expected I’d end up saying that carrots help you to see in the dark and crusts make your hair curly. What I didn’t expect was how good I would get at lying on the hoof. "No! Of course I'm not taking that bag of toys to the charity shop. I was just gathering them together so that I could put them somewhere safe."

I’ve heard it said that the Queen thinks the world smells of wet paint as everywhere she visits has just been redecorated in her honour. In the same way, my children think the world is full of children’s rides which are out of order, sweet shops which are closed and ice cream vans which have run out of ice cream.

Then there is the Father Christmas/Easter Bunny/Tooth Fairy lie. Now, before you strike me from your Christmas Card List, I am not suggesting we tell the truth about our imaginary friends a moment before we need to (although I wouldn't mind getting a little credit for the hours I spend looking for good stocking presents.) However, the lengths some of us go to in order to perpetuate these magical myths (footprints in flour, scraps of torn red cloth in the door jamb, ‘dropped’ gifts on the lawn etc.) are on a level of subterfuge of which the CIA would be proud. 

Research tells me that I should not be lying to them at all, but my parents told me the odd tall story as a child and I still trust them now. When we were young, my sister and I were given a dead (smelly) seahorse by an old couple who had found it washed up on a beach in Cornwall. By the time we arrived home from our holiday, the seahorse had magically disappeared from the boot of my parents’ car, allegedly to seahorse heaven. Surely this was a far more palatable story than the truth of him being rudely ejected by my dad somewhere along the M4?

Sometimes the truth is just too tricky. When we lost my dad last year, William (aged 4) was very upset at the prospect that, one day, he would lose me too. I lied that I had fixed it so that he and I would live forever. Although child psychologists would gasp in horror and tell me that I should have met his questions head on with gentle, considered explanations, I just didn’t have it in me. My instinctive lie was what he, and I, needed to hear right then. 

Therefore, whilst I will endeavour to be truthful as often as possible, I am not going to feel guilty about the odd fib. As they get older, the important subjects will be discussed and the less important, such as what really happened to William’s ridiculously large collection of pinecones, will be remembered as family myth.

Honestly.

 

 

 

Crying

There's a side effect to motherhood that no-one tells you about and that is all the crying. Not the baby. You. 

Sure, you expect to get weepy and emotional when you're pregnant. It's the damn hormones. 'They' even warn you to expect the 'baby blues' to cause unpredictable weeping a few days after the baby is born as these same hormones settle back down. I was still in hospital at this stage, hobbling around after a C-Section, struggling with breast feeding and wracked with guilt that my newborn had to be wheeled away for antibiotics twice a day. (I'm not sure why I felt that it was my fault, but I did.) I cried so much that week I'm surprised I wasn't treated for dehydration. 

However, that's not the crying I'm talking about. It's the other sort, the crying that creeps up on you when you're not expecting it. 

I'm not saying I was a tough cookie before having children. I cried watching ET like most people. Hard hitting stories on Children in Need and Comic Relief would leave me in a mess. But I didn't cry at 30 second TV adverts like I do now. 

Even happy stories involving people I don't know can get me started. My husband doesn't understand when I cry at the sight of someone winning a race or performing a song. He looks at me in disbelief. "Are you crying at THIS?" he asks. I nod and sob, "I'm just thinking how proud their mum must be!"

At each stage of my children's development there seem to be fresh opportunities for my tear ducts to kick into overdrive. The first time I tried to strap the baby seat into the car on my own I made a complete hash of it and spent the next 20 minutes wailing that I would never get the hang of it and would end up a prisoner in my own home. (The drama has always been there; just the tears are new.) 

I cried when I realised that breast feeding was going to be difficult to get the hang of (although, in my defence, part of that was actual physical pain) and then I cried again when, a year later, the breastfeeding stopped. I wept when the purées I had spent hours cooking and mashing were refused or spat out; despite everyone telling me that a 'baby won't starve itself' I was terrified that mine might be the first recorded case. And don't get me started on the first time the boy said "Mummy." 

When William started school, I tried to prepare myself. I was determined to keep a happy smiling face as I waved at him from the school gates. I was doing really well until we turned to go and a two year old Scarlett started to cry, "I want my brubber!" Clutching her to me like an extra in made-for-TV film, I cried, "I want him too!" 

It's beginning to dawn on me that this is not a temporary state. Becoming a parent has scratched the surface of my heart and it's beyond repair. Before me, I see a life of waterproof mascara and handy packs of tissues. My children will see every milestone greeted by a blubbering mother. I am prepared to be a complete embarrassment as they learn to ride a bike, star in the school play, graduate from university. 

However, it’s not all bad news. According to popular science, the fact that we cry is one of the reasons women live longer. Which means, with the frequency of my sobs, that I'll probably be around, still crying, by the time I have great great grandchildren.  

