Nine Months

I’ve been taking Folic Acid
and stopped drinking any wine.
Your dad thinks it’s his birthday
(we do ‘it’ all the time.)
But little do I know yet,
the job’s already done.
We’ve started our nine month journey
and this has been month one.

Month Two, the test results are in
but so’s the morning sickness.
I’m desperate already to see a bump,
but there’s just a little thickness.
You’re our little secret just for now,
a glint in Daddy’s eye.
Although I want to burst out loud
and tell every passer-by.

Month Three and we can see you
in fuzzy black and white.
Our excitement is a cliché;
we show everyone in sight.
“There’s its tiny nose,” we point.
“How lovely,” they all said.
You’ve tiny fingers, tiny toes
(and a rather massive head.)

Month Four and now I don’t feel sick
and start to have some cravings.
Which consist of any type of food
if covered in chocolate shavings.
Then it’s time for a special moment
that truly fills me up with joy.
When I listen to your heartbeat
on the midwife’s clever toy.

Month Five and it’s time for another scan -
the cold gel makes me chilly.
Everyone is staring hard
to see if there’s a willy.
We don’t know if you’re boy or girl,
so nothing pink or blue
White babygros, white vests, white hats
and tiny yellow shoes.

Month Six: we’re in the final stage
and start to look for a pram.
Your dad is heard to mumble:
“These cost more than my first van.”
This month’s when I first feel you,
small movements in my tummy.
And suddenly it feels so real
I’m going to be a mummy . . .

Month Seven and my clothes don’t fit,
so I browse maternity collections.
Knickers you could camp in
and jeans with extra sections.
People say I’m ‘blooming’;
pat my ever-expanding tum.
(I know that you need padding
but why’s it on my bum?)

Month Eight I start to waddle
and I find it hard to bend.
I’m weeing like a racehorse
and I’m eating like his friend.
And If you’ve seen a beetle writhe
when turned upon his back;
You’ve got an idea of how I look
when getting out the sack.

Month Nine and I am desperate.
This waiting game’s a ‘mare.
Attempting any old wives’ tales
to get you out of there.
I’m fat and tired and impatient
with chronic indigestion.
I’ve tried pineapple and raspberry leaf
(but not the other suggestion.)

Month Nine plus one and I feel a twinge
that’s not a Braxton Hick.
I take a bath, switch on the TENS
and get your dad home quick.
I’m scared, excited, happy,
terrified and over the moon.
And suddenly, it dawns on me,
I’ll get to meet you soon.

The longest nine months of my life
and somehow I’ve survived.
The moment I’ve dreaded and longed for
has finally arrived.
And I try to take a moment
despite the cramp and coming pain.
Because one thing is for certain,
life will never be the same.

I was going to be . . .

I was going to be the parent who never raised her voice.
Who cooked you fresh organic food, bought only wooden toys.

Today I’ve screamed a thousand times and threatened measures drastic.
You’ve had chips, three times this week, and our lounge is full of plastic.

I was going to be the parent with a craft box fully stocked.
Tissue, card and googly eyes: a Pritt stick ready cocked.

But I found I couldn’t make stuff; my creations were pathetic.
And glitter makes me want to drink until I’m paralytic.

I was going to be the parent who made your birthday cake.
But after one horrendous fail, I’m now a shop-bought fake.

I was going to be the parent who kept every childhood something.
But I seem to have lost your lock of hair and your baby book has nothing.

I planned on baby massage, baby yoga, all things artistic.
What you got was: ‘baby watch whilst mummy eats her weight in biscuits.’

I thought I’d be the parent who loved her child a lot.
Kept them safe, fed them well and cleaned their stinky bot.

But the love I felt when you were born just knocked my off my feet.
A love that makes me place my hand just to feel your heart’s soft beat.

I may not be the parent that I first set out to be.
But I’m the parent that truly loves you and forever that I’ll be.  

