Accidental parenting genius

Yesterday, with a week left to go until the start of the new school year, I took LittleBear shopping for his new school shoes. This was, I admit, a rookie error. The last week before school, in a shoe shop, is somewhere between the First Circle of Hell (Limbo) and the Seventh (Violence). When we entered the shop, it was not actually possible to approach the shelves to even see the children's shoes through the seething mass of humanity and the precariously balanced towers of rejected shoes. Verily, I had chosen poorly.

Shoe shops are, blessedly, wise to the school-shoe-buying season, and not only have a numbered queuing system, but they also write down a description of the child* in question so that if, over the screaming hubbub inside the shop, a whimpering parent misses the call for number twelve thousand, seven hundred and ninety-two to approach the counter, they can still be found.

We were only ninth in the queue when we entered the shop, with an estimated twenty-five minutes to wait.

Twenty-five minutes with a bored and tired six year old who has already been dragged round a bed shop for his mother to try out mattresses. The omens were not good.

But then, oh joy! Oh rapture! Oh blessed gods and goddesses who have smiled upon me! I had a pack of playing cards in my handbag. And there was a spare corner of a bench for us to perch upon. So perch we did, and spent a surprisingly happy time playing cards while other mothers gazed on bearing expressions that were an extraordinary mixture of surprise, envy, hatred and desperation. I promised one of them who was already a further 8 places behind us in the queue that we'd choose our shoes as fast as possible. It was the least I could do. If the cards hadn't been LittleBear's very favourite, crested, Burnley Football Club cards, I might have donated them to the queue for The Greater Good. But even my compassion has its limits when it comes to my boy and his football team.

To compound my joy, the shop had shoes that fitted my son's (inherited) wide, spatula feet, and he liked the first pair he tried on.

From the jaws of catastrophe we snatched triumph. By accident.



* Mine was described as "Blue-spotted ribbontail ray", because unsurprisingly, he was the only child in the shop clutching a cuddly cartilaginous fish. Which probably makes the derangement that went into buying it worthwhile.

Different day; different boy

After last week's catastrophic holiday club, I stayed home with my poppet on Friday, and to my immense surprise did in fact manage to get a couple of hours work done while he made a den (using every pillow, duvet and cushion in the house); built some lego and watched television. It felt like a major step forward, heralding the possibility that next summer we will be able to make more use of Working From Home and less use of Forking Out Huge Sums For Holiday Club. Not that there are that many aspects of building mass spectrometers that can be undertaken at home, but there's frequently a tedious manual that needs to be written, or something equally scintillating.

This week, we once again pieced things together with BigBear taking a day off, me taking a couple of days off and LittleBear being booked in for two days of holiday club.

I was not as worried about this as regular readers might suppose, given my ability to worry about anything and everything. Because, this is not any old holiday club, this is a football camp, run by the local professional football club. And if there is one thing that LittleBear loves more than he loves anything else, possibly even including his parents, is football. What is more, LittleBear's adored friend J was also going to said football camp. (My one bit of good holiday planning.)

I even made a plan with J's mother to attempt to arrive at the same time as each other, to avoid excessive distress and panic (I'm not sure whether J's mother suggested this to avoid distress and panic on my part, or on LittleBear's part, but it was kind of her either way.)

It turns out that synchronised arrival was unnecessary. LittleBear walked into the hall, saw J, and was off - running up and down, squealing with excitement, chasing the football, chasing J, utterly oblivious to me. I did get a goodbye, of sorts, and a cursory hug, but I was largely irrelevant within less than a second of arrival.

It's hard to believe he was the same boy as the one who was sobbing and clinging to me, begging me not to leave, less than a week ago...

I just want to be with you

It's been a few weeks since I've written anything. And that's because we've been on holiday to the 1950s. Almost. We've actually been to the family cottage that doesn't have a television, radio, internet connection or (on this occasion, courtesy of those lovely people at BT) a telephone for a period of time. So we had to make our own entertainment, which turns out to be much easier than in used to be. Approximately seventeen times a day, BigBear and I exchanged words or looks that more or less boiled down to, "do you remember what horrifically hard work it was being on holiday here with a six-month old? Isn't this better?"

But, to put your minds at rest, I'm not going to bore you all with how lovely my holiday was, and how much fun it's now possible to have with a six-and-a-half year old. I may come back to that.

Instead, I'm going to draw you inexorably into the downside of coming home, and of finding ways to get one small boy and two working parents through the remaining three and a half weeks of school holidays.