 

 

A Parent's Advice

Find something that you love to do and do it every day.

Be well informed and interesting, have worthwhile things to say. 

Try to keep your focus, concentrate on every task.

And if you've tried your very best, that's all anyone can ask.

Seek advice when you are lost, watch how others take their turn. 

But don't be scared to take a chance, mistakes are how you learn. 

Chase those who run in front of you, whilst encouraging those behind.

When deciding how to act or speak, think always "Is it kind?"

Speak out against injustice and protect those who are weak. 

Hold your tongue when angry, in case cruel words you speak

Don't let anyone tell you that there's something you can't do. 

For everything is in your grasp, the one who decides is you. 

Be loyal to those who love you whilst you also make new friends.  

And if you hurt somebody, you must always make amends. 

Not everything comes easily, sometimes you just can't win. 

But the only time you really lose is when you throw it in. 

No-one likes to hear you boast that you're the best on Earth. 

But be proud of your accomplishments and always know your worth. 

Be bold and brave and try things new; don't ever live in fear. 

For if you fail and things go wrong, I'll always be right here. 

Fly far and high and wide and deep, the world is yours to roam.

Remember forever you are loved and here you'll have a home.

Laser Tag: Mummy goes to war

It was with some reluctance that I took William to Laser Quest last Saturday. For the uninitiated, this involves running around in a dark room, attempting to ‘shoot’ other people with a laser gun whilst avoiding them hitting the target on your vest. Usually the husband plays wingman to our boy's cannon fodder approach to battle ("Hello! I'm William. Oh, I'm shot again.") But this time he decided he wanted mummy to go.

We paid for two games and the first was surprisingly civilised. Apart from William and I, there was one other family, therefore we had lots of space and time to trot around. I even managed to get a few shots on target. (Admittedly, this was made easier because the other family included a teenage girl who had obviously been coerced into joining her mum and two small brothers. She was an easy target as she didn't even bother to raise her gun the whole time she was in there.) 

For our second game, we were joined by three other families. With dads. Suddenly everything changed; there were tactics, positions and battle formations. Us amateurs had no chance, no sooner had I recovered from one hit (you had to wait four seconds after being hit before your gun was active again) before I was hit and immobilised again. Sometimes I couldn't even see where it came from. Put it this way, should there be an alien/zombie attack, I'll be one of the first to bite the dust. 

However, this new seriousness was infectious. I found myself hiding behind walls and firing through windows like a wannabe Charlie's angel. I even took advantage of William's propensity to run headlong into enemy fire by hanging back and picking off the small soldiers firing at him one by one. At one point I heard someone shout "Down! Down!" at my teammates - then realised it was me. 

All in all, the boy and I had a great time together. Normally I'm a poor substitute for daddy in games of war, but something about the heavy vest, large gun and surrounding darkness brought out a whole new side to me. Quite a turnaround for a mother who declared her newborn son would never be allowed to play with guns. 

I'm not getting too smug about my performance, though. After the game, I asked William who had been better to play laser tag with, me or daddy? 

 "You." He said. "Because I can beat you on points more easily."

 

The Kindness of Strangers

"I've always depended on the kindness of strangers"

Blanche DuBois – A Streetcar Named Desire (Tennessee Williams)

When we're eating out, I often think it would actually be easier if Dan and I physically sat on the children. On one particular occasion we were trying to keep them relatively immobile at the table with a game of 'Star Wars Twenty Questions' - the trickiest part of which was trying to string out enough questions for Scarlett to answer before we 'guessed' that she was Princess Leia. Again.

Anyway, it seems our efforts weren't in vain. As he was leaving, a man of about fifty came over and said "it's so nice to see a family so obviously enjoying each other's company.' Fighting the urge to burst into tears and then kiss him, I settled for thanking him profusely and telling him that we were worried they were making too much noise. "Not at all," he said, "I remember those days, mine are teenagers now. Make the most of this age." And then he smiled and left.

I was on a high for the rest of the evening. Every time I felt myself about to snap at the children, I took a deep breath and tried to be the parent that man thought I was. Suddenly, we weren't the shrieking family from hell but rather a happy band of rascals; loud but loving.

It's happened before. Once an old lady told William he was a "very kind brother" because he helped Scarlett to reach something. Another time, a shop assistant commented on Scarlett's lovely manners. When you feel like the parenting equivalent of Sisyphus rolling a very large rock up a mountain each day, these words are like honey for the soul.

It works in less pleasurable circumstances too. When the end of your tether is so far out of sight, you need a telescope to find it, a smile from another mum makes you realise you're not alone. Just a few days ago, on holiday, I had to clamp a screaming Scarlett to my body as she screamed, "I don't want to go to bed!" A grandmother patted me on the shoulder kindly, "They never want to give in, do they?"