Emma Robinson (2014)

Join Emma’s Facebook group at: www.facebook.com/motherhoodforslackers

 

The School Run: A Slacker Mother’s monologue

(My humble tribute to the late, great Joyce Grenfell 1910-1979)

Hello William, is it really morning already?
Can you whisper, please, Scarlett is still . . . oh, now she’s awake too. Any chance you two want to go and play quietly downstairs whilst mummy lays here for another half an hour and waits for the alarm to actually go off?
Just an idea.

Right, what would you like for breakfast?
No, ice cream is not a breakfast food.
No, neither are Haribos. What about Weetabix?
You want Cocopops. How about Weetabix with a handful of Cocopops?
Because Weetabix is better for you.
It is not more disgusting than eating poo, actually.
No I haven’t ever eaten poo.
Because I just know.

If you eat your breakfast nicely, you can watch a DVD at the same time.
Yes, you can have Spiderman, William.
But you want Minnie Mouse, Scarlett. OK, how about we compromise and watch something else that you both like?
Do I take the fact you have thrown yourself onto the floor as an indication that you are rejecting that proposal?
Shall I just put the news on?
So we can agree on something then.
Are you really sure you want Mister Maker?
Both of you?
Well, you can watch it but there is zero possibility that we have time to do any craft this morning so if I let you watch it, you can’t even ask. Agreed?

What do you want in your sandwiches William?
No, not jam. You can have ham or cheese.
Yes, I know I let you have jam yesterday but that was because I hadn’t been shopping and there was nothing in the fridge.
Yes, that’s also why you had two Bourbon biscuits and a handful of Pringles. We are aiming for healthy today.
No, we can’t make a Mister Maker googly-eyed monster. We’ve already discussed that.

William, can you get dressed please?
Yes, Scarlett, I know you are a big girl and can dress yourself but trust me that putting both legs through the neckhole isn’t the best strategy.
William, your clothes are here, please can you get dressed? And if you could stop huffing at me that would help my mood quite considerably.
Scarlett, I am letting you do it. I’m just helping.
OK, you don’t want me to help. But when you garrotte yourself with your tights, you can deal with the social worker they give us.
William, if you don’t get off the sofa and start getting dressed this second, I am going to give away all the toys you have or will be given for the next ten years.
I do mean it.
Daddy will mean it too.
Yes, Scarlett, it really would be marvellous if you could put your mermaid costume over the top of your regular clothes.
William, JUST GET DRESSED!

What’s this in your school bag?
Homework? How did I miss this on Friday? When’s it . . . dammit, it’s due today. Right, William, I need you to draw a picture of all the fruit you’ve eaten this week, here’s the pens and paper.
I am aware I said no craft this morning but this is an emergency.
I have no idea what fruit you’ve eaten this week, which ones can you draw?
A banana and an apple would be fine. Here’s a red pen, do a strawberry as well. What about some purple grapes?
It doesn’t matter that you’ve drawn them as big as the apples, just say that they’re plums.
I know you haven’t eaten plums but they don’t know that.
I did say it was important to always tell the truth. How about I buy you some plums later and we can put the drawing in your bag now with a clear conscience?

How did it get to be 8:40? Shoes and coats. Shoes and coats. Where are your school shoes?
Well, where did you leave them?
Could you help mummy to look for them, please?
William, laying on your back and staring at the ceiling is not looking for them. Here’s one, under the sofa. The other one should be nearby.
Yes, it is entirely possible that the shoe fairy has taken the other one but it strikes me as unlikely. Here it is! Can you put them on?
No, your shoes are not stupid, you just need to undo them before putting them on your feet.
Fantastic, Scarlett, one Wellington boot and one dressing up shoe was exactly what I had in mind for you today.

Let’s get in the car.
Your teacher is absolutely right that it is better to walk to school but that would require us to be ready to leave more than two minutes before the gate closes. Don’t worry, we’ll park around the corner so that everyone will think we’ve walked.
It is kind of like fibbing, yes.

William, I’m going to let you out of the car first because I know that I can trust you to wait patiently on the pavement whilst I get Scarlett out.
William, can you get off that wall?
William, can you stop trying to rescue that dirty bird feather from the gutter?
William, don’t do that.
You’re completely correct, spoiling your fun is all I have ever wanted to do.

