Why Hello, Miss Judgeypants. Meet my Tantruming Two Year Old.

I see you there, lady, looking at me with sceptical eyes. All child-free and smartly dressed. You’ve just come out of your hotel room refreshed and rested and well-coifed (I’ve been desperate to use the word ‘coifed’. What a word.). It’s ten am and I bet you haven’t long since got up. Maybe you woke up early, at nine am, and you and your equally smart boyfriend had ‘early morning’ hotel sex. Then you had a nice shower and got ready at your leisure. You’ve even straightened your hair.

And yes, I heard you. You carefully walked around my two year old who is kindly having a huge temper tantrum at the top of the stairs, and then- loudly enough to make sure I heard it- muttered:

“People shouldn’t bring children to hotels if they can’t control them.” 

Cheers for that babe. Funnily enough, someone from your family (I saw you come in yesterday)  commented only an hour ago how beautifully behaved this very two year old was, at breakfast. She said how nicely she sat and ate her breakfast and how she thought it was adorable that she was saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ to the waitress. But you’re not aware of that, of course. You’re judging my daughter based on the fact that she is currently stood at the top if a set of stairs in a hotel screaming blue murder, arching her back so I can’t carry her and turning such a bright red that one would assume she requires an exorcist.

The thing is, there’s two bits of your statement that are somewhat peeving.

The first is that children should have to pass some kind of ‘behaviour test’ before they should be permitted into hotels, or maybe even any public place. Or perhaps parents should have to take a ‘parenting test’? That despite my husband and I working hard all year, we should not consider taking our family away for a weekend in case it inconveniences people like you. But you know, I’ll forgive you that. You’re young, you’re child-free, you don’t know. You don’t realise that we have spent the entire weekend having to find twenty seven bloody toilets because one of our daughters need a wee, like, NOW. You don’t realise that whilst you were sleeping, we were being ‘DOGPIIILLLLEEEED’ at six thirty this morning, and that at eight thirty last night we were sat drinking wine and whispering to each other in the bathroom. You also don’t realise that it’s all totally worth it, on account of being able to get away from our house for a weekend, make a mess when someone else is being paid to clean it up, eat breakfast where we don’t have to do the dishes, and be away enjoying the company of our kids and showing them somewhere else other than the bloody park or the soft play centre. But I’ll forgive you that.

But the part of your statement that… well , it makes me feel a little bit stabby- is your implication  that I can’t control my child, and the insinuation that perhaps someone else could have done it better. Perhaps you? I’ll tell you now: this particular child, my two year old, is very well behaved. Most of the time. She is super polite, very kind, very affectionate, and generally very agreeable.

But occasionally, just occasionally, she is completely unreasonable.

Perhaps, as you are implying, this is due to my ‘lack of control’. So prey tell, my judgey little friend, what should I have done differently? If you were her parent, how would you have prevented/ stopped her little outbursts?

I am all ears…

Tantrum number One (Monday)

Where: Home

Duration: 15 minutes.

Cause: I wouldn’t let her eat dog food.

Further info: Said child was given her breakfast, but decided she did not want to eat it. Instead preferred the look of the dog meat. That the dog was already eating. I offered her an alternative breakfast. I insisted, firmly and fairly, that she could not eat the dog food and should eat her own food as it was almost time to leave for pre-school. Much drama ensued.

End: I bundled her, still screaming, into her car seat. Some time on the way she found an old raisin and ate that, and seemingly forgot about the desired dog food.

Tantrum Two (Tuesday)

Where: The middle of the city centre.

Duration: 5 minutes.

Cause: I wouldn’t let her eat a crisp off the floor.

Further info: It wasn’t her crisp.

End: I bottled it, and promised to buy her crisps if she would please stop screaming.

Tantrum Three (Thursday)

Where: Home

Duration: At least 30 minutes. I lost all sense of time.

Cause: She wanted to wear her pineapple top.

Further Info: She doesn’t own a pineapple top. No-one does.

End: Honestly, I can’t remember. Maybe she passed out. Maybe I did.

Tantrum Four (Thursday again)

Where: Home, but about six hours later.