In a frenzy of organisation last term I managed to make plans for LittleBear to attend a few days here and there of various holiday clubs, interspersed with BigBear and I both taking days off work. I also have the luxury of working 22.5 hours a week and being allowed to fit that in however I want (within reason). During term time that equates to 4.5 hours a day, and being able to collect LittleBear from school every day. During the holidays it equates to three normal-length working days, during which BigBear stays at home for one day, and LittleBear goes to some club or other for two days. Simple really, isn't it?

This week started reasonably well - LittleBear went to holiday club on Monday, and came home chirpy and hungry; he stayed home with BigBear on Tuesday and me on Wednesday. So, without a care in the world, off we went to holiday club today. Admittedly, LittleBear was a little tired, having woken in the night (unusually for him), but I didn't think there was anything particularly amiss.

And then we arrived at holiday club, and after helping him hang his bag and coat up and put his lunch where he could find it, I found a small paw had snuck its way into my hand and I looked down to find a tear-streaked face gazing up at me.

"I just want to be with you Mummy," he whispered.

I crouched down to see what was wrong, and a pair of soft arms wrapped themselves round my neck and a damp face pressed itself against mine to whisper again and again, "I just want to be with you."

There seemed to be nothing I could do to reassure or calm my little boy. He was adamant that he would be sad, and that there was nothing that he wanted to do or play with, he just wanted to come home with me. It didn't matter that I wasn't going home, there was no rational thought in my baby's desperate insistence that he be with me, he was just distraught. His face grew red and blotchy as the tears kept falling, and he clung to me, even when I sat on the floor beside him to try and help him start on an activity. It was like being back at nursery again, where every single day for four years, he would cling to me and beg me to stay. At least at nursery we escaped tears most of the time, and at least at nursery I was confident that within five minutes he'd be charging around having fun and would have forgotten all about me.

This time, where I didn't know any of the staff, and LittleBear only had one classmate (not one of his particular friends, just A Girl He Knows) I was not at all confident that he would perk up. But after over half an hour of comforting, cajoling and jollying without making any progress, I finally had to bite the bullet and leave. I left a little face, gazing over the shoulder of one of the leaders, waving forlornly at me as I left.

I drove to work in floods of tears, wondering, as I so often do, whether I'd made the wrong decision. Whether I should have just said "sod it" to work, and scooped my baby up and taken him home. Would that have reassured him (and me) that I would look after him, no matter what? Or would it merely have damaged any hope of him ever finding a way to cope with new situations? I can't protect him from everything; I can't remove him from every situation that he doesn't like; I can't allow him to avoid everything he's not in the mood for. But how much distress is too much? How far can I allow his stress and anxiety to go before I step in and say, "enough"?

The answer is, I'll never know. I made today's decision today, and there's no undoing it now. I spent the day at work distracted, distressed, stressed and unhappy. I'm not sure I was either a very nice person to work with, or a very productive employee. I left early to collect my baby and found him happily playing football with his favourite leader (who wasn't there this morning). He had apparently continued crying in the morning, but cheered up and been absolutely fine in the afternoon. He didn't even seem in a particular hurry to come home. And he was absolutely caked in mud, which can only be a good thing.

High tide marks for the socks

I've cancelled tomorrow morning's session at holiday club. I'm going to work from home instead. I've explained to LittleBear that he must play with lego, or do colouring or junk modelling or whatever he wants without me helping in the morning. He says that's fine because, "I'll be able to come over and sneak a cuddle now and then won't I?"

Of course you will my darling boy, of course you will.

Confidence... too much and not enough

Every now and then I bemoan the fact that my son is just like me (and just like his father). When he tucks his head down against his shoulder and hides behind my skirt, saying, "You ask them Mummy," or "You tell them Mummy," rather than being able to talk to a friend or teacher directly, my heart sinks and I wonder if he will ever break free from the nature and nurture that I have foist upon him.

And then, there's the flip-side. His utterly excessive physical confidence. His complete faith that he could, should and will be able to achieve anything he attempts, be it scoring a goal with an overhead scissor kick, or climbing Scafell Pike (neither of which MeanMummyBear is letting him attempt just yet). Which brings us to the final swimming lesson of term, in which all the children were lined up on the edge of the pool and presented with a hypothetical dilemma...

Teacher: Imagine that this summer, while out playing with your friends, on a really, really hot day, one of them suggests that you jump into a lake to cool down. What do you say?

Child 1: No

Child 2: No

Child 3: No

Child 4: No

LittleBear: (with glee) Yes!

Teacher: Really? Even without your parents there?

LittleBear: Yes!

At this point, from my position poolside, behind the children, my hands are clutched to my head, which I am shaking from side to side, my eyes wide in disbelief, while the other parents laugh mercilessly at me.

