Motherhood: The Perks of the Job

Posted on May 22, 2013 by

What’s the best thing about being a mother? The unconfined joy of bringing a new life into the world, perhaps, or the excitement of watching your little one learn to walk, talk and become their own person? It might be hard work a lot of the time, but motherhood isn’t short of heart-melting, life-affirming moments.

But what about the other good stuff; the little perks of the job that are motherhood’s unsung benefits? I’m thinking of the parent and child parking space that makes your exit from the supermarket with a tantruming toddler that much easier, or, after two hours of chasing your child around the departure lounge, the airline’s call for families with young children to board the plane early. No-one really talks about them, but these little treats go some way to make up for the sleepless nights or stressful school runs:

Parent and child parking spaces – as someone who would have trouble parking properly in an empty field, parent and child parking spaces have been a revelation for me. All that extra space for manoeuvring in and out! And that’s before you’ve even looked at how close you are to the shop. Have you seen? You’ve practically parked in the shop! Amazing. I’m already dreading the day that I can’t justifiably park in the parent and child area anymore and have to revert to the tiny spaces at the back of the car park. At that point I may have to start taking the bus.

Getting a seat on the tube/bus (maybe) – There’s no guarantee of course, commuters being what they are. But being pregnant gives you the best chance you’ll ever have of experiencing kindness on public transport.

Nine months of lovely hair and skin (maybe) – Not everyone experiences the infamous pregnancy glow; some of us are burdened by sickness and piles, reflux and stretch marks. But those that do will have the softest hair and clearest skin they’ve ever had. No beauty product can come close to having the effect of the pregnancy hormones. Once the baby arrives, of course, it’s a different story altogether.

Access to a diet that really works (possibly) – Forget the 5:2 diet, Dukan and Atkins; the breastfeeding ‘diet’ really works. And the best thing is that you really can eat what you want. It doesn’t work for everyone, but breastfeeding is the only time in my life that I’ve been able to eat lots of cake and still lose weight.

Being able to go on maternity leave – Maternity leave is definitely not a holiday, and anyone who suggests that it is should be made to spend a week at home with only a newborn for company. It’s hard work. But it can be fun too, as long as you’re not too knackered to enjoy it. On sunny days, there’s nothing better than a walk in the park with the buggy. Even if the baby’s bawling, it’s better than being stuck at a desk.

An excuse to duck out – Want to get out of an awkward conversation with the in-laws or leave your other half to deal with the builder? Use your child as an excuse. The baby needs feeding or changing/the toddler is desperate for the loo/the boy needs a snack; once you’re a mother, there’s no end to the reasons you can dream up to excuse yourself and do something more enjoyable instead.

An excuse to stay in – If you don’t fancy going out, you’ve now got the perfect excuse. Claim that you can’t a babysitter, that the baby has a temperature (if your conscience allows – beware of tempting fate) or that you’re just too tired. Use with caution, however, as you may wake up in five years’ time to discover that your children have a better social life than you.

A way to make friends – And speaking of friends, having children is a brilliant way to make new ones. At the park, soft play or the school gate, you’ll find like-minded mothers happy to chat and keen to find someone to drink coffee with while the kids play or drink wine with on the odd child-free evening off.

A chance to revisit the films and TV shows you used to love – There’s something a bit tragic about a 30-something watching Mary Poppins on their own, but put a toddler in the room and it’s okay. Likewise Toy Story, Postman Pat and all those other things you secretly quite enjoy watching.

Using the lift – Once you’re pushing a buggy, you’ve got the perfect reason to bypass the steep stairs or crowded escalator and let the lift do the hard work instead.

Bypassing the huge queue for the loos – We probably waste hours of our lives in the queue for the ladies, but you can claw back some time during the baby years by heading straight for the disabled loo with the baby changing.

Getting to go to fun places and do fun things – Always fancied going to Legoland or harboured a secret desire to head to Disneyland? Have a baby! At some point they’ll be old enough for you to drag there on the pretence that you’re doing them a favour. And while you might occasionally miss your old life, when Sundays were spent on the sofa snoozing off the hangover in front of the TV, you’ll probably be too busy enjoying yourself at the park or the adventure playground to give it much thought. Christmas, halloween, Easter and bonfire night are also a lot more effort but a lot more fun, too, once children are involved.