Duration: Another twenty minutes.

Cause: She remembered about the pineapple top.

Further info: We still have no pineapple top.

End: I laid down on the floor and pretended to be asleep. Or dead. She wandered off to find Daddy.

Sunday (Today Miss Judgey Pants)

Where: The hotel

Duration: So far, five minutes. It could continue for some time yet.

Cause: We don’t have her doll’s house with us.

Further info: We brought plenty of toys for the kids to play with, toys that they chose. The four foot doll’s house was not one of them. Once she said she needed the doll’s house, I distracted her, tried to play with other toys, even got her sister involved trying to change her mind, all to no avail.

End: We went swimming. She likes swimming.

Perhaps, Miss Judgeypants, you think that she’s a naughty child, as made evident form aforementioned tantrums. Perhaps you’ll argue that if she was better behaved then they wouldn’t have happened in the first place. But I don’t think so. I think she’s two. I think she has no understanding of why she can’t eat dog food. If the dog is eating then why shouldn’t she? Same goes for the grubby floor crisps. For some reason she has in her head that she owns a pineapple top and she couldn’t comprehend why on earth I was stopping her from wearing it. And she always has her toys near her usually, why wouldn’t her doll’s house be here? She doesn’t understand that we’re five hours away from her doll’s house and contrary to belief, my changing bag does not actually contain the entire contents of our house. Though my husband would argue otherwise.

I don’t think it makes me a bad mother that I could neither predict nor stop her little meltdowns. I’ve tried various different techniques. I followed Super Nanny’s advice, I tried ignoring them, telling her off, making threats, and when all else fails: bribery. Sometimes, she just goes. And all I can really do is try to reason with her and wait for the storm to pass. It neither proves nor disproves my ability as a parent. It certainly doesn’t make my daughter an asshole. Well, any more of an asshole that any other two year old.

One day, Miss Judgeypants, maybe you’ll have a two year old and they’ll have an almighty breakdown about the colour of their socks or the noise the microwave makes. Maybe you’ll remember me. Maybe you’ll feel a little bit guilty over trying to make me feel bad about my daughter.

If by some weird coincidence I’m there when you’re wrestling your own child, I won’t be smug. I’ll smile at you and welcome you to the club.

 

Thanks for reading! If you haven’t already, come and join us on my lovely Facebook page. We’re very friendly and rarely bite.

Being a Parent Made me Crap at Dieting

So in the build up to having my youngest daughter, I spent two months in hospital, which you can read about here if you haven’t already. Done it? Welcome back. I don’t like to go on about it (ahem)…. As a result, by the time she eventually came into  the world, I had seriously put on some timber. Two and a half stone of timber I may add. And that’s after the baby arrived.

“Don’t panic!” I told myself. “I’m young! I’m active! I’m educated on healthy eating! I can lose that weight in nooooo time.”

Idiot.

The first stone came off easy enough. Once I wasn’t sat in a hospital bed eating out the entire stock of the hospital M&S Food, and instead spending my days chasing after three sprogs, and breastfeeding, I didn’t really need to do a huge amount to lose it. But six months on, and no further weight has shifted.

It looks like I fit into these trousers. Not so. The fat is just smooshed up to make a flubber shelf. Its all glamour.

A friend of mine is a spokesperson for Juice Plus, and clean eating, so being the salesperson’s dream that I am, I signed up. I’m not really into meal replacement shakes (if you are then great, I’m not judging in the slightest) so I opted for the capsules alongside following their eating plan which effectively consists of ‘clean eating’; I.e: no refined sugars, no processed foods, lots of vegetables, meat, and natural or brown carbohydrates. It’s a food ethos I really believe in and I couldn’t recommend it enough. The capsules have also really helped my skin and hair and whatever your thoughts on them are, I love them. You’re also supposed to exercise every day, as we all should anyway.

Unfortunately, believing in the diet and knowing it’s brilliant does not mean I’m very good at following it.

Take yesterday. I woke up and my husband and I completed the Insanity workout. Afterwards we had a brunch of poached eggs and spinach on rye bread. We then went out for a walk with the girls, and came back to cook a healthy roast chicken, with very little added fats and lots of vegetables. We finished with fruit and yoghurt.