I wonder if these people know what a difference they made to me in that moment? Parenting in public can be a lonely voyage, you sometimes feel surrounded by a sea of judgment and the roar of tuts of annoyance and disapproving glances. A fellow voyager reaching out in solidarity feels like a life raft.

Therefore, I'm resolved to start paying it forward. Ready to tell that exhausted mum, rocking a screaming newborn, "mine were like that too." To smile at the dad unpeeling his son's stubborn hands from the railings so they can leave the park. To knowingly nod at the mother bargaining with her toddler to please just eat her sandwich.

And one day it will be my turn to tell a noisy family in a restaurant how happy they look. Because, thanks to the kind gentleman who spoke to us, I know just how it will make those parents feel.

 

My 'imperfect' birth

If I had my time again, I certainly wouldn’t bother to read any of the books about giving birth naturally; they just set me up for a huge disappointment in much the same way as years of reading articles about ‘How to get a beach-ready body in just seven days.’

Admittedly, not everyone has had the same birth experience as me. I even have friends who claim to have ‘enjoyed’ childbirth (God love them) and obviously there are the much lauded women in the developing world who give birth standing up, strap the baby to their back and then go straight back to work. If you’re reading this blog and you did have a positive experience, then a lot of this may make no sense at all. But this is how it was for me.

Reading my birth plan now makes me laugh. For all the good it did me, I might as well have written my plans to ‘give birth in water listening to Michael Jackson’ onto a Chinese lantern and set fire to the thing. At least then someone might have enjoyed them. It took me about a week to write, almost caused an argument with my husband (although his, “Is there really any point to this?” proved to be right on the money) and then never made it out of my hospital bag.

Packing a bag for the hospital is also something I spent far too much time over. Paper knickers? They might be fine for paper dolls but a pregnant woman whose backside needs its own postcode has got no chance. After failing to get even one leg into them, I sent the husband to buy cheap knickers from Primark. I even packed snacks in case I got peckish during labour. Snacks! I’d have been better off packing a bottle of gin and a claxon to get the attention of the elusive consultant on duty at the labour ward.

Don’t even get me started on breathing exercises. I can only assume that you are encouraged to breathe differently to take your mind off of the pain. They didn’t.

There is a conspiracy amongst mothers to not talk about the realities of childbirth. I understand that those of us who didn’t have a good experience shouldn’t be regaling pregnant women with our horror stories, but I also wish someone could have warned me how naïve I was about the whole thing. I was ridiculously smug about how I planned to be walking around the room, stopping only to allow my husband to rub my back with a wooden massage roller and tell me how amazing I was. In actuality, if he had come anywhere near me with that thing I’d have smacked him, or myself, around the head with it.

Because, the thing is, I tried to do everything I’d been told but it just didn’t turn out right. There was no water birth, no music and after a long and traumatic time, it ended in an emergency caesarean under general anaesthetic. And, because I had been led to believe that I could have a wonderful birth experience if I just stayed strong and focused, I felt that I’d failed. That maybe I hadn’t tried as hard as those women who gave birth in 12 hours on the merest whiff of gas and air. Unfortunately, that sense of failure is something that can stay with you for a long time.

If I could go back and speak to my pregnant self I would tell her this: giving birth is a lottery. It doesn’t matter how many books you read, classes you attend or balls you bounce on – you get lucky or you don’t. I had been deluding myself all those years that my ample hips would at least make childbirth easier; in actual fact my pelvis was just the wrong shape. It was horrible, but it wasn’t my fault. And if you’re reading this and had a similar experience, it wasn’t your fault either – you just got unlucky.

But when I woke up from the anaesthetic I woke up to find I was a mum. In front of me was my smiling husband, holding my tiny son. The physical scars healed in a few weeks, the mental ones started to fade some months later, but this beautiful, incredible creature was mine to keep forever.

And that makes me very lucky indeed.

 

Christmas Then and Now

I used to decorate my tree with coordinated frou-frou
Now it’s full of school-made decs and topped with R2D2

I used to spend days shopping, with lunch and time to wander

Now, if it’s not sold online, it’s on my list no longer

I used to slowly wrap my gifts, whilst sipping on some wine

Now I have two ‘helpers’ and it takes me twice the time

I used to try new recipes like Nigella on the telly
Now I serve spaghetti hoops beside the cranberry jelly

I used to spend my Christmas Eve with good friends down the pub
Now I’m stuffing turkey, stockings and my gob with grub

I used to love the music: Nat King Cole and ‘Let it snow
Now, for the ten thousandth time, it’s Elsa’s ‘Let it Go!’

I used to have a lay-in, then eat breakfast in my bed

Now I’m up at 5am with two kids off their head

I used to love my Christmases, so civilized and merry

And sometimes I think wistfully of a quiet glass of sherry

But their first squeak of excitement is enough to make me sure;

I’d never swap my Christmas now for my Christmases before.