Exciting snacks and abundant Easter eggs – Resist if you can, but most parents I know have at least one shelf, if not an entire cupboard, of snacks and treats in the kitchen ‘for the children’. But after a long morning of toddler taming, that emergency packet of chocolate buttons might just find its way into your mouth (behind the cover of the cupboard door, of course). And then there’s the Easter eggs. Relatives will kindly buy chocolate eggs for your four-month-old which they can’t possibly eat. Ah well, their loss is your gain.

Boarding the plane early (without having to pay for the privilege) – there’s very little to recommend travelling with children, especially when they’re young. Car journeys are bad enough, what with the endless ‘are we nearly there yet?’ and expensive emergency service station stops for snacks and loo breaks. But travelling by plane is even worse. Airports have the same effect on little boys as a pint of Coca Cola would, turning them into spinning balls of excitement. So by the time you’ve reached the departure gate, you’re knackered and wondering whether this was a good idea at all. Thank goodness, then, for the rare act of generosity that is the airlines letting families on board early. It’s a good job, too, because it means you’ve got a fighting chance of finding space in the overhead lockers for your umpteen hand luggage bags and carriers full of panic-bought comics and extra snacks.

Having someone in your life who thinks you are absolutely the best person in the world (even if they won’t always admit it) – You might look and feel terrible but, to your little one, you’re the most beautiful and funny person in the world. Even if they rarely admit it, you’ve got your own little fan club. And what could be better than that?

Posted in Parenthood | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Silent Sunday

Posted on May 19, 2013 by

20130519-113312.jpg

Posted in Silent Sunday | 3 Comments

Our Holiday: The Burning Questions

Posted on May 17, 2013 by

Here’s what I can see from where I’m sitting: an ironing board piled high with enough creased clothing for four people (two big, two small) for a week; a carrier bag full of a variety baby and toddler-friendly snacks to satisfy every diva demand; a drying rack strewn with last-minute laundry, and a sofa covered with new picture books for the baby, a straw hat for the boy, towels, adaptors and pyjamas. In the corner of the room there’s a large empty suitcase. Wish you were here?

It’s not normally quite like this (but not far off, if I’m honest). We’re going on holiday on Saturday and I’m putting off the packing. It has to be done, but – along with grating carrots, emptying the dishwasher, phoning in meter readings, shopping for jeans and giving birth – it’s something I really don’t enjoy.

I do, however, enjoy holidays. Or at least I did until I had children, when suddenly a holiday wasn’t quite a holiday anymore. We haven’t travelled abroad much with the children so far (not least because of the major hassle of getting their passports sorted out), and in fact this is the first time we’ve travelled abroad as a family of four. I’m sure it’ll be fine – fun, even – but I keep asking myself why we didn’t just decide on a week in Norfolk instead. These are the other questions that are vexing me as I contemplate the week ahead.

Will we fit everything in our suitcase? Is one 20kg bag really enough for a family of four for a week? Mr B assured me that it was, even though the online airline booking system was full of doubt (‘You are going away for seven nights. Are you SURE you don’t want to add an extra bag? Book an extra bag NOW at a lower price). Looking at the clothes mountain towering above our suitcase, the ticketing system was right and Mr B was wrong. The children’s swimming paraphernalia alone requires its own baggage allowance (and I shall take a very dim view if they decide that they don’t want to go in the pool after all).

How much will we have to shell out at the airport check-in? We’re flying with a so-called budget airline, but what with the hidden charges lurking at every stage of the process, it’s far from a budget option. I predict that we’ll be another £50 lighter before we’ve gone through security, probably thanks to being massively over the miserly baggage limit.

Will we make it to the airport in time? As someone who prides herself on being punctual and finds lateness the height of rudeness, it troubles me that as a family we’re never on time for anything. We’re awake by 6am every day, more’s the pity, yet we’ll often struggle to get out the door by ten. Mr B is easily distracted and prone to dawdle, the boy will spend an hour happily arguing about which socks he wants to wear, and the baby naps at the most inconvenient of moments. We need to be on the road by 4am on Saturday morning. This cannot go well.