LittleBear turns to look at me, delighted with himself, only to receive the stern imprecation, "No, not ever, never, under any circumstances, definitely not." And he looked genuinely bewildered.

Needless to say, both Teacher and I exerted ourselves to impress upon LittleBear the importance of Not Jumping In Lakes Without Mummy.

And maybe one day we'll navigate ourselves towards some sensible middle ground, where LittleBear is sufficiently confident he can speak to people, but sufficiently cautious he doesn't risk life and limb at every opportunity. Which would be nice.

Hangovers... real and metaphorical

The overwhelming anxiety I was feeling last week has abated somewhat, eased by time, space, good friends and alcohol. Some of these are a good and sensible solution. Some are not. It has also helped to have four days in a row where, very conveniently, I have not had to cycle home via the Path of Doom and Angry Bloke.

On Friday we went to the park, in the opposite direction.

On Monday the Path of Doom was closed by the council for resurfacing works.

On Tuesday LittleBear has an after school club, so we go home an hour and a half after Angry Bloke and the Path Blockers.

Today I collected LittleFriend as well as LittleBear, and used the car, thus leaving school in the opposite direction.

Hooray!

Meanwhile, my friend invited me out to listen to live music and drink Pimms on Friday night, and on a whim I went, because I didn't have time to over-think it, and I had a lovely time sitting in the evening sun, drinking, chatting and singing along to pop hits of my youth. Having managed to socialise without the world crumbling around me, I girded my loins and went to a 40th birthday party on Saturday night.

There were so many people there, but so few that I knew, that I was able to sit at a table with a handful of good friends, and not worry about who I was or how I seemed to strangers. I didn't have to put on a brave face, or make awkward social chit-chat. It was a seventies-themed night, and I drank too much wine, talked nonsense with my friends and danced to 70s disco hits, occasionally borrowing a friend's large, blonde afro wig for strutting my stuff. And it was brilliant. It was life-affirming, and reassuring, and simple, unadulterated fun.

And then I woke up on Sunday morning. Ouch. I'd gone to bed without rehydrating and had a miserable hangover. Fortunately, I have lovely bears, and they allowed me to stay in bed until I felt a little bit more human.

Meanwhile, I have had the metaphorical equivalent of that same hangover. I am coming to think of it as my anxiety-blogging hangover. I gorge myself on feelings and thoughts and emotions, and allow them to spill all over the page. I hope that my words reach people who feel the same way, or enlighten those that don't. And then I go to bed. And when I wake in the morning, I start to feel the after-effects of my honesty as I read the responses to my post. There are indeed those who reach out to me, to say "I didn't know you felt that way, I do too, thank you so much for saying it out loud." And there are those who say, "goodness, you're brave for admitting to all that." And there are those who say, "I had no idea, you hide it well." None of the responses are anything beyond that which I either expected or hoped for.

Nevertheless, I begin to feel slightly alarmed, and a bit queasy at the thought that I have just washed my dirty linen in public, and that I now have to speak to, and smile at, a wide range of people who may be fearing that the crazy lady is going to suddenly start crying, or do something erratic or eccentric at any moment. Because a large proportion of my audience are people I know. People I meet in the street. People I see in the playground. Conceivably teachers in LittleBear's school. The desire to hide from anyone and everyone becomes remarkably strong, as the idea of actually talking about any of this is anathema to me. I may be able to write honestly about how I feel, but face-to-face I'm generally up to a thoroughly British, "I'm fine," with a nervous grin.

After a few days, I begin to relax again, and feel moderately confident that I won't be ostracised for my oddities or honesties. The feelings of fear pass and I start to believe that there are not judgemental glances being thrown my way, and I am neither being avoided nor treated with kid gloves. But it takes time.

Half a day for a real hangover. Several days for an emotional hangover.

Drinking is beginning to look like a better option than blogging...

My version of a madelaine

For Marcel Proust it was a madeleine that instantly and vicerally evoked memories of times past. For me, it was a soggy swimming costume. His was more romantic and picturesque.

On Sunday, LittleBear went to a party and he and his cohort spent a splendid afternoon charging round the birthday girl's garden in their swimsuits, hurtling down a water slide, sploshing in a paddling pool, leaping on a trampoline and generally having a high old time. Eventually I brought him home, rinsed out his costume and went to hang it out on the washing line...

... the heavy, damp cling of the fabric in my hands.

... the wet costume gently brushing my cheek as I reach high above my head to peg it up.

... the hot, crisp, burnished grass beneath my toes.

... the glare of the bright, hot sky above my head.

... the heat of the sun on the back of my shoulders.