Then the kids went to bed, and we ate an entire tub of Ben and Jerry’s, a bottle of wine, and a KEBAB.

So goes every day. I start well, but by mid morning I’m sneaking a biscuit or two (or twelve). I’m totally ignoring the ‘one coffee a day’ guideline and am matching my caffeine intake to my oxygen intake. I finish off the kids crisps, I’m putting butter on my rice cakes and if I meet a friend for coffee I find myself accidentally adding a teeny weeny biscuit when I get to the till. Or a skinny blueberry muffin. Or a slice of triple chocolate cake with extra frosting and cream with chocolate sprinkles. And then, at the end of day, when the kids have gone to bed, I somehow find myself replacing my glass of water with a bowl of fruit and one square of extra dark chocolate with a bottle of wine, a bar of Dairy Milk (no, not the little ones) and a tub of ice-cream. And my intention of doing a home workout dvd every day… The thought is there. Unfortunately the action isn’t.

Still not enough.

But I’ve worked out why it is.

Since having my first child six years ago, I don’t go out anymore. I very rarely go out for nice meals. I don’t smoke. I spend my money on baby grows and drama lessons and school shoes.  As it should be. When I get an hour where the kids are entertaining themselves or asleep, I either catch up on work or housework. Two of my kids still wake up at night, so if I don’t drink copious amounts of coffee I suspect I may actually die. If I get the chance to spend a morning catching up with a friend I really love being able to sit down and chat sometimes rather than us both chasing after our two year olds as they try to find how many ways they can kill themselves on a nature walk (“DON’T JUMP IN THE POND! DON’T EAT THE MUD! PLEEEEAAAASE DON’T THROW ROCKS AT THE DUCKS!”). And at the end of the evening, when my husband is finally home and the children are in bed asleep, and we have two hours before we have to go bed, I’m knackered. I don’t want to go out to an aerobics class. I know I should be doing Insanity or Davina McCall’s latest DVD. I know I shouldn’t be eating two hours before bed time. I also know I shouldn’t be drinking on a school night. But the thought of binge-watching Elementary and eating Ben and Jerry’s until I feel sick with a glass of wine is just. too. damn. tempting.

If Ben or Jerry are reading, yes I DO do endorsements….

So I’m making the decision to stay a little bit fatter than I would choose. I’m deciding to keep my ever-so-slightly-bigger love handles and have arms that I have to make sure aren’t pressed to my side in pictures because they look enormous. I will eat healthily because I don’t want to be ill, and because I don’t want to get fatter, and I will do as much exercise as I can. But for now, my six-pack is being kept warm for winter and the gap between my thighs is currently awaiting completion. And I’m OK with it. I’ve housed three small humans, and I gained that extra lard making sure one of them could stay in two months longer than she wanted to. The coffee stops me from falling asleep at the wheel on the way to school and the time spent working instead of doing Jazzercise is the ballet classes I can afford to send them to. And the wine and ice-cream… Well that’s just for me.

I’ll get skinny again some other time. Maybe….. Did someone say cake?

I’m on Facebook you know. its a life altering Facebook page full of entertaining*, educational** and inspiring*** posts. And incontinence jokes. Lots of incontinence jokes. Follow me to change your life forever.****

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I Bet Emmeline Pankhurst Was a Pain the Arse as a Child (and the truth about having a strong-willed daughter)

My eldest is awesome. She really is. She’s funny, clever and loving. The day she was born was one of the best in my life, and I still get the same buzz every time I look at her. I can not imagine my life without her, I really, really can’t.

But my god she’s bloody hard work.

For every day that I could burst with pride, there’s a day I’d like to put her in a straight jacket in the corner whilst I drown myself in gin.

It’s all my fault. I was determined upon the arrival of said daughter that as she grew up, I would be straight talking and honest with her, and in return would teach her to be honest and open. I wanted her to make her own mind up about things and I didn’t want her to grow up arrogantly thinking that everything she does or will ever do is perfect. I didn’t want her ever to be afraid of asking questions or to question the world around her. I didn’t want her to grow up in a world where she feels that she needs to accept something even if she thinks its wrong, just because someone told her so.