Will I read a book? The house is piled high with books that await the children’s teenage years when I might have time to read them. It’s depressing, so in a fit of optimism I’ve bought another new book and I’m taking it with me. Whether I get the chance to read it is another matter. There’s no doubt that I will, however, be very familiar with the contents of the latest CBeebies magazine by the time we fly back.

How will the flight go? Will the baby do the decent thing and fall asleep for the duration, or will I have to spend three hours dispensing rice cakes, trying to distract her with songs that annoy the other passengers and preventing her from poking her brother in the eye (and vice versa)?

Will we avoid an emergency dash to the pharmacist? In almost a decade of holidaying together, I don’t think Mr B and I have done a single trip abroad – city break, beach holiday or otherwise – without an emergency trip to a pharmacist to buy plasters or painkillers or something else. This time I’ve cobbled together a first-aid kit – heavy on the Calpol – so maybe we’ll be spared this holiday. Maybe.

How good is Mr B’s Spanish? I’m pretty good at French, but when it comes to Spanish I’m clueless.  Mr B, on the other hand, has professed over the years to have a good grasp of Spanish but I’ve never heard him in action. He’s had lessons at work, which I always thought were just an excuse for a bit of a doss away from his desk. I’ll be interested to see whether he was just staring out of the window all those hours. My standards are pretty low though; as long as he can keep us in apple juice and alcohol, I’m happy.

Will the boy eat anything? Despite my best efforts, the boy is not the best of eaters. He can be pretty reluctant to try anything new, so how he’ll react to a prawn-laden paella is anyone’s guess. They do have Pom Bears in Spain, don’t they?

How many heart-stopping hire-car related incidents will there be? There was the time in France that the hire car started spewing out smoke at the toll (he’d burnt out the clutch) and the time in Portugal when we reversed the hire car into a bollard (which sounded worse than it was, it transpired). If you saw the state of the car we own, you’d understand why hiring a car to us is not a great idea. We’ll try to take care of it, of course we will. But we’ll also make sure we pay extra for the excess insurance. You know, just in case.

What will we forget? We will forget something we’d intended to take. It’s inevitable. Top of my list of predictions are: the SatNav, the camera, the children’s hats, our phone chargers, the snacks I’ve bought for the journey and the changing bag. Provided that we remember our sense of humour and our passports, we’ll be okay.

Will we actually relax? All being well, we’ll get there and back without incident, most of our possessions and limbs intact. But will we return refreshed and reenergised, or will we need another holiday to recover? Watch this space.

Posted in Uncategorized | 8 Comments

Motherhood in 100 Objects: #10 The Coin-Operated Ride

Posted on May 15, 2013 by

20130514-205115.jpgOh Pat, I thought we were friends. As a girl I used to love watching you deliver parcels of farming goods to Ted and engage in smalltalk with Mrs Goggins. I loved your sunny nature and can-do attitude, and the way you’d casually save the day or solve a mystery as you went about your rounds. I loved you so much that I introduced my little boy to you at an earlyish age so he could enjoy your stories too (and I could enjoy a shower while he did so).

I didn’t mind that you’d defected from the Royal Mail to the shadier Special Delivery Service. I’d been worried about your fate, what with people not bothering to write letters anymore, but the rise of internet shopping and your new helicopter licence appear to have secured your future. And I was glad, I really was. My son seemed to enjoy your adventures as much as I had, and all was well with the world.

Until, that is, you (or a very good replica of you) arrived outside my local supermarket. And now every time we visit, my son harasses me on the way in and on the way out: ‘Mummmmmyyyyyyyy, mummmmmmyyyyyyyy, have you got any monnnnnnneeeeeyyyyy?’. He nags and nags, determined to get me to part with 50p, all so that he can sit next to you in your van for thirty seconds, lights flashing, going nowhere fast. I try to deter him, of course, and feel only the tiniest pang of guilt as I tell him I have no change.

But it’s not just you, of course. All of your friends – I’m looking at you, Bob the Builder, and you, Thomas the Tank Engine – are up to the same trick. You’re everywhere: outside shops, on street corners, in museums and gyms and cinemas. Never mind if I’ve just paid the best part of £50 for an educational and informative trip to London Zoo; if he spots one of you, all my son will want to do is clamber onto your ride and sit there until I can prise him off. Everywhere a parent and child may be, there you are; you or one of your greedy chums.