I was transported immediately, heart and mind, to my grandparents' house in Johannesburg, to summers that seemed to last forever, but can't have been more than the standard two-week Christmas holiday we got from English schools. Afternoons spent leaping in and out of their pool while being reminded to keep quiet so Granny and Grandpa could have their afternoon nap. I could see the fly-screen door into the kitchen, and feel the uneven weight as I pushed it open. I could hear the Hadedas as they flew over the jacaranda tree at the end of the drive. I could taste the tea my grandparents served, that I have spent a lifetime failing to recapture. I was immersed, if only for a moment, in their garden, in the aloes and red hot pokers, the lemon trees and peculiar topiary.

I've spent the last twenty-four hours diving beneath waves of nostalgia and trying to remind myself that the time and place are now long gone, remembered only in the minds of a handful of people and preserved only in a few snippets of yellowing cine film. And I still don't know what blend of tea my grandparents drank.

Consequences Part I

I have carefully chosen my post title in a tempting-fate kind of way, in the hope that by describing this as "Part I" there may never be a "Part II".

Last night I wrote about a minor run-in with another human being as I cycled home with LittleBear. I wrote about it in a relatively flippant way, making light of the anxiety I was feeling, as I try to bring a level of amusement to my friends so they see the absurd contortions my mind takes as I battle, almost daily, with anxiety that can be paralysing. It's not only for the entertainment of my fellow-man however, it's also to try and shed some light into the darker corners of my mind, to bring them into the open and allow other people to realise that even people who may, on the surface, appear fully functioning, happy and well-balanced may be struggling underneath. I hope to bring understanding and compassion to the world, in however small a way I can manage.

I'm not sure that yesterday's post achieved those aims. I don't think I conveyed the true depth of my own distress. Distress that I had made a stupid and rude mistake in speaking out loud when I didn't need to, and incapacitating fear of the consequences of my actions. I wasn't joking when I said I'd already spent six hours worrying. I was not joking that I would lie awake at night pondering the possible outcomes. In the darkness of the night I pictured Angry Bloke tracking me down in the playground and confronting me as though I were an American referee he was a Colombian defender*. There was finger jabbing; there was pushing; there was shouting. I got up this morning feeling physically sick. I struggled to eat my breakfast. I considered texting my friend to ask if she would collect LittleBear from school so I could avoid The Path Of Doom. I didn't offer to go to school this morning for reading-time with my LittleBear, just in case. I let BigBear go instead. I actually chose to miss doing something I love, with the child I adore, because I was shaking and sick with anxiety. This is me. This is who I am. This is who I hate being.

Then I turned my phone on.

And I found a message from a stranger. Someone who reads my blog, but whom I don't know.

She told me,

... or cycle on the right side of the road as a vehicle should.

That was what she took away from my attempts to light-heartedly describe my day while revealing my own mental struggles. She decided to presume that I was guilty of a minor traffic infraction** and to reprimand me.

And I was left wondering whether some of my readers, this stranger included, think this is all some kind of joke? That I exaggerate my feelings for dramatic effect? Or maybe that this whole blog is a work of fiction? Some sort of anti-Yummy-Mummy page where I pretend to be a bit kooky to get page hits? I don't. I am real. I am not just words on a page. I am a living, breathing woman who makes mistakes, who gets things wrong, who fights to be a better person but sometimes fails. This is me.

I drove to work in tears because a stranger on the internet had criticised me. I spent the night lying awake, afraid of what a different stranger might say to me in person as a consequence of my own actions. I am considering not going to a friend's birthday party on Saturday because I have reached humanity-overload. I am not sure whether I can actually face interacting with other people, with putting a smile on my face and pretending that I can function in society. And all of this has come about because of my interactions with two strangers. People whose opinion should not matter one iota. People who have no duty of care towards me, beyond basic civility. People who have probably not given a second thought to the ongoing ripples from their transient encounters with me. People who are not to blame for my reactions.

This is why my life is exhausting. Every day is strewn with moments such as these. Moments of passing remarks, casual comments, glances, expressions, that create in me an agony of over-thinking and fear.


* Not a reference that will stand the test of time I suspect. For my future self - World Cup 2018; England v Colombia; penalty awarded by a US referee to English captain Harry Kane resulting in serious objections by the Colombian team.

** I have also spent a large amount of time mentally drawing maps and diagrams to explain the actual layout of the area in question, and the intersection of a cycle path and a road so that I can demonstrate that while my comments were rude, my cycling was entirely legal and responsible, and that my use of such terms as "pavement" and "path" were not precise and accurate descriptions of the actual thoroughfares in question. Because that's what anxiety does. It forces my mind into a hamster wheel of panic and self-defence.