Let’s go. Looking where you’re going would be a real benefit right now. Stop at the kerb, please. Is there anything coming?
Then we can cross. Looking and listening.
That’s not looking and listening, that’s just shaking your head.

Scarlett, please keep up.
I know you like to do fairy steps but we’re on a tight schedule here. Can you be a fairy who takes big steps?
I’m sure they do when they’re in a rush to take their brother to school.

Here we are at last. Good morning Mrs Jones! Yes, we’re running late again!

Give mummy a kiss goodbye, William.
Get your hands out of your mouth please.
And out of your trousers.
Have a lovely day.

I’m just off to lay down in a dark room ‘til it’s time to collect you at three o’clock.

 

Dear Teacher . . .

I know you're rather busy
First day back, there's just no time
A whole new class of little ones
And this one here is mine

I'm sure you have things covered
And have done this lots before
But my boy is very little
He hasn't long turned four

In his uniform this morning
He looked so tall and steady
But now beside your great big school
I’m not quite sure he’s ready

Do you help them eat their lunch?
Are you quick to soothe their fears?
And if he falls and hurts his knee
Will someone dry his tears?

And what if no-one plays with him?
What if someone’s mean?
What if two kids have a fight
And he’s caught in between?

You’re right, I have to leave now
It’s time for him to go
I’m sure he’ll learn so much from you
Things that I don’t know

Yes, I’m sure they settle quickly
That he’s fine now without me
I know he has to go to school
It’s just so fast, you see

It seems like just a blink ago
I first held him in my arms
It’s been my job to love, to teach
To keep him safe from harm

So, when I wave goodbye in a moment
And he turns to walk inside
Forgive me if I crumple
Into tears of loss and pride

I know as I give him one more kiss
And watch him walk away
That he’ll never again be wholly mine
As he was before today.

It's all gone to pot(ty) . . .

When we potty trained our son two years ago, we prepared physically, mentally and spiritually.

We borrowed the Gina Ford Potty Training book from a friend (after the small fortune spent on useless books about sleep I now borrow rather than buy childcare books), bought an upstairs and a downstairs potty for the house and one for the car, waited for a week where we had a clear social diary and embarked upon Mission Potty Training.

This time around, with our daughter, it was more, “Bugger. We’ve run out of nappies. Shall we just do it?”

To be honest, she has been ready for potty training for months. The ‘experts’ tell you there are certain signs that a child is ready to be successfully potty trained: ability to follow instructions, ability to take their own pants down, ability to communicate that they need to use the toilet. When I tell you that she chooses and puts on her own clothes, orders for herself when we eat out and lays out a nappy, wipes and cream before laying herself on a changing mat, you may question who it is in this scenario that is not ready for potty training.

There is one reason and one reason only. This time, I know what I’m letting myself in for.

Nappies are so easy. With nappies, you don’t need a GPS reference for your three closest toilets. Although obviously you try to change a nappy as soon as it is necessary, you have more time to find somewhere to do it. Changing nappies isn’t pleasant, and they’re unhealthy for the environment and your bank balance, but they are the devil you know.

Day three of potty training and I needed to go to the shops to buy a birthday card. Slightly bored by her mother’s perusal of the shelves, the girl decides she needs to go to the toilet. Right now.

Cue panic stricken mother: ignoring queues of people to demand the shop assistant tell me whether they have a customer toilet (which of course they don’t, although I hear them being very sorry as I hot foot it from the store.); running at break neck speed to Debenhams because they have a toilet; waiting an interminably long time for the lift to come; dashing into the toilet; wrestling the potty out of the bag; yanking knickers down; putting the child on the potty. Then . . .

Nothing. Not a trickle. “No mummy, it won’t come.”

It takes every ounce of patience that I possess (not a very deep well to begin with) not to scream, “But you said you were desperate!”

Then begins the debate. “Just sit there until it does come.”

“But it won’t come.”

“Just try. Squeeze.”

(Pathetic squeezing noise.) “No, it won’t come.”

Eventually, I give in. Knickers back up, potty back under the buggy, hands washed. We go back down in the lift, back to our original shop and, yep, you’ve guessed it.