What’s 50p for a child’s happiness, you might argue. All I’d say to that is this: have you ever watched a child on one of your rides? The glazed expression and occasional ‘Mummy can I get off now?’ suggest that perhaps they aren’t having the time of their life. But will that stop them from asking to go on the next one that they see? Will it heck. So thanks, Pat and chums. Thanks a bunch.

Posted in motherhood in 100 objects, Parenthood | Tagged , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Motherhood in 100 Objects: #9 The Baby Passport Photo

Posted on May 13, 2013 by

Who's that girl?Come on baby, say cheese! No? Oh okay, but you’ll open your eyes won’t you? No? Alright, but how about holding your head up a little bit, just so we can see your face? No? Oh dear.

In their infinite wisdom, the British Passport and Identity Service dictates that as soon as your baby is out of the womb, she needs a passport of her very own to travel abroad. While I appreciate the need for caution in these turbulent times (beware the tiny terrorist and all that), I can only assume that the person who dreamed up this law had never been involved in trying to take a passport photo of a three-week old baby.

First off, you need to find somewhere that will actually take the photo for you. As camera and photography shops are shutting down at the same rate as bookshops and pubs, that’s not as easy as it might seem. And of those shops that are trading through the storm, not all are brave enough to offer this particular service. And who can blame them? Take one fraught parent – desperate to get the pictures and finally send off the passport application that’s been on the to-do list for too long – add one tetchy, camera-shy baby, and it’s not a job for the faint-hearted.

No, this is definitely a specialist job. Granted, you’d save yourself a few quid if you tried to do it yourself at home (after all, you’ve taken loads of gorgeous pictures of your little one looking really cute with your iPhone) but I’d strongly advise against it. There’s as much chance of it passing the Passport Service’s endless, nit-picky rules as there is of your first holiday as a parent actually feeling like a holiday (no-one warned you about that pre-children, did they?).

If your baby’s still tiny, you’ll probably be asked to lie them down on a cushion or piece of fabric that hasn’t seen washing detergent since the shop opened at some time during the 1980s. If you don’t fancy that, the alternative is to hold them up yourself against a plain background. Sounds easy, but unfortunately no part of your body is allowed to be seen in the photo, not even your hand. Look upon it as early practice for the endless hours of hide-and-seek you’ll have to endure when your baby’s older.

So while you bend yourself into inhuman positions to hold your baby’s wobbly head up securely yet invisibly (that pregnancy yoga was good for something, after all), the sales assistant photographer will snap away furiously, acutely aware of the 10-second window they have before your baby howls the place down in outraged objection. If you’re lucky, you’ll burst onto the street a few minutes later, flustered and sweaty but with a page of passport-ready pictures of your little one tucked into your bag. And if you’re even luckier, it might even look a little bit like them. The picture above is of my daughter, and even I wouldn’t recognize it as her if I hadn’t been there when the picture was taken. Oh well, it’s not as though she’s burdened with it for the next five years, is it?

Posted in motherhood in 100 objects, Parenthood | Tagged , , , , , , | 11 Comments

Acting My Age

Posted on May 7, 2013 by

If he makes one more joke about the chips on the doorstep, there’ll be trouble.

My husband opened our front door early on Saturday morning to be greeted by the sight of a smattering of chips on the path leading up to the house, scattered like breadcrumbs in a downmarket fairytale. He worked out fairly quickly that it wasn’t the work of students who’d diverted down our street on their way home the night before. Laughing, he pointed them out to Little Boy and then they headed off to the shop to buy provisions. Provisions for me. Hangover cures, if you like. I, the phantom chip-dropper, was still in bed nursing a sore head of epic proportions. I felt sick. I felt silly. And I felt fifteen years younger.

Friday night was brilliant. I met up with a friend I’ve known for years. She only lives a ten-minute drive away, but somehow it’s taken us until now to arrange to go out since I moved back here in August. With two children apiece, we always seem to be busy. On any given weekend, one or other of us will be preoccupied with birthday parties, visits from the in-laws, visits to the in-laws, trips away and sundry other family-related stuff. Several times we’ve agreed on a date and several times we’ve had to postpone. It got to the point where I started to think it would never happen, and that we were destined to only ever meet during the day with our children (and therefore never have a meaningful conversation). Until Friday, that is, when the Gods of Going Out were smiling.