I’ve created a monster.

I take it all back. I do want her to accept things because I TOLD HER SO. I do want her to keep her mouth shut when people ask her opinion on things. I do wish she would be more fearful of asking questions. WHAT WAS  I THINKING???

I bet Emmeline Pankhurst was a pain in the arse as a child.

I bet that when her mother told her it was time to go for the bath, she too faced a million well reasoned points as to why she didn’t need to go in the bath. I bet when she was told to get in to her school uniform, she protested that her uniform was demoralising and that what she really wanted to wear was her tiny suffragettes outfit. I wonder if strangers told her mother “Oh you’ve got a feisty one there!” (read:why is your daughter such an argumentative little git?). I wonder if her mother’s friends reassured her that little Emmeline was ‘just strong willed’?

And I reckon, if she were alive today, she would have told her aunty that no, she wasn’t going to wear some pretty ballet shoes when she was the bridesmaid at her wedding, because those shoes are girly and rubbish and she was instead going to wear green converse. Or wellies.

The latter is just one of the ways my tiny little independent woman has asserted her authority over our household. She argues with everything. No, I mean, everything. You give her something she doesn’t want. She argues about it. You give her something she wants: She argues about it. I need to explain myself over every request to her. Only once she is satisfied with my answer will she consider doing it. In addition, even the stuff she does do, I get an answer for. I’m not kidding.

This conversation actually happened:

Me: “Darling, don’t scoot too close to the road!”

Sprog 1: “why?”

Me: “Because you might get run over. I want you to be safe.”

Sprog 1: “Oh Mummy. Why are you so obsessed with me being safe all the time? You’re holding me back in life! it’s ridiculous….”

My husband came home from work one night to be told that she had had a “really stressful day” because “Mummy is being completely unreasonable, and expecting [her] to be a SLAVE.” I explained that telling her to tidy up her own mess is not slavery, and that maybe she could explain to Daddy why all of her belongings were now on her bedroom floor. Without saying a word to me, she looked at my husband, nodded her head in my direction- said, “You see Daddy. She’s been like this all day.”

She has so much confidence it’s terrifying. She is not afraid to talk to anyone about anything, or question anyone about anything.

For example, I recently gave birth to our youngest daughter. The run up to her birth was far from smooth, and unfortunately I suffered bleeding right up until she was eventually delivered at 35 weeks. But more on that another day. More unfortunately, my daughter had to witness this on a few occasions. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m really pleased that it doesn’t appear to have traumatised her for life. I’m glad that she can talk about it with people without being fearful. I truly am. But… I could really have done without her telling the POSTMAN that Mummy had been in hospital because she was bleeding out her bum all over daddy’s new car.

Yup.

Yes, I’ve been very successful in creating a fearless and totally honest young lady.

The honesty has been a problem. Again, I taught her this. But honesty needs to go only far really, doesn’t it? I mean, I don’t want her to lie. But when we go to a restaurant, and the chef comes out and asks how the food was, I wish I didn’t have to clench my bum cheeks and lower my head as I hear my daughter tell him, “It was ok, thank you. The gravy and vegetables were good, but the meat was a little bit dry and Daddy’s roast potatoes are a bit nicer.”

I could go on. I could go on for the next twenty blog entries about the situations my daughter has gotten us into inside five years. Yes, only five years. Two of which she couldn’t even talk. I wouldn’t be surprised if by time she reaches adulthood I am in an institution.

The big problem is, every time I think I really need to reign her in, she does something to prove why I wanted her to be like it in the first place. In school, the children love her because she will stand up for anyone. If someone has been left out, or is being picked on, she will be the first one to speak out. She doesn’t care if she will get in trouble, she will not see anyone overlooked unfairly. She will speak out against children twice her age if they’re being mean to her or to anyone else. I’m told by her teacher that when she saw a year six boy steal a ball from one of the other reception children, she went right up to the boy and would not give in until he returned the ball back to its owner: who was crying in the corner of the playground. I love that she is strong enough to do that.