After the third unproductive trip to the toilet, I seriously begin to consider whipping out the potty in the middle of the shopping centre and accepting the disgusted looks from the more civilised people walking past. (I understand, I want to tell them, I was you once.) I am only prevented from doing so by the realisation that I would then need to dispose of the contents somehow.

As I’m sure you can understand, this kind of erratic behaviour is not my idea of a good time.

However, when she does manage to perform the requested task, her delight in her own achievement is infectious. I tell her that she is a good girl, that mummy is very proud and. as I watch her twirling around, proud in equal measure of her new abilities and her Minnie Mouse knick-knacks, I realise that a baby without a nappy isn’t actually a baby anymore. She is, in her own words, “a big girl now.”

And maybe that’s the real reason I’ve been putting it off.

Applying for school

Choosing a school for a child is one of the most important decisions parents make. The school - its teachers, curriculum, educational philosophy, and values both explicit and implicit - will affect the child's day-to-day life. It will help shape the child's personality, view of life, behaviour, and destiny as an adult. And it will also deeply affect the lives of the parents and the life of the family as a whole.'

Ronald Koetzsch (American Educationalist)



"Isn't it all just sand and water at this age?"

 My husband



Visiting schools fell firmly into my domain. My husband's reasoning for this was:
(a) I wanted to look around the schools, ask pertinent questions and assess what they had to offer our child
(b) He didn't.

To be fair, he made a good case for just sending the boy to our local school: logistically, socially and morally it was the obvious thing to do. I agreed with everything he had to say, then made arrangements to visit all the schools in our area on my own.

The first thing I noticed was that I got a gut feeling about each school as soon as I walked through their doors. It was very similar to when we were house hunting: some properties had it all but didn't click whereas others had a small box room and a crap garden but felt like home. I couldn't put my finger on it (and wouldn't want to because I know how many bogeys get wiped behind school radiators) but I always knew within 3 minutes whether this was a school I would send my child to.

Obviously the whole school is on best behaviour when the parental tours are being conducted. At no point do you see a child being given timeout, in tears because another child has whacked them or complaining about the boring work which they have to do. I tried to hang behind and peek back into the classrooms five minutes after we'd left but I didn't manage to catch them out.

At the end of every tour there was a time for questions. I would always hold back, hoping other parents would ask some of the questions on my list so that I was left with only a dozen or so. I didn't want to get a black mark next to my name before our boy had even started. Sometimes people would ask nothing (Really? There's nothing you want to know?), sometimes they clearly felt the need to seem interested and would ask something inane (What time is lunch? What kind of pencil case do they need?) and there's always some pushy parent who wants to know what the Gifted and Talented Policy is, what reading scheme they follow and whether or not they have a hotline to Mensa. (OK, that was me.)

There are obviously some questions that must be asked. If your child has a specific educational need (at either end of the ability range) you need to ensure it will be addressed. It’s imperative that you are fully confident that your child will be safe and cared for. You need to know that they have an effective Anti-Bullying Policy (any school that says they don’t have bullying would concern me. Bullying happens, you need to know how they deal with it.)

On the whole though, you are walking blind. There is no way to really know if this school will be right for your child until they are actually there and no amount of research, visits and grilling of parents in supermarket queues (again, all me) can give you that guarantee that you are making the right choice.

When it came down to it, we chose the school closest to where we live (cue smug eyebrow lift from husband) which I actually felt very happy about as it was one of the two schools I had most liked. I continued to try to feel happy about our decision when, about a month after we completed our online application form, Ofsted visited and put them into Special Measures. (It could only happen to me.)

There is then an interminably long time between the date school applications have to be in and when you actually find out whether your child has a place at your first choice school. This is usually the time in which you hear the most horror stories about the school you have chosen and Ofsted try and tell you what a bad choice you've made. (Like they know anything.)

Because we'd chosen the school at the bottom of the hill, we felt pretty confident that we would get in. Then, as the day got closer, we - and all the other parents we knew - started to feel less sure. It's our local school, of course we'll get in. It's extremely unlikely we won't get in, isn't it? What will we do if we don't get in? Before you know it, you're waiting up past midnight for the damned confirmation email to arrive.