And so it was that I found myself heading into town to start the long weekend in style. We used to go out together all the time, my friend and me, long before either of us had met the men we were to marry and have children with. We’d dress in clothes that stuck two fingers up at the weather forecast, bounced from pub to pub to wine bar, and would set the world to rights until long after the last bus had left. I loved those nights, and all the other nights like them with all my other friends. So much fun, so much silliness, so few cares. Our biggest concerns were our A level results, whether we stood a chance with the latest object of our affections and what we should pack to take to the Reading Festival.

Nowadays, nights out like that are few and far between. It’s no surprise; there comes a time when going out just doesn’t have the same appeal as relaxing at home with a glass of wine and a box set. It all just seems to take so much effort; it’s so much easier not to bother. The logistics of actually finding a date and making sure someone will be around to look after the children require a qualification in project management. If I’m trying to meet up with two friends at the same time, I might as well just forget it (or unwrap my diary for next year and start comparing dates for 2014).

It’s no surprise that it’s got harder; we’ve all got children, we’re knackered and going out for a drink with our friends isn’t top priority. We’re too busy spending our evenings ticking tasks off our never-ending to-do lists or collapsing on the sofa after another day’s slog at home or at the office. But after this weekend, I’m definitely going to be making more time to go out with my friends. It’s the best anti-ageing tip I’ve got. Just one night of talking too much, drinking too much and plain-and-simple not being a mum has done me the world of good. No buggy to manoeuvre, no endless questions to answer, no baby tugging at my necklace. I felt like me again. Me BC (Before Children).

Listening to The Archers, muttering at the news, joining the National Trust, the Royal Horticultural Society and the Historic Houses Association, using phrases like ‘it’s for your own good’…there’s no denying that some worrying signs of middle age have crept in. I’ve even been known to watch – and enjoy The Antiques Roadshow. More than once. And I knit. It’s not sounding good, is it? But I’m young. Not young young, but not old. Not since Viking times has thirty-five been considered elderly.

Life has become a little bit too sensible, and I know I’m not the only one that motherhood has had that effect on. I went out in January with a couple of friends – postponed and rearranged from October, of course – and it was the lamest night we’ve ever had together. When we were younger we’d have conducted a grand tour of the city’s pubs and bars, drinking and laughing and not going home until forcibly ejected. Now we’ve got children and it’s changed.

We met in the bar of our local arthouse cinema. One of my friends was driving so she stuck to ginger beer. My other friend and I had a large glass of wine each, and that was it. We chatted about life and a lot about children. We kept an eye on the clock to make sure we weren’t back too late, just in case the babies woke in the night. We stayed in the same bar, cinema-goers drifting in and out, and then parted ways in time to get to bed. Don’t get me wrong; it was lovely to see them, and we certainly don’t need to drink heavily to have fun. But we’re all so preoccupied with ‘being a parent’ that we rarely allow ourselves precious time off. And when we do, we’re not really ourselves.

It’s too easy to sit back and let middle age creep in in its slippered feet. But it’s easy to fight it, too. Even I can’t get out as much as I’d like, I’m going to turn the radio off and listen to more music. Just a few chords of the songs I used to listen to in my teens and twenties is enough to transport me back. It’s a good excuse for a dance with the baby and Little Boy, too, and it makes me happy. And of course I’m going to be making space in my diary for many more nights out with my friends. Having endured a weekend’s worth of chip-related jokes, next time I’ll remember the golden rule: line your stomach. Or the other one: hide the evidence.

Posted in Lifestyle/other, Parenthood | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

Not Having It All

Posted on May 2, 2013 by

20130502-215117.jpgSomewhere in north London, an architect sterilises bottles while a baby cries in its basket and a toddler rams a toy car repeatedly into her ankle; in the Kent countryside, a senior accountant is engaged in a lengthy negotiation with her daughter about when she has to turn off the TV and do something more productive; in Manchester, a doctor is under the dining table picking Cheerios off the floor; and in York, a senior lawyer is trying to write a blog post, do the washing, have a shower and tidy up, all before the baby wakes up from her nap. That’s me, and these are my friends. These are our lives.