I imagine a young Emmeline Pankhurst’s Mum despaired over her tiny daughter’s strong-willed determination at everything. I wonder if some days she wondered if she could handle another debate over the simplest of things.I wonder if there were days when she considered trying to get Emmeline to just stop being so opinionated.

But then, if she hadn’t, perhaps we wouldn’t have the vote. Perhaps if she had reigned in her daughter then she wouldn’t have been one of the most influential women of the last century. Perhaps, like Emmeline, my girl will grow up to achieve great things and influence whole hosts of people around her. (Or perhaps she’ll just be arrested for being a menace to society…)

I know her disposition will help my daughter to become a successful adult. I know it will mean that she will stand out from the crowd, and she will be determined to follow things through. I know, without any reasonable doubt, that what makes her a difficult child will make her an amazing, honest and successful adult.

Let’s just hope we both survive until then.

I write more about my little mentallist, as well as many other crazy ramblings on my Facebook page, you should take a look. You know, if you want. Whatevs. (Oh please like it…..)

Chatting Up Mums…(and why it could be the best thing you’ve ever done)

It’s a weird kind of time for me. I’m currently in the process of moving to our fifth location inside four years. For the duration of our marriage, my husband’s work has led to us repeatedly moving around. This time, I’m told, should be the last move for a while. but I’m not as scared as I used to be, and this move doesn’t fill me with the same trepidation as in the past.

For most people, you reach adulthood with a nice little collection of friends that you’ve collected over time. You don’t ever recall actively getting those friends, but accumulated a random bunch of people that in some way or another have something in common with you. This may be the same school, children of the same age or a mutual love of Noel Edmunds (note to self: no-one shares that with you). At least, this was how my life was by the time I reached my twenties. There was no point in any of the relationships with any of my friends that I could remember asking ‘will you be my friend?’ in the manner of a five year old on holiday to another five year old. I couldn’t recall at what point our friendship status had been confirmed, only that at some point they had not been in my life but that now they were. Because like most people, some of my chums had been gained through school; others through various work places; and some- because I couldn’t be bothered with the hassle of leaving my home town for university- from Uni. When I had my first daughter, I made a few more friends through various baby centres. But effectively, my circe of lunatic peers had been gathered organically. And I was very happy with that arrangement.

When I was pregnant with my second daughter, we moved for the first time. It was only a fairly tame move: about an hour away from where I had always been, and I loved the location. It was the small town with a tiny village school and big rural scenery that I had always wanted for my family. It was perfect. Except for one thing: I didn’t know anyone. My husband worked long hours, and I was about to be on my own with a newborn and our then three year old for the duration of the day. Every. Bloody. Day. When Sprog Two was eventually born, I suddenly felt very daunted by the realisation that I now had two children, five days a week with them, and no family or friends in close proximity. I was buggered.

Initially I really was. Every day would be a slow blur of getting up, staying in my pyjamas, washing and feeding the children, watching CBeebies, and doing some form of activity that filled the criteria of doing ‘something for the kids’: sticking many old leaves on paper or making buns that were at least 20% snot. When the eldest was in pre-school, that’s when things really got dull. I would spend hours watching Jeremy Kyle and Bargain Hunt and buying pointless things online (what do you mean the baby doesn’t need another hat that makes her look like wildlife? Screw you!). I would start projects that I was never going to finish (remind me to show you my range of half upcycled second hand furniture one day. Believe me, they were better before) and sit there thinking about depressed I was. What was worse, was that rather than all of this making me happier when my husband was home, I was angry at him for daring to abandon me. He would get home from to be presented with one of the children and then questioned on why he was ten minutes late.

Something needed to change. I needed to get a life.

My health visitor suggested I went to a local group that she ran. She didn’t tell me much about the group, other than the time and where it was. I turned up to find that it was a breastfeeding class. Women sitting in a circle and breastfeeding whilst discussing their nipples and the colour of baby’s poos. I was in hell. I’m sure you all know breastfeeding groups that are not at all like this, and are full of cool groovy mums that have no interest in discussing their discoloured nipples. But unfortunately, that was exactly the situation I had found myself in. I made a feeble excuse after fifteen minutes and left resigned to the fact I would never have friends again. I would eventually only know the company of children and hence would start talking in that weird ‘talking to young children’ voice like you’ve been possessed, and having sex fantasies of Mr Tumble.

