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Dam busters
The boredom would do my head in. In fact, it very nearly did today. I now remember why I felt the incredible pull to return to work within 5 months of giving birth.
He had an explosive diarrhoea episode at care yesterday and I was told that he couldn't come in today. My first reaction? Thank God he did it before we got home! My second thought? Thank God he got to the toilet in time! My third thought? Excellent - a day off work! And retrospectively? Bloody hell... so this is what 'stay at home' looks like.
Kiddie shows, kiddie games. Whinging, whining and attention-demanding. Over the course of the day I became increasingly short-tempered and agitated, and it's only now, three hours after saying good night, that I feel relatively sane and calm again.
It can't be good for either of us, spending such quality-poor time together. I tried to discuss it with him at one point: 'Look, darling, I need you to see my perspective. I'm bored. Really bored. You're seriously getting under my skin and I'm concerned that I might lash out soon. How do you respond?' His reply? 'I want more to eat Mummy. And no, I don't want to have a nap.'
Post nap (thank God for that brief period of respite...like the gates that only just prevent the dam from bursting), I encourage him to do a big boy wee. Surely he needs to. But no, just something to eat, thanks Mummy, and he plonks himself like a zomibe on the couch, watching the brght colours on the screen dance before him. 3 minutes later I am scrubbing the couch with disinfectant and soaking his big boy undies and jeans. Back to work for me.
Walking the tight-rope
It comes up over and over again. The sting in parenthood. Finding that precarious balance between satisfying self and child.
"I want to watch the Bee movie mummy."
"But I'm sick of that one, we watched it yesterday. Let's watch something else."
"No, no NO!"
A simple example and one that's not going to change the course of your relationship, you would hope. And to bee honest, I can probably tolerate watching it again for the sake of household peace. It's not worth starting a war over.
The more challenging decisions, when it comes to choosing between me and him, are those that I actually have complete control over. Big things, like how much I work.
I had always thought that I'd have between nine and twelve months maternity leave (and realise how lucky I am to have that choice); that I'd cherish that time away from an office, immersed in motherhood and all that it entailed. But I wasn't to know that after the excitement of it all had passed, I would feel a deep dissatisfaction and frustration. After 3 months I was yearing for something more; something to break the monotony and stimulate my mind. I ended up holding off, much to my detriment, until he was 6 months old, and then returned to work 1 day a week. I also studied, which was one of the best decisions I've ever made.
Leaving him with a carer (family was not an option) when 6 months old was difficult because he was still breastfeeding. I struggled on, trying to express in my little, insecure office and getting only drops at a time - frustrating, because I had LOTS of milk in there - enough to squirt across nearly the entire length of the bathroom! It all became too much and so at 8 months he was weaned. I was, secretly, relieved to have severed that dependant tie, but also swamped with guilt. I'd put my child in care at just 6 months, weaned him before I had planned to and was really enjoying my time away from him each week.
Despite the knawing guilt, I know that I made a decision that had to be made - for my sake. And I'd do it again. Parenting is not an easy balancing act, but knowing that happy mum means happy child (well, that's my mantra anyway!) is like having a good quality safety net below.
Have kid, will travel?
My last week holidaying in a foreign country with a toilet training, dairy-free, wheat-free, soya-free and carrot-free toddler - a summary:
Wet undies, trackies, socks and shoes...whilst eating tapas.
Hot chips for dinner...almost every day. Taking the icecream (that had so generously been given to him by a waiter) from his firm grip and then eating it ourselves, later on.
Dashing after him as he scoots with great speed and lack of awareness downhill through pedestrians and onto roads.
Innumerous public toilet stops laden with potty, toilet seat and dried apricots. And despite the many wipes used, I still never felt entirely clean.
Whinging, whinging, whinging (all three of us)
Immense fun jumping off a small wall onto the grass...over and over. His best day, amid days of castles and tailess monkeys and caves.
Travelling with a kid.
Taming the beast
Assertiveness has to be a good thing, right? It's something we should encourage in our children, an important trait to nuture. Life skills and all that.
"SHUT UP MUMMY!"
"DON'T DO THAT MUMMY!"
"I WANT A BANA!"
Like a wild animal that has been caged, only able to observe, restricted by language development, our son has now been unleashed upon the unsuspecting world. He pounces at opportunities to assert himself, and even constructs opportunities out of thin air. He swipes angrily with his words when his demands aren't met and sinks his teeth into our tender flesh with his staccato sound combinations.
At two and two thirds, our son is assertive. It's a good thing, right? Perhaps the next parental challenge is to crack the whip and tame the beast.
Tower of terror
Parents often refer to the 'emotional rollercoaster' that is parenting. Let's be honest - it's more like the 'tower of terror'. You're sitting high up in the air, enjoying the view, the sunshine, reflecting on how lucky you are to be up there and then BANG! Your steady, safe seat is plummetting and in 3 seconds you have hit the bottom with an almighty thud that threatens to crumble your bones and ceratinly shatters your mental stability.
In a matter of minutes, pride can turn to frustration, admiration to anger and love to despair.
Just as I am beginning to think that I could possibly stomach doing all of this again, the switch is flicked and I begin to wonder whether I can actually keep doing this at all. And then back again to cheery voices, bright eyes and hugs, leaving my mind whirling.
How can such a small person ignite such powerful, overwhelming emotions? God damn it, I thought I was relatively stable!
Sticky business
"Embrace the poo," my brother advised. Well, I have. Literally. Toilet training has begun.
We'd ummed and ahhed over starting the messy affair, and we finally took the plunge last week. The books talk about signs of readiness, ways to approach it and reward systems. I'm thinking about the cost and inconvenience of nappies, and simply wanting to pass through this stage as quickly as possible.
The inconsistency is infuriating. Just when we think he's got it, we leap backwards - refusal to sit on the potty, opting instead to stand right beside the potty and relieve himself. Why? Why? Why? He doesn't answer.
Interspersed within the frustration is the hilarity of it all. Especially the little jig that he now does when he feels a wee or poo coming and doesn't want to a) do it in his 'big boy' undies or b) do it on the potty/toilet (which really doesn't leave many options, does it?). It's all tippy toes, pirouettes and contorted faces. I know I shouldn't laugh, but it is seriously one of the funniest things I've ever seen. I shamefully videoed the latest dance.
And so we plow ahead, laden with super absorbent towel, disinfectant and mops (no gloves - no time for such matters of hygiene and infection control). Really looking forward to our week away!
Swimming in guilt
It has happened. It has happened and I'm having trouble shaking it. The Mother Guilt has entered my subconscious and reared it's poisonous head in my dreams.
I was at a water park, having an absolute blast on the waterslides. Pressing my body flat against the pink rubbery mat, eyes cast ahead into the darkness, I pushed off and flew through the watery tunnel, blinking the spray away and landing with a thud in the warm pool at the bottom. And again, racing up the stairs with the mat under one arm, breathless but ecstatic.
And then it hit me. Hard. Smack bang in the centre of my gut. Jesus Christ, what have I done with him?
I had run frantically through crowds of people who were milling about, licking icecreams and chatting about the summer. I pushed, dodged and ducked and finally found myself in front of a small group of young children. He was third in line, his eyes downcast, his face pale and hollow and his mouth open, waiting to receive...a sausage roll!
“No!” I screamed, lunging forward and snatching it from his cold fingers. Shit, I forgot to tell the carers about his allergies. It contained a cocktail of no-no's – wheat, dairy, pork...
And that's when I stirred from my restless sleep to hear, “Good morning mummy,” and the sound of small feet making their way around to my side of the bed. Bloody guilt.
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