Sometimes, when I’m losing a fifteen minute argument with the boy about which socks he should wear today, or as I’m putting the baby’s shoes back on for the umpteenth time, I do wonder. I wonder why I bothered doing a four-year degree followed by an ulcer-inducing law conversion. I wonder why I gritted my teeth through several years’ hard graft at a City law firm, enduring unreasonable outbursts from the partners and everyday sexism, and being expected to look grateful for having to work through the night. In hindsight, I guess this experience of working all hours was some sort of preparation for motherhood (at least I was getting paid for the inconvenience, though, and there was usually champagne at the end of it). But that’s the only transferable skill I can think of.

The selection process for motherhood is pretty straightforward really. No fiddly forms to fill in, no assessment centres, no panel interview. Conceived? You’re in! There’s no getting away from the fact that my qualifications are pretty irrelevant when it comes to bringing up my children. I worked bloody hard to get them, though, and I would rather like to use them again sometime. But at the moment I can’t think when, or how, that’s going to happen. And many of my friends are in exactly the same situation.

It’s the usual story – stop me if you’ve heard it before. After my first baby was born, I went back to work. It was a huge wrench to leave my ten-month-old in nursery, unable to walk or shout after me, ‘Mummy, you cow, pick me up right now and take me home’. It never crossed my mind not to go back to my job. We could manage the nursery fees and there was just enough left over to make it worth doing. I negotiated a four-day week which took the edge off my maternal guilt.

Once I got into the swing of it, I quite enjoyed being a working mum. My job was fun; I liked what I did and who I worked with. There were times when it was stressful, of course. In the first few months, it felt as though I was getting a call from nursery every second day to ask me to come and pick the boy up because they thought he was unwell. I hated having to go to my boss and ask her if I could leave early (although she was very sympathetic), and was resentful at having to make an hour-long trip to nursery only to find that he was perfectly well. Fitting in the cooking and general house admin was a struggle, but it worked well. For a few days a week I felt like a fully-fledged, yoghurt-stain-free professional. And then I became pregnant again and, a month before the baby was due, was made redundant.

It’s now coming up to my baby’s first birthday and I’ve started to think about work again. I’ve been pretty relaxed about it up until now, prioritising the children. I realise that I’m lucky to have had the option. These years go fast – I only need to look at my first baby to realise that – and I don’t want to miss them. Nothing is as precious as those smiles, those first steps, the look of astonishment on their faces as they discover something new they can do. And yet I’m not sure I’m cut out to be at home all the time.

Perhaps if it was just looking after the children I’d feel differently. It’s not them I tire of, it’s the relentless cooking, shopping, tidying and cleaning. There’s no sense of progress with any of the domestic stuff. I tidy all the toys away, and five minutes later they’ve been scattered to the four corners of the living room again; I sort out the dining room, only for it to be coated in grated cheese and Weetabix before the day is out; I wash the baby’s hair and within the hour it’s been conditioned with mashed banana. If I was still working, it would be like spending the morning writing a contract, only for someone to come along and delete it during my lunch hour. I’d spend the afternoon re-writing it, only for someone to delete it again while I go to make a cup of tea.

So I’d like to work but, like my friends, I need to do something that will fit with family life. We’re all desperate to do something to prevent a CBeebies-induced fog from settling permanently inside our heads, but what? Most of us can’t really go back to what we were doing before unless we get full-on full-time childcare. At that point, the cost – both financial and emotional – seems too high. We need something flexible, or it just won’t work. The practical stuff – who will drop off and pick the children up from nursery? What if they’re ill? When will we have time to cook or wash or see each other? – conspires against lots of us going back full time. And yet flexible roles are few and far between. So we muddle on, muttering something about ‘when they’re at school I’ll look for something’, forgetting that school hours are even worse than nursery. And then there’s the holidays. No wonder so many women are trying to forge a career for themselves from home, desperately trying to write that novel/monetise that blog/sell that product idea.

Something’s got to give. It makes me really angry that a whole generation of smart women are being forced to make choices that they aren’t necessarily happy with. Most of us are choosing between working full-time or being at home full-time, when I’m sure that many of us would welcome something in between. But until we find that dream role, it’s back under the table to search for Shreddies.

Posted in Lifestyle/other, Parenthood | Tagged , , , , , , | 14 Comments