That very same afternoon, I decided to take my sorry ass and my daughters to a cafe. I convince myself that my children and I love cafes. In reality, I spend an hour asking them to sit down and behave while they open twenty sugar sachets and smoosh cheese sandwiches in the chairs. There was another woman on her own across the room from me, with a little boy. She smiled at me as I pleaded with the three year old to stop ripping up napkins into tiny pieces and putting the bits into my tea.  I smiled back at her after I noticed that her two year old had put all of the cutlery he could find in her handbag. Worried about coming across as a bit weird, but more worried about drowning myself in the bath, alone and friendless, I invited her to come and sit with me. And she did! We got chatting: she told me that she had always worked full time and how none of her friends had kids so she didn’t know what to do with herself. I talked about my own move and how I was getting really bored. I told her about the breastfeeding class, and heard how she had been tricked in to going there too. She then told me about a different toddler group one that was full of normal people who wouldn’t dare to talk about their nipples. I liked the sound of it and agreed to go the following day. We exchanged numbers. It was official: I had pulled my first fellow mum.

I did go to that toddler group, and met another similarly bedraggled mum like me, who had gorgeous eight week old twin girls and a four year old boy, and admitted she was knackered and sometimes missed being at work so that she could go to the toilet without interruptions. I liked her a lot.

With my newfound confidence, I took another big step at the nursery playground. There was a group of mums who I had always seen talking to one another at the end of the day, but I had always stayed away. But today, I was going to be brave. I was going to take on multiple mums at once. I walked straight up and told them who’s mum I was, that I was new in town and asked them if there was any good places to take kids. They not only suggested a local play centre, two of them invited me with them to it the following day! I was getting good at this. Within a few weeks I was being invited to their houses for coffee, where I found that they too often wondered if their children were clinically insane and found the park mind-numbingly dull. They too worried about whether over-watching CBeebies was taking away their brain cells and wondered whether in a years time if they would be incapable of formulating a full sentence that didn’t rhyme.

Over those first few months, I played the field a little more, and most of the time it totally paid off. It turns out, there are loads of us. There are loads of other mums who are slowly going mad from the lack of adult company. I adore my kids, I really do, and I don’t want you for one second to think I appreciate their company. I love spending time with them, and lots of it. But sometimes, only spending time with them would be enough to drive you to gin (well more gin).

From nervous introductions and tentative playdates came genuine, meaningful conversations and hilarious coffee mornings. Polite texts soon became picture messages of my dog dressed up in ballet shoes with the caption ‘IS IT TOO EARLY FOR GIN?”. When my baby daughter had to have an operation my new friends were on hand to help with my eldest and bring me shopping. when she didn’t sleep for two weeks from teething, none of them judged me for going to school in yesterday’s clothes with sick in my hair. They assured me I did not like a swamp monster and was in fact hugely attractive.

Three years on, and all of the women I chatted up remain my close friends. One of my conquests was a fellow photographer who was on a photography forum with me, and mentioned on there that she lived close by. I could see from her picture that she also had a daughter, so I sent her a message and said that if she ever fancied going for a coffee with her daughter to chat about camera lenses and toddler tantrums then let me know. She did, and now she is one of my very best friends who sends me messages like this:

Putting yourself out there with people is terrifying, particularly when you’re the new girl, but I would urge you to DO IT. There will of course be people who won’t be in the slightest bit interested in your friendship, but screw them! They’ll never know what they were missing. But like me, you may well find some awesome people who are feeling just as daunted and just as lonely, and may well change your life.

PS. After posting this entry, I received a recommendation to check out the website Mummy Social, and oh my god it’s AWESOME!! It’s a new ‘dating site’ for mums, where you can sign up to find other parents in your area. Please check it out, you may find your new chums for life.

PPS…. if you like any of my blog entries, please click on the ‘share’ buttons below. It means others may actually read it, and you may win a new car!*

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