Then it arrives and the relief you feel is immense. You haven't let them down, you've got the school you thought was best, everything is ok.

But, as the excitement subsides, another feeling creeps in to take its place. The realisation of what this actually means.

What it actually means is that your son or daughter is starting school in a few months time. The baby you were bringing home from hospital just a few heartbeats ago will be putting on a uniform and waving goodbye to you at the school gate. Your precious child will be spending six hours of every day with someone who is not you. They will make friends you don't know, learn skills you didn't teach and won't remember a word of it to tell you later.

You realise that this is just the beginning. The first step on a road that will lead to college, university, work and a life all their own.

You realise that you won't be their only influence any more.

That they won't need you as much.

That they are growing up.

That they are going.

To school.

Soon.

Letter to my pregnant self

Dear Me (8 months pregnant),

You are going to have a C-Section. Yes, I know you believe you have a strong pain threshold, you've been to all the birth prep classes and read all the books. It doesn't matter. This child (I won't spoil the surprise and tell you the sex) is going to get stuck and there's nothing you can do about it. Don't let anyone make you feel bad about it.  Some women (yes, I know we're supposed to support one another but some girls didn't get that memo) will enjoy telling you how they managed the whole thing with the merest whiff of gas and air and that some women 'make a fuss' or 'didn't try hard enough'. I repeat: your baby will get STUCK, there is NOTHING you can do about it. Don't get angry with these women, don't come home and cry because you didn't have a 'real' birth; smile sweetly, walk away and pray that karma will ensure they get horrendous teenagers. 

(Incidentally, these are usually the same mothers who will tell you that their child slept through the night at two weeks old, ate a full roast dinner with a knife and fork at six months and was sitting on a potty, reading The Guardian, weeks before their second birthday. The advice above continues to apply.) 

Your child will not sleep alone for a whole night for a long long time. Give in to it, you will get more sleep if you do and life will be a lot easier. Don't spend all that money on 'How to get your child to sleep' books - you won't stick to their advice and you're better off spending the money on expensive make up to cover the bags under your eyes. You will want to kill anyone who tells you that their child puts themselves to sleep, stays that way all night and doesn't rise til 8am. Just wait it out, often their second child is not the same. Then you can make supportive noises whilst internally laughing your head off. Eventually your child will choose to sleep in their own bed and not end up in yours by 2am. Surprisingly, you will miss it.

 Breast feeding proves to be much trickier to get the hang of than you think it's going to be. You might want to start rubbing your nipples with sandpaper now in preparation. It does get better and eventually becomes pretty great. You will have friends who try to breastfeed and find it doesn't work out for them. Be extra kind to them; they often feel crappy about it, and you need to balance out the judgement they feel from the super mothers. 

 You are not going to write a novel whilst you're on maternity leave. I know you think you will have lots of time but what you don't know yet is that babies eat time when you're not looking. Your husband will ask you what you've done all day and you will only be able to remember two hours worth of activities. The rest of the day has been eaten by the baby. Don't stress: the novel will happen one day. 

Nothing I can say now will prepare you for how you are going to feel about this small person. Remember when you first fell in love and couldn't bear to be away from that boy for a second? Multiply that feeling by 100 and you're getting close. That doesn't mean you won't also feel exasperated, overwhelmed, emotional, angry, frustrated, isolated, terrified and exhausted (sometimes all within the same two hours.) It just means that, when they are asleep in your arms, you will look down and feel a passionate love that you could never have imagined. 

 In summary, I know that this is something which we don't like to admit, but in the coming weeks and months, you will need to accept that you are often going to be wrong. 

 Firstly, you will think you couldn't possibly be any more tired. You will be. 

 Often, you will feel overwhelmed and think you can't do this. You can. 

 Sometimes, you will think you are the only one who finds it difficult. You are not.

 Lastly, you will look at that tiny creature and think that you could never love another human being as much as you love that baby.

And then you will have another one.